Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  Roark jerked his head at Kaz, motioning for his friend to flank the heroes. Kaz crept around, and the other Thursrs in the throne room followed suit. As they did, Roark inscribed his final level 2 spell slot.

  The olm saw what was happening, and his panicked shouting attracted the rog’s and PwnrBwner’s attention.

  “Back the fuck off,” PwnrBwner_OG snarled, spinning around to point his mace at the Thursrs surrounding him. He couldn’t keep them all in his sights, though—they were already too spread out. So he aimed the thorny head of the rose mace at Roark. “Or I’ll kill the Griefer.”

  “Better men than you have tried, mate,” Roark said, casting his spell at Kaz’s feet.

  [Infernal chimeras within a fifteen-foot area of effect gain Strength equal to 2x character level for 30 seconds.]

  As the heroes were surrounded, two of them trapped in brambles, and the third now hated by his companions, it took far less than thirty seconds for the Thursrs and Roark to finish the three of them off. Roark stood over PwnrBwner_OG, staring down with a lopsided smile on his face as the High Combat Cleric struggled uselessly to reach a Health potion at his belt. “Better luck next time, mate,” he said as he dropped to one knee and drove his black-tipped claws into PwnrBwner’s exposed throat. The man died with a gurgle, eyes going hazy, as a torrent of Experience filled Roark.

  Not enough to level up, but not too far off either.

  And he wasn’t the only one who’d gained a nice bit of Experience. Two ascending chimes rang through the throne room—one following right on the heels of the other—as golden light enveloped a level 5 female Thursr named Tezzi and … Kaz. Roark watched, grinning, as the mighty chef lifted off the ground for a moment, golden light quickly transforming into a halo of indigo power, which spit out a crackling burst of blue-white lightning. Only one thing that could mean.

  Evolution …

  TWELVE:

  Memento Mori

  The light faded, guttered, and then died, revealing the new and improved level 8 Kaz—the first Elite Thursr on the floor. He’d grown by at least a hand, maybe two, and was now a few inches taller than Roark. He was also much wider across the shoulders and chest. His leather flesh had darkened a shade, going from light blue to deep navy, while the coarse white hair running along his arms and legs had turned nearly black. Kaz lifted huge, powerful hands, staring at his banana-sized digits in wonder.

  Roark took a moment to pull up Kaz’s character page within the Followers section, quickly examining the changes before closing his grimoire.

  Impressive. Kaz’s Health had shot through the ceiling, his natural Regeneration had also increased, and his attack damage was … formidable, to say the least. Perhaps most impressive of all was his increased movement rate and the addition of the Stunning Blow ability to his special skills repertoire. It seemed evolutions weren’t just for show—there were some very tangible benefits.

  “Kaz has evolved again,” the newly minted Elite Thursr whispered, his voice now deeper. Almost primal. “Kaz never thought …” He trailed off, then shot a look a Roark, a goofy grin stretching across his broad face.

  Oh, bloody hells, Roark knew exactly what was coming next. In the span of an eyeblink, the Elite Thursr closed the distance between them, throwing tree-trunk arms around Roark and pulling him into a deathly tight squeeze. Had Roark been a Changeling, Kaz’s display of affection might have been enough to do him in.

  “That’s enough, you ox. Put me down.”

  Kaz gave him one more powerful hug, Roark’s feet clean off the floor now, then reluctantly complied. “It’s just … Roark gave Kaz this chance. To evolve. To become powerful. To win. To cook. It is all because of Roark.”

  “Nonsense,” Roark replied as he slipped back a step—Kaz wasn’t the best with the notion of personal space. “I may have helped some, but you’re the one who did the work. You took the risk and trusted me enough to throw your lot in with mine.” He grinned and shook his head. “You should be proud of you, Kaz. You accomplished this, not me. Now, let’s go see what new treasures we’ve won.”

  Kaz and the other Thursrs promptly helped Roark loot the heroes’ corpses and mark their position and time until respawn.

