by S. R. Witt
As if remembering he’d been talking to Robert, the dwarf shook his head and continued his speech. “But the greatest of their creations were the servants they built to help them run their kingdoms: the Brand-Forged.”
Robert raised one eyebrow in surprise. This was new. He couldn’t recall anything about the Brand-Forged from the design documents he’d seen or written. Apparently, the Overminds had been more imaginative than he’d thought possible. “What were these Brand-Forged? Golems?”
The dwarf said nothing for a long moment as he gnawed on the stem of his pipe, smoke drifting lazily from his nostrils. Rozak’s eyes took on a faraway look as if he’d remembered something both amazing and depressing. “No, they were no golems. They were thinking creatures. As much metal as meat, yet the Brand-Forged were truly alive. Even at the end.
“They were living creatures with the power to change their bodies to suit the task at hand. It wasn’t long before they’d surpassed their creators, and not much longer before they withdrew from the world of men altogether to create a society of their own.”
Osmark found himself fascinated by this new wrinkle. Why would the Overminds have created a new race of mechanical men just to erase them from the world before any players entered V.G.O.? It was a conundrum that both intrigued and worried Robert. Before he could pursue his thoughts any further, the dwarf spoke again.
“In their isolation, the Brand-Forged mastered the art and science that had created them. They were the ultimate Mechanical Artificers, and their knowledge has never been surpassed.” The dwarf twirled his pipe stem through the cloud of smoke around his head. “You’ll need some of that knowledge if you want to become a truly great artificer.”
Robert’s pulse raced. This was it. This was the class quest he needed. “What is it I need?” he asked, working to conceal the desperation in his voice.
Rozak grinned and leaned in close to Robert. “You must find a Mechanical Artificer’s Guidebook. They’re rarer than a dragon’s mercy and more precious than a demon’s tears. Recovering such a book will require a journey to one of the ruins of the Brand-Forged—assuming you can even find such a place. The mechanical men hid their enclaves well, and few have ever been discovered.”
“And if I can’t find one?” Robert felt his chest tighten at the thought of failure.
“Then you will not be a Mechanical Artificer,” Rozak said with a noncommittal shrug. He shoved his chair back from the desk and stomped away from Robert.
For a moment, Osmark thought he’d lost his chance with the dwarf. He wanted to race after Rozak but held his ground. He needed to be patient. Respectful. Charging after his master wasn’t going to help matters.
Rozak disappeared into his workshop and reappeared a few moments later with a massive leather tome tucked under his arm. He stopped in front of Robert and raised the book, which was etched in golden runes and studded with ancient cogs. “This book holds the sum of all my knowledge. Every one of the rare mechanical blueprints I’ve discovered is stored between these covers. But even if I gave it to you, it’d do you no good. Each artificer must fill his own book. Only then can you truly understand the legacy of the Brand-Forged.”
The quest prompt appeared in front of Osmark, and his heart pounded in his temples.
<<<>>>
Quest Alert: The Legacy of the Brand-Forged
Becoming a Mechanical Artificer requires the hidden knowledge of those who have come before. Only by recovering a Mechanical Artificer Guidebook from the ruins of the Brand-Forged do you have any hope of achieving this lofty goal.
Be warned that this quest is not for the foolhardy or the weak. The Brand-Forged hid their homes well and protected them with powerful weapons and mechanical servitors. Those who dare to venture into their long-forgotten enclaves risk death at the hands of the ancient and powerful machines.
Quest Class: Rare, class-based
Quest Difficulty: Extreme
Success: Return to Rozak with a Mechanical Artificer’s Guidebook
Failure: Death
Reward: Class change; faction increase; 15,000 EXP
Accept: Yes/No?
<<<>>>
Robert never considered saying no. He extended one hand to Rozak, and the dwarf shook it vigorously in his powerful grip.
“I’ll do it,” Osmark said, gladly excepting the rare and deadly quest.
“Best of luck to you,” Rozak said. “May the gods guide you on your path. They alone know how much help you’re going to need.”
