Happy Xmas one and all. Hidden in your stockings tonight we have the next three chapters. four to six.

FOUR:

After Party

I skirted through the throng of drinking and drunk guests, slowly making my way toward the dance floor where Abby and I were supposed to meet. She’d bolted almost immediately after the ceremony, giggling madly about a surprise she had planned for me. Some sort of Dokkalfar courtship ritual she’d learned from Amara in preparation for the wedding—though I had no idea what exactly it was supposed to entail. If the impish look on her face was any indication, however, it was bound to be something awesome. Or mortifying. 

It could be hard to tell with her sometimes.

The night was perfect.

Warm without being hot, the sky overhead crystal clear, the glimmer of stars winking down like diamonds spilled out against a backdrop of dark velvet. Torches and bonfires burned all over the city, golden light casting long shadows against both the behemoth trees and wooden houses, perched atop thick stilts—a precautionary measure, to guard against the heavy monsoon rains that came in the spring. Ghostly fireflies in a multitude of hues flited amongst the revilers, blinking on and off while unseen nightbirds chirped and crickets droned softly, offering a steady background chorus to the music drifting through the twisting city streets.

Everywhere I went, people were laughing or singing or dancing with reckless abandon, and the Dokkalfar lead the procession like a drum leader guiding a marching band, which surprised me to no end. The Murk Elves were a serious people by nature, as quick to offer a frown or a grimace as a smile. But not tonight. Tonight, even the sourest, stone-faced among them partied like there just might not be any tomorrow. Although their version of ‘partied’ was admittedly a little different than what I was used too. In IRL, most wedding receptions I’d ever been to consisted of sitting around banquet tables, nibbling on desserts and talking softly while a few of the more adventurous souls tried their luck—or, at least, their lack of inhibition—out on the dance floor. 

The Murk Elves had no tables to camp around and everyone danced. Everyone. 

And then there was the water. 

Patrols of Chao-Yao Murk Elves roamed the city like packs of feral dogs and accompanying each group was a water-wielding Hydromancer, clad in flowing robes in an eye-searing combination of red, blues, and yellows. Instead of weapons, each member of the patrol carried an enormous pitcher, used for drenching any guest that wasn’t drinking, eating, singing, or dancing hard enough to satisfy the hard-partying task masters. Leave it to the Murk Elves to enforce celebrating. One such patrol rounded on a group of stumpy Dwarves from Stone Reach, who were quietly smoking billowing pipes a little way off from the rest of the partygoers.

The Dwarves shouted protests and curses in equal measure, faces crimson as they lifted their hands into the air, pleading for mercy. 

The Chao-Yao patrol gave them no quarter, hurling water from their oversized buckets, which were immediately refilled by the accompanying Hyrdomancer. In a moment, pipes were extinguished, clothes were sopping wet, and great shaggy beards dripped in a constant stream. But before things could get heated and turn to blows, the party-patrolling Murk Elves dropped their buckets and—with a flourish even Cutter would’ve found impressive—conjured great globular gourds from thin air. Instead of water, the gourds sloshed over with the potent Murk Elf rice wine which was fueling the party.

The gourds were passed around with gusto, and instead of a round of fistfights breaking out, the stalky Dwarves and their gray-skinned counterparts were quickly laughing and slinging arms around each other as though they’d been friends for years.

They weren’t the only enemies I’d caught celebrating together, either. 

Members of the Malleus Libertas—easy to pick out thanks to the crimson hammer painted bright and bold across their chests’—swayed around a roaring bonfire, swapping stories and booze with a troop of elite Legion Batavian and a squad of stiff-backed Janissaries—all sporting their trademark padded jackets, single-edged sabers, and waxed mustaches. Under any other circumstances, the Batavians and the Janissaries would’ve been fighting over who had the honor of murdering the warriors of the Malleus Libertas in single combat, but here they were, gathered together, swapping war stories and dirty jokes.

“—y’all think you were surprised when the spider riders came over the walls of Rowanheath,” said a burly Wode man with thick southern twang to his words.

“Of course we were shocked,” came a stuffy sounding Janissary with a handlebar mustache and a faint British accent. “Whoever would’ve thought to try to tame such a beast?”  

“Well, as shocked as you were,” the Wode continued, “you shoulda seen us when Lord Grim Jack showed up with a whole fleet of those buggers and told us to climb on. Big ol’ things, lookin’ at me like I was the next item on the dinner menu. Thought I was gonna mess my britches right then and there,” he crowed, drawing out a round of laughter from the other Alliance members, many of whom had been part of that very first assault.

An ember of hope smoldered inside my heart as I listened from a pool of shadow. Maybe we’d be able to put the fighting and the bloodshed behind us once we figured out how to deal with Thanatos. It felt like a long shot, but stranger things had happened. 

I glanced over a shoulder, spotting a group of Chao-Yao beelining toward me with their buckets raised, mischief dancing in blood-orange eyes.

This lot had been hunting me for the past hour, but, as good as they were, I’d managed to give them the slip each time they closed the distance. This time would be no different. I offered them a wink and a finger gun then activated Shadow Stride; time shuddered to a halt as the color leeched out of the world, leaving me in a monochromatic landscape of grays, whites, and blacks, all accented by subtle splashes of flickering umbral energy. I gave the group one last look, even knowing they wouldn’t be able to see me, then turned on a heel and waded through the wedding guests, making for the spread of the banquet tables bordering the training pits—converted for tonight into an impromptu dance floor.

