Viridian Gate Online: Doom Forge (Chapter 9 - 10)

NINE: 

Good Deeds

“Well dinnae just stand there!” one of the guards barked, his words coated with a thick Scottish burr. He broke from the line of defenders, heavy boots tromping on the cobblestones as he moved. He was short, well under five feet, and built like a brick shithouse. All muscle and scars and beard. His hair was fiery red, his complexion ruddy, his eyes were like little chips of coal, and faded crisscrossing scars seemed to cover every bit of exposed skin. He wore the same tabard as the rest of the guards, but his uniform had an extra patch sown onto the chest, likely marking him out as some sort of squad leader or commander. 

“We got wounded now, dinnae we?” He said, glancing at the downed Dwarves moaning around the courtyard. “So start triage ya bloody eejits.” He threw heavy, scar-covered hands into the air as though shooing a bunch of irksome pigeons. “Priests, get busy. These men are na gonna heal themselves. Archers,” he bellowed, glancing at the men still loitering in the buildings edging the square. “Ah wanna cordon set up—keep the lookie loos back, eh? Everybody else. Loot these corpses.  

“As fer ya lot”—he rounded on us, eyes narrowing, mouth turning into a scowl—“stay right where ya bloody are, eh? Ah’d have words with ya.” The remaining guards broke into action as the disgruntled and clearly suspicious Dwarf marched across the impromptu battlefield, giving the clerics and priest a wide berth, though stepping carelessly on the dead Vogthar. “I’m Raginolf, Captain of the Cliffburgh Guard.” His gaze landed on me like a hammer blow, flicking from the khopesh to my dusky, Murk Elf complexion. Definitely suspicious. 

I braced myself for the ass-chewing of the century. I’d spent plenty of time around staff NCOs in the Marine Corps, and I knew a pissed off enlisted man when I saw one. 

Instead, Raginolf surprised me by extending a gnarled hand with stubby, sausage fingers. “Well meet, and thank ya fer the help.”

Uncertain, I took his proffered hand and pumped it several times. It was like shaking hands with a bear. “Eh, just glad we were here in time to help out. We haven’t been this far north before. Is that sort of thing common up here?” 

He dropped my hand and glanced over one shoulder at the bodies strewn around the square. He turned back to us, faint worry etched into the lines of his face. “Nae.” He folded his blocky arms across his barrel chest. “The raids have been gettin’ worse fer the past month or so. Once, mibay twice a week, usually at night. This though. Nae. Havnae seen the like before. Ya said ya havnae been this far north before—where do ya hail from then? What brings ya all the way tae this frozen bit of land? Merchants, maybe? Cliffbourgh, isna exactly a tourist attraction, especially nae fer Travelers.”

“A small social quest,” Cutter said with a dismissive wave, words sweet as honey as he glided forward. He patted me on the shoulder, allow me, as a blindingly bright grin spread across his face. The guard seemed friendly enough, but his questions were probing. Cautious, without seeming overtly hostile. As nice as he was, he wasn’t sure we were are on the level. We really didn’t want people poking into our business and with Honeyed Words, Cutter could disarm the man far better than I ever could. Hell, Cutter was confidence incarnate. 

And as he often said, confidence opened doors no key ever could.

“We’re running messages for a southern lordling. It’s good luck indeed that we happened to arrive, though,” Cutter continued. “Unfortunately, friend, our business is a wee-bit time sensitive. But I’m thinkin’ a man like you might be able to give us a hand.” With a flick of his fingers he pulled a fat golden coin from thin air. “We’re looking for an Inn. A place called the Smoked Pig.” 

