Rogue Evolution

by James Hunter

  Roark grabbed bars of Pig Iron and Carbon from his private metals collection. He had just begun stoking up the forge when an explosion rocked the ground beneath his feet.

  He dropped the metals and he drew his Slender Rapier, racing back out into the street.

  Was this some new attack by Lowen?

  No cry of Heralds went up in the marketplace, however. All over, mobs and NPCs had stopped in their tracks, some flinging spells out of instinct, others frozen and clutching their hearts in terror. Roark followed their shocked stares to the alchemy shop next door.

  Smoke billowed from the shattered windows, amidst frantic hacking and coughing. One voice rang out over the rest: Zyra, cursing floridly and shouting death threats.

  With a sigh, Roark sheathed his rapier.

  Her latest batch of apprentices must have arrived.

  Control Freak

  [YOU HAVE BEEN POISONED! Suffer 2HP boiling blood damage/sec for 30 seconds or until antidote has been consumed.]

  [Roark the Griefer has resisted poison damage and boiling blood damage!]

  Roark blinked away the notice, thankful he was still wearing the Clearblood Ring, and pawed at the noxious smoke filling the alchemy lab. It was a losing battle. The smoke was too thick to wave away, and he could hardly see his clawed hand in front of his face.

  “Worthless!” Zyra’s voice shouted somewhere in the lab. “Each and every one of you ham-fisted imbeciles had better be dead when this smoke clears! Where is that bloody Bird of Hurricanes Wing?”

  That touched off a spark of inspiration in Roark’s mind. He opened his wings, beating at the smoke with them until the air was clear enough to see.

  Visibility returned slowly, showing him a lab strewn with lower-level mobs—two Trolls and one shiny-scaled Naga. Each one had smoking, bloody holes where their eyes had been, and foamy blood puddled around their mouths, wisps of steam still curling from the surface.

  Zyra stood by a shelf to Roark’s right, digging through ingredients and alchemy tools.

  “There you are.” She turned around and swiped a huge fan of blue-gray feathers as long as her arm through the air. Immediately, a screaming gale filled the room, powerful winds blowing the last of the deadly smoke away.

  With another flourish of the fan, the squall died out, and the room stilled once more. Zyra’s hood turned to Roark.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said. She nodded down at the corpses. “You made it just in time to see my latest group of apprentices get their walking notices.”

  Roark frowned. “What happened this time?”

  “Hissst just blew up a cloud-based blood poison and killed everyone but me,” she said, tossing the fan on the shelf and striding to one of the many racks of glass tubes. She tapped the side, then nodded. “I told her not to add the Powdered Draconic Root until the solution had absorbed the last of the Charcoal.”

  “It didn’t affect you because of your immunities?” Roark asked.

  Zyra shrugged one midnight shoulder and plucked the steaming tube out of its wooden rack.

  “I would’ve survived because of my level, anyway. It just would have been a couple of very uncomfortable seconds until I cooked up the correct antidote.” She dumped the contents of the tube out the shattered window. Something outside crackled, then hissed, and a curl of blue smoke trailed upward and dissolved in the breeze. “These fools should be grateful to Hissst they’re dead. She did all of us a favor there.”

  “But...” Roark scrubbed his hand down his face in frustration. “Zyra, the others didn’t even make a mistake.”

  “They would have eventually.”

  “You can’t know that!”

  The hood swiveled back to him, and Roark could feel her mismatched purple and green eyes lock onto his. “I’ve spent the last two days with these morons underfoot, Griefer. They’re all just as careless as when they started, and not a single one of them has completed the Immunity Protocol Quest I gave them. If they had, we wouldn’t be arguing over their corpses right now. The first useful thing they’ve done since apprenticing to me is poison themselves.”

  “We’ve talked about this. They can’t learn from their mistakes if you never give them a second chance.”

  “Compromising my standards won’t do my apprentices any favors.” She crossed her arms and leaned her hip against the windowsill. “Septic Brewing isn’t a field of second chances. There’s success, and there’s death. Horrible, excruciating, bloody death. And the more I relax my requirements, the more apprentices suffer and die.”

