by S. R. Witt
When he selected the Caltrop option from the “Manufacture” menu, a new screen appeared with a squat metal orb, a little larger than a baseball, floating in the air, rotating slowly.
Next to the orb was a craft button, and beneath that was a short list of necessary supplies. In this case raw Iron Ore—which Osmark had plenty of thanks to his time in the smithy—and Stamina. He added the few pounds of raw ore from his inventory, then shrugged and hit the create button, interested to see what would happen. A wave of dizziness smashed over him like a baseball bat and an eyeblink later, the ore vanished, replaced by four of the odd metal grenades.
He slumped forward, wheezing and shaky limbed, black creeping in on the edges of his vision. His Stamina bar flashed manically in the corner of his vision; his jaw dropped as he realized his Stamina had plummeted from 210 down to a mere 10 points, all in the span of a single heartbeat. Interesting. So, the Stamina cost came during the creation of the items, not during their deployment. If that was the case for all Artificer creations, it held some interesting possibilities—namely, with enough resources and preparation, he could be virtually unstoppable.
He closed his eyes for a few minutes, letting his Stamina recover. Eventually, he stood with a groan, stretching his sore back and achy legs. He eyed the flat rock longingly, thinking about how much he would enjoy lounging around a bit longer; at this point, though, he couldn’t afford a luxury like that. After all, the Imperial Throne wasn’t going to just fall into his lap. Plus, he suspected there would be at least a few monsters lurking around these woods, and he was curious to put his new skills and inventions to the test.
SEVENTEEN:
Fungaloids
After a frustrating half hour’s search through the forest, all Osmark had to show for his troubles were sore feet and the locations of two more traps—another rockfall and a trip line snare.
He pulled his goggles down from their perch on top of his head and seated them over his eyes. “There must be something on these that’ll help me find what I need,” he grumbled, giving the goggles a thorough examination. He’d left Rozak’s in such a rush, he hadn’t taken the time to investigate this odd new piece of gear.
<<<>>>
Basic Artificer’s Goggles
One of the most important tools in an Artificer’s bag of tricks are his goggles. The basic model has four different lenses, each of which provides a different bonus:
Magnifying Lens (clear): Provides a +10 bonus to any Engineering task involving intricate or detailed work.
Engraver’s Lens (blue): Provides a +10 bonus to any Engineering task related to engraving Divine Geometry patterns.
Harvester Lens (green): Provides a +10 bonus to any Engineering task related to disassembling engineered items for parts or plans.
Surveyor Lens (telescoping): This lens provides a +10 bonus to any Mining task.
<<<>>>
“Ah, there you are,” Osmark said to himself. He found the telescoping lens and pulled it over in front of his right eye. It took a few moments and several adjustments to get the focus right, but once he had it dialed in, the benefit was immediately apparent.
Robert swept his gaze across the surrounding terrain, and several points flashed with vivid yellow light like sparklers on a moonless night. After a few seconds, the bright spots faded to a ginger glow that was still visible without being distracting. Maybe this would be easier than he’d thought.
When Robert arrived at the first glowing orange spot, he found a chunk of plain gray rock. He picked it up, examined it, and discovered it was nothing special. He grunted and tossed the stone back into the brush. Apparently, the goggles would show him likely places to find ore, but that was no guarantee there’d be anything of value at those points. Still, he supposed it was better than wandering aimlessly through the forest looking for the right kind of rocks.
Robert brushed his hands free of dirt and hustled to the next spot, which turned out to hold a hunk of silver ore the size of his fist. Though it wasn’t what he was looking for, it provided him with a small experience point boost, not to mention, he could always use it for crafting in the future. Robert dropped the rough chunk of stone into his inventory and continued following the clues highlighted by the surveyor’s lens.
Thirty minutes later, his inventory bulged with a variety of gathered materials—including three chunks of the Starfall ore. He’d also earned himself another level, bringing him up to eight, gaining another 5 Stat Points, which he dropped into Intelligence, and an additional Proficiency Point, which he saved. Always good to have an ace in the hole. He pulled up his interface, glanced at the time, and decided it was time to find Horan.