The guard grunted, still looking suspicious, but less so. He took the coin, but instead of pocketing it, he shoved it right back into Cutter’s other hand. “Keep yer money, lad. I dinnae how they do it in the south, but around here, guards will help a law abidin’ citizen free ah charge. Now, as fer your Smoked Pig. Aye, I know of it. Down in the armpit of the Low Quarter. Cannae imagine what business a southern lordlin’ would have in a place such as that, but …”

He paused and shrugged meat slab shoulders. “Who can bloody understand the mind of nobles, eh? Normally, I wouldnae let you lot in, nae without a fair reason in dark days like these, but on account ah what you done fer us here. Well, ah’ll give ya a pass. But, fairs warnin’.” He paused, spearing each of us in turn with a ferocious glare. “Keep yer heads low, eh? A bit ah goodwill only goes so far in the north. Ah wouldnae forget that if ah were in yer boots.” He tapped a gnarled nose like a tree root with one fat finger. “Especially nea in ah place like the Smoked Pig.” 

As he finished talking a pair of notices popped up, one right after another. 

                                           Secret Quest Update: Assist the Guards 

You have saved the Cliffbourgh Guards from   an advanced Vogthar incursion and won over the Captain of the Guard, Raginolf   Rugar. Your   relationship with Cliffbourgh Guards has increased from Unfriendly to Neutral. Your   personal relationship with Raginolf has increased from Neutral to Friendly. He may be inclined to turn a blind eye to minor   indiscretions, but don’t push his kindness too far—it is hard won and not   easily regained!

                                                                  Map Update

Congratulations!   Your in-world map has been updated with a new location: The Smoked Pig. 

I waved away the notifications. 

Raginolf’s back was already to me as he moved toward the bodies, which his men were busy picking over. The gamer inside me bucked at the idea that they should get to loot the corpses since we’d done most of the heavy lifting, but the truth was, Vogthar—even advance ones such as these—rarely had items worth taking. And besides, it wasn’t exactly like the Alliance was hard up for items or money. Maybe we didn’t have the resources that Osmark and the Legion had at their disposal, but we were still doing just fine. 

“Come on,” I said, waving the rest of the crew onward. 

Everyone circled around me as we left the town square behind, heading along a narrow side street flanked by more of the Viking-esque buildings, which seemed so popular here. Private residences from the look of them. The street, cast in early afternoon shadow, was empty and the homes to either side had the wooden shutters closed tight against the cold of the day. Most of the places had stone chimneys jutting from their slate-tiled roofs, spewing fragrant gray smoke into the overcast sky. 

“What are the chances that those things are connected to Peng,” Abby asked once we were firmly out of earshot of the guards. “Normal incursions I get, but that back there?” She hooked a thumb toward the square. “That wasn’t normal. Not even close. I’ve only seen Knights come out on a handful of occasions, and those Frost Hounds? They almost never leave their Dungeons.”  

“Might be a bit of sleight of hand,” Cutter offered. “A distraction if you will. Me? Well I know a thing or two about getting passed city gate guards. And truth be told, it’s a trickier than it bloody looks. Gate guards have an unnatural affinity to detect Stealth—especially if they’re on high alert. And I’ve never yet met a Dwarven guard that wasn’t on high alert. Right dower bunch of bastards. Maybe Peng and his crew are all masters of stealth, but I bloody-well doubt it. Which means the best way in is a fat bribe and a honeyed word. But, problem is, not even the seediest guard is gonna take a bribe from a someone like Peng. No one likes Darklings.”

“So,” Amara said, picking up his line of thought. “Peng brings up a raiding force. They attack, distracting the guards long enough for Peng and his men to slip through.” 

“That’s what I’d do,” Cutter said, rubbing at his chin. “Sometimes the easiest way is the best, and it doesn’t get much easier than the ol’ bait and switch.” 

“Sounds to me like we’d better hurry our diddy-boppin asses along then,” Forge grunted, picking up his pace. “If those yahoos are from Peng, then he’s already here, which means he knows about Carl and has a head start on us.”

We fell silent as we hurried along, following our updated maps. 

A light dusting of snow covered the shadier lanes and alleys, but most of the broader streets were clear. And not just of snow, but of dirt, trash, and all the other things which seemed to pile up in any urban sprawl. Not here, though. This was without a doubt the cleanest city I’d ever been too. The buildings, while rather plain, were also extremely well-maintained. Everything was freshly painted, every roof shingle was where it belonged, the wooden doors and edging were all new.

