Sovereign Rising (The Gods' Game, Volume III): A LitRPG novel

by Rohan M Vider

  “Follow me,” she said, and led them deeper into the mountains.

  ✽✽✽

  Xetil was restless.

  Three days had passed since he found the free agent outside the south gate, and the last time Xetil checked, the player had shown no signs of leaving.

  He snorted derisively. The fool was camped out in the open and seemed unaware of his approaching doom. Yiralla’s march north was progressing smoothly, and she would reach the gate in good time.

  Xetil had nothing to be worried about. Yet he was still troubled. Something about the entire endeavour did not sit right with him. He jumped off his throne and paced across the carpet, still bloodstained from the remains of the wolven tribe’s elders. He would have to get the goblins to replace it, he thought absently.

  His thoughts turned back to the free agent. What was he missing? He still did not know how the elf had killed Lesh. Or how he had escaped the feral kobolds. Or even what the agent had been doing in the dwarven city. But none of that concerned him as much as finding the player camped outside the south gate itself.

  He wondered if it was simply coincidence. It had to be, he told himself again. The alternatives did not bear thinking upon. Unable to help himself, Xetil scryed out the free agent again. Maybe this time, he would observe something that explained the player’s presence outside the gate. Maybe this time—he scowled unpleasantly—the elf would be doing something other than staring sightlessly into space.

  By rote, Xetil completed the weaves of his scrying and sent his mind’s eye to hover over the free agent’s camp. He froze. The camp was empty. The elf was gone. For one furious moment, Xetil feared he had lost the agent. But of course, that was not the case.

  He activated track spark, using the divine signatures of the wolven and half-elf as his beacons. He had made certain to imprint their identities when he first found the player. To his surprise, he had not been able to imprint the elven woman’s signature. It had been masked. She had to be using a protection charm of sorts. Who is she? he wondered.

  The spell flared to life, pulling his attention east. The agent was on the move. Xetil’s consciousness flowed forward as he recast scry at their location, a crevice not far from their abandoned camp.

  So, he is heading into the inner mountain. He must be trying to get into Crotana then, Xetil thought as he watched the group’s pathetic attempt at the crossing. He reached out to Yiralla through the conduit linking them.

  Her position, many days south, bloomed in his mind. She was still too far away, he decided. The agent would cross over the inner mountain and into the Elder Forest before Yiralla reached him.

  Hunting down the agent in the forest would be much harder. There were things there with which Xetil did not want to contend, not yet anyway. If they stirred, Yiralla’s task would be made all the more difficult.

  Xetil let his scrying spell lapse. Drumming his fingers against each other, he considered his options. How could he delay the free agent? He reviewed the resources he had available in his northern territories. None were close enough—

  He paused, a startling thought occurring to him. Tilting his head to the side, he pondered the notion. It could work…

  Closing his eyes, Xetil scryed again. He searched the mountain range for a few minutes before he found what he was looking for—the tribe of ogres that he had spotted a few days ago.

  Reviewing their numbers, he decided they would serve his purpose. If he could sway them to his cause, the tribe should be able to keep the free agent trapped in the mountains until Yiralla got there—if not kill him altogether.

  Yet he hesitated.

  To convince the ogres to his cause, Xetil would have to manifest: take corporeal form. Doing that outside of his temple was not without consequences. At best he would have to spend weeks in the spirit plane re-stitching his being from the damage caused by materialising in the world without an anchor.

  But the cost was worth the prize, he decided. He would not let the free agent escape. Gathering himself, Xetil sent his consciousness plummeting from the sky and into the centre of the tribe’s slovenly camp.

  As his being coalesced into existence, Xetil idly wondered if Iyra and Misteria knew the nature of the creature that had made the forest Heart its home. They did not, he decided. If they did, they would have been far more cautious in venturing into the forest’s depths. He chuckled. Their champions would be in for quite the surprise if they awoke the slumbering monster.

  ✽✽✽

  Wynak yawned, his filed and sharpened teeth gleaming in the light of the campfire. The old ogre was tired—not just from the day’s work, but from the unending struggle of trying to keep his tribe alive in these godforsaken mountains.

