Civil War: Rogue Dungeon Book 2 (13 - 16)

Chapter 13

Reservations

It took two Modest Health Potions to heal Roark’s cuts and bruises and return his filigreed Health vial to full—and that was only with his hearty Health Regen rate. He drank off the last as he and Zyra headed down the staircase to the third floor. The screams of tortured heroes echoed off the walls behind them. At the bottom of the stairs, in the bottleneck where Roark had died, stood a familiar figure in an antlered headdress and clacking, wooden O-Rogiri armor. 

A surreal feeling swirled in Roark’s mind as he looked down at the dead body that was supposed to be him. No, not supposed to be him—was him. Yet it was like looking at a total stranger. 

True, the long, leanly muscled corpse was a sight closer to reality than the lumpy blue Changeling body had been, but it still didn’t look like the reflection he’d seen in every looking glass and bottle and puddle his whole life. The nose was sharper, without the slight crook that marked him as a descendant of the bands of Lyuko travelers who wandered Traisbin’s roads. The skin was ghostly pale instead of his accustomed darkly tanned olive. The curtain of dark, shaggy hair could’ve been his a few days before he realized he needed to crop it back again, but the serrated teeth, black razor-sharp claws, and pale staring eyes couldn’t have been further from what he was used to. Not to mention the extra foot and a half of height.

The body was supposed to be him, but it wasn’t, and looking down at it in that moment, Roark felt every bit the misplaced interdimensional traveler he was.

As he and Zyra approached, Kaz raised a hook sword in greeting, though the Thursr looked uncharacteristically grim.

Zyra picked up on the change as well.

“Everything all right, big guy?” she asked.

Kaz shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable about something.

“Kaz believes he mentioned some reservations earlier,” the Thursr began hesitantly, shooting glances at Roark and Zyra in turns. “About the deal.” He paused and dropped his gravelly voice. “The one Roark made with Wurgfozz …” He frowned and fidgeted as if not sure how to continue, but a ragged scream echoing down the staircase—clearly from the heroes currently committed to Wurgfozz’s tender mercy—seemed to goad him into speaking. “It’s not a very nice deal, Roark. To give them to Wurgfozz to torture them … It seems wrong. Bad.”

“So?” Zyra shrugged one bare shoulder. “They’re just heroes. They would slaughter the whole lot of us without a pause, Kaz. They are invaders. This isn’t their home. It isn’t even their realm. So, if they’d simply chosen to leave us in peace, they wouldn’t be in this mess.” She shrugged again. “In my eyes, their fate is on their own heads.”

“What Zyra says is not wrong …” Kaz replied slowly. “Still, it feels bad. Wurgfozz, he will not allow them to die for such a long time,” he argued, voice heavy with concern. “Wurgfozz will torment them. To Kaz, it seems different from defending ourselves. And if they come back, he will do it again. Like griefing, but horrible. Painful.”

“That’s if they’re stupid enough to come back,” Zyra said, folding her arms across her chest. She, at least, was clearly unconcerned with the deal they had cut. “And that’s assuming they make it past us—which they won’t.”

Kaz turned back to Roark, his huge, black eyes pleading. “Roark understands, doesn’t he? He sees that this is wrong? That defending the Citadel is not the same thing as this bargain we have made?”

Roark raked a razor-clawed hand across the back of his neck, then bent to the corpse and began transferring items as if it couldn’t wait.

But the task was nothing more than a play for time. In truth, he thought Kaz might be right. Though the heroes could hardly be considered innocent bystanders, they weren’t a part of the conflict between himself and Azibek. To use them as a means to an end—and in such an agonizing, grisly way—was something the Tyrant King would do. How many people had Marek tortured? Whether for loyalty, information, or to make an example of those who would oppose him, Marek Konig Ustar had often used pain and torment as a tool to get what he wanted.

“Roark?” Kaz prompted.

But Kaz’s voice just barely registered in the back of Roark’s mind. He had needed to secure that alliance with the second floor. He couldn’t hope to withstand Azibek’s attacks without it, let alone unseat the despot. Yes, Roark could’ve challenged Wurgfozz outright, but if he had done that and won, the rest of the Citadel’s Overseers would feel like he was declaring war on them personally, and the potential for any peaceful negotiations would have flown out the window.

Roark stood and put on his usual leathers and Slender Rapier. Their comforting weight did nothing to drive out the turmoil of Kaz’s concerns. Hard decisions had to be made in war—Roark knew that firsthand—and sometimes a few people had to be sacrificed to save many. But sacrifice and torture were on nearly opposite ends of that spectrum. Somehow, he had ended up on the same bloody end as Marek. Roark grimaced. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Try as he might, though, Roark couldn’t see another way he could have gained Wurgfozz’s allegiance. There was no simple solution available to him, other than morally dubious ones.

“Roark?” Kaz said again.

Roark watched as his emptied corpse dissolved in an unfelt breeze—ash scattered to the wind.

