by James Hunter
That knocked the sneer off his face and gave him a moment of pause. “And so? What is that to me?” he finally asked, slouching as he absently inspected his fingernails. “You are flies circling the colossal turd that is the Empire. Perhaps you are powerful in the East, but this? This is the West. The West has little concern for the affairs of the Empire or the Rebels.”
“Wait, I do not understand?” Vlad interjected, slouching forward, then running shaky hands through his hair. “I thought the Accipiter were part of the Rebel Alliance against the Empire? Am I incorrect in this?”
Hakim’s contemptuous sneer returned, his lips pulling back to reveal crooked yellowing teeth and deep creases in his pudgy cheeks.
“You’re technically correct,” Cutter replied, shrugging one shoulder. “The Accipiter royal houses are sympathetic toward the cause, but the wars never reached this far, so most of the regular citizens don’t pay it much mind. And even if the Empire were on Hakim’s doorstep, he wouldn’t care unless there was money to be made or lost. Money’s the only thing he cares about, isn’t that right, Hakim? He’s a businessman, through and through.”
“No different from you, you treacherous whoreson,” Hakim snapped, crossing his sausage-plump arms.
“Fine,” I said, raising a hand to stop them before things escalated further. “If you’re a businessman, then let’s talk business. We”—I waved vaguely toward the rest of the crew—“aren’t looking to pick a fight with you. We’re looking to make a deal. All we want is some information about the Cult of Arzokh. They’ve got a Citadel in Ankara, and we need to find it. That’s it. That’s all we want. You tell us what we need to know and we’ll get out of your hair”—I glanced toward his balding head on instinct—“faster than you can blink.”
His lips formed a harsh, thin gash as he stroked at his double chin. “Let us say for a moment, I have the information you want.” He paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Now, let us further say I am willing to overlook this violation of my fine establishment. What would I get in return? I am a businessman, not a priest—I do nothing out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Well,” Abby said, leaning forward, resting her forearms on the table. “What do you want? Jack and I lead the Crimson Alliance—we can get you money if that’s what this is all about.”
His face screwed up in disgust, and he dry-washed his hands as though the very thought were distasteful. “Money, she says. You bring this, this, this …” He absently twirled a hand through the air, searching for the word. “This sneak-thief with you,” he finished. “You assault my guards. You take me hostage and embarrass me in front of my clientele. And then? Then you offer money.” He leaned over to one side and spit onto the floor. “Despite what Cutter, there, says, money is not the end all be all for me. I have a vault full of money.” He waved toward the circular crystal door.
“We could give you something else, then. Weapons?” Vlad offered. “Or, perhaps armor? You may not know this, but”—he shrugged modestly—“I am one of the most accomplished Alchemic Weaponeers in all of Eldgard. I could make you something, perhaps?”
Hakim gave the Russian a look as dry and flat as a savannah. “I’m a businessman, not a warlord. I employ thugs, not soldiers. And do I look like a man who wears armor or carries a sword? What need have I of such things? This is an issue of pride, now. Of saving face. And nothing you can give me will accomplish that.” He faltered, fingers tented as he regarded us. “Yet, clearly, you are a capable lot and we are at an impasse. Battı balık yan gider, as my people are given to say. Perhaps there is a way we can come to an understanding. Let us say I will give you the information you need, but first, you must do a job for me.”
Cutter groaned, pressing his eyes shut tight. “This isn’t gonna turn out well,” he muttered.
I held up a hand to silence him. “We’re listening,” I said, running my fingers over the cold metal of my warhammer.
“Excellent, excellent. It’s nice to know at least one of you has a level head.” Hakim leaned forward, his gut pressed up against the edge of the table. “As I said, this is now a matter of pride. Though Cutter may think money is the only thing I care for, he is wrong. We Accipiter put great value in status. We care about pride even more than money.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Pride and revenge. There is a man, a rival of mine named Yusuf. He runs a gambling establishment just down the road. A place called the Bloodletter. He has a trinket. An old amulet, dear to my heart”—he thumped a fist against his flabby chest—“and I want you to steal it.”