  “You’re working yourself ten times as hard as you should have to,” he said, trying to change tack and approach the subject from another angle. “Aren’t there simple jobs around the lab an apprentice could do while you focus on the dangerous tasks? Crushing ingredients? Washing titration pipes? Hells, sweeping the bloody floor until they’ve got enough experience to take on some of the more complex chores?”

  She laughed bitterly. “I suppose I’m the only one working myself to death on chores someone else could take care of? Tell me, Dungeon Lord, what’s that in your hand? A project too advanced for any of your Smithing and Enchanting apprentices to complete?”

  Roark glanced down at the scrap of parchment clutched in his fist. He’d forgotten about the blueprint for the badges in all the chaos.

  “This is different,” he insisted. “If I don’t key these perfectly—”

  “Someone might die?” Zyra challenged him, raising her head until her midnight chin stuck out of her hood. “We might supply creatures from another dungeon with a shoddy product that fails them at the moment it’s needed most, costing us valuable allies? Resources wasted by inefficient, low-level crafting might lead to a shortage of vital materials just when the Troll Nation is most vulnerable?”

  “Which do you think is more costly?” he asked her. “Not having enough potions and poisons to meet the Troll Nation’s demand, or not having the full concentration of the Citadel’s most important assassin during a major battle because she’s worried about grinding up two thousand of some root?”

  “I see. And just how have you spent your last few days, Dungeon Lord?” Zyra sneered. “I noticed you’ve been rather scarce since the Heralds started their incursions. You haven’t taken any Hexorcist apprentices, either. Could that be because your class is highly dangerous for anyone who isn’t as skilled and dedicated as yourself?”

  Roark scowled. She wasn’t wrong, and that only frustrated him more.

  “That’s what this is about, then?” He flung a hand out, gesturing at the hooded Reaver. “No one could possibly be as clever and deadly as the great Zyra.”

  She chuckled. “No one can be as clever or deadly as me.”

  Roark gritted his teeth.

  “Not if you refuse to teach them how,” he insisted. He regretted what he was about to say before he even opened his mouth, but that didn’t stop him from hurling the accusation at her anyway. “I’ve seen this before. A street urchin who finally gets something of her own, then can’t bear the thought of sharing it with anyone else.”

  Zyra pushed lightly away from the windowsill and prowled across the floor toward him, fingers flexing, revealing sharp, deadly claws coated in virulent poison, making Roark doubly grateful that he’d worn the Clearblood Ring today.

  “What does that say about you, O Great and Powerful Dungeon Lord?” she murmured. She stopped a hairsbreadth from pressing full-bodied against him and leaned in until he could feel the warm puff of air from each word on his cheek. The sweet, lethal scent of coquelicot petals filled his lungs. “You’re so addicted to control that you can’t give up a single job you might be able to do. You can’t resist a single burden you might be able to shoulder alone, even if there are more than enough of us around to do it for you.”

  Roark opened his mouth to contradict her, not because she was wrong but because he didn’t want to admit that she wasn’t. Before he could say anything, she reached up and traced an onyx claw across
his bottom lip in a burning line. Without thinking about it, his hands reached for her, trying to draw her closer.

  “We may drink it from different bottles, Griefer, but we’re both drinking the same poison,” Zyra purred, “and neither of us is willing to give it up. Anything else and you never would’ve won my respect in the first place.”

  Without warning, the hooded Reaver stepped back abruptly, breaking his dreamlike trance as effectively as a bucket of icy water.

  “I’m a splintercat, Griefer, and I can’t change my stripes any more than you can,” she said in a cheerful voice that grated across Roark’s overly stimulated senses. “We’re the same, and until you can admit that, I doubt you’ll be able to convince anyone in this lab of anything.”

  Roark balled his fists at his sides. He could feel a muscle in his jaw twitching and blood thundering through his veins.

  “I’ll find you a bloody apprentice,” he snapped. “One even you can’t fault.”

  She laughed and turned back to her work. “Good luck.”

  Still gritting his teeth, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the alchemy shop. She was so damned pigheaded, even when he was only trying to help her, and she knew how to crawl under his skin like no one else. The fact that she had been right only made him angrier. Where in Hearthworld was he going to find an apprentice half as pigheaded as Zyra was?