My stomach let out a long, low grumble of protest as I caught sight of the bounty waiting for me to raid like the loot of an epic dungeon. 

The trestle tables were loaded down with just about anything anyone could hope to find. Jugs and oversized gourds of rice wine were absolutely everywhere, intermixed with frosted flagons of fine-brewed Sparkling Mead and silver platters overflowing with cheeses and exotic fruit. Golden skinned Erank. Hearted shaped Bewi. Impossible, dew-covered Mist Apples imported from the Merchant vineyards of Ankara. Succulent platters of grilled meats, ranging from the oh-so-common rat on a skewer, served on the streets of Rowanheath, to a Harrowick specialty featuring braised grass wolf in elderberry sauce. 

There were breads of every shape and size, enough butter to give any healthy adult a coronary, plus an enormous assortment of pies, cakes, and other desserts I couldn’t put a name too. They all smelled absolutely divine. 

I took a deep breath, savoring the scent of food and the peaceful quiet that only the Shadowverse could offer, then slipped back into the Material Realm.

I grabbed a silver plate that should’ve belonged in the court of a Queen and not at a shindig in the middle of a swamp, and loaded it down with a bit of everything, then topped it off with the pièce de résistance: a slice of greasy, sausage covered pizza, courtesy of Frank’s Old World Pizza, Est. 2042. The Best New York Inspired Pizza in Eldgard. I posted up near a group of raucous Imperials, braying like a bunch of donkeys, clearly elbow deep in alcohol. I didn’t mind the noise. It was nice to hear people enjoying themselves despite the looming threat of utter annihilation hanging over all our heads.

On the dance floor, a band of Crimson Alliance bards, locally known as The Rebel Scum, played a pulse pounding set at the edge of the training ground, their instruments squealing and snarling in a typical rock and roll fashion, despite the fact that there wasn’t a proper electric guitar in sight. But, just like Frank and his sons who’d opened up Elgard’s first pizza joint, the people who’d invaded this world were a cleaver bunch. The lead guitarist, a Dokkalfar with gunmetal skin and a silver-white mohawk, had modified an oversized lute with a variety of distortion and amplification runes, effectively transforming the soft plucky instrument into a close approximation of an electric guitar. 

A drummer beat out a pounding rhythm on animal-skin drums while an Accipiter violinist and a Dawn Elf harpist effortlessly overlaid a haunting melody that pulled at the soul and clawed at the mind. In front, a beefy Wode warrior with flowing brown hair danced and swayed, his steps practiced, precise, and strangely out of place with his enormous frame. 

“Get loose out there, folks,” he hollered with the charisma and showmanship of a true frontman, “we’re about to kick it up a notch and you don’t want to hurt yourself dancing too hard!” He lifted a chiseled wooden wand, inset with a fat rune-carved stone at the end—essentially a low-tech, magical version of a cordless microphone. He shot one arm into the arm and twirled with a flourish before opening up with medieval version of Shut Up and Dance. None of it should’ve worked. Literally everything about it was wrong. Still, I found myself tapping a foot along as I chewed on a piece of not-quite-right pizza from a world that no longer existed.

Cutter was lingering at the edge of the dance floor, a flagon of mead clutched in one hand—though there was no sign of Amara. I slipped up next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Instantly, I felt the tip of a dagger press into my side. 

“Whoa, just me,” I said, flinching back from the dagger. 

“Ah, sorry about that friend,” Cutter said, the pressure of the blade vanishing from my ribs as he shook his head. “Just startled me a bit. I’m waiting for Amara. She has a surprise for me, apparently—so I’m half expecting to find a knife buried in my back. That or maybe one of those bloody Mangkar creatures she mentioned during her vows. It wouldn’t surprise me in the bleeding least to have to battle some impossible swamp drake as part of the wedding ceremony. These Dokkalfar have some damned peculiar customs, eh?”

He wasn’t wrong about that.

“Wait, did Amara tell you to meet her at the dance floor?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Aye,” he said with a nod. “He me on edge, too, I can tell you that much. I love that woman, but I swear to all the gods above and below she as dangerous and unpredictable as a gilded silk viper.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly, “Abby told me to meet her at the dance floor too. Said she has a surprise for me.” 

I trailed off as I saw a familiar face carve his way through the crowd—Otto, stoic as ever and decked out in the traditional Risi version of wedding finery: white tunic, brown leather kilt with a fur covered sporran hanging from the front, and an accompanying dire-bear fur cloak. His massive two-handed sword rode at his back, because Risi never went anywhere—not even weddings—without a weapon in place. Not a bad policy, really. I had my own warhammer strapped to my hip, on the off chance that things went sideways.  

“Grim Jack, Cutter,” he grunted formerly.

“Otto,” I said with a nod. “Enjoying yourself?” 

“Yes,” he replied flatly. “There is nothing I enjoy more than a wedding”—he was as stone-faced as a marble statue—“it is always a deeply moving thing to see.” He could’ve been talking about fixing a car engine for all the emotion in his voice. “I’m just looking for Arcona. She slipped off after the ceremony and told me to meet her here at the dance floor, but I haven’t seen any sign of her.”

Uh oh. One was odd. Two? Two could’ve been a coincidence. But three? Three was a pattern. 

A message dinged in my ear, and I absently pulled it up in the corner of my vision. 

<<<>>> 

Personal Message

Jack, 

This is Abby. Are you at the dance pit? 

<<<>>> 

I jotted off a quick reply, before closing out from my interface. 