“Is it magic,” Cutter hedged, “this amulet?”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort,” Hakim replied, waving away the question. “Purely sentimental. It belonged to my mother. We came up together, Yusuf and I. Running the streets together, though rivals of a sort, even then. But things changed. He betrayed me. Broke my legs.” He rubbed thoughtfully at his knobby knees with a wince. “Then? Then he left me for dead in a rotten sewer and took the necklace as a token of victory. Twenty years ago, that was.
“Now? Now I want this necklace back. I want the amulet so I can rub Yusuf’s dirty face in it, as he has rubbed mine in it. I want it so I can flash it at him when we pass in the Temple. So I can have my pride back.” His words oozed venom. “If you rob his vault and get me the amulet … Well, then I will tell you where this Cult of Arzokh is. This heist, though, has one provision. One.” He stuck a quivering digit up. “You mustn’t kill anyone. Yusuf most of all. I want to gloat and I want him to live in shame, but I am not interested in a turf war. Understand?”
A new quest popped up:
∞∞∞
Quest Alert: Hakim’s Revenge
Hakim—a local crime boss and the owner of the Lucky Rooster—has agreed to provide you with the location of the Cult of Arzokh, but only if you can pull off a special mission: infiltrate the Bloodletter and retrieve Hakim’s necklace without killing Yusuf or his guards. But be warned, the necklace is located inside a strongbox, which is further stored in the Bloodletter vault.
Quest Class: Unique
Quest Difficulty: Infernal
Success: Retrieve Hakim’s necklace without killing Yusuf.
Failure: Fail to retrieve the necklace; kill Yusuf or his guards in the process.
Reward: Location of the Cult of Arzokh; 15,000 EXP per group member.
Accept: Yes/No?
∞∞∞
“Yes,” I said, accepting the quest, “we’ll do it. But we’ll need some time to plan.”
“Of course,” Hakim replied, his grin predatory and hungry. “The layout to the Bloodletter is identical to this gambling hall. Take all the time you need.”
EIGHTEEN:
Breaking and Entering
Three hours later, creeping up on 9 PM, Cutter and I shouldered our way into the Bloodletter, a delightfully named place that in no way increased my anxiety. I took a quick scan of the room. Hakim was right, the layout was almost identical to the Lucky Rooster. It featured the same open gambling floor and the same balconies running along the sides, overlooking everything below.
There was a stage on the left, a bar on the right, and a door at the back. Same, same, same. Even the winged goons looked like carbon copies. Burly bouncers loitered around the room, leaning up against the walls, trying to look bored or drunk, but failing. Even more bouncers—these wearing dark black leathers and wielding stout cudgels on leather braids—lined the upper decks, staring down with ever-suspicious gazes. With that said, Hakim and Yusuf shared very different interior decorating strategies.
In place of fancy tile, the Bloodletter had uneven sandstone floors, covered in hay and splashes of old vomit. In place of elegant felt-lined tables, there were simple slabs of crude wood, worn from heavy use and stained by countless spills. Heck, even the lighting was different: sooty, smoky, and strangely threatening. And instead of high-class tourists with lots of money to burn, this place catered to Accipiter locals in rough-spun tunics or mud-caked armor. But despite dour face
s, tired eyes, and a lot of hard-worn years, the patrons laughed loudly, hooting as they drank from dirty mugs and slapped coins on tables with gusto.
My eyes skipped past all the thugs and patrons, frantically searching for Abby and Vlad. I let out a soft sigh of relief as I located the pair seated together at a table near the reinforced door connecting to the back room. They were playing cards, working to blend in and doing a passable job—especially considering how much they stood out. It helped that they were losing money hand over fist, playing like a couple of clueless, hairbrained outsiders with more money than sense. The locals ate the act up, laughing as they crowded around their table, scooping up piles of brass and silver.
So far, so good. Thank God for small miracles.
Cutter and I beelined for the bar huddled against the right wall, keeping our heads down and our profile low. Cutter slapped me on the shoulder and leaned in as we walked, a fake grin plastered across his face. “You need to calm down, Jack,” he whispered in my ear. “This isn’t like back at Hakim’s place. No one’s looking for us, not unless you give them a reason to, eh?” He thumbed his nose knowingly at me. “Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. Gotta admit I’m pretty impressed with the plan. Nothing groundbreaking, but for such short notice, you and Abby did alright. It’ll work fine. Just get in place, stay calm, and do what you need to do.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I replied, voice low and muted. “You’re not the distraction.”