  Trolls, allied mobs, and NPCs scrambled out of his way as if the black mood he was in hung over him like a storm cloud.

  Parchment crinkled in his fist. Griff’s blueprints.

  Roark didn’t want to prove Zyra right by going directly back to the forge to work on something he could easily have his apprentices smithing. In fact—

  He took a sharp turn into the smithy.

  “Good ter see ya, Dungeon Lord!” one of the Thursrs called as he passed by, carrying a red-hot melting pot in a set of tongs.

  Roark gave the Thursr a nod and headed straight for the head of the smithy, a level 9 Changeling angling for a Jotnar Evolution.

  “Dungeon Lord,” the Changeling croaked, his bulging eyes shining with the combination of assessment and begrudging respect Roark only ever saw in other Jotnars and potential Jotnars.

  “Vang, I have a top-priority smithing project I need completed as soon as possible,” he said, producing the blueprints. “Steel, and nothing below Peerless quality on the gems.”

  “I’ll craft every piece myself.” The Changeling evaluated the plans for a moment, then looked up at Roark. “How many in the order?”

  “Start with forty,” Roark said. That would give him plenty to experiment with. “If those hold up, we’ll need at least two more batches.”

  “Consider it done,” Vang said, then hustled off to the apprentices’ forge.

  Oddly, Roark felt a small measure of weight slide from his shoulders. Damn Zyra for being right.

  “If anyone comes looking for me,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the bellows Vang was busy pumping, “tell her I went to see Kaz because I have apprentices I can trust, and their competence gives me so much extra time to relax and accomplish other Dungeon Lord tasks.”

  Vang nodded without looking up from his work.

  Roark grimaced and shook his head at his own ridiculous need to prove something to a Reaver who wasn’t even there, then made his way out of the smithy. Blast her to the very bottom of the seventh circle of Hell. She was so bloody impossible. Worse, that only made him desire her even more.

  Bludgeoning his thoughts of Zyra into submission, Roark tore away from the forge, long strides carrying him through the marketplace and toward Portal to Flavortown. If anyone could lighten his mood, it would be Kaz.

  Besides, he realized, it had been far too long since he’d had a proper meal and he was starving. A meal with both salt and copious amounts of garlic sounded excellent.

  Lunch Rush

  ROARK HAD SEEN PORTAL to Flavortown doing bustling trade before, but he’d never seen it quite so full as it was today. The queue for a table stretched around the corner, and hulking Thursrs patrolled at intervals to keep minor disagreements from turning into full-scale riots. Here and there, a few waiting customers watched Roark pass and nudged their companions to point out the Dungeon Lord, but for the most part, the most popular topics of conversation in the line seemed evenly spread between Kaz’s newest dishes and the talented young bard who entertained the common room.

  “I heard he killed a rog in a knife fight over a woman, and that’s why he had to leave Lucite.”

  “You can taste the smoky, buttery flavor of roasted garlic in every bite!”

  “Word is he seduced the mayor’s wife and had to make a run for it.”

  “The crunch is heavenly. Lighter than bone, but still satisfying.”

  “He weren’t singin’ to you, fool, he were singin’ to me! He looked right at me.”

  “I’m telling you, one bite of the Mighty Gourmet’s skewers and you’ll never go back to raw hero liver.”

  Finally, Roark found his way past the noisy crowd, squeezed between the enormous meat smokers set up around the back of the inn like a line of sentinels, and ducked into the kitchen entrance.

  The combination of the constant movement, noise, and rich savory smells was a shock to Roark’s senses. The stormy mood he’d brought with him was forgotten in an instant.

  Mai’s voice hit him like a stiff slap. “A round of brews to table four!” she barked like a master-at-arms. “Slower with that crank, Crut, it’s caramelization of the skin we’re looking for, and yeh can be sure you won’t get it like that. Glory! Who’s on dishwashing duty?”

  Throughout the kitchen, apprentice chefs sautéed, roasted, stewed, chopped, sauced, and plated. Servers—easily spotted by the Clean Linen Cloth draped over their left arms—darted in and out, grabbing platters of food, bowls of stew, and flagons of ale, while Mai played go-between for the servers and the kitchen, calling out orders and tables.