<<<>>> 

Personal Message

Yeah, but I don’t see you anywhere.

<<<>>> 

You will… Came a prompt, though cryptic, reply.

A streak of light erupted from the crowd not far off, streaking up, then exploding in a shower of golden sparks. Cutter and Otto both tensed up beside me—the Risi warrior actually reached for his sword, though he didn’t draw steel. 

Ahead of us, the milling partygoers parted for a procession of stately-looking mages in thick blood-red robes, the cowls pulled up to hide the faces of those beneath. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I had a sneaking suspicion this was the surprise Abby had mentioned. I also suspected that Cutter, Otto, and I were on the receiving end of whatever was about to happen. 

As the mages drew closer, the music fell quiet and the rest of the dancers on the floor wisely cleared the space, watching with wide eyes while the hooded group took up posts around the floor. The host of hooded mages raised their hands as one, sleeves cascading down past the elbows, and conjured orbs of glowing golden flame above their upturned palms. These weren’t any run of the mill sorcerers, then, but rather Firebrands. The flickering light from their upraised hands somehow—defying all the known laws of physics—illuminated a trio of robed figures who stood together in the very center of the sandy pit. 

The Rebel Scum, who’d been playing classic dance pop moments before, fell into an eerie melody that conjured images of wind-whipped sand dunes, exotic belly dancers, and traveling Roma swaying around a crackling bonfire under the gaze of a crescent moon. 

The three figures in the middle twirled on que, the motions choreographed, and their outer robes fell away to reveal the three missing women. Though they were no longer wearing their bridal outfits and but instead sported silky tops, swaying skirts, and odd belts fitted with hundreds of shining golden coins. Belly dancers. All three were dressed as belly dancers—Amara in a black silk, Abby in red, and Arcona in a vibrant blue. 

Cutter whistled threw his teeth, his daggers completely forgotten as he surveyed his bride. Otto had a similarly thunderstruck expression tattooed across his face, and I had to image I looked no different. The outfit showed off a shocking amount of Abby’s middle, though the skirt encircling her hips trailed down to the gritty gray dirt of the training-pit-turned-dance-floor. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She winked at me, then raised both arms above her head, chest and torso moving, shifting, hips grinding and swaying. I knew my mouth was hanging open—knew that I looked like a deer caught in the brights of a semi—but all I could do was stand there and watched, entranced.

And truthfully, it felt like she was literally entrancing me, casting some sort of spell that called to my soul, insisting that I go to her. 

The music picked up in intensity and her movements became somehow more fluid, her hips waggling and bouncing in time to the thunderous drum. The three women came together for a moment, twirling in a flash of legs and arms, before breaking apart once more. Abby extended a hand, a smirk on her lips, and curled her finger, urging me to come to her.  My heart was pounding, my mouth dry, and suddenly I found my feet carrying me forward of their own accord. Not that I minded. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and in that instant, I didn’t care about Eldgard or the Crimson Alliance or even Thanatos. I just wanted to be with her.

In my peripheries, I saw Cutter and Otto lurching forward, drawn toward their own respective partners.

As my feet stumbled passed the edge to the pit, the encircling firebrands—still covered by their deep cowls—unleashed the pent up spells above their palms, magical flames rocketing upward then exploding in a shower of oranges and reds, golds and vibrant pinks, all strobing together in a hypnotic pattern that even Ari would’ve been proud of. The lights hung above us, spotlights on the show, while Abby beckoned me with swaying hips, quirked eyebrows, and the ghost of smile pulling at her lips. She was enjoying every second of this.

Admittedly, so was I. 

I was a handful of feet away when another burst of flame lit up the sky, the accompanying boom so loud and powerful it reverberated up through the soles on my thin shoes and into my teeth. For a moment, I just thought it was another part of the act—maybe a spell that had misfired and landed a little too close to home—but then a second and third blast rocked the air, the successive thunderclaps shaking the world around me and breaking the strange spell holding sway over my thoughts. The music ceased with an abrupt screech, only to be quickly replaced by a chorus of screams and frantic shouts.

“We’re under attack!”

FIVE:

Party Crashing

Screams and bellowed shouts of confusion rippled through the sprawling party, punctuated by the clang of steel and deafening thundercracks as the explosions continued in earnest. 

Boom-boom-boom. 

Fireballs lit up the night sky like dying stars, igniting in blue-green glory, before collapsing back in on themselves, leaving a hazy purple afterimage stained across my vision. Those bursts of spectral light briefly illuminated the mammoth forms of unspeakable monsters drifting high overhead. Since the Vogthar invasion several months ago, I’d seen Vogs in every conceivable shape, size, and type ranging from the standard foot soldiers—with their curling-horns, nose-less faces, and fishlike mouths—to semi-truck sized Ragna-Wolves. 

I’d never seen anything like these things. Not even close.

These new horrors looked almost like sluggish hot air-balloons; fat globular beasts propelled by a small army of undersized wings protruding from their sides, which all worked in tandem like the oars of a massive ship. Blocky, rhino-like heads protruded from oversized shoulders bristling with heavily armored spikes of obsidian glass. Even at a glance, I could tell these things were built to take a punch, but with how slowly they crept along, I had to imagine they weren’t meant to be an offense force. A host of sucker-studded tentacles dangled down from their oversized bodies, each one holding a strange payload: enormous boulders of black glass.

Heavy artillery maybe? Or did they serve some other purpose? 

Hard to say. 

A tag appeared briefly above one of the creatures as I tracked its languid motions across the night sky, [Corpulent Wreyven].

