Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  “Tell that to your face,” she said as she pushed away from the wall, “because your grin says otherwise.” She opened the cockeyed door studded with rusty rivets and made a flourishing bow. “After you stealthy gents.”

  Inside, the Sulky Selkie was just like many a little back-alley tavern Roark had frequented back in Traisbin—dingy, smoke-filled, and loud, but a good place to while away an hour or two eavesdropping on local news or meeting up with other Resistance fighters. A musician with a long-necked sitar plucked out a sharp-sounding melody in the corner while a drunk nearby swayed mostly against the rhythm. The majority of the patrons were clustered together in twos and threes at rough wooden tables scattered around the room, all wearing the drab colors of hard laborers.

  The heroes they’d tailed to the Selkie were easy to spot—they were the only ones in the tavern wearing armor. The pair had taken a seat near the bar and were chatting with a pale, grizzled-looking man with a leather eyepatch and a ring of wiry gray hair encircling a shiny pate.

  Roark led Kaz and Zyra to a table by the wall. Though their armor would mark them as obviously not locals, Roark slouched into his chair as if weary from a hard day’s work and signaled the doughy bartender. Nothing was more suspicious than sitting around in a tavern without a drink. Zyra and Kaz were drawing enough attention—one coiled tightly enough to spring on the first person who walked by and the other with his wooden faceplate deep in a book that was nearly disintegrating in his oversized hands.

  Up by the bar, one of the heroes they’d followed pulled out the battle-notched shortsword and handed it to the grizzled old man.

  “Well, now, there’s a sight for a sore eye,” he said, his gruff voice cutting through the sitar music like a gnarl-toothed hacksaw. He raised the blade to the light, turning it this way and that, the edge gleaming in the dull light cast by wrought iron wall sconces. “Never thought I’d see this beaut again. ’Course, I haven’t much to repay you with. Gold’s hard to come by for an old arena hand. But if you’re interested, I might be able to show you a move or two with that warhammer you’re wearin’.”

  The bartender brought their drinks and slammed them on the table, foam sloshing over the sides. Zyra jumped at the sound, but thankfully didn’t stab the man in the neck.

  “That’ll be a gold apiece,” the bartender said, hooking his thumbs in his belt, which struggled mightily to hold his pants up.

  Roark handed over the coins, eager for the man to get lost so he could go back to eavesdropping on the conversation at the bar.

  But as the bartender turned to go, Kaz stopped him.

  “Dude sir,” the Thursr said in his best attempt to sound like one of the heroes. “Do you know where Kaz can find a saffron crocus, white truffle, buzz fish caviar, or chocolate orchid? They are for a quest.”

  At the bar, the grizzled old fighter took a few demonstrative swings with the hero’s warhammer, cords of wiry muscle appearing in his arms. His movements weren’t the feeble motions of an old man past his prime, but precise and deadly. Experienced. Not a bit of energy wasted.

  Roark tried to listen past Kaz and the bartender, but couldn’t hear what the old man was saying as he handed the weapon back to its owner. The hero gave the warhammer a swing, mimicking the trainer’s motion.

  “Well, I don’t know nothing about any truffles or orchids,” the bartender was saying, wiping his hands on a rag stuck in his belt. “But me mam used to gather crocus flowers off the slope of the Hearth. They won’t grow nowhere else. And you’ll find the buzz fish spawning not far away—down in the mineral hot springs. They like the heat.”

  “Thank you,” Kaz told the bartender, dipping his head graciously. “Pwned it.”

  The hero and his friend were leaving, their business finished. Roark scowled behind his veil.

  “You come on back anytime you get a bit of spare coin,” the grizzled fighter said, waving a calloused hand. “Ol’ Griff’ll be happy to train you again anytime.”

  “Wait here,” Roark whispered, grabbing his tankard as he stood. Then he stopped and nodded at the untouched tankard in front of Zyra’s tensely still form. “Drink your ale and try to breathe a little, Mistress Stealth. You look like a stone statue.”

  Her hood turned to him in what Roark felt certain was a glare, then Zyra picked up her tankard and took a series of spitefully large gulps. Slurps almost. For a moment, the huge mug pushed back the bottom of the Reaver’s hood, and Roark found himself mesmerized by a glimpse of a midnight blue chin and cheek amidst the snowy curls.