With any luck, the old merc would be almost done gathering the rest of the materials and Osmark could focus on finding the last two pieces of Starfall ore. Even with his small break earlier, he was running ahead of schedule and wanted to keep it that way. He wheeled around and backtracked, heading off in the general direction he’d last seen Horan foraging. After a few minutes of steady progress, he heard a rustling near a thick tangle of bushes and promptly picked up his pace.
Only it wasn’t Horan making the noise.
A trio of naked, deformed creatures huddled around the body of a stag that had been ensnared by a hunter’s noose. They pawed at its tattered flesh with thick, blunted fingers and shoveled pieces of dripping red meat into their mouths. Oozing blisters covered their pallid flesh in thick, weeping growths that drooped from their skin like stalks of rotting vegetation.
Robert crouched, silent as a field mouse, and ducked behind a gnarled trunk before the creatures spotted him. He pushed his goggles up onto his forehead, then turned and peeked out to get a better look at them. A descriptor tag, [Fungaloid Hosts], hung over their deformed heads for a moment before vanishing. He couldn’t be sure of their level, but the in-game Overminds of V.G.O. were good about spawning scaling creatures, appropriate for any given traveler. Appropriate, but rarely easy.
They hadn’t seen him yet, though, so if he chose, he could just leave them be and go about his business.
Osmark considered that option but discarded it. To reach his Master Artificer specialization, he needed more than just the Honored reputation with Rozak he’d get from completing his fetch quest. He also needed to be at least level seventeen, and these Fungaloid Hosts were perfect for grinding out some extra experience. “Sorry, mushroom men,” Osmark whispered as he drew his loaded repeater, “but it’s time to serve the greater good.”
Osmark adjusted the weapon’s firing mode and aimed it at the huddled Fungaloid Hosts. Slowly, he exhaled and squeezed the trigger; the repeater barked three times in rapid succession, and the weapon kicked in his hand. Flashes of blue-green light erupted from its barrel and jets of steam hissed from the firing chamber as the burst sent three shots roaring toward the monsters.
All three rounds peppered the nearest Host’s back, puncturing its shoulders with puckered red entry wounds. Critical Hit. The shots exploded from the Fungaloid’s chest in a spray of viscous slop that painted the face and chest of its friend, sitting on the other side of the deer. The wounded creature toppled onto its side with a wheeze, revealing the ugly wound Robert’s attack had left in its torso. There were no vital organs or bones in that hole, just a lot of sticky blood and walls of pale spongy meat shot through with fibrous black cords.
All the same, the sight was quite disturbing.
But Osmark put that from mind as he exploited the advantage of surprise by firing a single shot into the head of another creature. The Fungaloid Host’s skull erupted in a fountain of gore and pale, flying meat. It jolted to its feet, flailing its arms in shock and horror as thick, irregular grunts escaped from its slack-jawed mouth. The lobotomized creature turned to stare at Osmark with milky eyes bulging from their sockets, then toppled like a felled tree, landing with a meaty thud.
The third Fungaloid Host vaulted over the remains of the deer carcass and past its mortally wounded companion, shriekin
g madly, its mouth open wide and its spatulate fingers hooked into claws.
Surprised by the creature’s speed, Robert retreated from the onslaught, backpedaling as he fired at the onrushing monster. Naturally, the hasty shot went wide, streaking past the Fungaloid’s head and smashing into the side of a tree with a crack.
“Shit!” Osmark shouted, fumbling to get the weapon up and ready.
The Fungaloid Host’s moist hands latched onto Robert’s shoulders and pulled him into its crushing embrace. The creature’s humid breath washed over Robert’s face like the rotting stench of a ripe compost heap. Robert struggled against the Host, but the creature was far stronger than he’d imagined, and its bear hug robbed him of any leverage.
The Host’s mouth stretched open wider and wider; for a terrifying moment, Osmark thought it was going to chew his face clean off. Instead, a strange hissing noise worked its way up from deep inside the creature’s chest and erupted from its gaping mouth along with a sticky gray spray.