My real question, though, was why in the hell weren’t the arcane shadow cannons blasting these things from the air with extreme prejudice? The cannons were mounted on watch towers, spaced at hundred-foot intervals, ensuring there was no vulnerable spot in the palisade perimeter. These monsters should’ve been raining down like busted pinatas, yet the cannons were utterly silent. I only had a second to ponder the problem, however, before one of the nearby Wreyvens began to unfurl its tentacles, unleashing a hail of the glassy boulders onto all the terrified partygoers, desperately scrambling to get clear of the impact zone.

I glanced at Abby who was staring in wide-eyed horror at the plummeting stones, raining down over Yunnam like a comet shower. This was bad. Really bad. Most of our guests were already drunk to high heaven, and no one was ready to mount a proper defense of the city. And why would we be? True, Vogthar numbers had increased in the Storme Marshes over the past few weeks, but Yunnam was the most heavily fortified city in southern Eldgard, rivalled only by the formidable defenses in Rowanheath. There was no way an attack like this should’ve been possible. 

We’d planned for nearly every scenario. Except, here we were—caught flat-footed and unprepared. A mistake that would cost people their lives, no doubt. But I could minimize the damage, all I needed to do was think clearly and act decisively to turn this around. I pressed my eyes closed for a beat and took a long deep breath, calming my nerves. After a moment more of stupefied panic, my brain finally kicked into motion and I rounded on Cutter and Otto.

“Otto, you and Arcona get over to Darkshard now, find out what in the hell is going on, and make sure the Control Room isn’t compromised—the last thing we need is to lose Darkshard to a bunch of Darklings.” I turned to Cutter. He already his golden rapier in one hand and his ebony dagger in the other. “Take Amara and these Firebrands”—I gestured at the robed figures—“and start mounting a ground defense. If our Shadow Cannons are down that means there are Vogthar inside the walls somewhere. Either that or Darklings. Find them. Root ’em out, then see if you can do anything about those nightmares up there.”

“Bloody Darklings,” Cutter muttered, flicking his blade in agitation, “even worse than Imperials if you ask me. Mark my words, Jack, these sods won’t capture an inch of Yunnam. Not a bloody inch. This place has my favorite pub in all of Eldgard and no one gets between me and my pub.”

“Good,” I replied, turning back to the dance floor. “Now move, I’m going to get those Shadow Cannons back online.” 

Straight above us, a Corpulent Wreyven released its deadly payload. The stone whistled as it fell, a cornea of purple-blue flame burning around the bottom edge. We needed to get gone, and we needed to do it yesterday. I shot forward and grabbed Abby by the wrist, fingers pressing down hard into her skin. 

“Come on,” I yelled, jerking her into motion as we broke from the sandy dance floor.

“What the shit are those things, Jack?” Abby shouted behind me, her legs finally breaking into reluctant motion. 

“If I had to guess?” I shot back over one shoulder as we crested the edge of the pit and scrambled into the grass, which had been trampled by the countless feet over the past several hours. “Catapult stones. Though bigger than any I’ve ever—”

The words died, swallowed by a world-shaking roar as the glassy boulder smashed into the dance floor with a blast, punching deep into the earth and kicking up a swirling cloud of sand and debris. A wave of raw force exploded outward in a rippling circle of green light, slamming into me and Abby, knocking both of us from our feet. I flipped ass over teakettle and hit the ground like a bag of bricks but managed to roll up into a crouch. Still though, my chest ached from the force of the blow and I was sorely missing my battle gear. I probably wouldn’t even have felt a hit like that in my armor, but my fancy velvet and silk jacket offered about as much protection as a bedsheet. 

The breath caught in my throat as I watched the rock, now half buried in the ground, rumble and shake, a series of deep cracks snaking across the surface of the stone as plumes of white steam hissed upward, dancing in the musky jungle-scented breeze blowing across the city from the west.

“Jack,” Abby called out, raising her hands, a fireball taking shape in one palm while a cloak of flame settled around her shoulders, “I don’t think those are catapult stones, I think those are eggs.” 

My stomach curled into a tight knot as the cracks spread, turning into large fissures before finally bursting open in a hail of razor-sharp stone shrapnel. 

On instinct I stepped in front of Abby, drawing my warhammer with one hand, thrusting my other hand out, activating Dark Shield with a thought and a surge of Spirit. A barrier of shimmering violet light sprung to life in a half-dome before me, shielding me and Abby from the deadly barrage of rock and stone. Others, who’d been crowding around the dance floor when the meteor hit, weren’t so lucky. Chunks of glass ripped into arms and hands, chests, backs and faces, punching through evening finery. Leaving pools of blood behind. 

None of the wounds seemed to be deadly by themselves, but they sure looked painful. 

“Everyone get clear,” I yelled, dismissing my shield with a flick of my wrist. There was no sign of Otto, Cutter, Amara, or Arcona—hopefully they were already on their way to sort things out—but a few of the Firebrands from the ritual were still in earshot. “Get these people to safety,” I barked, “We’ll handle this.” 

The robe-clad mages responded in a heartbeat rounding up the spectators caught in the explosion and herding them away from the blast sight—not that the partygoers needed much additional motivation. They were more than eager to flee and find cover from whatever this madness was. 

As soon as they cleared the area, I cast Shadow Forge—an active aura that increased Critical Hit by 3% and added an extra 50 points of Shadow damage to all attacks for me and my party members for the next twenty minutes. It was a little bonus in the grand scheme of things, but, in my experience, entire battles had hinged on far less. Any edge could be the difference between winning and dying with a malware blade shoved deep into your throat.  