“Give me some time to think on it, Kaz,” he said. “I …” he faltered. “There may be something we can do. I just need time to work it out. For now, we need to continue down to the Overseer on this floor. The sooner we have her on our side”—Or out of the way, he thought but didn’t say aloud—“the better.”

“You can’t go to Grozka like this,” Zyra said.

“Grozka?” Roark asked.

“The third floor Overseer,” the hooded Reaver said. “I may have been a creature of the second floor, but everyone knows about her. And Grozka? She’ll eat you alive. The Trolls down there respect strength and power. Might. Not …” She waved a leather-wrapped hand at Roark’s tall form. “…whatever this is supposed to be.

“This is a Jotnar,” Roark said, a touch of insult creeping into his voice. “And if I remember right, the third floor Overseer’s a Thursr.”

“A level twenty-six Thursr Knight,” Zyra emphasized. “A level eight like you won’t even make a full meal for her, Griefer, Jotnar or no. You had a chance before—cleverness is a form of strength, after all—but now that Azibek has put a bounty on your head and managed to assassinate you once? She’ll never take you seriously. Chances are, she’ll just kill you on sight and collect Azibek’s reward.”

“Do you think there’s no diplomatic solution to be had at this point?” He asked, a flutter of worry mounting in his gut. Even with the second floor behind him, there was no way he could hope to successfully wage war against the rest of the Dungeon. Either he needed more allies, or he needed to personally capture more floors, which would be a painful and slow slog. 

“I didn’t say that,” Zyra finally responded, though there was a hint of hesitation in her voice. “I think it might be possible to sway her, but if you want that chance you’ll have to show up armed to the teeth and ready to kill. And level eight just won’t cut it, not anymore. You’ll need to be at your Elite Evolution—bare minimum. And even then, there is risk.” She planted her hands on her hips and edged into the middle of the hallway, as though to personally prevent him from passing should he be stupid enough not to heed her advice. 

Roark considered this. One thing he’d learned in his time with the Rebellion back in Traisbin was never to discount the advice of a local. Zyra knew the lower levels better than he or Kaz did, and she was certainly no fool. He would have to take her at her word.

“All right,” he finally said. Then he frowned, lips pursed into a thin line as he thought. “We’ll return upstairs and grief until we’ve each obtained our Elites and Kaz has unlocked his Brute Evolution.” He ran a hand over his chin. Lowen was out there somewhere as well, he reminded himself, and Azibek would no-doubt be employing new schemes. So he couldn’t dally, but neither could he be too hasty, since that would eat through even more time he didn’t have should he die. If they all reached their next respective evolutions, then even if they perished, they would forfeit nothing more than a few hours of time during respawn. “Yes, a bit of griefing. And I have some crafting I’d like to do while we’re there.”

This satisfied the hooded Reaver. She whisked past him and led the way back upstairs; Roark and Kaz followed behind her.

The three of them fell broodingly silent as they passed through the second-floor throne room. Wurgfozz was just getting warmed up, it seemed, but one of the heroes—The_Mustard_Knight—was blubbering something frantic about logging out.

“No, stay and play a while,” the spike-studded Thursr Behemoth purred in his high-pitched voice.

Roark didn’t turn his head away as they passed. This bloody tableau was of his making, and so whatever disturbing bits of savagery it channeled into the nightmare vault were his burden to bear. He only hoped it wouldn’t plague Kaz overmuch. He glanced at Zyra, trying to gauge her reaction. The hooded Reaver watched the Overseer move in on the heroes as if she wanted to grab a snack and pull up an aquatic torture seat. She wouldn’t have any problems sleeping … if, that was, Trolls ever slept.

Mac met them at the bottom of the staircase to the first floor. Or rather, the arched ceiling at the bottom of the stairs. The Elite Salamander dropped down next to Roark with a heavy, wet smack, and accompanied them up.

When their little quarto had finally made it back to the throne room, Roark broke the silence.

“I know this is hard, and that the choices we have to make are no easy thing. Still, I’m proud of you both and of the work we’re doing here.” Zyra sort of stooped in on herself as he spoke, looking extremely uncomfortable with the praise. “We may make a few mistakes along the way, but we will learn from them. We’ll do better. And ultimately, we will take down Azibek. But to do that we need to put the time in now. Put in the effort. We all level up, we all evolve, and then we prepare to hit like a battering ram at anything standing in our way.”

“But what if Roark challenges the third floor Overseer and loses?” Kaz shot back, his wide eyes brimming with concern. “Then, even if you are Evolved, it won’t matter. Roark will die forever-death.”

Roark forced a confident smile. He’d been hoping Kaz wouldn’t think of that.

“With my Elite evolution and bag of dirty, underhanded tricks, I don’t intend to die,” he replied. “Besides, I don’t plan to challenge her—not if I can help it. Always diplomacy first. Now, for the time being,” he said smoothly, deflecting Kaz away from any uncomfortable follow-up questions, “I want you two with the griefing patrols.” Roark eyed the slick-bellied Salamander waddling along next to him. 