Before Robert could think to hold his breath or plug his nostrils, the gray mist was in his mouth, clawing its way down his esophagus.
<<<>>>
Debuff Added
Choking: You have inhaled Suffocating Spores, reducing your Stamina by 10% and causing 5 hit points of damage per second; duration, 30 seconds.
<<<>>>
Osmark’s lungs burned, and a heavy weight settled on his chest, slowly squeezing out the air. He gasped for breath like a fish out of water, but only sucked in more spores, gagging as the things invaded his mouth and nose. The choking damage wasn’t enough to kill him, but it would knock off three-quarters of his Health. Worse, if he didn’t get free from the creature, it might be able to finish the job simply by squeezing him until his ribs fractured.
Robert struggled against the Fungaloid Host, wriggling his shoulders and bucking his hips, but the lack of oxygen had sapped what little strength he had. Brute force wouldn’t be enough to get him out of this jam.
The repeater, he thought desperately.
It was still in his right hand, but he couldn’t aim it. He snarled in pain and twisted the gun until the barrel pressed against something firm but yielding—hopefully, the Fungaloid Host’s belly and not his own—then squeezed the trigger yet again. Blood sprayed the trees behind the Fungaloid and dripped from its branches in glutinous red cords. Undeterred, the creature roared in Robert’s face, and its crushing grip intensified.
Osmark’s ribs creaked under the monster’s thick arms, and black invaded the edges of his vision as his HP continued to plunge.
He tilted the gun’s barrel up, slightly, and fired again.
This time, the monster’s mouth flopped open, and threads of smoke wafted out between its flat teeth. It groaned and flung Robert away, staggering drunkenly as it clutched its wounded abdomen with its stubby, shaking hands. Blood ran from between its squared fingers and splattered onto the leaf-strewn forest floor.
Osmark, still wheezing from the suffocating spores, raised his weapon once more and fired, blowing a chunk out of the Fungaloid’s left shoulder.
But somehow—almost miraculously—the creature survived the shot.
It lurched forward as Robert fought to clear his head.
Less than a yard away, it opened its mouth wide and inhaled, preparing to launch a fresh assault despite its terrible wounds and plummeting HP.
“No,” Robert choked out as he rammed the repeater’s slender barrel past the Fungaloid’s spongy lips and deep into the creature’s gaping mouth.
On instinct, his thumb stroked the fire selector on the back of the weapon’s grip and his index finger convulsed on the trigger. The repeater roared, crack-crack-crack, but Osmark couldn’t see the bursts of light from the barrel—not with the muzzle lodged so deeply in the creature’s mouth. The effects were immediately evident, however. The attack obliterated the Fungaloid’s head and coated Osmark’s face and eyes in a thick layer of fetid red slime. From now on, he was leaving the goggles in place.
Osmark reeled and fell to the ground, temporarily blinded by the remains of his foe.
For a moment, he just lay there, wheezing in agony as the spores chewed away at his lungs and Health in equal measure. Finally, the debuff wore off, and he mustered the strength and energy to flip over onto his belly and drag himself across the forest floor, blinking his eyes in an attempt to clear the goop away.
“What,” a familiar voice asked, “you decided to use your fancy popgun like a club instead of shooting the monsters from a reasonable distance? You’ve got guts and blood all over your face, man.”
“Can’t see,” Osmark gasped, reaching a hand blindly toward the sound of Horan’s voice.
The merc clasped Robert’s hand and pulled him to his feet.
“You mind holstering your weapon?” Horan asked, his words coated with worry. “Not that I don’t trust you, but I’d feel a mite bit better if you weren’t flailing that thing around where someone innocent might get shot.”
“Good idea,” Osmark replied, frantically wiping the goop from his eyes; slowly the world swam into focus through a blurry red haze. He found the mouth of the shoulder holster and slipped his repeater inside. Finally, he glanced back at the carnage from the battle, taking in the three dead creatures. He felt nothing but disgust at the scene—disgust with the beasts and with himself for coming so close to failure. Back IRL he might’ve been king, but here in V.G.O. he still had a lot to learn. “How’d you do?” he asked Horan, purposely turning away from the mess.
