by James Hunter
Perhaps a new runic requirement that would automatically transport any player or creature above level 70 back to the bailey? He mulled it over for a moment before dismissing the idea. No, a rune that powerful would likely blow up in his face if he tried to inscribe it even at his level, and Hearthworld would never allow it to take anyway because it violated the basic tenant all Dungeons had to abide by: a viable path must exist to reach the Dungeon Lord. There was no way around that rule. It was as immutable as a period at the end of a spell script in Traisbin.
Roark’s mind turned the problem over and over as he paced, soaking up the heat from the forge’s flames.
A snatch of ancient wisdom, often bandied around the village of Korvo where he’d grown up, drifted to the surface of Roark’s thoughts. If you know the moonviper as the moonviper knows itself, you need not fear the result of its bite. Basically that the more knowledge you had of your enemy, the better off you were. That had to be the key to this endeavor. Lowen and his lick-spittle lackeys were cruel, arrogant, and predictable.
Roark cast his mind back to his days at the Academy. As a boy, Lowen had been obsessed with station. The von Reichs were old nobility, their lineage extending back over five hundred years, but according to the gossips in Roark’s year, most of the von Reichs’ family holdings had been sold off piece by piece over the generations to pay debtors, until only the sliver of land beneath their country manor remained. By the time Lowen was sent to the Academy, his family had been just a step removed from the poorhouse. No wonder then that he and Roark had never gotten on. It had irked Lowen to no end that Roark with his dirty, mixed heritage held a higher station and lived on plenty while his own pure-blooded family had been reduced to scraping by on name alone.
And no wonder the von Reichs had been so quick to pledge their allegiance to the Tyrant King.
Magick and arrogance were all that remained of Lowen’s inheritance, and that was what made him an excellent mage. From the day they were allowed to write their first spells, Lowen did everything with magick. It was the privilege of the nobility, strictly off-limits to commoners, and therefore it set him apart from the rabble. He hated doing anything that a commoner might do. Even using a sword unsettled the vainglorious mage.
Therein lay the key. Roark couldn’t outright bar Lowen and his ilk from the Cruel Citadel, but with a few tweaks to Discordant Inversion and Deflection, he could turn their magick against them and keep them out of his hair, at least for a time.
But Roark couldn’t just target all Divine Magic, since that would likewise expel nearly half of the heroes who tried their hand at the Citadel. It was possible there was a way around that too, however.
Roark swapped out his spell book for his grimoire and quickly flipped to the ribbon labeled WikiLore, the great repository for all the discovered knowledge of Hearthworld. If there were elaborate pages detailing the Cruel Citadel, then it stood to reason that there would be at least a few such pages dedicated to Lowen and the Vault of the Radiant Shield. It took him only a handful of seconds to find a list of the spells Heralds used, marked down in elaborate detail courtesy of a hero named [John_Curley_Rulz].
Heavenly Wrath, Angelic Lance, Divine Missiles, Summon Celestial Might, Spear of Mercy, Consecrate, Serenity of Sound, Shield of Faith, Divinity of Blessings, Retribution Blast, Solar Glory.
When he hovered above each spell, a brief description appeared, letting him know exactly what each spell did. Invaluable information to be sure. A quick cross-reference with the WikiLore page for Divine Player Classes revealed that those spells were specific to the Heralds’ evolutionary pathway, in the same way that Roark’s Jotnar powers were specific to his. Heroes had no access to those magicks.
That made his job almost too easy, really. Committing the spell names to memory, he closed his grimoire and returned once more to the spell book.
Before he could create the spell properly, he needed to write out a simple sigil that would act as the runic shorthand for the list of spells he’d so easily dug up on the WikiLore. Roark flipped to a binding page with a blank section of parchment and set to work, quill scritch-scratching along the surface of the fine paper as he wrote.
[Herald Spell Subset: Heavenly Wrath, Angelic Lance, Divine Missiles, Summon Celestial Might, Spear of Mercy, Consecrate, Serenity of Sound, Shield of Faith, Divinity of Blessings, Retribution Blast, Solar Glory, designation = Zlato!]