Though Cliffbourgh certainly wasn’t near the size of Rowanheath, or even Yunnam for that matter, it was no fly-speck town. This was a trading hub and it showed everywhere we looked. Though there were plenty of residential homes, most of the buildings were dedicated to craft and trade. There were inns—clearly meant to house the travelling merchants—tailors and seamstresses, alchemists and apothecaries, and a small legion of Blacksmiths, which wasn’t surprising, considering the Dwarves were known as the best smiths in Eldgard. 

There were no outdoor markets, a staple in the Southern cities, no doubt due to the frigid temperatures.   

Interestingly, I noted that all of the shops had a ranking of some sort, prominently displayed either on the door or the window.

Signs like, 1st Ranked Manticore-Class Blacksmith, 7th Ranked Centaur-Class Fletcher, or 13th Ranked Warg-Class Baker. It seemed that commerce was the heart of this city and everyone wanted potential clients to know exactly where they stood in the hierarchy of other merchants and tradesmen. I’d only spent a handful of days up this way and my dealings with the Dwarves were minimal at best, so I didn’t properly understand the hierarchy, but clearly they put a lot of stock into it. 

Eventually, we left behind the quaint residential sections and the thriving businesses—which were slammed with vendors, travelers, and merchants from just about everywhere—and entered a section of city that more or less made up for the beauty everywhere else. The Lower Quarters were actually outside the city walls proper. An overflow where the dregs of the Cliffbough had washed up. It seemed that all of the garbage from the rest of the city had been taken here and unceremoniously dumped. The buildings were equal parts wood and stone, and they looked like they’d been built by someone who’d heard of houses but had never actually seen one. 

The whole place was one giant fire-hazard, or at least it would’ve been if not for the snow and muck positively everywhere. Snowdrifts sat in corners, dark brown from dirt and mud. Chimneys dotted the skyline, these spewing rancid black clouds straight up. If I was a gambling man, I’d bet that everyone in the Low Quarter was burning old tires. I mean, I knew that wasn’t true because tires didn’t exist here, but based on smell alone, I couldn’t imagine what else it would be. The streets weren’t paved, just giant sucking mud-pits broken by deep wheel ruts and ankle-deep foot prints.

Sophia always sent us to the classiest places. I’d have to thank her profusely when I saw her next. 

We wound our way through the trench-like warren of alleys, streets, and cut-throughs, following our map unwaveringly until we finally found our destination. The Smoked Pig. The name was stenciled on a sign in blocky letters, and beneath that was a line which gave me pause. Smoke House and Tavern. 

The trek had taken us nearly an hour and the sun was already starting to make a run at the western horizon. Orange, golds, and faint pinks filled the brisk evening air. I folded my arms across my chest as I studied the building in the fading light of the day. 

A two-story place of chipped wood and rusting metal with a long wooden patio wrapping around the front. Honestly, seeing it was … confusing. The rest of Cliffbough—even the dirty, ragtag sections of town—looked like they’d been transported out of a Scandinavian historical tour. This place, though? Well, it could’ve passed on the set of Tombstone. Even had batwing doors, which were wildly impractical, given both the temperature and the climate. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was looking at an old-west saloon. 

This was also the first Inn or shop that failed to have a rating displayed. Not a good sign. 

“Who in the nine bloody hells would build a place like that, eh?” Cutter asked, disgust coating the words. “I mean I’m all for dirty, disgusting Inns—practically in my blood—but even I have standards.” 

Forge, on the other hand, had a huge grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well all right!” he boomed, clapping his hands together, practically bouncing on his toes. “Now this here’s a place I can get on board with. I mean, sure, looks more crooked than a barrel of fish hooks, but those are the best places to have a good time.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “I’ll bet you a gold mark a Traveler built this place. Probably a Texan, too. Someone from south of the Mason Dixon line for sure. Only a good ol’ southern boy—who’s also dumber than a box of rocks—would put bat wing doors on a tavern in the ass-end of the arctic.” 

“I’ll take that action,” Cutter said, flashing a gold piece before disappearing it back into his sleeve with a practiced flourish. 