The mercenary grinned. “Got the leaves and the fungus. How about you?” he offered, wisely avoiding any mention of the Fungaloids.
Osmark took a deep breath, savoring the clean air that filled his lungs as his Stamina bar crept back toward full. “Not bad,” he replied. “I just need to find a couple more pieces of ore, but I think there’re some good spots near here.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the east.
Horan walked behind Osmark and put the supplies he’d gathered into his employer’s bag. “You’ll probably want to turn these in yourself.”
“Thanks,” Osmark replied. “Now, let’s get the last of the ore and head back to Tomestide.” He faltered and looked down at his fancy new clothes, now covered in gore. “I could use a nice, long, hot shower.”
Horan gestured for Osmark to proceed. “You lead the way, sir.”
Robert rubbed the goo from his goggles, slipped them into place, then adjusted them for foraging. The telescoping lens revealed a few likely spots nearby, and a few minutes later they had everything they needed. Osmark dropped the last chunk of ore into his inventory, relieved to be done. “That’s the last of—”
A series of low groans echoed through the forest from all points of the compass. The odd mewling sound raised the hairs on the back of Robert’s neck. “What in the hell was that?”
“Your new friends,” Horan replied with a devilish smile. “The Fungaloids can smell their dead. Like flies to shite. No doubt, they’re on their way to this mess.” He swept a hand to the three corpses not far off. “We should probably make ourselves scarce before they start looking for revenge.”
Osmark imagined a horde of Fungaloids blasting spores at him from every direction and shuddered. Killing them all would earn him a huge chunk of experience, but he didn’t see himself surviving a fight with a swarm of enraged mushroom men, not without better weaponry and a way to stop them at a distance. If they got in close and all started spewing spores into his face, he’d be a dead man in no time.
If he could set up some traps, that might be enough to tip the balance in his favor. He imagined a killing field crisscrossed by pit traps and rockfalls with him waiting at the other end, pistol drawn and ready. Setting that up would take hours, though. And even if the Fungaloids weren’t on their way that very moment, Osmark didn’t have that much time to spend on anything not directly related to finishing his tasks for the day.
“Let’s check these three for treasure, then get the hell out of
here,” Osmark muttered, waving at the nearby creatures. “I don’t have time to fight off a whole army of those monstrosities.”
Quickly, Osmark searched the bodies but didn’t find any coins or gemstones. The miserable beasts didn’t even have any weapons. The only thing he found of value was on the second Fungaloid Host he’d shot in the face. The grievous head injury had left the torso intact, which is where Osmark found a [Pristine Spore Sac]. Gingerly, he removed it with his gutting blade and held the strange organ up to Horan. “What do you think this is worth?”
“Your life,” Horan replied darkly, edging away a few feet. “Those spores are what the others smell.”
Osmark shrugged and stowed the sac. “They can’t smell them if they’re still in the organ.”
“Just don’t break it,” Horan said with a grimace before glancing around. “Let’s get out of here, eh? All of a sudden I feel like trouble’s headed our way.”
“Aw, so soon?” A voice came from the branches overhead. “We were hoping you might stick around.”
Osmark spun and drew his repeater, scanning the forest canopy. He spotted black-clad figures crouched among the tree branches, their faces covered with heavy veils. Assassins. One by one, the newcomers drew their weapons and aimed at Osmark’s face.
EIGHTEEN:
Gray Death
Robert weighed his options and found all of them wanting. “Get ready to run,” he whispered to Horan. “We need to split up.”
The figures overhead remained as motionless as statues. Some held crossbows; others had short bows with arrows nocked. They looked intimidating, but Osmark knew the archers were at a disadvantage: their shots were as likely to be blocked by tree limbs as they were to find their marks.
“Not a good plan,” Horan muttered back, his hands slowly creeping toward the sword at his hip. “I like six against two better than three on one.”