He offered me an evil grin and shot me a wink as he saddled up to the bar and plopped down onto a stool. “That’s the benefit of being the snarky, dreamboat sidekick,” he said, before turning to the bartender—a paunchy Accipiter polishing a dull silver mug with a dirty cloth—and ordering a pair of drinks. The bartender grunted a half-hearted acknowledgment, swiped the handful of coppers Cutter laid out on the counter, and pulled out a couple of hearty pewter steins full of foamy red-gold mead.
“I get all the reward with very little risk—being a follower isn’t all bad.” He forced the drink into my hand and gave me a curt shove toward a narrow set of steps leading up toward the balconies. “Now, go get ’em, friend.”
I rolled my eyes and headed over to the wall, grabbing a stool near the stairs and away from all the action. I got a couple of funny looks from the guards as I nursed my drink, but mostly they left me alone. These goons were supposed to monitor the floor: to watch for cheats, either clients or dealers, not for random drunks far away from the money. That suited me just fine. I drank, waiting nervously for Amara to call. Another few uneventful minutes passed by like molasses, but then I heard a faint chirp, chirp, chirp in my ear.
“Grim Jack,” Amara whispered through the officer comm link.
I glanced down and murmured “yes,” trying to play it cool.
“Forge and I are up top,” she said, sounding far more excited than I felt. “The escape route is roped out all the way back to the Rooster. Move whenever.” She paused, suddenly serious. “Good luck, Grim Jack. And tell that fool Cutter to be safe.” I could’ve sworn I heard a hint of genuine concern in her voice, but then the line clicked and she was gone. I pressed my eyes shut tight and did a quick ten-count to calm myself before opening them. Cutter loitered by one of the craps tables, watching a lithe female Accipiter with chestnut hair shoot dice.
I nodded at him, and though he wasn’t looking at me, he dipped his head a fraction of an inch in return.
A second later, he lurched as though someone had bumped into him, and his drink went flying onto the dice table, mead splashing a handful of players and drenching a pile of dusty coins. An honest accident from all appearances. An accident that drew every eye in the joint, including all the guards on the upper balconies. I used the brief window of opportunity, triggering Shadow Stride, praying no one would see the poof of inky smoke which accompanied the spell. The world skittered to a halt, abruptly frozen.
Quick as I could, I hustled up the stairs and onto the balcony, slipping past the pair of guards and heading over to the far wall. I pressed up against the wood, cloaked by a pool of shadow, and dropped into a crouch, activating Stealth. The nearest hired goon was eight feet away and the door to the back room was almost directly below me on the main floor.
Life jerked back into motion as I stepped into the material realm, accompanied by a wave of sound: a laughing voice and some good-natured swearing all directed at Cutter. There were no cries of thief, though. No winged guards bum-rushing me, feet pounding, cudgels flashing. And just like that, another piece of the plan clicked into place like a jigsaw puzzle nearing completion. I waited a few more minutes, giving the players below a chance to resume their games and the guards an opportunity to get comfortable again. To get complacent.
Time for phase two. The big distraction.
Once I was sure no one was looking at me, I reached through the void and summoned my newest minion, Nikko, from the Shadowverse with a burst of pure Spirit. My winged ape materialized above the card tables in a blast of shadowy power, her wings pumping as she hovered in the air, a blue crystalline orb clutched in one simian mitt. More of the orbs glimmered on her chest, held in place by the leather bandolier Vlad had shown off earlier. Thanks to her Weapon of Opportunity ability, she could use simple tools or weapons—weapons like the alchemic hand grenades—and it had only taken a minute to equip her before coming over.
There was a shriek from below as one of the bargoers finally saw the winged ape, followed by a chorus of confused shouts from the guards. Obviously, they should’ve been paying attention to me, since I was now visible, but everyone was focused—understandably—on the flying shadow chimp equipped with magic hand grenades. I had to hand it to her, she was a real attention grabber.