The designation took without issue, just as Roark expected. The next part would be the real challenge. Moving farther down the page, he added a new line of text, this time incorporating the Discordant Inversion and Deflection spell form he’d used on the shields—though with a few slight modifications:
If a player or creature activates one of the spells in Herald Spell Subset (designation = Zlato!), then trigger Discordant Inversion and Deflection (Spell Type: Divine), and teleport caster from the Prime Transportation Plate (designation = Nirn!) to the corresponding: {Destination Plate 6}
With the main spell done, Roark drew a containment circle around the curses and various runes, working even more carefully than he would on a Peerless weapon with a Flawless gem. A failed attempt to inset a Peerless weapon wouldn’t backfire and kill him, but this most certainly would. The containment circle was a complicated piece of magecraft meant to restrict the effects of a particular spell set to a given area or amplify and bind various textual proofs into a single coherent form. Such a containment circle wasn’t typically used for simple cantrips in Traisbin, but was reserved instead for the most complex forms of contract magick or sprawling, multi-mage rituals.
Roark’s hand moved with meticulous care as he defined the various boundaries and wrote out the binding formula.
Finally, he lifted the nib from the page, blowing softly on the ink out of habit.
A notice materialized before his eyes, wiping out his handiwork, leaving the parchment in his spell book completely blank.
[Would you like to transmute Inscription to invent Curse Chain: Heavenly Ward? Yes/No?
Note: There is no cost to attempt to invent Curse Chains, however not all combinations of runes and curses play nicely together. Success depends upon compatibility of runes and curses used and will not be revealed before the attempt to invent a Curse Chain is accepted. Failure comes with steep consequences.
Please inscribe responsibly.]
Roark swallowed hard, rubbing his palms together in a combination of excitement and apprehension. He’d blown himself sky-high more than a few times while tinkering with new curse chains, but the opportunity here was too good to pass up. The potential gain far outweighed any risk.
Still, he flinched a little as he hit Yes, expecting the worst.
[Your invention of Curse Chain: Heavenly Ward was successful! Accepted definition for Heavenly Ward has been logged in your Initiate’s Spell Book under rune HEAVENLY WARD.]
Roark turned immediately back to his spell book. A new rune—a grimacing skull with wings protruding from the sides—had appeared on the page with the particulars of the effects neatly written beside it.
Absolutely brilliant.
Now all he needed to do was add the Heavenly Ward rune to the Citadel’s Portal Plates, plant the new designation plate somewhere far away and vastly unpleasant, then bide his time until more Heralds came poking around to see how well this new defense worked.
Well-laid Trap
A BATTLE RAGED THROUGH the Citadel’s first-floor entry hall.
No Heralds yet, though hopefully they wouldn’t be too long in coming. This was simply another party of heroes to be griefed. Technically, Roark should have been below, waiting for their highest levels in the Throne Room, but after all the time spent bent over portal plates and spell books, he’d been craving some exercise. Griefing always helped alleviate his stress, and there was something freeing in the forms of the blade and the struggle for survival against the greedy, loot-hungry heroes of Hearthworld.
This was a mixed party of high-level heroes, the team pe
rfectly balanced in accordance with the WikiLore to make a run at the Cruel Citadel’s Dungeon Lord. Roark had decided to save them the trouble of grinding their way all the way down to the Keep, especially since he needed them for research.
He lunged at an impetuous level 27 rog, slated as a Holy Cavalier. The tip of Roark’s rapier slipped between the overlapping plates of the rog’s wooden O-Rogiri armor, sinking deep into vulnerable flesh and eating through a fifth of the red in the rog’s Health bar in an instant.
Roark could’ve killed the hero on the spot, but he pulled his blade free—an arc of blood spraying from the wound—and retreated a handful of paces. He raised the slender blade into prima guardie, a clear invitation, and cocked an eyebrow at the rog, who radiated a subtle golden aura of Divine power.