  It had been another fruitless day of hunting, and the foragers had returned empty-handed, too. If their luck continued in this manner, Wynak knew he would have no choice but to slaughter more of the worgs soon. But he had already thinned the pack too many times these past years, and their numbers were dangerously low.

  If Wynak was not careful, the tribe would lose the pack altogether, and if that happened, the tribe was dead. They could not survive in the mountains without the worgs. But if they couldn’t turn to the worgs for meat, what other choices did that leave Wynak?

  The ogre chieftain swallowed painfully. He would have to send away more of the old and young, he knew. Force them away to die alone in the mountains so that the rest of the tribe might have a chance at life. Wynak closed his fist and crumbled the stones in his hand to dust.

  Some life, he thought bitterly.

  Cries of fear and excitement arose from the camp’s centre, but Wynak did not notice, focused as he was on the plight of his people. Yet the slap of running feet and the shrill cries of a young girl drew him out of his morose thoughts.

  He looked up to find his granddaughter dancing impatiently from foot-to-foot. She’s not so young anymore, he thought, studying the girl. Limeira was on the cusp of womanhood. And she was one of the ones he would be forced to send away, he thought sadly.

  Even more heart-breaking, the girl would understand the need. At times, Wynak felt she loved the worg pack more than the members of her own tribe. His granddaughter, he knew, would readily sacrifice herself for the creatures.

  “Grandfather, hurry! You must come and see what is happening!”

  “What is it, Limeira?” he asked absently, turning his gaze back to the fire.

  “It’s our god, Xetil! He is here!” she exclaimed excitedly.

  Wynak surged to his feet, his nine feet of bulk suddenly large and dangerous. He set his hand to his warhammer. “What?!” he roared.

  Limeira shrank from her grandfather’s anger. She pointed wordlessly to where the tribe was congregating.

  “Impossible,” mumbled Wynak, but nevertheless he strode to the gathered crowd with Limeira trailing behind. Whatever had attracted the tribe’s attention, it could not be their god, thought Wynak as he stomped forward.

  Xetil had abandoned them decades ago. Half-starved and reduced to mere dregs of their former selves, the tribe had little to offer their god. Former-god, he reminded himself bitterly.

  Though as he pushed his way through the crowd, Wynak could not stop his irrational stirring of hope that their god had returned to forgive them and recall them to the fold. He waded out of the crowd and into the centre of the disturbance, stunned speechless by the sight that greeted him.

  It was Xetil.

  At Wynak’s appearance, the crowd settled into silence, and the goblin-god turned towards him. No larger than a child, and half as small as most of the tribe’s adults, the goblin-god standing imperiously before the gathered ogres should have been an amusing sight. Yet no one could mistake the palpable aura of the divine that Xetil exuded. His gaze glinting with dangerous impatience, Xetil stomped towards Wynak. “Good, you are here.”

  Wynak went down on bended knee before his god. My people are saved, he thought, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Divine one
,” he said, bowing low.

  “Wynak, isn’t it?” said Xetil.

  “Yes, great one, commander of the Balturra legion before...” Wynak swallowed painfully and stopped.

  “Before the legion and your tribe failed me,” Xetil finished for him. “I have not forgotten. I punished you for that failure, didn’t I? Has your tribe been huddling in these mountains ever since?”

  “Yes, Divine,” replied Wynak, trembling at the memory of the ‘punishment’ Xetil had meted out.

  Xetil laughed at the sight of Wynak’s shaking limbs. “Do not fear, brave Wynak, I am not here to chastise you anew. I can be a terrible master, I know,” Xetil said airily, “but I can be magnanimous, too.” He snickered. “Sometimes, anyway. It is why I have come.” He bowed mockingly. “In my benevolence, I have decided to offer you a chance at redemption.” He paused expectantly.

  “Divine?” asked Wynak, lifting his head in surprise. What could Xetil need from their half-starved tribe?

  “There is a wood elf travelling through the mountains. I want him dead. You and your people will see to it.”

  Wynak bowed his head to hide his confusion. One elf. It was a strange request. What danger could the elf possess that Xetil would go to the trouble of manifesting himself outside of his temple? “Is the elf a champion, Divine?”