Abby stepped up on my left as the wispy clouds of white smoke cleared from the explosion, revealing seven Vogthar skittering out of the now ruptured pod like horrifying clowns spilling out of a clown car. 

How in the hell did so many of the things fit folded up inside the ball?

Even run of the mill Vogthar stood at least seven-feet tall. And these things weren’t standard troops. The markings on their dusty-gray armor—trimmed with black fur and studded with spikes, rivets, and matte-black chains—marked them out as Elite Vogthar Scouts. The lot of them turned dead black eyes on us, jagged teeth gleaming as they formed into a semi-circle, weapons drawn. A tightknit crew like this wouldn’t prove much trouble for either me or Abby. As a level 51 Shadowmancer with some of the best weapons and gear in the game, there were few individual targets that posed any real threat, and at level 43, Abby wasn’t far behind in the sheer destruction she could deal. 

Still, despite how relatively harmless this squad was, they carried gleaming black weapons, covered in the angular runes that burned with ghostly green witchlight. 

Malware-forged steel. Capable of permanently killing even a Traveler. 

“I’ve got the right flank,” I hollered, promptly bolting to one side without waiting for a reply. 

I ran at an angle, circling around in order to draw some of the Vogthar troops away, then changed course before they knew what was going on. In an instant, I darted straight in, unleashing a wave of purple black Umrba Flame with my left hand while I was still ten paces out. A column of deathly shadow fire as thick as a telephone poll washed over a lanky Vogthar wielding a pitted battleax, setting the greasy-looking creature ablaze. It howled—its cries undulating and inhuman—and flapped its arms manically while it twirled, carelessly slamming into one of its brothers. 

The two of them went down in a sheet of flames and tangled limbs, HP trickling away in in fits and spurts as the unnatural fire burned. 

Keeping my hand trained on the pair, I unloaded a quick flurry of Umbra Bolts, blasting both of them as they rolled and spasmed on the ground. Putting them out of their misery quickly. The Vogthar were the bad guys, but even bad guys didn’t deserve to suffer any more than absolutely necessary. 

Three of the five remaining Vogthar had split off to take out Abby—a terribly unfair fight for them—leaving me with only two more to deal with. Both were on the move, dashing toward me, their black eyes boiling with hate and fury. I casually sidestepped an overhand blow from an enormous Malware Maul then drove inside the Vogthar’s guard, thrusting the spiked tip of my warhammer into the creature’s exposed throat, triggering Savage Blow as the weapon pierced vulnerable flesh. 

I had other abilities I could’ve used in tandem—like Champion’s Strike, Crush Armor, or Black Caress—but at this point, that was just overkill. My warhammer, Mad God’s Fury, had a base damage of 215 with an augmented 100 points of additional Fire Damage; after factoring in the rest of my stats, I dealt a little over 800 points of damage—all without any other spells, bonuses, or buffs. Savage Blow cost a measly 20 stamina and increased my damage output by 25% while simultaneously raising my chance to Crit by 15%. Any monster would have to have Herculean levels of strength and health to weather a blow from my hammer, and this thing didn’t.

It went down in a gurgle of sludgy black blood, dead before it even hit the floor. 

I pivoted and lashed out with the edge of my razor-sharp gauntlet, slicing deep into the second Vogthar’s thigh—biting off nearly half of its HP with the strike—then finished the creature with an Umbra Bolt to the face at point blank range. 

With the Vogthar dead, I wheeled around ready to give Abby a hand, but she didn’t need it. The three creatures that had decided to unwisely tangle with her lay smoldering on the ground, little more than piles of char, ash, and flickering ember. I shouldn’t have been surprised. More remarkable, however, was the fact that Abby had somehow managed to switch out of her seductive belly-dancing outfit, trading up for her blood-red robes, Wildfire. She’d also equipped a beefy battle staff, covered in cherry-red runes and topped by a ball of dancing flame that never wavered.

Smart play.

True, things were crazy, but it wouldn’t do to die from an easily preventable wound because I was running around in wedding attire instead of battle armor. Swapping out my gear was the work of a minute thanks to V.G.O.’s inventory system, and instantly I felt better. More in charge. In control. Hell, wrapped in the Judicator’s Mantle, I felt invincible. I’d faced worse odds than these, and more than once, I reminded myself. Everything would be okay. 

It had to be.  

I thrust my hand out, drawing on the Umbra power dwelling in my center like a coiled serpent. Frigid tendrils slithered down my arm, entwining about my forearm before exploding from my hand as I reached through the void and summoned my trio of Void Watchers.

Nikko appeared first in a burst of pure Spirit, followed in short order by Kong and Mighty Joe. All three resembled oversized chimps sporting sleek night-black fur, talon-tipped fingers, and flat leathery faces with slanted violet eyes. The most notably feature was the glistening blue-black raven wings poking up from their backs. Nikko, as a Greater Void Watcher, was the largest of the three and came with an added special ability called Pack Animal, which allowed me to summon more than one Void Terror at a time, though only if Nikko was already in play. 

Mannling, the elder ape sent, barring her fangs as she shifted onto her haunches, surveying the chaos and carnage engulfing the city. There is battle afoot and enemies to slay. My children and I stand ready. What would you have us do, young one?