“What’s the matter, mate, scared to have at me? Did I cut out your backbone with that slice?” Roark positioned himself directly over the portal plate that guarded the way into the connecting hall. “I suppose it’s lucky then that you’re just another moron in heavy armor, not some sort of Blessed Paladin or Holy Cavalier, since Infernal chimeras like me are so bloody vulnerable to Divine magick.”
Roark was well aware that the rog was not only a Holy Cavalier of Tadhiel but wielding a Sanctified Zweihander no less. Anyone who could read the rog’s stats could see that. He felt a bit stupid overstating his taunts so bluntly, but thus far in Hearthworld, he hadn’t come across many heroes versed in the art of subtlety.
When the rog didn’t press the attack immediately, Roark had a brief second of uncertainty, wondering whether this hero had caught onto his act, but the Holy Cavalier answered that question by reacting exactly as Roark had planned.
Eyes glimmering with satisfaction at how clever he was, the rog dropped back, lowering the enormous blade, and raised his free hand. A bolt of Divine white light streaked through the air at Roark’s head.
Roark stepped back and let the bolt pass over the portal plate, casting a level 2 Absorption spell a hair before the white light hit him. The simple protection magick drank up the holy damage like dusty hardpan soaking up a spattering of rain.
The rog glanced down at his gauntleted hand in puzzlement. Everything he knew about Infernal mobs’ vulnerability to Divine magick in Hearthworld said his first effort should have scored a hit—and would have if Roark had left his Infernali Shield to protect him. Receiving no answers from his wooden gauntlet, the rog launched a second and third holy spell. Roark easily countered each using pre-inscribed casts from his Initiate’s Spell Book.
Most importantly, the portal plate beneath their feet remained inactive, refusing to discharge the potent new Heavenly Ward rune Roark had worked into the metal alongside the Hero Sieve glyph.
This rog was the ninth Divine warrior Roark had encountered, and so far, not one of them had set off the ward, which was a good sign. He wanted the plates to be effective against Lowen and his forces, but only against them. Thus far, even the most stalwart Divine Heroes were untouched by the new curse.
Unfortunately, the Heralds hadn’t returned yet, so Roark hadn’t been able to verify whether his handiwork would function properly in that regard, but it was only a matter of time.
It had been nearly a full nine hours since the initial Herald skirmish, and Viago’s mangled corpse still adorned the bailey. Even if Viago’s gear was worthless trash—highly doubtful for a level 99—Lowen could never stand to let the body remain indefinitely. Viago’s corpse would act as a tangible symbol of Roark’s strength. A rallying point, reminding everyone of Lowen’s failure. The self-important mage couldn’t abide a blow like that to his fragile porcelain ego.
The rog hurled another bolt of Divine power as if certain that where the first three hadn’t succeeded, the fourth one would. But Roark had learned everything he needed to know from the thickheaded hero.
Sidestepping the blast with ease, he shot across the floor, propelled by a push from his leathery wings. The tip of his rapier effortlessly carved a line of crimson across the Holy Cavalier’s throat, neatly slicing through another half of the hero’s Health vial.
The rog clamped a hand around his neck, eyes wide as he retreated toward what remained of his party.
He didn’t make it far.
His booted heel caught on the arm of a dead Sneakthief in darkened leathers, and the Cavalier stumbled, leaving himself open for a killing blow. Roark moved in a flash, but before his blade touched flesh, a colossal blue-black mace with wicked flanges shaped like sapphire flames carved through the air ahead of it. The weapon connected with a meaty thump, and the rog dropped where he stood, his legs refusing to hold up his bulky frame a moment longer. The red in his filigreed Health bar vanished, the spark of life fading from his beady eyes as the hero was sent for respawn like so many of his fellow party members now dotting the Citadel foyer.
“My kill!” PwnrBwner crowed in triumph, leaning the massive mace against his silvered pauldron. “Basically saved your ass there, dickweed, so I get dibs on the loot.”
“Yes, he really had me back on my heels.” Roark rolled his eyes. “Help yourself, I already have what I needed from him. Besides”—he offered the Combat Cleric a wicked grin—“I’ll mark his body for griefing and collect the real prize later.”