  From the mercenaries PwnrBwner_OG had hired, they turned up a handful of gold, a Health potion, a Gnarled Birch Staff with a +1 boost to Intelligence, and a single-use scroll of Summon Venomous Manticore.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Summon Venomous Manticore

  Summons one level 8 Venomous Manticore.

  Manticore will attack any target the summoner is attacking.

  Duration: 60 seconds

  Uses: 1

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  This being the mercenaries’ first death in the Cruel Citadel, the treasure they left behind was scanty. As Roark had learned, in Hearthworld, two was the optimal number of deaths for maximum looting. Any after that would leave behind few or no items at all, though it would continue to award the same amount of Experience. The High Combat Cleric, however, had left behind some choice loot indeed. A thrill ran through Roark as he held the Unique Rose Mace of Thorn Tethers to the dim light of the nearest Infernal stained-glass window, prompting a page of description to open.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Unique Rose Mace of Thorn Tethers

  One-Handed Damage:

  Durability: 102/125

  Level Requirement: 16

  Intelligence Requirement: 100

  Magick Requirement: 6,180

  Mace Class Weapon – Medium Attack Speed

  Casts Tethers of Thorn over 15-foot area, entangling targets for up to 30 seconds

  Warning: Tethers of Thorn does not discriminate between friend and foe! Anyone in area of effect will be entangled!

  +65% chance of successfully calling down Obliterating Lightning of Rajthorne the Mighty + 1% x character level

  +45% chance of successfully calling down Purifying Rain of Rajthorne the Mighty + 1% x character level

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Roark dismissed the page with a thought. It was a handsome weapon—for a glorified club—but the requirements were far out of his reach for the time being. The added enchantments, however, were incredibly enticing. The ability to cast ensnaring thorny brambles, lightning, and that deadly rain without taking the time to write a single word could drastically alter his chances against the lower-floor Overseers. He needed to raise his Enchanting level high enough so that he could learn the mace’s enchantment and apply it to new weapons.

  But there was business to be about first. Most important for the time being, heroes to funnel down to Wurgfozz. He opened his mystic grimoire to the Quests page and checked the timer—only 9 hours 37 minutes and 5 seconds before the quest lapsed and his hard work was undone.

  A loud chirp drew Roark’s attention back to the throne room. He shut the grimoire to find Mac barreling across the floor toward him, feet slapping on the stone. Roark stepped gracefully aside just before the bloodthirsty galoot knocked him over. Excited, Mac took this as an invitation to play. He bounded around Roark in a circle, chirping gleefully, while his tail smacked the floor behind him.

  Roark chuckled and crouched down, wrestling and growling playfully with the silly beast. He got his arms around Mac’s neck and shoulders, but the Elite Salamander shoved with his powerful hind legs and knocked the two of them over backward.

  “Somebody’s happy you’re back,” Zyra said, stepping out of the shadows of the staircase. “He wouldn’t stop fretting while you were in respawn. Followed me the whole time. I think he thought I was going to wherever you were.”

  Roark knocked Mac’s nuzzling head lightheartedly aside and shoved the Elite Salamander off his chest so he could sit up. The creature had the damnedest way of making him forget how serious their situation was. As if Mac thought he were still much smaller, he climbed into Roark’s lap and lay down, settling in for a nap.

  “Out of curiosity, where were you going?” Roark asked, absently s
cratching behind the bulbous slate-colored head hanging over his long legs.

  “Downstairs.” Zyra perched on the arm of the twisted obsidian throne. Though she looked nonchalant, Roark doubted the hooded Reaver would ever sit fully in the seat without winning the Overseer position for herself. The throne taboo likely ran far deeper for Trolls than the one against looting heroes. “And I brought back good news and bad news. After you died, Kaz here killed most of your attackers in a fury—”

  “Kaz will never allow a Troll to lay a hand on Roark,” the headdress-wearing Thursr vowed, crossing the room to join them. “Not without paying the price for their crime.”

  “Congratulations on the evolution, by the way,” Zyra said, hood tracking from Kaz’s head to his feet. “And as for making them pay, you certainly did that. Too bad mercing other Trolls doesn’t give you experience or you’d probably be a Brute by now.” Yes, that was, indeed, the rub. Every battle with the lower-level mobs was an exercise in utter futility.