  Nearby, Kaz bounded up and down the line of apprentices, eyeing their preparations, adjusting grips on knives, and demonstrating better stirring techniques. Now and again, he tasted sauces, smacked his lips, and cocked his head slightly to the side, declaring, “It is good, but could use a hint more salt.” Seeing the kindhearted Knight work the line was gratifying, but it also pulled his mind back to Zyra and to his own inefficiencies as a Smithing trainer. The differences between him and Kaz were as stark a contrast as day was to night. The Mighty Gourmet encouraged, never scowled, taught without lording his knowledge over others, and led by skillful example and raw enthusiasm.

  Truly, it was a sight to behold, and the result of Kaz’s natural leadership was a bustling business that was the literal talk of the town. Seeing this steeled Roark’s resolve to stamp out the need for control that had dominated his own forge.

  Mai’s pale blue eyes lit on Roark.

  “We’re in the thick of the lunch rush, Dungeon Lord.” She grabbed an apron and bustled over to him, shoving it into his hands. “If you’ve a mind to stay, then you’ve a hand or two to put to work. Those leeks need chopped, and I can’t for love nor glory find my dishwasher. You’re welcome to exercise the Dungeon Lord’s privilege of choosing which you want to do first.”

  Roark opened his mouth to say he’d be happy to help, but the buxom widow spun on her heel and called out, “That table of Harpy Ravagers is still waiting on their Fried Liver and Onions, Smoik!”

  “Sorry, Ladychef Mai!” a mid-level Thursr mumbled, pulling at a forelock of greasy blue-black hair.

  “Harpies can’t eat apologies.” Mai returned to her spot at the front of the kitchen and snatched a ticket from a little server. “Two more orders of skewers and a bowl of stew, extra garlic!”

  A besotted sigh tickled Roark’s ear. Kaz had somehow snuck up beside him and was staring after the bellowing young widow like a lovesick puppy.

  “Isn’t Mai so lovely when she’s working?” the Mighty Gourmet cooed. “Kaz could watch her all day. If there w
ere no sauces to salt or garlic to roast.”

  With some effort, Roark managed not to roll his eyes.

  “That’s great, Kaz.” He moved to the pile of leeks and the chopping board Mai had indicated. “I’ll just start chopping these, shall I?”

  Once begun, the work in the kitchen was wonderfully relaxing. Not having a skill slot open for Cooking, the only tasks Roark was qualified to do were simple, repetitive ones. He chopped hundreds of leeks, which an apprentice then impaled on wooden skewers along with meat and colorful peppers. When the leeks ran out, Roark moved on to the mountain of pots, dishes, plates, and utensils piling up beside a cauldron of hot, soapy water and started scrubbing.

  He didn’t gain a single Experience point. He didn’t level up any of his abilities. Nothing and no one died—though Mai did make several open-ended threats throughout the service toward apprentices who weren’t working to her exact specifications. Roark’s station fell behind demand more often than it pulled even, but he worked hard and did his part, quietly enjoying the simple, honest work.

  When the rush eventually tapered off to the usual endless stream, Kaz scooted his workstation across the kitchen to Roark’s washstand, the table’s clawed feet scraping across the floor, giving off a hair-raising banshee-like shriek the whole way.

  Satisfied with his new position, Kaz went back to work on an experimental dish, half-facing Roark as he worked. According to the scribbles on a nearby piece of parchment, he was either going to name it Chili of Shakejoint Resistance or Ground Meat Stew with Red Sauce and Garlic That Prevents Quite a Lot of Sickness. Roark hoped for the Flavortown diners’ sake that Kaz chose the former.

  “Kaz is so happy to work with Roark in the kitchen, just like the old days, slaying heroes and learning tradecraft skills together,” the Mighty Gourmet said. “But seeing Roark here is very curious. Working in the culinary arts is a high calling, but Roark has never shown any interest in learning it before.” He glanced sidelong at Roark, trying to hide burgeoning excitement behind a thoughtful expression. “Could it be that Roark has reconsidered Kaz’s offer to teach him the finer points of Cooking?”