Briefly, he considered sending the creature out into the rotation as well, then decided against it. Having one loyal companion near at hand was the smart choice, especially considering the heavy bounty Roark had hanging over his head. 

“I’ll join you in a bit,” he continued, “I want to look into enchanting first. See if I can’t come up with a cheap shot the Overseer down there won’t see coming.”

Kaz’s troubled frown didn’t dissipate, but he followed Zyra out through the portcullis all the same.
 

Chapter 14

Blessings and Curses

Roark turned to Macaroni. “Accompany me to the forge?”

The Elite Salamander chirruped what Roark took to be an affirmative, then blinked his strange, out-of-sync eyes and waddled after Roark through the secret passage. At the opposite end, Roark felt around beside the door until he found a slender length of chain and pulled it. The niche and suit of armor slid aside, allowing them to pass.

They rounded the corner and entered the smithy, the air there hellish and dry. Roark immediately stripped off his leathers as sweat soaked his skin. Mac—cold-blooded little beast that he was—curled up beside the glowing forge and immediately fell asleep, fat black tongue lolling from his mouth.

In the far corner by the tanning rack stood a spindly-legged enchanting table inlaid with glowing blue and green sigils, which hummed with arcane energy. The spidery thing looked as if it belonged in an academy or laboratory, not a smithy, but Roark was glad to have it here. He wanted to level up his Enchanting a few times before he tried out enchanting his own weapons and armor, and walking the corridors from smithy to laboratory would’ve only slowed the process to an unbearable crawl. Not to mention, he couldn’t really afford the Points to add the extra room. 

Roark pulled out PwnrBwner_OG’s rose mace and held it up, turning it this way and that, examining the weapon from every angle. A beautiful thing really, even if it was a glorified club. He smiled despite the heart-ache he felt, excited to lose himself in the world of Enchantment. Anything to take his mind away from the doubts he had about his morally ambiguous alliance with Wurgfozz.

Gently, he lay the rose mace on the enchanting table, just as the tradeskill book had instructed, then pressed his palms flat against the blue sigil that looked like a curl of smoke and the green sigil that looked like an eye. Immediately, a notice appeared.

[Would you like to

- add an Enchantment to this item?

- destroy this item to learn its Enchantment?

- destroy this item to obtain its gemstones?]

Roark selected the second option, eagerness squirming in his chest.

[You cannot destroy Unique Rose Mace of Thorns to learn its Enchantment at this time! To destroy Unique items, your Enchanting must be level 6 or above!]

Very well. He tried the first option instead.

[You cannot add an Enchantment to Unique Rose Mace of Thorns at this time! To add Enchantments to an already Enchanted item, your Enchanting must be level 4 or above!]

Well, he’d expected some sort of resistance, Roark told himself. Hearthworld never seemed eager to let him do things the easy way. 

He returned the rose mace to his Inventory, then went to the storage chest by the quenching trough and pulled out the small stash of magical items they’d been saving from the looted heroes. Among them were a Stiletto, a Kukri, an Oak Staff, a Gnarled Birch Staff, and one set of Iron Gauntlets of Minor Endurance. There was also a Divine Tower Shield that Roark had saved out of curiosity—it carried a heavy penalty to any Infernal creature who might try to use it.

Roark ran these through the table one at a time. Thankfully these were all of lower quality than the Unique Mace. Magic, though of an inferior nature. He destroyed each one for its Enchantment with the sound of breaking glass and a flash of golden light. One by one, their magical properties appeared in his mystical grimoire under his Enchanting skills—Increase Movement Speed, Increased Backstab Multiplier, Increased Magick, Increased Intelligence, and Increased Constitution. 

The process was all simple and routine until he reached the Divine Tower Shield. He selected the option to destroy the shield as he’d done with the other items, but this time when the sound of breaking glass wasn’t accompanied by a new Enchantment in his Mystic Grimoire. Instead there was a flash of violet light quickly followed by a new magical message: 

[You have unlocked the Enchanting Specialty: Cursed! 

Cursed items bring doom and gloom onto their wielder and are often detrimental to the health. To Curse an item, use an Enchanting table and quill to inscribe an item with a malicious enchantment. Only one curse may be inscribed per item. 

Note: Enchanting Specialty: Cursed! can only be accessed by an Enchanter with the simultaneous Trade Skill Calligraphy. 

Warning: Players can only have (1) Enchanting Specialty, are you sure you would like to add Cursed!? Yes/No?]

A thrill of excitement hummed through Roark’s veins. This seemed tremendously promising. He briefly wondered why he hadn’t run across more cursed items, but then it dawned on him: Chimeras weren’t allowed to have Trade Skills, and what hero would want to curse an item? Cursing the item would no doubt decrease the gold value, plus it would wreak devastation and ruin on the wielder. Perhaps the skill could be used to thwart a rival, but even that was a stretch—especially since it was a Specialty Skill, which would prevent a hero from unlocking another Enchanting-based Specialty and require that the hero already knew the Calligraphy Trade Skill. 