  “Hang on,” Roark said, pointing one claw-tipped finger at the hooded Reaver. “Before we move on, you said most of the attackers.”

  “I managed to get one away from Kaz alive—an Elite Reaver—and drag her up to Wurgfozz. Applying his special brand of persuasive questioning, old Wurgy got our assassin to talk.”

  Roark leaned over Mac’s sleeping form. “Well?”

  “Apparently, Azibek’s telling everyone that you’re destroying the Infernal balance of the citadel.” Though he couldn’t see Zyra’s face for the hood, Roark could hear the scorn in her voice. “Destroying the natural order by making profane alliances with outsiders, hogging all the heroes for the first floor so the rest of the Trolls down below never get to level up. Whatever he can twist to slander, he’s twisting.”

  “If that’s it, then it’s a bit disappointing,” Roark admitted. “I was expecting something a little more elegant than mudslinging.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, did I not mention that slander was the good news?” Zyra crossed her arms and raised one hand in a courtly gesture more suited to discussing some fop’s new light-o’-love than murderous despots. “Let’s see if I can rectify that oversight with the bad news: He’s also sent out a word-of-mouth quest. Every resident of the citadel who manages to kill you gains 1,000 Experience, Azibek’s Lingering Blessing, and 1,000 gold.”

  As soon as she finished speaking, a weathered page full of text appeared in Roark’s vision.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Memento Mori

  Azibek the Cruel, Dungeon Lord, has issued an open quest to all residents of the Cruel Citadel.

  Objective: Strike a killing blow that sends Roark the Griefer to respawn.

  Reward: 1,000 Experience, 1,000 gold, and Azibek the Cruel’s Lingering Blessing

  Restrictions: Must be a resident of the Cruel Citadel to accept Memento Mori.

  Note: Memento Mori may be completed as many times as desired. If a single resident kills Roark the Griefer six times, that resident will receive an additional bonus of 6,666 Experience, 6,666 gold, and Azibek the Cruel’s Eternal Blessing.

  “The best way to remind a soul of his mortality is over and over again.”

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Roark dismissed the notice to find that Kaz’s eyes had lost focus and his mouth was twisted as if he’d bitten into a rotten apple.

  “This has appeared in Kaz’s active quests,” Kaz growled.

  “It showed up in mine when I first heard about it, too,” Zyra said with a solemn nod. “That’s why it’s called a ‘word of mouth’ quest.”

  Roark glanced around the throne room, curious how many of the other Thursrs had overheard. At least four of them had stopped sorting through the looted items while their eyes roved over unseen words, two of them moving their mouths as they read silently. Which meant it wouldn’t be long before every Troll on this floor knew about the bounty on his head.

  Roark scowled. “I got the notice, too.”

  Zyra’s hood cocked slightly to the right. “Interesting. I suppose when Azibek said any resident of the citadel, he meant any.”

  Kaz grunted in frustration. “It won’t go away! Kaz cannot reject it!”

  “I couldn’t either, big guy,” Zyra said with a shake of her hooded head. “Just ignore it.”

  “Kaz can’t!” The angry Elite Thursr slammed one melon-sized fist into the closed portcullis, denting several squares of the rusty iron grate. “Kaz hates unresolved quests!”

  “It’s a clever gambit,” Roark admitted grudgingly. “Azibek’s set it up to work around the lack of reward for killing other Trolls. Make it worth the risk of dying. I’m half-tempted to kill myself six times to see how many evolutions I get out of 6,666 Experience points.”

  “So, what do you want to do about it?” Zyra asked.

  Roark understood her desire to jump into action. He’d seen resistance fighters flip allegiances over smaller purses than what Azibek was offering. He trusted Kaz and Zyra with his life, but the Trolls of the first floor had become his Vassals because he offered a smarter way to level and protection from the backstabbing that was common in the citadel. But would they keep following him now that the Dungeon Lord was dangling the potential for a relatively easy two or three levels in front of them? This would certainly make his attempts to strike a bargain with the lower-floor Overseers more difficult.