“Well,” I said, shouldering my way past both of them. “We won’t know standing around out here. Let’s go see if we can find our failed Dwarf acolyte.” 

We tromped through the mud and slush, and up onto the wrap-around deck out front, scraping our boots on the wobbly planks. 

I paused, glancing left and right. All clear. “Ari,” I hissed. 

There was a flash of movement—just a subtle distortion in the air, nearly invisible before she appeared, fluttering just a few feet away from Forge. “Here, Grim Jack.”

“Good. Look, I need you to find someplace to hide. You see trouble coming, I want to know about it before it smacks us in the face. Out of sight, though, yeah?” 

She took a deep breath, her color flashing a pale blue. “You know it. No one will see me. Not a soul.” She lifted a tiny hand, fingers twirling. A shimmer of rainbow light drifted from her fingertips, swirling around her in a cloud as she vanished once more. “I’m like a ghost.” 

Forge—being both our tank and a proper Texan—led the way, pushing through the batwing doors with supreme confidence. I followed hard on his heels. Noise washed over me like a wave. The twang of a slide guitar, the warble of a woman singing a down-and-out country tune, the clink of glasses, the harsh barking laughter of drunks. The scent of grilled meat and tangy-sweet sauce. Barbeque.

The inside was exactly what I’d expected from the outside. 

Dark brown hay, heavily stained with copious amounts of dried mud, covered the floor. Weathered boards peeked through here and there. On one side of the room were circular tables perfect for cards and gambling mixed with rectangular rough-hewn tables, edged by benches full of drunk patrons busy chowing down. The other side of the room was clear of furniture, the straw pushed back, forming a crude dance floor. More drunk patrons, men and women both, square danced across the open space as they hooted and hollered in time with the thump of music. 

The entertainment occupied a raised platform on the left side of the room, bordering the dance floor. A short-haired Wode man sat on a three-legged stool, working furiously on a hand-made slide guitar while a golden-skinned Dawn Elf woman crooned beside him. Her clothes were custom. Clearly. She wore incredibly short shorts, the fabric dyed to have a blueish-tint so it looked almost like denim. Her shirt was a plaid button up, tied in a knot in the middle, showcasing a healthy amount of stomach and more than a little cleavage. Her hair fell in a cascade of golden curls and bounced as she swayed with the music. 

It was only a matter of time until the real world started to creep in around the edges. I reminded myself that most of the people who’d made the jump to V.G.O. weren’t fantasy nerds or gamers—they were regular folks, just hoping to survive and avoid a mass grave. They’d be looking to make this new life as normal as they could. As familiar as they could. Which included line dancing, denim, and barbeque.  

Despite the bad neighborhood and the dodgy exterior, the place actually seemed pretty nice. Fun. The atmosphere was warm, happy, welcoming. People played cards with their friends—coins clicking as they were shuffled back and forth across tabletops—others drank and joked and danced. The epitome of never judge a book by its cover. I found myself smiling, foot tapping, thinking about inviting Abby out onto the dance floor for a twirl. The smile slipped as I thought of the people all across Eldgard, dying—actually dying—in a seemingly unwinnable war against the Vogthar.

There would be a time for dancing and celebrating one day, but today wasn’t it. Especially not with the Death-Head’s Quest looming over me like a headsman’s axe, waiting to drop.
 

TEN: 

The Drunken Acolyte

I scanned the room, searching for Sophia’s lead: Carl, the Dwarf and failed acolyte. 

It was surprisingly easy to find him since he was literally the only Dwarf in the entire place. Everyone here was a foreigner of one type or another—mostly Travelers based on the accents filling the air. A bunch of winged Accipter and golden Dawn Elfs, quite a few Wodes, a handful of Imperials, and a spattering of green-skinned Risi. No Murk Elfs, which highlighted both Amara and myself, and only the lone Dwarf. Apparently, the Smoked Pig wasn’t the kind of place any self-respecting Dwarf willingly came. 

Our guy, Carl, didn’t seem like the self-respecting type. 

In a society where rank and standing seemed especially important—integral even—a washed-out cleric had to be at just about the bottom of the barrel.