Nikko didn’t waste a second. She lobbed the blue freeze grenade at one of the dice tables, unleashing a snowy blast which offered an excellent movement reducing debuff without causing too much actual harm. The guards scrambled to respond; several rushed down the stairs or pushed through the stunned onlookers. Another threw himself from the second-floor balcony, his powerful wings beating at the air—scattering chips and sending playing cards flying—as he lunged, arms outstretched.
Nikko was too quick for him, though.
She swooped low, slashing one guard across the face with her razor-sharp claws before flipping through the air and kicking another in the chest. She let out a shriek of victory, then stuck out her tongue at one of the downed thugs, mocking him. Nikko, apparently, was a terrible winner. One of the patrons, a weather-beaten Accipiter woman, dived for the ape, a short sword slicing through the air with a whistle. But Nikko vanished in a blink, stepping into the Shadowverse just before the sword landed. She instantly appeared behind the guard flapping overhead—clobbering him in the temple with a wicked hook.
The guard, caught by surprise, dropped like a rock, smashing into a table; clay chips exploded out like shrapnel, peppering any nearby onlookers.
Then it happened—the thing I’d been hoping for. Banking on, really. The door leading to the back room burst open as a handful of reinforcements poured out, including a stumpy Accipiter who could’ve been Hakim’s twin brother: fat and balding with a perpetual scowl etched onto his face. That had to be Yusuf. Had to be.
“What in the bloody hells is going on out here!” Yusuf bellowed, staring around wide-eyed at the destruction before finally homing in on Nikko, who was now perched on the balcony railing, opposite to me. “Who did this? What is that, that thing?!” He pointed a quivering finger at the chimp, his jaw clenched, his face flushed beet red. Yep, a dead ringer for Hakim. “Well don’t just stand there,” he shouted when no one answered, “get it! Fifty gold marks to the person who brings it down.” Instead of bringing order, though, his hasty words unleashed absolute chaos.
Guards barreled for the stairs, knocking aside patrons who were too slow to make way. But other customers—dollar signs flashing in their eyes—rushed for the chimp too, eager to collect the reward.
&
nbsp; Nikko regarded the madness below with a mischievous grin, right before hurling a smoke grenade with a Confuse Enemy debuff. The orb shattered, and a low-clinging fog rolled out, making it even harder to see. In seconds, the debuff set in, and the casino-goers—both patrons and guards—started attacking each other instead of Nikko: A pair of dirt-caked bargoers threw wild haymakers at each other. One guard socked another square in the nose. A woman sporting a stained work tunic tackled an overeager thug to the ground, laying into his face with her fists.
Absolutely perfect.
I glanced down and grinned as Cutter, Vlad, and Abby slipped into the back room, completely unnoticed amidst all the craziness. Then, before anyone spotted me, I conjured Umbra Bog. Black tendrils, obscured by the gray smog hugging the ground, erupted from the floor, snagging wrists and ankles. Rooting Yusuf and his guards in place and buying us a solid forty seconds to get through the door, rig the vault, and get gone.
The classic bait and switch.
NINETEEN:
Vault Job
I triggered Shadow Stride, vaulted over the railing, dropping to the main floor, and leisurely made my way into the back room. I stepped into the material realm a few seconds later and slammed the door closed behind me with a satisfied grunt. I literally couldn’t believe how well it was going. “Vlad, get moving,” I said, glancing at my Umbra Bog countdown timer, ticking away in the corner of my vision. “I want that vault door down in twenty seconds.” The Russian was already moving, though, pulling free a leather bag near to bursting with glass vials and flasks full of strange alchemic substances.
Meanwhile, Cutter edged over to the door and dropped into a crouch, going to work on the lock with his steel picks, securing the door from our side. Chances were, Yusuf would have the key—though it was possible he’d left it in here—but it didn’t matter because any extra time we could buy was gravy. Cutter stood a handful of seconds later, stowed his picks, and stepped aside. Abby raised her hands, a quiet incantation on her lips, and used a low-level levitation spell to drag over a heavy couch, which she shoved up against the door, wedging it beneath the knob.