As a Dungeon Overseer, however, this ability seemed almost custom-tailored for his use. He accepted at once. 

Next, he grabbed a Quality Iron Dagger from the storage chest and placed it on the Enchanting table. After searching out the quill and inkpot in his Inventory, Roark rested his hands on the glowing blue sigil depicting a pen and the glowing green one depicting a skull.

[Would you like to Curse this item? Yes / No?

Note: For every item you inscribe with a Curse, Cursed! will extract a share of your Health equal to your Enchanting level x your Character level.]

Not so different than a blood cantrip, then. Life energy in exchange for raw power. “Lucky I’m only a level one Enchanter,” Roark mumbled to himself and selected Yes.

A bit of parchment appeared beneath a slowly rotating depiction of the dagger, waiting for him to write the inscription. He racked his brains for something truly nasty.

[The larvae pox infests anyone who wields of this Quality Iron Dagger.]

Interestingly, the letters didn’t appear on the weapon as he’d originally anticipated. 

Instead, as he wrote, the letters blurred and morphed, transforming into a strange set of runic sigils, which appeared etched into the blade of the dagger. As the curse took, those runes flared with unnatural life, glowing blue-green against the gleaming metal. As he finished the inscription, they flared brighter, then disappeared—unlike normal enchanted weapons, which kept their runic markers plain and visible to the naked eye. He shuddered and shivered as though someone had just dumped ice-water down his tunic; a moment later, 8 points of his Health vial drained away in service to the Curse.

An unpleasant sensation, even if the damage was minimal. 

Roark shook it off, and beelined back to the storage chest. This time, he grabbed up an armload of unenchanted weaponry and armor before sprinting back to the Enchanting table. Hundreds of possible Curses whirled through his head like debris in a tornado. Should he try the one where a looted corpse in possession of the item would explode and kill the looter or the one where someone equipping it after the previous owner’s death would immediately be swarmed by flesh-eating beetles first?

He chortled to himself in absolute glee, no different from a young child on Saint Oromo’s Morn. So many choices, but where to start? Hells, he didn’t really have to choose—there were more than enough items to go around. He set to work, churning through item after item. Another dagger. A dented buckler. A signet ring with a ruby the size of his knuckle … Each one, imbued with a different spell, a different curse. 

Twenty minutes later, Roark lay across the tabletop, face pressed to the humming arcane inlay as he tried to hold back the vomit threatening to erupt from his throat. He’d overdone it a bit in his excitement. Now his filigreed Health vial was flashing out a panicked warning. His skull felt as if its inside was lined with broken glass, and his stomach felt as rancid as the midden heap outside of Korvo. Someone far away was groaning in pain. With a start that only made him feel worse, Roark realized that someone was him.

Enchanter’s Sickness, this was called. 

He’d read about it in the Enchanting Trade Skill tome. With shaking hands, Roark fumbled in his Inventory for a Modest Health Potion before remembering he’d used them all. It’d been an eventful day. He needed to stock up again. No, scratch that—he needed to find an Alchemy Trade Skill book so Zyra could start brewing potions for the Dungeon. That would set things to rights. For now, the only thing he could do was lie here in pain until his Health regenerated naturally.

It was a bloody awful way to learn this lesson, but several eternities later, the red in his Health vial crept up past the quarter mark and Roark was able to stand without emptying his stomach or passing out from the stabbing pain in his head.

The good news was he’d raised his Enchanting to level three, and so far, each one of his Curses had taken with only minor alterations. He returned to the storage chest—much slower this time—and retrieved the small collection of gemstones they’d collected from griefed heroes. These gems were far rarer even than the magically enchanted items, and far more valuable. Using these, he applied the regular Enchantments he’d learned earlier to several of the remaining weapons and armor he hadn’t gotten around to cursing.

[Congratulations, you have leveled up your Enchanting Trade Skill to Level 4! You may now Enchant previously Enchanted weapons with a secondary Enchantment or increase an existing Enchantment!]

Finally, the breakthrough he’d been waiting for. 

Roark managed a weak smile, then pulled his Slender Rapier of the Falcon free from the sheath at his belt and carefully, almost reverently, laid it on the enchanting table. The weapon was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship—the blade slender and tapered, perfectly balanced and gleaming. The weapon had a wide crosspiece and a sweeping hilt with a strong, but intricately wrought basket guard, all the better to protect the hand. An intricate, leather-wrapped handle ended at a fat pommel, which was engraved with a single, pale-gold rune. 

The rapier was a gentleman’s weapon, through and through. One that had served him admirably so far. 