  Then she slammed the empty tankard on the table and let out a loud burp, the hood falling back into place.

  “Better?” Zyra asked.

  Roark had to scramble to figure out what she was referring to. His comment about sitting still as a statue. Of course.

  “A bit,” he said, fighting to sound glib. “Though somewhere in the middle ground between stock-still and ale-guzzling might be preferable.”

  “Gry Feliri says a satisfied expellation of gas is one of the highest compliments a brewer can receive,” Kaz said without looking up from his book.

  Zyra raised one gloved hand as if to say, There you have it.

  Roark shook his head and offered the two of them his back. The grizzled old fighter Griff had returned to his stool at the bar, the shortsword tucked safely away in his Inventory. Roark slipped into the seat beside him and gestured with his tankard.

  “Can I buy you a drink, mate?”

  The old man chuckled and gave him a sidelong glance—a tricky thing to accomplish with only one eye. “I wouldn’t spurn a scotch if you’ve got the gold.”

  Roark nodded. The bartender hustled over to the shelf, pulled down a dusty green bottle, and filled a short clay cup. Rather than drop this onto the bar as he had the ales, the bartender withheld the cup and proffered an empty, expectant hand, waiting for Roark to pony up four gold coins. A near fortune, really. But the fighter’s services would be priceless, so Roark happily forked over the coins. Once payment was safely in hand, the bartender eased the cup onto the sticky wood surface, placing it down carefully. Almost reverently.

  “I thank you, friend,” the grizzled old fighter said, toasting Roark before taking a sip. He grimaced, then sighed with pleasure. “Mighty fine. That’ll buy you a sympathetic ear and a closed mouth about the three of you bein’ out on the town.”

  “Excuse me?” Roark said, feigning ignorance. “Why shouldn’t we be in town?”

  “Nobody’s judgin’ nobody here. I’ve fought back-to-back in the arena with more mobs than a pup like you can count.” The old man swirled the scotch around his cup. “Folk think chimeras are nothing more than mindless beasts, but ol’ Griff knows better. I learned it firsthand. Paid for that lesson in blood and sweat.” He scratched at the wiry gray hair behind one scarred ear. “What I can’t figure is why a group of your kind would be wanderin’ around Averi City.”

  This was certainly unexpected. Roark looked down into his ale to cover his surprise and found a strand of hair the same pale yellow as the bartender’s stuck to the lip of the glass. Rather unsavory, that.

  “’Less you’re with that Troll outfit everybody’s been flappin’ their gums about of late,” Griff added, not quite hiding his knowing grin behind his own cup. “The dungeon that isn’t actin’ like a proper dungeon anymore.”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Roark picked the hair off his tankard and tossed it down.

  “We’re looking for a Melee trainer,” he said. “I don’t know what your going rate is here, but I can offer you a steady stream of customers ready to pay it. At least fifty of them to start.”

  Griff choked on his scotch. The grizzled old fighter cleared his throat and tried to regain some of his dignity with a careless shrug. “Mayhap we could work out an arrangement of sorts, but there’s no way you could ferry that number of”—he paused, dropping his raspy voice low—“your kind all the way up here.”

  “Indeed not,” Roark replied. “You would nee
d to relocate for this particular position.”

  “The Cruel Citadel?”

  “The Cruel Citadel,” Roark confirmed. “But I could offer you a sizeable bonus if you were willing to move. Say, one percent of the value of whatever we take from the unwanted visitors to our realm.”

  Griff lifted his mug, swirling it as he searched the amber liquid as though it might contain some secret wisdom.

  “One percent,” he replied after a time, “but I always get a flat rate, ten gold, from anyone who wants to train with me. And I’ll need assurance. I don’t plan to take up your cause, mind you—for me it’s all about the gold—so I need protection from both the heroes and your folk. My kind, we respawn, but death is no pleasant thing, so I’d avoid it if I can.”