  “Bah! He is not,” said Xetil, spitting contemptuously to one side. “He has the aid of four companions, no more. They have entered the inner mountain, crossing a deep chasm that runs in a sinuous line along the range, near the dwarven city, Durn Duruhl. Do you know it?”

  Wynak bobbed his great head slowly. He knew of the crevice of which Xetil spoke. “I do, great one. We call it Snake’s Chasm; it is about two weeks southwest from here.” He paused, thinking. “Do you know where he is heading, Divine?”

  Xetil frowned. “I suspect he will attempt to scale the Ruiven escarpment.”

  “Then we can intercept him en-route, great one. It will take me and my men about a week to reach the escarpment. If we travel light and fast, perhaps quicker. A small squad of six ogres should be sufficient—”

  “No, you will take all your men.”

  Wynak’s mouth dropped open, and he gaped foolishly at the goblin-god. “But...my people, Divine,” Wynak said, gesturing to the starved, bedraggled ranks of silently watching ogres. “More will perish if our hunting parties are not sent out.”

  “Don’t pester me with your tales of woe, Wynak,” warned Xetil testily. “Do not forget why your people waste away in exile here.”

  Wynak swallowed bile. How could he ever forget? “As you say, Divine.” He fell down into full obeisance, head touching the ground, surrendering all pride as he begged for his people’s lives. “Then, Divine, I beseech you, please allow the tribe’s children and elders to make the journey back to your plains while my men and I see to this task.”

  Xetil stamped his foot in annoyance. “No! You are in no position to bargain,” declared Xetil. “Your tribe remains banished until you complete this mission for me.”

  A whisper of unease rippled through the watching crowd. Wynak sat back upright and stared into the implacable face of his god. There was no hint of mercy there. The earlier hope that had ignited within him died stillborn.

  What the goblin-god asked was impossible. The elders and children would not survive the week if the men abandoned them to hunt Xetil’s elf.

  Travelling hard, there would be no time to forage. The hunters would have to take all the remaining stores of food to intercept Xetil’s quarry in time. The tribe would die, and, looking into the god’s face, Wynak realised Xetil did not care if they did.

  Wynak laboured to his feet. “No,” he said, staring down at the goblin-god.

  “What?” asked Xetil, confusion marring his face.

  “I will not do as you ask,” said Wynak, crossing his arms. “Not unless you grant my people succour.”

  Fury suffused the god’s face, and his eyes glowed red with rage. On another day, and in another age, Wynak would have trembled in the face of the god’s wrath. But today he was too wearied and tired of the doom that lay heavy on his people.

  “Do you dare defy me? You fool! I will rend you from limb to limb, I will—”

  “You cannot,” interrupted Wynak, speaking more to his people who had begun to shrink away from the divine’s fury, than to Xetil. “We are no longer your followers. You exiled us and broke all ties between the tribe and you. You have no power over us anymore, goblin,” said Wynak grimly.

  Gasps and sharp intakes of breath sounded from the watching ogres at Wynak’s impertinence. Xetil himself was turning purple with rage.

  “You and your tribe are finished,” shrieked Xetil, spittle flying from his mouth. “My champions will hunt each and every one of you down,” he promised wrathfully, turning his glare on the watching crowd, “until even the memory of your misbegotten tribe is lost.” Spinning round and turning his back on the expressionless Wynak, Xetil prepared to leave.

  “Divine, wait, please!” A young ogre rushed forward and threw himself at Xetil’s feet. While as bedraggled as the rest of the tribe, he was still firm of limb. “Wynak does not speak for all of us. There are many of us yet that will swear ourselves again to your service,” he begged.

  Wynak’s heart sank. It was Gnarok, one of the tribe’s strongest remaining hunters. “No,” Wynak whispered, “don’t do this.”

  “Shut up you, old fool. You will kill all of us,” spat Gnarok. “Some of us still have a chance to live.”

  Wynak closed his eyes. The young were always impetuous.

  Xetil turned around, some of the anger leaving his face. “What is your name, young warrior?”