The other, basic enchantments had been easy things. But altering a previously enchanted weapon was a different matter entirely. No simple inscription and binding could be made here, since the weapon was already magically imbued and scripted. First, he needed to find the perfect gem stone—one that would complement the current magical binding when combined with the right rune. The stones came in different grades—so far, he’d found Blemished (Tier 1), Scuffed (Tier 2), Chipped (Tier 3), and Flawed (Tier 4), though he knew from his Enchanting tome that there were more refined stones out there. 

He’d used the lesser quality gemstones on the practice gear, and now all that remained were the finer quality stones, all Flawed. But even that wasn’t the end of the story. There were also a variety of different stone types, eight total—lapis lazuli, ruby, jade, amethyst, diamond, opal, topaz, and pearl—which could be used to enhance different elements, skills, and abilities depending on what sort of item they were set into. Roark selected a Flawed Lapis, then held it up, examining the stone in the flickering light of the forge.

The lapis was a beautiful blue, shot through with gold flecks, and easily the size of his thumb nail. Though Roark knew it was an “imperfect” stone, he couldn’t help but feel a subtle flash of greed. 

Once upon a time he’d been a noble—one from a wealthy family no less—but that had all changed on the Bloederige Noct, the Night of Blood. The night his family had perished at the hands of Marek and his men. Roark had lived rough more often than not during the years that followed, and a single stone such as this could’ve kept him neck deep in fine wine for a month. More than once he’d dreamed about laying hand on a treasure like this—especially on the long nights before he met Danella. Nights spend curled up in an alley beneath a too thin blanket, his stomach howling with hunger. 

He set the Lapis onto the enchanter’s table top, then hunched forward and set about the task at hand. First, he picked up a small engraver’s awl with a wooden bulb-shaped handle, attached to a needle of deadly steel, the tip filed to a wickedly sharp point. Carefully, he worked a ring of intricate lettering around the edge of the stone—the containment script—before ever-so-carefully etching the rune Rorne, into the very center, big and bold. Rorne was nothing more than a line, bisected by a triangle, but the sigil—when combined with lapis, then inset into a weapon—could drastically increase Offensive Movement Rate. 

But even that was only the beginning of the process. 

With the rune crafted, it was time to prepare the weapon for outfitting and gem-binding. Currently, the Rapier was powered by a single, pale-gold rune, Sikea, which was painstakingly worked into the pommel—though only on one side. The simple inscription, which had been cast during the weapon’s forging, offered a +10% Attack Speed Bonus. Roark flipped over the blade, and pulled out a large-grade chisel and a small double-sided hammer, one face metal the other made from a hard rubber. Roark carefully pounded out a circular divot, directly in the center of the steel pommel, which would shortly house the stone. 

The work was tedious and exacting, yet Roark enjoyed every minute of it. It was straight forward, honest work. Just him, the metal, and the gem—no morals to consider, no feelings to hurt, no hard choices to make. 

Once the divot was perfectly carved, he switched back to the needle-fine etching awl and carved another rune into the bottom of the hole: Yasuc, a symbol shaped a bit like a lightning bolt, which was, perhaps, the most important rune he’d learned from the Enchanting tome. Yasuc alchemically forged the gemstones to the item at hand, forging the two into one—a single inseparable whole, bound until destruction. With the Yasuc symbol done, Roark plucked up the worked lapis and carefully set it into place, pressing down firmly until there was a flare of amber light. 

Perfect.

The gem fit seamlessly into the pommel, and now glowed with a soft blue light. Satisfied, Roark picked up the weapon, giving it a few playful swipes, before pulling up the description: 

                                                                      ╠═╦╬╧╪

Slender Rapier of the Diving Falcon (Superior) 

One-Handed Damage: 20 - 29

Durability: 50 of 50 

Level Requirement: 5

Strength Requirement: 12

Blade Class Weapon - Fast Attack Speed

+10% Attack Speed

+15% Increase Movement Speed (Enchanted)

                                                                       ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

He grinned and closed out of the screen.

His leather armor came next. Once more he went through the labor-intensive process, this time picking a Flawed Diamond and pairing it with the Grist Rune—which granted him a 15% Increased Constitution Enchantment, raising his Constitution by three points when he equipped his armor. He was running low on quality stones, but a final Flawed Amethyst, inscribed with the Valgerik Rune and bound to a golden signet ring, increased his Experience gain by 7% for every kill. 

By the time Roark was finished with those, his Health was topping out once again. And best of all, he’d managed to hit level 9 once more, regaining the ground Azibek’s assassins had cost him in their dirty maneuver. He’d lost the ten Stat Points he’d invested at Respawn, so he went back through and once more divvied them up. Then, with that done, he woke Mac, equipped his Slender Rapier of the Diving Falcon, his Quality Leather Armor of Minor Endurance, and his Signet Ring of the Initiate, and left the smithy to find Kaz and Zyra. It was time to grief out some levels—only three more until he hit his Elite Form. Time to get his hands dirty …
 

Chapter 15

Grind Time

Scott Bayani in the form of PwnrBwner_OG re-upped his Shield of Blades spell as the Ghoul Hounds charged him. The lavender sphere of razors sliced into the rotting mutts’ flesh, releasing toxic green mist into the air from the wounds. At least it would be toxic if he were some low-level blart. At level 25 and climbing, his Con was too high to take poisoned gas damage from anything less than the toughest bosses.