  “For the moment, there’s nothing we can do.” Roark pushed Mac off his legs—struggling a little to budge the three-hundred-pound salamander until Mac stirred back to wakefulness and helped—then stood, dusting himself off. The feel of nothing but a threadbare loincloth under his palms reminded him that he needed to retrieve his weapons and armor from the third-floor bottleneck as soon as possible. He needed every advantage he could get against the flood of would-be assassins who were likely to come out of the woodwork eager for his head. Though, sadly, that might need to wait.

  “Alliances are what’s going to build a barricade between us and Azibek’s forces,” he finally said. “We have to cement our partnership with the second floor before they decide to turn coat—that needs to be our immediate focus for the time being. After that, perhaps we’ll be able to bring the third over to our side, then start building relations with the fourth floor.”

  “Well, no matter what we decide to do, I want a guard on you at all times.” Zyra glanced in the direction of the staircase down to the second floor. “And one on that door whenever you’re in the throne room. Me, Mac, or Kaz. Somebody we can trust not to stick a knife in your back. And you inspect everything before you touch it for contact poison.”

  Roark nodded. “Speaking of poisons, did you ever replenish your supply?”

  “I traded some things while I was down-level.” She flexed her hand open with a flourish so that he could see the jagged row of stickdeath needles across her palm, then fiddled with her leather wrappings to stow them safely. “I’m stocked again. Should be good for a few rounds of griefing … or anything else … before I run out again.”

  “Kaz, would you mind taking the first watch?” Roark asked. “I need to concentrate on the Overseer’s Grimoire for a while.”

  “Kaz will not let so much as a smell slip past him,” the Thursr growled. He pulled out his twin hooked swords—they had grown with him to the size of shepherd’s crooks—and settled himself in the doorway to the second floor, facing the shadowy landing with his feet planted wide apart.

  Roark headed for the twisted obsidian throne. When Mac saw where he was going, the beast padded along beside him.

  “I do need you to let Zyra pass, mate,” Roark told Kaz as he sat down. Almost without thinking about it, he moved forward so Mac could curl his too-thick body around his back. “She’s got an important job downstairs.”

  The Reaver’s hood cocked slightly, at an inquisitive angle. “And what would that be?”

  Roark opened the Overseer’s Grimoire to the Floor Design page and began subtracting traps, keeping a close eye on his total points
.

  “I need you to tell Wurgfozz his playthings will be on the way shortly.”

  THIRTEEN:

  Changes

  With only 100 points to play with to design the first floor, Roark had to get creative … and sacrificial.

  In one fell swoop, he scrapped all the traps and pitfalls in favor of keeping the next group of heroes alive and well until they reached Wurgfozz in the second-floor throne room. Roark hated to see the traps go, as they did prove effective in winnowing down the heroes’ Health to make them easier kills for the Changelings and lower-level Reaver Bats and Stone Salamanders. He promised himself he would bring a few of the best back tomorrow—the spring-loaded spiked grate and the spears that stabbed out of the walls, definitely. And that chest that spewed a cloud of deadly plague? Without question, since that was among his favorites.

  But for now, the traps needed to go, though it would endanger the floor’s residents—especially with the ever-stronger heroes tromping through these days. To offset that, he would keep the lowest-level first-floor creatures working together in large groups or close at hand to some heavy-duty Thursrs. There was no task so formidable or daunting that it couldn’t be overcome with effective planning, thoughtful logistics, and good strategy.

  With the traps gone, the counter beneath the tiny depiction of the first floor’s layout—complete with every room, corridor, and furnishing—rolled back up to 29/100. Good, but not good enough for all that he needed. Griff’s new training room alone would cost him ten of those points, and there was still a private chamber for the weapons trainer to consider. Expensive, that extra little space, but Griff’s value to the creatures of this floor was incalculable. An edge no other floor had. He would pay almost anything to keep the man happy, and hopefully, in time, he would be able to fully earn the man’s trust. Something Roark hoped would lead to the addition of even more Skill Trainers from topside.