by S. R. Witt
The blade plunged through his armor and deep into the muscle below with a white-hot flash of agony. Then—before Osmark could even think—Hamada barked a word of magical power; the blade’s tip sprouted ripping barbs of fire a split second before Hamada yanked the spear free.
<<<>>>
Critical Hit! You suffer 75 points of penetration damage and an additional 25 points of fire damage!
<<<>>>
Hamada threw back her head and crowed in premature victory—certain the terrible wound would push Osmark to the brink of respawn. How wrong she was. The wound was ugly and shockingly painful, true, but far from life-threatening. Even one day before, her attack might’ve killed him, but with his new Vital Sigils in place his Vitality Score was at 189, giving him an incredible 2,090 hit points. Her attack was a drop in the bucket next to that.
Hamada’s levitation spell ended a heartbeat later, and she landed hard on the caltrops. Panic blossomed on her face like a poisonous flower opening its leaves when she realized there was no way to retreat and Robert was virtually unscathed.
Osmark leveled his repeater and fired a burst into the hollow of Hamada’s shoulder, just where her neck met her body. Before she could scream, the woman’s elfin neck transformed into a wet mess of bone chips and shredded meat. Critical Hit. Her corpse vanished in a Technicolor burst before it could hit the ground, leaving the rest of her assault squad staring in disbelief at Osmark’s smoking repeater.
“You had a chance to do the right thing,” Osmark offered with a bloodthirsty sneer, “but you trusted a man who’d sell his own mother for a quick buck. Having second thoughts yet?”
Weber roared, overcome with a berserk fury that gave him the strength to ignore the movement debuff. He charged Robert with his dwarven battle-axe reared back and ready to strike. Lost in bloodrage and overcome with a bone deep lust for violence, the German in a Wode’s body threw himself forward with no concern for his own safety. The move cost the man a chunk of his rib cage and a quarter of his HP, but it also brought him in range to put his axe to good use.
The berserker’s first attack sliced through the air with devastating force, missing Osmark by mere inches, but Weber spun into the momentum and took a step forward before Robert could retreat. The axe’s broad head struck Osmark on the shoulder, and only his sigil-enhanced Dexterity saved him from losing his head. Even still, Robert suffered another fifty points of Health damage and had to backpedal toward the inn to avoid the whirling Wode tornado of doom.
But Weber’s relentless assault worked in Robert’s favor because it prevented any of Sizemore’s other allies from getting anywhere near the twirling maniac. While the berserk rage lasted, Weber created a ten-foot-wide sphere of pain that no one seemed willing to enter, no matter how much Sizemore screamed for someone to do something.
While that protected Osmark, it also kept him from pursuing the senator. Robert watched in helpless rage as Sizemore and his wall of bodyguards retreated toward one of Tomestide’s side streets. If he didn’t make his move soon, the sniveling shit would escape, and Robert would have to spend an enormous amount of time and effort tracking him down before he could regroup and regather his forces.
To add to Robert’s problems, the Coldskulls were pushing forward, entering the fray with military efficiency. They spread through the crowd, then reappeared as a cordon of drawn swords at the edges of Osmark’s caltrops.
Robert was suddenly hemmed in by a small army of trained killers, all wielding poisoned blades. Even with his boosted physical abilities, Osmark had no illusions about his ability to stand up to an expert poisoner, especially not thirty of them. The venom might not kill him—it might only paralyze him, or blind him, or otherwise cripple him—but if that happened, he’d be captured long before he could recover.
Robert scanned the crowd, looking for some hole in the lines, but found nothing. The Coldskulls were traitorous rats badly in need of extermination, but they were competent. No denying that. The tattoo-faced lieutenant shuffled forward; she paused, a smug grin on her thin lips, and raised her black-edged cutlass to the sky. In an instant, black-shrouded crossbowmen materialized on the rooftops surrounding the square, their weapons raised and trained on his heart.
He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The bodies of his enemies might catch a few of the crossbow bolts, but many more of the poisoned missiles would have a clean shot.