“I should be smelling roasted dog,” he snapped, smacking the closest Hound with his Crystal Mace. Its rotten head crunched like a potato chip as it died. “Where’s that Resonating Light, Kellie?”

“I am,” Kellie said, shooting a blue flare from her Elemental Warlock, [KellieTheDeathless]’s, staff at the Hounds between him and her. The air vibrated with the power of the Divine spell and the Hounds screeched as their Infernal carcasses went up in smoke. “Jeez.”

“Yeah, light it up!” Mike the Boarkiller whooped, chopping a Hound in half at the shoulder with his massive oversized meat cleaver of an axe. “Bar-bee-que!”

“Guys…” Kevin, better known as Dude_Farkowitz, had gotten cut off from the group and now he was facing down a crowd of Ghoul Menaces with nothing but his lowbie alt and a crappy enchanted longsword.

“I told you losers not to get separated,” Scott said, scowling as he threw a Lightning Lance at another Hound. The thing’s head exploded in a shower of gore, and the spell triggered the Lightning Chain ability he’d added after his last level, arcing to two more of the rotting dogs. The second one fried, dropping more than two-thirds of its HP, and the third dropped to the ground seizing and dazed. With a few vicious swings of his mace, Scott finished them off. “That’s exactly what the Trolls are going to do. Cut the weak ones out of the herd and take them out.”

“Ouch! Guys!” Kevin yelled, his voice cracking. The Ghoul Menaces were all up in his business, scratching and clawing at him with their poisonous talons. And because Kevin hadn’t listened to Scott when he told him to bring his main, Kevin was low enough that the poisoned mist affected him.

“I’m coming,” Mike answered, chopping his way across the room to help the idiot out.

But the tank didn’t make it to Kevin before Dude_Farkowitz ate it. The dark elf dropped to the floor in a heap of plate mail, and the Ghouls surrounding him doubled in size, feeding on his death.

“This is why I told you losers no lowbie alts!” Scott shot Lightning Lance at the back of one of the Menaces. It shook and shimmied, half its HP eaten up by the electricity, but Chain didn’t trigger that time around. “Close in, guys. Don’t let them surround you.”

“Oh my God, micromanage some more,” Kellie groaned, firing off another air-shaking Resonating Light.

Mike giggled as he gleefully hacked apart a Ghoul Menace.

“Cut the chatter and kill these punks,” Scott said, smashing another one upside the head with his mace.

Together the three of them managed to clear the last of the Menaces and Hounds, and Scott managed to get PwnrBwner the majority of the kill shots. 

He’d picked the Barrow of the Damned specifically because it was a high-level dungeon full of Infernal chimeras. They would be facing the same Infernali spells and crap here that they would in the Cruel Citadel against the Trolls, and they could get a better feel for how their Divine-based magic would work against the Griefer. Plus, Scott had brought a junk mace, no enchantments and barely any damage, so he could max his XP from each kill and level his Mace Class Weapon like crazy.

While they were looting the Ghouls, RangerDick and JohnJon came back from their scouting mission down one of the tunnels that branched off this room.

“We got a crypt up ahead with Blasphemers,” RangerDick said, lowering his Ilexim Forest Bow. “At least nine.”

“Every one of ’em’s gonna cast Ethereal Copy when we get in range, so shoot for the one that hangs back.” Scott checked the cooldown timer on his Shield of Blades, then recast it on himself. “And this time, don’t get separated.” He hefted his Crystal Mace and led the way down the tunnel. “All right, let’s bust some caps in these ghouls.”

He felt a smug grin twisting his lips. He was going to grind so hard that he’d be through the roof the next time he faced down that modding dickeater Roark. Then none of the Griefer’s overpowered bullshit cheats would matter.
 

Chapter 16

Bonding and Blade Work

Roark found Kaz and Zyra in the antechamber with a small band of Changelings finishing off a raiding party four heroes deep. In the far corner, near where the door to the great hall was earlier, the one-eyed Griff sat on crate, eating succulent beef skewers and watching the show.

Not wanting to interrupt the griefing, Roark ducked under a Shoddy Iron Arrow and joined the grizzled weapons trainer, sitting on a barrel nearby.

“Come for another spot o’ training?” Griff asked without looking away from the fight.

Roark checked his mystic grimoire and found that enough time had lapsed for him to buy another round in blade-class weapons. Strange how time moved here in the Citadel without the sunlight to judge by.

“Another level wouldn’t go amiss,” he said, reaching for his gold. “I’ve also got your cut of the gold from yesterday’s griefing.”