Robert turned on his heel and stalked out of the forge. He had work to do and people to meet. His plan was coming together; he just had to stave off Sizemore for a little while longer.
TWENTY-ONE:
Status Report
Murly nodded as Osmark entered the Saddler’s Rest with a spring in his step. He looked like a dirt-caked hobo, true, but he felt good and was excited by the prospect of the Brand-Forged and his potential class specialization—even if finding one of these Brand-Forged Dungeons could be tricky. It was a new and unexpected complication, though it was always possible his restricted area could end up as a Brand-Forged location.
The restricted areas weren’t really designed in detail; rather, they were broadly programmed to meet specific input requirements, and the Overminds did the rest. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but it was the only way to circumvent the Overmind base directive that prevented hackers and modders from tinkering with the system. He didn’t know what to expect—not really—but the Dungeon would be geared heavily toward his specific class and would have a carefully balanced ratio of experience to mob difficulty. That algorithm would skirt just below what the Overminds would flag as unsanctioned modding.
Osmark put thoughts of the Brand-Forged from his mind as he surveyed the inn.
Unlike his last visit, the quaint tavern was hustling and bustling with activity: clouds of gray smoke floated by, while dusty, road-weary merchants lounged around the pub tables, eating, drinking, and laughing. After his misadventures in the forest, Osmark wasn’t in the mood to deal with the noise, the thick pipe smoke lingering in the air, or the crowds in the common room. He also wasn’t in the mood to search for his subordinates, who must’ve found some place to avoid the throngs of commoners.
Robert cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to Murly over the din, “Where are my people?”
The innkeeper didn’t have a chance to answer Robert before thirsty patrons began banging their tankards on the chipped and battered bar, causing a ruckus that drowned out whatever he’d been going to say. Flustered, Murly tilted his balding head toward a door at the rear of the tavern’s common room.
Robert tossed a silver piece to Murly, then shouldered his way through the crowd. He ignored the cries and protests of disgruntled patrons and managed to reach the door without giving in to his urge to shoot someone in the face with his repeater. It was a near thing, though. Osmark flicked the metal latch, opened the door just enough to slip through, then quickly secured it behind him before any of the drunks out there got any funny ideas. He sagged against the rough wood and let out an exasperated sigh.
Dorak, Garn, and Aurion—back from their initial surveillance trip to Wyrdtide—rose to greet him, but Robert waved them off. “Sit, sit. I hope there’s enough food and ale left for me. I’m starving.”
The small private room held a round table, six high-backed wood chairs, and a sideboard bowed under the weight of platters of roasted meats and flagons of ale. Robert took a seat near the food and loaded a metal plate to overflowing. He turned back to his people but raised a finger to keep them from asking any questions. Savoring the quiet, he stuffed his mouth with a slice of roast duck, once, twice, then washed the dust from his throat with a gulp from a tankard of ale.
With the worst of his hunger’s edge gone, Robert wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table.
His crew waited for him to speak, anxiously eyeing his ripped clothes and
bloody appearance. They were concerned, and so tense Osmark suspected they might start vibrating if he didn’t allow them to make their reports. “Garn, status report—”
The door abruptly swung open, interrupting his request.
Robert spun, drawing his repeater in the same fluid motion, and leveled the barrel at the door. Before he could get a lock on the intruder, however, a black blur flowed past the door and seized his wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
Sandra grinned down at Robert and released him. Though this was the first time he’d seen her since entering V.G.O., he immediately knew it was her. During the character creation process, she could’ve chosen to be anything, to look however she wanted, yet in the end—just like Osmark—she’d gone with a form that looked true to life. She had the same lean build, the same sharp green eyes, and even the same severe face, though air brushed with the sheen of VR magic. The only real difference was the slight golden hue to her skin and the pointed tips of her ears.
A Hvitalfar, then. A good choice, considering the Dawn Elves littered the West Viridia side of Eldgard and were close allies with the Imperials.