“I need intel, and I need it fast,” I said, not bothering to speak mentaly since I wanted to include Abby. “Take a recon pass around the camp and don’t worry about engaging the enemy. Just find out how many of these things there are. In the meantime, Kong and Mighty Joe”—I turned my gaze on the two smaller apes—“for whatever reason our Arcane Shadow Cannons aren’t operational. Can you work one between the two of you?” 

Nikko was tactiturn, not unlike Devil in that way—though she was far less murdery than the Drake—but I’d never heard Mighty Joe or Kong speak. I wasn’t even sure if they could. Or if they simply didn’t want to. But the pair responded with fervent squwaks of acknoldegemnet, beating leathery fists against the ground before springing into the air and disappearing in puffs of sooty purple smoke. That was the other nice thing about the Void Apes. Aside from the fact they could fly, they also had the rather unique ability to Shadow Stride, slipping between the Shadowverse and the Material Realm as easily as water through a collander. 

“What’s the plan for us, Jack?” Abby asked, forehead creased as she tracked the Cuthullu behemoths drifting across the velvety dark like bloated clouds.

“I’ll message you as soon as Nikko has the full scoope about the extent of the invasion. In the meantime, we need to rally the guards and knock those things”—I jabbed at the floating horrors—“from the sky. Otto and Arcona are rallying the guards and Cutter and Amara are going to lock down Darkshard. I’ll push out notifications, put Devil on ariel mop up, and man the cannons. Can you take Valykrie and start putting out the fires around camp? Well, methaphorically, put out the fires,” I added after a second.

She grined at me, though there was nothing happy in that smile—its was a thing of rage and anger. A grim promise that someone was going to pay for ruining our evening. 

“On it,” she said, reaching into her inventory. 

She pulled out what looked like like a baseball sized ruby filled with pulsing flame, constantly shifting hue like a broken kalodiscope. With a murmmured prayer, she tossed it straight up into the air where it hung, unsuspended for a long beat. A flash of blinding golden light rippled out from the stone, lighting up the training yard, now pitted from explosions and splattered with the gore of the dead. The blaze lasted for seconds at most, and when it finally subsided, an ultra-rare Golden Hoardling Drake loomed before us.

Valkyrie was a female Drake, just a hair smaller than Devil, with golden-red scales, an arching serpentine neck, and brilliant crimson wings. Embedded directly in the center of the Drake’s forehead was the pulsing ruby which had given her life moments before. 

“Be careful, Jack,” Abby said, the words solemn. “Don’t do anything too brave, huh. I fully expect to finish my dance for you.” She swung up into a leather saddled, edged in gold, and grabbed the reins. Valkyrie lurched into serpentine motion before leaping skyward, great red wings pumping, turning the charred remains of the Vogthar into swirling clouds of sooty ash.

I took one more look at the warzone and grimaced. All around me I heard the moans of the hurt and dying mingling with the shouts of defenders and the clang of steel. We needed to stop this quickly and the best way to do that was to take out the disgusting Corpulent Wreyvens before they could finish dropping their payload. Time to bring out the big guns. 

I summoned Devil. 

SIX:

Counterstrike

I crouched low against Devil, knees dug in tight, reins clenched, eyes squinted against the battering wind as we rose into the night. 

I need you to get me over to the nearest guard tower, I sent. Somehow these things got the drop on our overwatch positions.

Easily done. But then what? Came Devil’s gruff reply. Surely you do not expect me to sit around while you play with some human toy? There is battle here. The scent of blood on the wind. Enemies to kill and meat to eat.

Yeah. Don’t worry about that, big guy. I replied, pulling up my interface and toggling over to the officer chat. I selected the Regional Faction option, manually including Osmark and Sandra, adding them to the chain, before dashing off a quick speech-to-text message.

<<<>>> 

Regional Faction Message: Yunnam

Alert!

To all Crimson Alliance Members in Yunnam proper and the surrounding Storme Marsh Areas, Vogthar are inside the city walls, likely trying to capture our guard towers and other key defense locations. If you are in range to take back the guard towers, do so. Get the Arcane Shadow Cannons up and running and bring down the Wreyvens. Everyone in the Malleus Libertas, coordinate among the strike groups to secure our gates, then ensure Chief Kolle, the Clan elders, and any other visiting dignitaries get bunkered down inside the Crafter’s Hall, just like we’ve drilled for. Everyone else, fight back, stay safe, and rally to Lady Hollander. If your position is being overwhelmed send up purple flares, she can help you. 

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>> 

Just get me to the nearest tower, I told Devil focusing on the battlefield once more, and then I’ll let you off the leash. Eat whatever you kill. Though, if you could focus on those big nasty things in the sky, that would be great. 

Devil snorted and breathed deeply—a sense of repulsion carrying through our mental bond. I think not. There are Vogthar here to fill my belly, but those things above are rancid. Fit only for burning. Devil paused, cocking his head slightly to the side as though lost in contemplation. But there is pleasure in burning, too, he finished. I will do what I can.

I glanced down and noticed a group of revilers fruitlessly trying to fight off an encroaching band of the Vogthar soldiers, pressing in on all sides, cutting off any sort of retreat. At a glance, it was clear these weren’t fighters or adventures, but unarmed merchants mixed with a handful of woman and children all dressed in their Sunday bests. A few of the adults held cutting knives and one wielded what looked like a shoddy mace as long as my forearm, but against a band of elite Vogthar they wouldn’t last more than a minute. A flicker of movement caught my eye and a second later Frank Senior—of Frank’s Old World Pizza fame—barreled into the mass of creatures. 