  “Understood,” Roark replied with a nod. “All of those arrangements can be made. I’d also like to offer you an opportunity to earn more. We need more specialized workers and skill trainers such as yourself. So, if you think of anyone and can persuade them to work with us, I’ll reward you with a bonus. Let’s say, an additional quarter-percent share increase for every new member you bring on board.”

  Roark could see the wheels turning in Griff’s head accompanied by a greedy glint in the man’s one good eye. “Mob gold spends just the same as hero gold to me,” he said after a time. “When do I start?”

  SIX:

  Lead from the Front

  Roark, Kaz, and Zyra returned to the Cruel Citadel with Griff in tow. As they descended the crumbling staircase, the old fighter’s good eye—or remaining eye, rather—scanned the antechamber. Only one Reaver Bat hung from the ceiling at the moment, looking from Roark to the unfamiliar human as if uncertain whether it should be attacking. Roark gave it a terse shake of the head. The corpse of the other Bat lay broken on the floor at the bottom of the steps, near a pair of gore-spattered Changeling corpses.

  Obviously, a party had been through recently. Roark listened for signs that they were still on the first floor but didn’t hear the echoing crash of battle. They must’ve been taken down farther in. He could check the body position and how many Changelings they’d sent for respawn when he got to the Overseer’s throne.

  “Not a bad place, as dungeons go,” said Griff from beside him.

  Roark eyed the corpses. “It’s a bit dead at the moment.”

  “Yup, that happens even to the best of us at times.” Griff folded his hands behind his back, brow furrowed. “So … Where do you want me to set up shop?”

  “The great hall should do for now.” Roark looked at Zyra. “Could you show him the way while Kaz and I let everyone know he’s here?”

  Her hood dipped in an affirmative and she beckoned to the grizzled old fighter. “This way, human,” she said, leading him toward the wide doorway to the great hall.

  Roark and Kaz took the door opposite, heading down a set of winding passages that led past the library and forge.

  “Roark does not really need Kaz’s help, does he?” the Thursr asked as they walked. “Kaz should be checking on his apprentice chefs. Making sure the evening stew is not too salty.” Roark couldn’t help but notice Kaz had his new book tucked up beneath a meaty arm, one of his sausage-sized fingers holding his place. As if that weren’t obvious enough, his large body was already half turned toward the library.

  “I think you’re headed the wrong way, mate,” Roark said, not bothering to hide the knowing smile. “The kitchen’s that way.”

  The Thursr looked down sheepishly, the black plumage on his antlered headdress jiggling. “Well, Kaz would stop at the library first to see if any of the books could tell him where chocolate orchids or white truffles might be found.”

  Roark shrugged. “Fair enough. Just make certain you meet up with Griff later to unlock your Melee Skills. They’ll help you level up faster, which means more evolutions to come.”

  “Oh yes, Kaz promises.” Before the final word had left his mouth, Kaz had already turned on his heel and practically sprinted toward the library.

  Chuckling to himself, Roark continued down the hall alone, enjoying the brief moment of solitude—a rare treat as of late. He rounded a bend, then edged around two heroes’ corpses and a pair of Thursrs busy looting their bodies. A dead Changeling and a trio of Stone Salamanders lay scattered nearby.

  “Did those two do all this?” Roark asked, his steps faltering.

  The larger of the Thursrs, a broad female with spiked pauldrons, nodded vigorously.

  “They were right tough, Overseer. Level 12 and 14.”

  “Returning to pick up their gear from the raid?” Roark asked.

  “No, no, these were first-timers.” She pointed at her companion, who was busy struggling with a piece of parchment and pen. That was another skill they all needed to work on. He’d have to get a line on a few more Cartography tomes. “Bort’s marking them for griefing now.”

  Roark nodded and continued on his way, though a frown tugged down the corners of his mouth. Strange. Before PwnrBwner_OG’s guild raid, Roark hadn’t seen any heroes over level 7 in the citadel. But then Roark hadn’t been there that long, either. Time was hard to judge in Hearthworld, but he estimated he’d come through only a few days ago. A week at the most.

  His mind wandered. How much destruction could Marek Konig Ustar have wreaked on his beloved Korvo in a week’s time? Already, there might not be one brick left standing on another or one of her hardy people left alive to mourn her.