She was also as cool and collected as he’d ever seen her, and looked well-rested and relaxed despite the time she’d spent traveling to Tomestide. She had her long hair pulled back into a sleek black ponytail, which perfectly matched the form-fitting leather armor encasing her from throat to ankles. She padded past Robert in a pair of soft-soled boots that made no sound at all and slipped into a chair.
“Miss me?” she asked with a wink. “Sorry, I think I interrupted the status report.” She paused, stealing a sidelong glance at Osmark. “Thanks for not shooting me, by the way.”
“Garn, status,” Osmark said, ignoring Sandra’s intrusion. He sliced another hunk of meat with his Risi gutting knife. “You look like you have something to tell me about what happened in Wyrdtide.”
The security expert cleared her throat and clasped her hands on the table. “Sizemore’s been a busy boy, sir. He’s put the word out that he’ll pay well for anyone who can bring you to him. He wants you alive, though he doesn’t seem to care how banged up you get in transit.” Once more she eyed the muck and dried blood. She wanted to ask—the curiosity was etched into the features of her face—but she held her tongue.
A smart move.
Robert swallowed a mouthful of duck so tender it practically melted, and pointed his knife at Garn. “What does that tell you?”
The Risi fidgeted nervously in her seat. “He doesn’t want you dead, but he does want you out of the way. If he takes you prisoner, and he can find some way to keep you from escaping, that’s better than killing you.”
“A gold star for Garn.” Robert speared a hunk of roast beef and chewed on it thoughtfully, enjoying the burst of flavor. “I hope the rest of you understand that this changes things,” he finally said. “Sizemore’s upped the ante, and I’m not about to fold the hand I’ve been dealt. We need to be ready for anything he tries. And he will try something. Soon.”
Aurion cleared her throat and needlessly straightened her robes with the palms of her hands. “I found Sizemore’s family. He has them safely squirreled away in an estate outside of Wyrdtide. A wife and a son. There are enough guards on site to make an extraction difficult, though not impossible. I don’t think there’s a way to do it quietly, but we could do it if push comes to shove.”
Osmark crossed his fork and knife on his plate. “And if we have to kill them?”
The sorceress clenched her napkin so tight her knuckles cracked. Killing Sizemore’s family wouldn’t do any permanent damage, but it was still murder. The civilians would experience the pain and fear of their death, which would stick with them for a very long time. That had been one of the major flaws early on—a flaw the Devs never really ironed out. In the early beta versions, dying in the game proved exceptionally traumatic for many players, and a few became … extremely unhinged.
Aurion didn’t want that guilt on her conscience, which was precisely why Robert was assigning her the task. What they were trying to do was bigger than all of them—if she couldn’t break a few eggs, then she wasn’t fit to serve.
Aurion raised her eyes to meet Robert’s. “Yes,” she replied stiffly. “Give the word, and I can take them out.”
Robert nodded and gestured to Dorak. He was too busy filling the void in his gut to waste time asking questions. Robert could sympathize. The food here was better than he could have imagined, but his hunger was much greater, as well. He couldn’t remember ever eating this much in one sitting before, but hearty meals seemed to be the rule, not the exception, in V.G.O.
Dorak chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment and then dove into his report. “Sizemore’s done more than just put the word out that he wants your head. He’s been talking to the Coldskulls’ leadership. I saw him with one of their lieutenants, and rumor has it he’s been dealing with people further up their chain of command. All the way at the top, even. These people are very bad news, Mr. Osmark.”
Robert twisted his knife between his hands. He stared at each of the assistants in turn, letting the full weight of his attention fall on them one at a time. Finally, he retrieved a linen napkin from the sideboard and carefully, slowly, wiped his mouth clean. “As it turns out, I already knew everything you each reported.”
The cold steel in his voice froze the whole crew in place like an arctic blizzard. Robert could sense the questions on the tips of their tongues, but he wasn’t in the mood to hear from them. If they’d been a little faster, a little more diligent, they might’ve been able to get him intel that would’ve saved Horan’s life and spared him a lot of pain. “Do you notice anyone missing from our little meeting?” he asked, glancing left, then right.