The cutlass fell, and Osmark tensed against the pain he knew was coming—
Fire and thunder erupted from the windows on the east and west sides of the square as the automatons finally roared into action. A hail of grapeshot and explosive rounds raked across the rooftops. Wood and stone burst apart as the powerful barrage reduced most of the roofs to fountains of splinters and shards. Suddenly, Osmark was very glad he’d had the town guards evacuate the buildings the night before. He had no problem killing, but murdering innocent NPC civilians was more than a little distasteful.
The crossbow men screamed as the automatons went on the warpath, their cannons and repeaters blazing away with steam-powered speed and engineered accuracy. A seemingly endless stream of death rained down into the assassins, ripping apart bodies with contemptuous ease. The Coldskull crossbowmen fell, their corpses tumbling through the ruined roofs, into abandoned homes, or onto the cobblestone streets below.
In a split second, the tides of battle had turned. Robert glared at the leader of the Coldskulls and leveled his repeater at her face.
“Surrender, and I’ll make it quick,” Robert promised.
The lieutenant sneered at his offer, and a flicker of worry caught fire in Osmark’s belly.
He’d just blown half her forces straight to hell, so why was she so confident?
What had he missed?
THIRTY-NINE:
Firestorm
Fire poured from the sky and smashed into Osmark like a Mack truck, blinding him and simultaneously knocking him flat on his back. An endless scream clawed at his ears as the flames chewed on his flesh, and it wasn’t until Robert’s throat began to ache that he realized he was the one screaming. The shocking assault had stripped away a quarter of his Health in a single burst and sent an explosion of combat notifications scrolling past his eyes.
<<<>>>
Debuffs Added
Stunned: Movement reduced by 75%; duration, 10 seconds
Burning: You are on fire! You suffer 50 Health damage per second; duration, 10 seconds
Dazzled: Your vision is severely impaired! Your line of sight is limited to 20 feet, and you suffer a 90% penalty to any vision-related abilities (including missile weapons); duration, 10 seconds
Smoke Inhalation: Your lungs are full of smoke, causing 200 points of Stamina damage per second; duration, 10 seconds
<<<>>>
So, that’s what the Accipiter were up to, Osmark thought—his mind filled with a hazy mist—followed quickly by, Pull it together or you’re a dead man.
Even without the Coldskulls, Robert was gravely outnumbered. The caltrops slowed his enemies and kept them from all charging at once, but his blurry vision showed him they were closing in. Not including Sizemore’s bodyguards, which Robert could no longer see, that left at least nine board members ready and willing to put the boots to him while he was burning on the ground.
Sandra was still out there somewhere, as were Garn and Dorak, but Robert had given them explicit orders. They weren’t to enter the fray, no matter what else happened. If Sizemore’s side captured them, that would give the senator leverage he could use against Osmark. Better for all of them to flee and fight another day than be taken prisoner.
Someone kicked him in the ribs with the toe of a heavy boot, but Robert couldn’t see well enough to tell who was behind the attack. Someone else stuck a dagger into his lower back—a kidney shot—and then the whole mob was suddenly in on the beatdown. Osmark’s caltrops were still in action, but once his enemies reached him, the movement penalties didn’t mean much. They could sta
nd still and whale on Robert like he was a piñata and they were chubby kids who hadn’t had their sugar fix in a week.
He flipped to his belly and fought to get to his feet, but a heavy club smashed across his shoulders and flattened him to the cobblestones once more. Thick spikes punched through his padded armor and tore into the meat of his back; Robert swore vengeance on Peng just as soon as he could get up. But as his HP plummeted, the mob only grew angrier and even more violent, their blows coming faster and harder. If he didn’t think of something quickly, his enemies would beat him into a puddle of burning goo.
Motionless, Osmark thought, and a bloody smile peeled his cracked and bruised lips back from his teeth. They’re all motionless.
With a howl of maniacal laughter, he unleashed the Flame Spitter. Its rotors whirled to life, and it took to the sky with a throaty whoosh. Its underslung gun chattered like a five-alarm blaze in a fireworks factory, drowning out Osmark’s barking laughter.