“As long as I get mine first,” PwnrBwner said, dropping into a squat and rifling through the dead rog’s items, dropping each one into his Inventory with the occasional satisfied comment of, “decent,” and “sweet-ass.”
When he was finished looting the Cavalier, PwnrBwner straightened.
“I knew coming here today would pay off,” he said.
“Well, if you’re determined not to leave, why don’t you help me clear up the rest of this riffraff?” Roark waved toward the remainder of the party, clustered together in a tight pocket near the stairs, desperately fighting back-to-back as Trolls, Stone Salamanders, and Reaver Bats bled them dry a slash or arrow at a time. “I’m expecting guests soon, and I would rather like to have this hall cleared and waiting.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. But then you and I need to have words,” Pwnr replied, suddenly grim. “I think your magic fucked me up.”
Roark was about to ask what he meant when a level 29 Wild Huntress got brave and lunged out of the pack, her pair of summoned Black Jaguars charging at Roark and PwnrBwner.
Roark dodged the initial attack and opened the closest Jaguar’s guts with a skillful dalla spalla slash. Nearby, the High Combat Cleric let out a blunt curse and crunched his flanged elemental mace through the other Jaguar’s skull.
“The faster we dispatch this lot, the sooner we can speak,” Roark called to him, advancing on the now unprotected Huntress.
Taking out the remaining heroes was the work of a few minutes, whittling their resistances down, then burying them beneath a wave of Troll flesh and malicious spells.
PwnrBwner tried to claim the majority of the kills and an accompanying portion of the loot, but Roark stomped that down immediately, seeing it for the challenge it was. The High Combat Cleric was a natural boundary-pusher and would walk all over Roark if given half a chance. First Roark made certain the Citadel’s hardworking troops got their portion, then he willingly gave up his portion of the items and gold to PwnrBwner. Roark already had more items than he could handle, and in truth his Smithing and Enchanting were high enough that he could easily craft better, but the gesture seemed to pacify the brash hero.
Once they finished clearing the bodies, the cartographer marking them on the map along with their respawn time, Roark and Pwner found their way to the back of the foyer where they could watch the stairs leading down from the bailey.
“So, who are you waiting for, anyway?” the High Combat Cleric asked, leaning against the wall. “Bad_Karma’s not gonna be ready to face off against you anytime soon, if that’s what you’re worried about. Dude had a hard-core character. No respawn. It’ll be a hot minute before he grinds out something tough enough to make another run at you.”
“I
t’s not Bad_Karma I’m worried about,” Roark said, folding his arms. “We had a skirmish with a contingent of Malaika Heralds earlier.” He paused as Mac waddled over and settled down beside him, his muzzle and beard covered in wet, red gore. “If you saw the Troll and allied corpses stacked in the bailey on the way in, then you know it went less than ideal.”
PwnrBwner nodded. “You can say that again. It looked like a blender full of fish blew up out there. So, was it that brohole, Lowen?”
“Not him personally,” Roark replied with a shake of his head, “but his thugs, yes. I’ve been preparing for ages, and ten of his Heralds ran roughshod over triple that number of my best defenders without even trying. We managed to bring one of the bloody bastards down, though. I’m thinking he’ll be back soon enough.”
“And then what?” PwnrBwner asked, digging an apple out of his Inventory and taking a bite.
“And then we find out whether my new defenses are effective.”
“What if they’re not?”
“Then I respawn two hours later, fine-tune the Curse Chain, and try again.” Roark leaned over and slapped the Young Turtle Dragon on the shell a few times affectionately, hoping to stave off the dark thoughts of how many times he would have to go through that painful whirlwind of trial and error before he found something effective against Lowen’s forces. “Weren’t there words you wanted to have with me?”
“Yeah, that hoodoo you used on me.” PwnrBwner tossed his apple core away, and it skittered across the stone floor. Roark scowled at it, but waited for the Cleric to go on. “You know, that Greater Vassal shit?”
“I’m aware of it.”
Pwner ran a hand through his hair, uncharacteristically grim. “So, I was working my shift at the Bell—”