With a slow hand, Griff waved that away. “It don’t do to discuss business over food. Gives you the indigestion. We’ll worry about it after I finish my dinner.”

Then suddenly the lethargic-looking old man was on his feet, waving his arms and shouting.

“Ah, come on there, tiny!” Griff hollered into the fray. “You shoulda seen that opening a mile away! He practically gave it to you!”

“Hey, shut up, old man!” a hero in dented plate mail yelled back.

“Mind your own!” Griff flapped his hands at the hero. “I wasn’t talking to ya!”

The hero took a threatening step toward Griff. Roark stood, drawing his slender rapier, ready to get between the trainer and the young man.

But Zyra was already there with a knife in the hero’s kidney. His red bar flashed green—poisoned—and a pair of Changelings fell on him in a frenzy of shortsword and morning star.

Griff chuckled as he eased himself back down onto the crate with a soft groan. Roark returned to his barrel, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Nice of you to distract him for them,” he said, nodding toward the battle.

The old man shrugged. “Your friends do well enough, but it ain’t always easy to keep an eye on the little guys.” He picked up his plate of skewers and gnawed on a slice of vegetable. “You can get a sort of tunnel vision, ’specially when the opponents have the superior levels.”

Roark nodded thoughtfully. He’d experienced that often enough himself, here in Hearthworld and back home in Traisbin. The heroes in this party where levels eight through ten, and while Kaz and Zyra looked up to the task, fighting four of them with a band of Changelings darting in and out and only half sticking to the strategy of attacking two to a hero seemed to be wearing on his friends. He hardly wanted to think about how the scene would change if the heroes had been sitting at levels nearer The_Mustard_Knight’s band. The image of that female Thursr’s head flying off flickered through his mind.

“At least the Experience will be worth it,” Roark mumbled under his breath, his thoughts returning to Kaz’s warning about the consequences of griefing.

“Somethin’ on your mind, lad?” Griff asked, craning his neck so he could spear Roark with his one remaining eye.

Roark pasted an easy smile on his face. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your dinner.”

“Nonsense! Nothin’ better for the digestion than a bit of a gab about someone else’s troubles. Makes a man feel fortunate.”

For a few long seconds, Roark scratched at the back of his neck and tried to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t just the increasing level of players coming down on them. Kaz had been right about that, he’d also been right about Roark’s insistence on becoming Jotnar calling down Azibek’s attention on them, and he was right again about using the players as leverage in the negotiations with Wurgfozz. 

Worst of all was that it had taken the soft-hearted Thursr to call Roark’s attention to each situation. He’d been too busy rampaging ahead with his usual single-minded determination to consider the consequences, telling himself that if the consequences came with the risk, then they must be somehow worth it. The ends justified the means. The heroes could be sacrificed if they got him what he wanted. The whole city of Korvo could burn if he could just kill the Tyrant King.

“Our alliance with the second floor … You were in the great hall, so you know we handed them over to Wurgfozz.” Roark faltered. Stumbling over his words wasn’t an action he was accustomed to. He tried to collect his thoughts into some sort of sense. “He’s a vital ally. It won’t be possible to survive the Dungeon Lord’s assassination attempts, let alone take over the Citadel without his help. But there’s a reason he’s known as Wurgfozz the Sadistic. The heroes we gave him are going to be in agony until they die. If he ever lets them die.”

Griff chewed thoughtfully, but made no move to speak.

Roark sighed in frustration. “I’m no pure white knight. I’ve killed plenty of men and even a few women in the name of freedom, and I’ll do it again if that’s what it takes. I don’t have any right to cry foul now. But this might be the lowest I’ve stooped.” He shook his head, angry at himself. “It’s no different from something Azibek or Mare—” he caught himself before speaking the Tyrant King’s name. “Uh, or a hundred other tyrants would do, and I did it without a second thought because they’re not my people. And what’s worse, I didn’t even notice the cruelty of it until someone else pointed it out to me. I’ve traded off more than my share of civil niceties over the years, but I didn’t think I’d ever hand over my humanity without even noticing.”

At the word humanity, Griff’s balding head swiveled to glance at Roark. Roark thought he saw surprise in the old man’s eye, but the weapons trainer turned back to watch the final moments of the griefing before Roark could be sure. 

Across the room, Kaz sliced a blue-robed rog across the back of the knees, laming him just before Zyra planted her long knife in his heart. The mage rog gave a dying screech as his red bar flashed critical and emptied, then he dropped to the floor. Dead.

Ascending chimes rang through the room as Zyra leveled up. Kaz gave a whoop of excitement and pumped a huge fist in the air as golden light shined from the hooded Reaver’s midnight skin. Two of the Changelings had leveled as well, and the lot of the tiny blue creatures were dancing and hopping around madly—chanting, hooting, waving their weapons in the air.

At Roark’s side, Griff dug the sharp end of an empty skewer into his teeth, attempting to extract a bit of gristle.