Too late, the gathered board members realized the danger they were in and tried to flee from Osmark’s deadly drone. But they were slowed to a crawl by the field of caltrops they were standing in, and the Flame Spitter showed no mercy. The first salvo cut half of the survivors down like a burning scythe through a field of drought-parched wheat. Bodies burst into flame, fell around Osmark, and then evaporated into sprays of digital blood.
“I gave you a chance,” Osmark snarled, finally dragging himself upright. “I saved your lives,” he spat, blood running down his chin and dribbling onto his armor.
Weber lunged at Robert, foaming at the mouth as his berserker fury kicked into gear again, but Osmark was having none of it. The repeater barked, and the Wode’s head whipped back, a gaping hole in his forehead. His legs spun out in front of him, and his powerful body crashed to the ground, limbs splayed out akimbo.
Peng, realizing the futility of running, raised his weapon and faced Osmark, slowly spinning his spiked club as he glared at Robert with muddy eyes. “You can’t beat him,” Peng snarled in heavily accented English. “You may have created this game, but we are all playing his.”
Osmark shook his head. The Flame Spitter roared again, mowing down the remaining board members save for Peng. The Accipiter had made the fatal mistake of landing near Osmark to take out their misguided rage on his fallen body and now were trapped by the caltrops. They fell in sprays of bone and feathers, their exotic wings shredded by burning shells.
Osmark let out a long, slow sigh. “I know this isn’t permanent, Peng, but it’s still going to hurt like a bitch. I hope you remember it after you respawn.”
The spiked club swung at Osmark’s head, but his finger mashed down the trigger in a blink. The repeater belched flame and lead as he emptied the magazine into Peng’s chest at point-blank range. The brigandine armor blew apart, its engraved plates flying in every direction as Peng’s body burst at the seams.
With no enemies left in its area of effect, the Flame Spitter fell from the sky. Robert caught it and tucked it away safely in his inventory while he scanned the square for Sizemore. Where are you? he seethed, searching for the man who’d tried to destroy his hard work.
But the senator was nowhere to be seen.
Osmark realized the automatons had gone silent, as well. He looked across the battlefield and saw plumes of smoke rising from the open windows, and Coldskull assassins dropping back to street level with their poisoned blades drawn. Damn, they’d taken out his drones. He counted ten headed his way and started reloading the repeater. “I guess we’re doing this,” he said, then wiped the blood from his brow with a dirt-caked hand.
“I hope you got some more tricks, jefe, because those are some bad, bad people with your name carved into their knives.”
Osmark raised an eyebrow and turned to his right, where Carrera leaned casually, almost lazily, on a gleaming greatsword. “What?” the drug lord asked with a shrug. “You thought I’d cut and run? No.” He shook his head, a disgusted sneer sprinting across his face. “I’ve been hacking some of Sizemore’s men into bite-sized chunks.”
Robert smiled. “Never figured you’d be the last one on my side, Carrera. Honestly, I thought you’d be the real source of my problems, not Sizemore.”
He shrugged again and sniffed dismissively. “What can I say, I like your style. Your flair.” Carrera spat on the blood-slicked street, then waved a hand at the carnage. “Besides, the senator, he always rubbed me the wrong way. He thought he was better than me, you know? Better than everyone.”
“Well,” Osmark muttered, glancing around, “I’d say he got the better of us this time, at least. I don’t see him anywhere, just his thugs. Bastard must’ve had a dozen escape plans. Now I’ll have to track him down before he stabs me in the back again.”
“He didn’t get far,” Carrera said, hooking a thumb toward the main street beyond the gathering Coldskulls. “Can’t be more than a few blocks away. If you hurry…” He cocked an eyebrow, leaving the rest unspoken. Apparently, Carrera was on his side for the time being, but his gesture said this was a score Osmark needed to settle on his own.
Osmark couldn’t have agreed more.
He nodded and turned toward the approaching Coldskull Lieutenant, leveling his repeater at her face. He was actually surprised she’d managed to escape the automaton assault. If she survived what came next—which he doubted very much—he might even offer her a job. “Stand down, now,” he said. “Get out of my way, and I’ll show you mercy.”