He shoulder-checked one of the lanky warriors, throwing the creature to the side, then wheeled around, brandishing a rolling pin covered with a cloth sleeve speckled with flour. He was wearing a thick apron, dotted with crimson splotches, more likely marinara sauce than blood.

Quick detour, I sent to Devil, just give me a low pass—Umbra Flame anything you can without catching the civilians.

Devil growled in reply, dual plumes of smoke drifting from his nostrils. 

The Drake dipped his neck and lifted his left wing, banking hard right and swooping low like an avenging angel. We didn’t have time to spare—every second the Wreyvens were dropping more and more of the Vogthar egg-pods—but even with only a single pass, I could give Frank and the other’s a fighting shot. I thrust my warhammer out toward the Vogthar patrol, channeling my anger into one of my most potent spells of all, Night Cyclone.

With a ten-minute cooldown and a Spirit cost of 1,100, Night Cyclone was a spell I couldn’t use frequently, but when something—or a bunch of somethings—positively, absolutely had to be obliterate right this second, there was no better option in my arsenal. Especially with friendlies in the area of effect. Arctic power built in my chest, pressure mounting for an uncomfortable moment before finally surging down my arm like a bolt of lightning, coalescing in a purple glow around the head of my warhammer in a nimbus of violet light. The air above the Vogthar shimmered and rippled as the fabric of reality tore along the seams, revealing a twisted landscape of roiling purple skies, enormous black cyclones, and an endless sea of yellow hardpan. 

I suspected the place was somewhere in the Shattered Realms, though no one I’d ever talked to had seen it during their travels. 

One of the night-dark cyclones howled like a banshee as it surged through the now open rift, descending on the nightmare invaders with preternatural hunger. The civilians cowered away, frightened, though they had nothing to worry about. The single best thing about Night Cyclone was that it didn’t even so much as ruffle their hair. The Vogthar, however, weren’t so lucky. The screaming, partially-sentient tornado snapped limbs like twigs before tossing several of them away with crippling, back-breaking force. Others, it snatched up like ragdolls, lifting them from the ground and into the tornado’s vortex.

Those unfortunate few, Devil treated to a burst of searing hot Umbra Flame, burning them to bone and ash while they were still airborne. 

“Find Abby or get to the Crafters Hall,” I yelled down over the wail of the summoned tornado. 

Before I could get any sort of response, we were gone, Devil’s speed and sheer momentum carrying us past the skirmish. 

We climbed in a flash, Devil agilely readjusting course so we angled toward one of the stone watchtowers sticking up like a hitch-hiker’s thumb from the palisade wall a hundred feet ahead. Yunnam’s outer wall wasn’t much to look at—certainly not compared to Rowanheath or even the formidable stone barrier surrounding Darkshard proper—just double stacked ashwood poles, twenty-five feet high and sharpened on the ends. But they’d done their job and kept us safe. Or, at least, they had until now. Although that was probably due more to deadly nature of the swamp itself, the constant Ak-Hani ranger patrols, and the watchful eyes of the Spider Queen and her many children.

Lowyth and the spiderkin had never eaten so well—a fact the Spider Queen was more than happy to share with me whenever she could. 

We were approaching the tower, a square building cobbled together from weathered gray rock and gobs and gobs of gossamer spider webbing, which the natives used for just about everything. The stuff was like duct tape around these parts. And understandably so, since it was more potent and resilient than almost any other material in Eldgard. 

Vlad had once crafted a rope made from powdered diamond and spider silk that was powerful enough to hold an ancient dragon the size of a 747. 

Get me close, I sent to Devil, pulling my feet from the iron stirrups, then ever so carefully moving into a balanced crouch on top of the Drake. You know what to do from there. 

I would wish you luck, Devil replied with a growl, but our kind makes our own luck. Let your enemies feel your fury! He bellowed inside my head, banking sharply a handful of feet from the tower. I pushed off as he turned, using the momentum to propel me over the gap and the thirty-foot drop to the ground below.

If the distance or the fall had been any greater I would’ve triggered Shadow Stride to mitigate the brunt of the impact, but the leap was a sure thing, and thanks to a healthy dose of Acrobatics—a general ability that I’d picked up through tons of reckless maneuvers just like this one—I was able to easily turn the leap into a lightning fast roll that brought me back to my feet. There was no sign of the Murk Elf guard who was supposed to be manning this post, but there was a liberal amount of blood slicking the floor beneath me and more splashed against the far wall of the tower in a crimson streak. 

I stole a look over the edge and immediately spotted the body below: a white-haired Dokkalfar in black leather armor, his eyes vacant, his throat split from ear to ear. 

It was an ugly death, though it had probably been a quick one, which was a small mercy. Truthfully, I was just thankfully that whatever Vogthar invader had done the deed hadn’t been bright enough to turn the hulking siege weapon inward on the inhabitants of the city itself. The cannon was a beastly thing built of heavy rivets, blackened wrought iron, flashing Umbra runes, and fist-sized chunks of polished Darkshard Ore. It reminded me of the unholy love child of a Civil War-era cannon and a Tesla Death Ray. And it could cause a massive amount of destruction in the wrong hands.

Without missing a beat, I rushed over and spun a wheel, turning the cannon then cranking on a serious of levers responsible for the angle of the barrel. I pressed one eye shut and used a set of simple iron sights protruding from the top of the barrel to home in on my target: a slowly drifting Wreyven still loaded down with Vogthar drop pods, ready to be deployed at the twitch of a suckered tentacle. 