He was propped up on a barstool near the back of the room, leaning against the polished hardwood bar. 

“Jack,” Cutter said, drawing in close to me. “Gotta slip away for a moment.” He jabbed a finger toward a cowl-wearing Wode nursing a drink in the corner. “Thieves business. Should’ve bloody well expected to find a Union rep in a place like this,” he muttered. “But I’ll be around if you need me.” He clapped me on the shoulder and slipped off through the crowd. The thief in the corner watched Cutter with hungry predatory eyes. Weighing, measuring, calculating. 

That could be trouble. I shook my head and pursed my lips. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. Not everyone was out to get us. 

Just almost everyone. 

Still, Amara shot me a glance and a quick nod, then followed after him like a shadow. I wasn’t the only one plagued by worry. 

The rest of us weaved past the dancers and the tables, dodging the occasional server ferrying platters of ale and succulent meat—ribs, brisket, even pulled pork piled high on small rolls—as we made for the bar. Forge saddled right up, plopping down on a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the Dwarf, then flagged down the bartender. The bartender in question was a brown-haired Wode sporting a close approximation of a ten-gallon cowboy hat and a passable flannel shirt. If that was the owner of the Smoked Pig, then Cutter was about to lose a bet, because that was easily the most Texas-Texan I’d ever seen. 

Hell, on the wall behind the bar was a Texas flag, its lone star proud and bold on a field of blue.

Abby took a seat to the left of the Dwarf, while I took a stool to his right.

Carl was stocky and broad-shouldered like most of the Dwarves we’d seen so far and wore faded priest robes, light brown, edged in gold, and tremendously dirty. He had an empty mug in front of him and was staring morosely into the bottom of his cup as though it might hold all of life’s answers. The guy was bleary-eyed, absolutely reeked of stale alcohol and old BO—that Unwashed Debuff at work—and quite clearly drunk. He ignored Abby and I completely, as though he were alone in the world and aimed to keep it that way. 

“Hey there,” I said, offering the man a friendly smile. “You Carl?” 

He blinked sporadically a couple of times, swaying slightly as he faced me. 

“Wat’s that now,” he slurred. “You say you’re lookin’ for—” He faltered muffling an eye-watering burp with his closed fist. “Carl?” he finished belatedly.

“Yep. Carl, former Acolyte of the Shield and Hammer.”

“The one and only,” he said, dropping his head in an off-kilter bow. His voice was warm, friendly, a hint of a Philadelphia accent coating his words. He straightened and took another forlorn glance at his empty mug. “Can’t imagine what you want with me, though.” Not a question, but a statement of fact. He smacked his lips and slumped forward, resting his forearms against the wooden bar. 

“Well, to start. We were hoping to ask you a few questions. Wanted to find out a bit more about your order.” 

With a sniff he lifted his head and regarded me, eyes squinted, forehead wrinkled. “That so, huh? Well.” He scratched at his heavily bearded chin, the cogs in his head turning. “Not really supposed to talk about that but …” He shrugged. “But hey what the hell. They already booted me out. What more can they do to me, you know?” He looked from me to his mug, me to his mug. “Look, bro, you keep my glass full and you can ask as many questions as you want before I pass out on the floor. How’s that sound?” 

I caught Abby’s eye. She nodded empathetically. 

“Okay. Fair enough,” I replied, sticking a hand into the air, flagging down a Dawn Elf server who was assisting the Wode in the makeshift cowboy hat. She was busy mixing drinks, but nodded in acknowledgement. She finished her current drink order, deposited several mugs on the counter—all quickly whisked away by a floor server—then moseyed over to us. She offered me a warm smile and a wink.

“Welcome, folks.” She glanced between me and Abby. “Together?” 

“Yep,” Abby said.

“Well its damn good to have y’all. I’m Tammy. Haven’t seen you two in here before. What brings you to the Smoked Pig?” Her eyes lingered on rune encrusted sickle-sword at my belt. “We don’t usually get a lot of adventuring types in here. Mostly just merchants and drunks, like our Carl here.”

The Dwarf half-heartedly flipped her the bird. 