The Coldskull laughed, and it shook her head so hard her black ponytail whipped from side to side. “You didn’t see the firebombs coming. What makes you think there isn’t another trap waiting to spring on you? I’ll make you an offer. Surrender and I won’t hurt you.” She twirled her cutlass through the air with a flourish. “Much.”
Robert shrugged. “I don’t have time for this. Last chance.”
The lieutenant snarled, “Get him!”
Osmark whistled, and the building on the north side of the square exploded. Shattered beams and chunks of masonry the size of bowling balls pelted the Coldskulls from behind as bits of wood sliced into unprotected skin. Caught off guard, the assassins ducked and scattered, all discipline lost as the surprise attack tore into their ranks.
Rozak emerged from the decimated building, his pipe protruding from the corner of his mouth, his stocky body surrounded by a powerful steampunk frame nearly identical to the Iron Goliath Osmark had faced in the Brand-Forged Artifactory. A powerful buzzsaw roared on his left arm, and the spinning rotary cannon screamed to life on his right.
“Who broke my machines?” he bellowed, his voice rumbling out of the speaker on the golem’s chest with the force of an earthquake. “I bet it was you sneaky gits! Never did like assassins.” His cannon thundered to life, and fist-sized explosive shells devastated the remaining Coldskulls. Then—because Rozak was apparently a big fan of overkill—the dwarf hammered their remains with another sweeping barrage, reducing the assassins to a fine pink mist.
He’d spared the lieutenant, though, who turned toward Osmark with wide, shocked eyes. “What kind of monster are you?”
Osmark casually raised his repeater and blew the woman’s heart out of her back with a single shot. As her body sailed backward, smoke trailing from the massive wound through her torso, he said, “The kind that wins.”
Carrera let out a long, slow whistle. “That was something else. I mean, I’ve seen some things, but what you did here …”
Robert holstered his repeater. “You can be president of my fan club after I deal with Sizemore. Right now, I need to find him before he escapes.”
Osmark downed a Health Regen potion in a single, long gulp, then strutted down the main street, Rozak following on his heels like a ten-ton guard dog. Time for payback.
FORTY:
Payback
Osmark caught Sizemore and his bodyguards at the gates of Tomestide, preparing to mount their horses and bolt into the wind. They stopped to stare at Osmark and Rozak, how
ever, their horses nickering nervously as they pawed the ground.
Robert shook his head. “It’s over, Sizemore. You took your shot, now I’m taking mine.”
Sizemore’s bodyguards, all five of his inner circle of board members, turned to face Robert and brandished their weapons. The senator slung his leg over his horse’s saddle. “You haven’t caught me yet.”
Osmark hiked his thumb over his shoulder at Rozak. “Your horse might be able to outrun me, but you can’t outrun that cannon. Trust me, it makes a helluva mess.”
The bodyguards stared at the dwarf in his Iron Golem, eyes wide and mouths dry.
“Kill me then,” Sizemore sneered. “I’ll respawn, and you’ll spend the next year trying to find me. And by then? By then, my next plan will already be in motion. If you stop that one, there’s another contingency. And another. And another. You’ve lost, Osmark, you just don’t know it yet. Today was a mistake, I’ll admit that, but hardly a fatal one.”
“Message your wife. Ask her how the house is,” Robert said, his eyes as cold and dead as winter’s heart. He messaged Aurion in the same moment.
<<<>>>
Personal Message:
Hit the house. Hard. Do it now.
Osmark
<<<>>>
Sizemore’s face paled, but he held tight to his reins. “You’re bluffing. This is between us, you wouldn’t dare to go after my family.”
Robert held up three fingers. “Get out of the saddle and surrender to me before I hit zero, or your family is dead.”
Osmark folded his ring finger under his thumb.
<<<>>>
Personal Message:
Done.
Aurion
<<<>>>
Sizemore’s face crumpled into a mask of confusion and fear.
“Got a message from the wife?” Osmark smirked. “Probably going to need to hire some carpenters, huh? Maybe you wish you’d invested in something to put out fires?”