I didn’t intend to give the thing a chance.

Taking a deep breath, I slapped my hand against the arming plate—runes flickering to reedy life along the length of the barrel—then activated the runic trigger. 

A furious kaboom rattled the tower as the weapon kick like an angry bull, belching an orb of volatile purple light the size of a basketball at the flying horror. The shot hit dead on, smacking into the thing’s guts from below. The blob of raw energy erupted in a bubble of umbral power that swelled outward, enveloping the Wreyven and all the capsules clutched in its many arms. The light pulsed once, painfully bright, then contracted, shrinking down to the size of a pinprick before vanishing entirely. There was no sign whatsoever of the Wreyven. No ash. No raining body parts or cloud of gore. It was just… gone. 

A circular cooldown gauge appeared above the cannon, its singular black needle firmly in the red though creeping back toward the green second by second. A forty second recharge time, but with the kind of damage this thing could do, it was no wonder it took so long. It also provided me with the time I needed to sight in on the next horror, diligently lining up my shot so that I could make it count. While the needle was still in the red, a cannon two towers over from me thundered, launching a purple-blue blob of light all its own, which sideswiped another of the troop-deploying Wreyvens—turning it into less than pink mist. 

That had to be Mighty Joe and Kong at work. That or one of the other Alliance members who’d gotten my message.

The needle edged back into green and I went through the process again: Sights steady. Arming plate on. Runic trigger activated. Orb of utter annihilation unleashed at will. 

The blast tore through another of the floating monstrosities like a battle axe through rotten pumpkin, leaving behind no trace of the creature who been occupying the air space a moment before. 

Once more the cycle began, needle slowly climbing while the battle raged on around me; but just because I wasn’t currently doing anything, didn’t mean things weren’t happening. Bursts of roiling black flame lit up the night like heat lightning in late summer, but those blasts were all courtesy of Devil as he swooped and wheeled among the still living Vogthar troop carries, destroying the things as mercilessly as a wolf among a pack of sheep without their shepherd. Along the wall, more and more Arcane Shadow Cannons began to lurch into action, peppering the fliers above while also turning on pockets of resistance located out of sight below.

Despite the drunken nature of most of the partygoers, our forces had somehow managed to rouse some level of defense. Thanks to my vantage point—and the Night Eye ability that allowed me to see more keenly in the dark—I watched as tight-knit pockets of fighters pushed through the streets, striking down any errant Vogthar and simultaneously rallying to the heady thump of war drums and the blare of brassy horn cries. Imperial Legion units fell back on their skill, disciple, and training, forming orderly triple lines. They blocked off streets with effortless efficiency and hemmed in the invaders, while allowing less-prepared civilians to slip through their ranks and to safety. 

At the front of the line stood the velites, using blocky rectangular shields and barbed spears, while the hastate, principes, and the triarii, lurked behind them with swords, axes, javelins, and deadly magic.     

The human forces had also been augmented by a cohort of very inhuman allies: Spiderkin. They flooded over the palisade walls, shrieking and buzzing as they moved, falling on the Vogthar like hungry junkyard hounds that hadn’t eaten in days or weeks. 

Most were the more common spiderkin—bloated brown things, larger than Rottweilers, with hair-covered legs—but I also spotted a fair number of chitinous gray Sword-Slayers, black Poison Darters, electric blue Portal Crawlers, and even the tank-sized Colossal Spiderkin. Lowyth had showed up to play and she and her ugly kids were taking no prisoners. I winced as a pack of common spiderkin, led by a Portal Crawler, descended on a loan Vogthar troop who’d had the misfortune of being separated from the rest of its squad. The Portal Crawler zapped in and out of reality, twining thick strands of webbing around the Vogthar—eventually pulling it to the ground where the others disemboweled the creature live.

The cooldown timer had finally lapsed on my cannon, so I let loose another blast, this one slightly off target. It clipped the tail end of one of the Wreyvens—who were quickly dwindling in number, thank god—blasting it from the air, though not completely disintegrating the entirety of its torso. 

I turned at the roar of steam-powered gattling guns, screaming in the night. 

The Hellreaver.

Cutter manned the helm, bellowing orders that sent his goblin crew scuttling about the rigging, while Amara and Jake Blackblade worked the ship’s two guns—one mounted on the bow, the other on the stern. Cutter hadn’t opened up with a salvo of cannon fire, but that was probably because he was firing into Yunnam itself. Unleashing a blast of cannon fire would tear through friendly buildings and bystanders just as much as the Vogthar invaders. The Gattling guns were slightly less effective, but far more controlled. 

 As smoke curled up from the tip of the artillery barrel, a familiar voice caressed the back of my mind. Manling, Nikko sent, voice hazy, distant, most of the Vogthar have already been contained. This attack, it reeks of a scouting force, not a true offensive. The dark gods of blood and bone smile on us tonight. I will observe and wait for orders. 

The ape’s voice faded, but that was fine. I didn’t have any orders for the time being anyway. Nikko was as smart and as devious as the shrewdest scouts I’d ever met, so if she said this was a minor incursion, and mostly contained, then I had no reason to doubt her. Still, the raid was beyond troubling, and even if it had been a relatively minor skirmish, there would doubtless be casualties. With a grimace, I turned and leapt from the wall, plummeting thirty feet—slipping in and out of the Shadowverse in the blink of an eye to negate the fall damage. I needed to find Forge and figure out what had gone wrong, and how.