Tammy rolled her eyes. “You know we love you, Carl.” 

“We’re merchants,” Abby replied smoothly. “Well, I am. The rest of the party are hired hands. Guards and mercenaries. But we’re in town and heard this was the only place in Eldgard with real barbeque.” She paused, eyes closed, and lifted her nose, taking a long deep whiff. “Looks like they weren’t lying. Which means it’s time to celebrate. I’ve been jonesing for a platter of ribs and an honest drink since before …” she trailed off. “Well you know.” 

The woman’s easy smile slipped. The unsaid words hung in the air between us. Since before the world died. 

“Sorry,” Abby said, with a shake of her head. “Didn’t mean to be a buzz kill.” She reached into a pouch at her belt and withdrew coins. Gold glinted and I could see greedy hunger blaze in Tammy’s eyes. “Anyway. Let’s get some ribs and ale for me, him”—she waved at me—“and my big green friend down at the end. And, because I’m in a good mood and feeling generous, let’s add on whatever Carl is drinking.” She plinked the coins down onto the bar top. “Just keep his glass full if you would.” 

The woman scooped up the coins and disappeared them as quick and efficiently as Cutter ever could. Abby had just laid down five gold Imperial marks, the equivalent to five-hundred US dollars, which would buy a lot of ribs and a lot of Ale. “You want your usual, Hon?” she asked the stumpy Dwarf. 

“Honeyed-Mead,” he slurred, giving her a toothy grin. “As much as you have.” 

“And what would you two like to drink? Our Honeyed-Mead is the best in town, hands down. We call it Apple Pie, cause I’ll be damned if it doesn’t taste just like grandma’s apple pie in a glass. But we also brew up a mean hard apple cider and Chuck”—she gestured toward the man in the cowboy hat—“is working on a good draft beer. The flavor on this batch ain’t quite right, but it’s close enough to Bud Light that you won’t really know the difference.” She leaned forward, glancing left and right. “We also have a test batch of IPA. It’s a limited run, but I could get you some for a bit more coin. Though, fair warning, it kicks like a horse and its too sour by half. Still the best IPA in Eldgard.” 

“Only IPA in Eldgard,” Carl muttered, “and it tastes like dirty bathwater. Trust me, you don’t want it.” 

“Thanks,” Abby said. “I think I’ll just take a draft beer with my ribs. Jack, what’ll you have?”

“Whatever Carl’s drinking is fine by me.” 

“Good enough,” Tammy said rapping the counter with her knuckles. “Give me just a moment.” She shuffled off and returned in short order with our drinks. “Food’ll be right up. In the meantime, just give me a shout if y’all need anything else.” 

“Cheers.” Our new friend Carl upended his mug, taking a huge pull of his drink, before issuing a deep belly burp that rattled the bar top and singed my eyebrows. “Now what … what’d’ya want to know?” 

“Well can you start by just telling us a bit about the Acolytes of Shield and Hammer?” I asked. I lifted my mug and took a sip. Wow. The bartender wasn’t lying. Sharp, crisp, but underscored with notes of honey, apple, and cinnamon. It really did taste like apple pie in a glass. Suddenly, I could understand the Smoked Pig’s popularity.

Carl shrugged. “Eh, not much to tell. When I transitioned as a Dwarf, I thought I’d end up as smith or something. Was a welder back IRL, so that seemed like a good fit, you know? Never really wanted to do the adventure thing. Thought a crafter job would be cushy. Nine to five type gig.” 

“You a gamer, then?” Abby asked.

He grimaced, shrugged one shoulder. “Eh. A casual. But I still knew enough to have some idea what this, this”—he waved a drunken hand around—“world would be like. So there I am. Lowbie. Thinkin’ I’m gonna be a Dwarven Smith. Livin’ on easy street since everyone and their brotha’s gonna be out running around grinding boars or whatever.” He laughed morosely then took another swig of his mead. “Nope. Turns out getting an apprenticeship as a Dwarven Smith is about as tricky as getting a Merchant apprenticeship as an Accipiter. Me? I ended up as a Cleric. 