  Roark was so focused on these dark thoughts that he didn’t notice the telltale distortion on the ceiling overhead until it let go of the stones and plopped down on top of him. Three hundred pounds of Elite Salamander landed on Roark’s head and shoulders like a sack of grain, buckling his knees and slamming him to the floor under the mass of fat, muscle, tail, and pebbly slate skin. A sliver of red liquid drained from his filigreed Health vial on impact.

  Macaroni rested both wide forepaws on Roark’s chest and chirped down at him happily. The salamander’s fat black tongue shot out, licking Roark’s pale cheek, before retreating back into its wide mouth.

  “Hells, Mac.” Roark planted his hands on the creature’s fat-padded chest and gave it a shove. The Elite Salamander blinked its eyes slightly out of time with one another, then clambered off him. “I’m happy to see you, too, but if I were still a Changeling, that would’ve killed me.” Roark stood and brushed the dust from his backside. “You’re much bigger than you used to be, mate.”

  Mac fell into step beside Roark, not at all chastened, and followed him the rest of the way to the throne room.

  Once there, Roark took his seat on the twisted obsidian throne and pulled up the Overseer’s Grimoire. In addition to giving him access to a roster of the first-floor creatures and allowing him to change the layout of the floor once a day, the grimoire also acted as something of a telepathic focus. From it, he could contact all the creatures under his supervision, either individually or en masse.

  Roark selected the mass option.

  “The first floor now employs a weapons trainer. If you wish to unlock your Melee Skills or level up your abilities with a weapon, you may meet with him in the great hall starting immediately. He charges a flat rate of ten gold per training session, so have the coin handy when you go.” Roark was about to end the message, then recalled the uncertainty of the Reaver Bat in the antechamber. “The trainer is a human male with an eyepatch. Griff, by name. He’s not to be harmed under any circumstances, and if heroes threaten his life, you’ll be expected to protect him.”

  That done, Roark pulled up a page marked Floor Design.

  At the top was a detailed map of the first floor’s hallways and rooms: each door, chest, trap, and bit of furniture carefully depicted. Beneath that was a point counter, which read 0/100 in glowing golden numerals. Each of the rooms and items on his floor had a different cost, and as Overseer, Roark could tweak the floor layout in any way he desired, so long as he stayed within the allotted points limit. Currently, all of his points were tied up in
rooms, traps, and furnishings. If Griff was going to stay on with them, however, they would need somewhere more permanent than the great hall to train. Likely, he would need sleeping quarters as well. So far as Roark could tell, Trolls didn’t need sleep—in fact, he’d only ever seen them do it when passed out from too much ale—but Griff was human and would likely have the physical requirements of one.

  Macaroni climbed up onto the throne to curl around Roark’s back, though they’d both grown much too large to fit comfortably in the seat together. Mind still focused on the floor design, Roark scooted absently to the edge of the throne. Mac settled in contentedly, wrapping his fat tail around Roark’s stomach.

  Roark played with the values in his head. They could stand to part with a few traps. Admittedly, he’d overdone them a bit in his desire to teach PwnrBwner_007 a lesson. Now that the lesson had been taught, though, there was no reason he couldn’t shift the points toward something else. Something a bit more pragmatic. Especially if that something involved making all the Trolls on the floor into more formidable opponents.

  “Lord Overseer,” Zyra’s teasing voice cut through his brooding.

  “That’s not funny.” Roark closed out of the grimoire with a thought and glared at the hooded Reaver. “Do you have any idea how long it took to get the Changelings to stop calling me that?”

  She shrugged one bare shoulder, then gestured back toward the great hall. “Your brilliant training plan is having some issues.”

  “What issues?”

  “Best if you see for yourself,” she replied, voice rather smug.

  With a sigh, Roark stood and followed Zyra from the throne room. When they made it to the great hall, the issue became immediately apparent.

  Griff had pulled one of the rough-hewn tables over to a corner and was sitting behind it, waiting for pupils to train. The room was filled with squat little Changelings and brawny Thursrs—even a pair of newly evolved Reavers. But no one approached the grizzled vet. Instead, the Trolls milled around the tables, talking to one another, eating, or shooting surreptitious glances toward the outsider in the corner. The human.