  “Gnarok, Divine.”

  “And who do you speak for, Gnarok? Who will follow you?”

  “All of the tribe’s best hunters,” said Gnarok confidently. “Some thirty young warriors.”

  “Then let them step forward and pledge themselves to my service again. And if you succeed in your task, you may return to my fold.”

  ✽✽✽

  In the end, Gnarok spoke more truth than he realised. Sixty of the tribe’s hunters—all younger ogres—and amongst the strongest and fittest, along with their families gave their oaths to Xetil again, leaving Wynak only twenty ogres—veteran warriors each, but all well past their prime—and the greater part of the elderly, orphaned, and destitute.

  After Xetil left, the god’s newly sworn followers faced off with those that had chosen to remain loyal to Wynak. The old ogre had watched the proceedings, outwardly impassive, though his heart grew heavier with each new ogre that pledged themselves to Xetil.

  “Well, old man,” said Gnarok, “it looks like I’ve won.”

  “Won?” said Wynak. “No, you haven’t won.” He heaved a weary sigh. “All you’ve done is doomed us.”

  “I have saved us!” Gnarok insisted. “Something you seemed incapable of doing.”

  Wynak stared at the young ogre, face flushed with victory and eyes brimming with excitement. There was no comprehension there of the fate to which he had subjected the tribe.

  Gnarok was too young to remember what life in the god’s service had been like before the tribe’s exile. Xetil was a merciless master. Gnarok would learn.

  But, Wynak realised, too, nothing he said would convince the young warrior otherwise. “So what now, Gnarok?” The young ogre looked at him blankly. “You are the tribe’s chief now,” added Wynak. “What will you have us do, those who have not pledged to Xetil?”

  Understanding lit in Gnarok’s eyes, but before he could respond, a rasping voice cut through the crowd.

  “Sacrifice the fools, Gnarok! Offer their spirits to the goblin-god. It will please Xetil.” The speaker laughed mockingly. “Only give me their corpses. My masters will quite enjoy the feast,” the ogre finished, smacking his lips disgustingly. “Yum.”

  Uneasy mutters broke out at the words, followed by the shuffling of many feet as the crowd backed fearf
ully away from the speaker.

  Wynak did not bother turning around. He recognised the sneering voice. It was the ancient warlock, Nekuhr. A more sadistic and twisted soul Wynak had never met. He had been trying to get rid of the old fiend for years, and now, it seemed, he had finally succeeded. But in a manner he little expected. He is Gnarok’s problem now.

  Wynak returned his attention to the young ogre. Gnarok, his eyes locked on Wynak, was at least wise enough not to respond to the warlock’s taunts. The young ogre licked his lips nervously. “What will you have me do?” he asked finally.

  “Xetil will not suffer us to remain with the tribe,” Wynak said, his face set in hard lines. “You have two options only. Kill us or exile us.” He bared his teeth in a grim smile and rested his hand casually on the handle of his warhammer. “And if you choose to fight, I promise you, we will not go lightly.”

  “Go then,” said Gnarok, scowling and setting hand to his own warhammer in turn. “But you will take nothing with you except the clothes on your backs.”

  “We will take a third of the supplies and worgs. As is only fair,” replied Wynak evenly.

  Gnarok snarled and looked ready to draw a weapon. Wynak waited patiently. If this day ended in bloodshed, so be it. He would not lead those that followed him into certain death. If the pup drew his weapon, he would be the first to die, and he well knew it. Not for nothing was Wynak considered one of the tribe’s best fighters.

  Coming to his senses, Gnarok spat, “Very well.” Turning to the two ogres standing at his back, he shouted, “You two, see to it. And make sure he takes no more than agreed upon.” With that, the new chieftain stomped off.

  Watching the retreat of the fuming ogre, Wynak felt a moment of pity for those who had placed themselves under Gnarok’s care. But their fates were no longer his responsibility. Turning to the hundred ogres at his back, Wynak said, “Come, let us leave this place. We have a long march ahead of us.”

  We have a new home to find, Wynak thought, somewhere else in these barren mountains where we can eke out an existence.

  Chapter 11