“Y’know, lad, I wasn’t too sure what to think of this mob outfit comin’ in,” the old weapons trainer said in his gruff voice. “Your war ain’t my war. I can’t say as I understand it, and I damn sure ain’t about to get involved in fightin’ it. But I know a thing or two about losing your humanity. Thirty years in the arena makes a man look different at what constitutes savagery, and there’s times when what I think of as a reasonable response would make a gentler man kick up his guts. The things we see every day have a way of blindin’ us.” Griff turned his head to cast a sly glance Roark’s way. “And unless I miss my guess, lad, this ain’t the only hard world you’ve laid eyes on.”

Roark raised an eyebrow at the old man. “How did you—”

“Nobody’s as obvious about secrets as those that have ’em,” Griff said with a shrug. “Is what you did to them heroes cruel? Sure. But look around you! This place ain’t named the Cruel Citadel because it’s a nice spot to settle down and raise a family.” He paused a moment to suck at the offending gristle, then, satisfied with the result, went on. “I will tell you this, though: You brought in an old man too washed up for combat, gave him a warm bed, a steady stream of meals, and a place to ply his humble trade. That ain’t the mark of a man—or Troll—without a thread of compassion left in the weft.”

Roark considered this, ghostly pale hand rubbing at his hairless chin. 

“When I first walked into this job,” Griff said, leaning close and pitching his voice low, “I didn’t think much about gettin’ anyone else involved in this madness, recruitment bonus or no. But you’ve changed my mind about you, lad. In fact, now I’m starting to think—”

Before Roark could hear what Griff thought, however, Kaz bounded over to join them in the corner. The weapons trainer quieted and leaned back against the wall.

“Did Roark see?” Kaz demanded, his onyx-chip eyes glowing with exhilaration. “Zyra leveled up! She’s only one level from Evolution!”

In spite of the interruption, Roark couldn’t fight back the smile in the face of his friend’s limitless enthusiasm.

“I saw, mate,” he said. He nodded at the hooded Reaver who wasn’t far behind Kaz. “It was well-done. Congratulations.”

Zyra gave a smug bow and flourish of her hands. Roark rose, clicked his heels together, and returned it flawlessly, the picture of courtly manners.

Rather than continue the playful charade, however, Zyra turned serious.

“We need to get you in the rotation,” she said. “The sooner you’re Evolved, the less we’ll have to worry about an assassination knocking you back down to level 8. Next party, you’ll take the lead.”

Roark smirked and canted his head to the side. “You’re worried about me? I didn’t realize you cared.”

“Just trying to make my job easier watching your back,” she replied, the lilt in her voice betraying the teasing smile hidden in the depths of her hood. “Next party.”

“I’m training with Griff first,” Roark said, jerking his head at the weapons trainer. “If the man ever finishes his dinner.”

Griff chuckled and set aside his plate of empty skewer sticks.

“Let’s stop all this jawin’ and see if I can’t teach you how to hold a dagger and rapier at the same time,” the old man said, standing. “Now, let’s see what you’re working with, huh?” 

Roark pulled free his Kaiken Dagger, and offered it to the trainer with a dip of his head. The man scratched at his belly, then stifled a long belch with his hand before accepting. He eyed the weapon carefully, noting the gleaming blade, running his fingers over the contoured grip, checking the balance. After a beat he grunted and nodded. “Aye, this’ll do. First, it’ll do us well to show you the bloody right way to hold the thing.” He spun the blade with a flourish. 

“The first grip is the hammer grip. If you were fighting with the dagger in your main hand, this would be your go to. A solid grip. Offers good reach”—he took several swipes at the air, graceful, delicate arcs—“great slashing potential, and the blade retention is unmatched. Chances are you won’t be easily disarmed. But since you’re mostly gonna be using it in your offhand, I’d recommend the icepick grip.” 

With a flick of his fingers, he inverted the weapon so the blade ran along the outside of his forearm. “This is particularly usefully close in.” His feet danced and his shoulders swayed as he thrusted and stabbed, each fluid movement leading into the next. “Now, the natural inclination of most new fighters using the icepick is to treat the blade as a slashing instrument, but it’s most effective as a thrusting weapon—particularly the downward thrust.” He made a series of quick, brutal, downward thrusts. “Clavicle, neck, even the heart. Those are your targets.” He straightened after a minute and offered Roark his blade back. “Now, why don’t you give it a try, lad?”

Roark accepted the weapon and worked through a handful of different routines, trying the different grips and the various slashes and thrusts, getting a feel for each as Griff corrected everything from posture and footwork, to blade angle and attack speed. After only a handful of minutes’ study with Griff, Roark had unlocked his Off-Hand Combo ability—a move that allowed him to follow a rapier attack with a quick slash from his Kaiken Dagger for double damage. And not a moment too soon.

“Heroes!” the level-two Changeling at the top of the stairs called.