Aurion responded instantly, her voice flat and emotionless. “Horan isn’t here.”
“Correct,” Robert said. He adjusted his plate until it sat directly in front of him on the table. He laid his knife down across its top, careful to keep the blade exactly parallel to his chest. He folded the napkin into a perfect rectangle and laid it on the table. Each motion methodical and precise. Drawing out the moment and the awful tension. “Two hours ago,” he said after a time, “while you were all gathering here and stuffing your faces with food I’m paying for, the Coldskulls attacked me in the forest east of town. They killed Horan. They almost captured me.”
Sandra flinched at the devastating news, but she didn’t look away from Robert’s even stare. “I’m sorry, sir, I should’ve gathered the information more quickly and gotten it to you immediately. We didn’t know the Coldskulls had already dispatched a team to Tomestide. It must’ve happened while we were in transit.”
Robert knew his assistant was right, but it didn’t make him feel any better about what had happened. There was a gap in his intelligence team, a hole in the net he used to gather the data that was so critical to his success in V.G.O. He should’ve left one of his operatives in Wyrdtide, where they could keep an eye on Sizemore.
He should’ve been on top of the situation, even if they weren’t.
That was the difference between a good manager and a failure.
The team had screwed up, but he had, too. Ultimately, a team’s shortcomings fell squarely on the leader’s shoulders.
He took a deep, cleansing breath, and forced himself to relax. From the pained looks on their faces, it was clear his team felt terrible about Horan’s death and his near capture. Yelling at them wouldn’t inspire them to work any harder or any smarter, and it sure as hell wouldn’t bring Horan back from the dead.
“There’s nothing we can do to change what happened, but I think this can be a learning moment for each of you. Hopefully, you all now realize just how high the stakes are. While Sizemore is out there, we’re all in danger. I don’t know how he’s done it, but he’s gotten further along in his plans than I’d like.” Robert’s eyes swept the room. “Which means we need to move faster and be smarter if we want to beat him. We paid for this lesson
in blood, so let’s not forget it, yes?”
Robert let the words sink in for a moment before he handed out the next assignments. “Garn, I need you on the Coldskulls’ lieutenant. Get back to Wyrdtide, and cling to the asshole like a hemorrhoid. And if he sends another team my way, I want to know about it long before they try to stick a knife in my gizzard.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, rat-tat-tat, then turned toward Dorak. “You’re on Sizemore. I want to know his schedule, his routine—where he stays, what he eats, who he talks to. If he so much as gets up in the middle of the night to take a leak, you report it to Sandra. No more surprises.”
“And me?” Aurion asked.
“Sit on Sizemore’s family,” he replied coolly. “I doubt he’ll move them, but I need you tailing them at all times. If they leave the estate, you follow. Period.” Osmark stared deep into the elf’s eyes. “You have to be ready.”
“For what?” Aurion said, her spine stiff, her chin raised defiantly, her hands curled into tight fists.
Osmark didn’t like her rebellious attitude, but he needed her on this. For now, at least. Explaining his motives to one of his employees rankled Robert’s spirit, but there was no other way to get the message through Aurion’s head. “To kill them. If I give the word, I want his wife and child blown into a fine red mist. Or burned to ash. Or transformed into pillars of salt. Whatever. If I give the order, I want them dead. That instant—” He snapped his fingers. “Gone. Can you handle that or do I need to find someone else?”
“I thought—” Aurion started, but Osmark cut her off.
“I know. But we don’t have a choice. I need leverage over Sizemore, and this is the best way to get it.” Robert sat back and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. A stress migraine was sprouting inside his skull, and he couldn’t afford to let it grow. Absently, he wondered if the headache was somehow symptomatic of the transition—was he dying? Was this it? Had a blood clot migrated to his brain, killing him before the nanites could finish their work? He pushed the morbid notion away. Thinking like that wasn’t useful, and he eliminated everything that wasn’t useful.