“So I was like okay. Cleric. Whatever.” He shrugged meaty shoulders indifferently. “Not my first choice. But that’s better than tank or somethin’ else horrible. Still don’t want to be an adventurer, so I angle for a Temple job in Stone Reach. Which I get. But here’s the real kicker.” He leaned in as though conferring a great secret. “Instead of gettin’ placed with one of the awesome temples, like the Ordo of Heimdallr or the Shrine of Bragi, I ended up as an Acolyte of the Hammer and Shield. 

“Which is a badass name for the most boring Cleric faction in Stone Reach.” He blinked, and swayed for a moment. “It’s the 13th Ranked Boar-Class Temple in Stone Reach.” He cupped his hand. “That’s the lowest rank in the lowest class. And for good reason, since it’s just a bunch of dusty, old, asshole priests guarding a bunch of dusty, old, asshole books at a Temple NO ONE EVER visits. Don’t even come with any cool spells. Not really. And since I was the junior member in an Order that NO ONE EVER joins, I got stuck doing everything. Cleaning the Temple. Standing the worst watches. Working the worst hours.”

He smacked his lips then took another long pull from his mug. “Sorry, what was the question again? Sorta lost my train of thought—” he fell silent, glancing back to his drink, then up to me. His eyes widened and he nearly stumbled off his stool as he stared at something just over my right shoulder. “Screw me sideways, I think I might finally be too drunk.” He squinted and leaned forward, forehead crinkling. “Yep. Definitely hallucinating.” He swiveled toward our server, who was busy chatting with someone at the end of the bar. “Tammy? Did you spike my drink?” He blurted, though his shout was swallow by the racket in the air. 

When she didn’t answer he turned back and stared at me. “There’s a little winged lady on your shoulder.” He teetered, burped, and shook his head. “She’s purple.”

“Jack,” came Ari voice. Urgent and tinged with panic.

I glanced toward the voice but didn’t see her anywhere. “Where are you?” 

“Right here, still invisible.” 

“How come he can see you,” I hissed in a whisper. 

“Cleric. Must have some sort of passive Pierce Illusion spell. Lots of priests have that ability. But none of that matters right now. We have trouble!”

The bat wing doors slammed open with a bang. I swiveled in my seat and watched a party of Risi—each bigger than the last and all sporting heavy spiked armor—tromp into the tavern. They just kept filing in, five, ten, fifteen. Most looked like front line soldiers. Those were Peng’s Blue Lanterns; his enforcers, thugs, and top lieutenants. At the end of the caravan of trouble were the Red Poles, Peng’s elite spell-casters. There were three of them, all women, wearing brilliant silken robes—one red silk, one green, one blue—with golden Chinese characters embroidered across the front. 

The biggest threat came last.

I’d never gone toe-to-toe with Peng but I’d seen pictures of him more than once during our morning briefings. Still, all the digital holograms in the world didn’t do the real-life version justice. 

Easily seven feet tall, he stood head and shoulders above the rest of his crew, and had shoulders so wide he couldn’t fit through a normal door. Seriously, the guy had to duck and twist just to make it inside the building. His armor was the best of the best. Pure golden plate mail, accented by crimson silk. Metal lotus flowers and intricated carved dragons wound their way across his chest plate. Golden bracers, painstakingly crafted to resemble bearded dragons encircled his forearm and his pauldrons were each sculpted into the head of a snarling Foo Dog. An enormous golden-etched crossbow hung on his back, while his huge spiked club sat at his side.

Peng and Ari could probably share notes on discretion. 

The music faded and the friendly chattered died as every eye in the joint turned toward the newcomers. Slowly, trying not to draw any attention, I pulled my hood up—partially obscuring my face—then stood and positioned myself in front of Carl, hiding the man from view.

“Howdy, folks. Welcome to my fine establishment,” Chuck, the cowboy bartender and owner said from behind the bar. “We don’t usually get such large parties of Risi comin’ through this way. Certainly ain’t none so fancy as yourselves, but y’all are welcome to stay so long as you ain’t fixin’ to cause trouble.”

Without a word, the Blue Lanterns spread out in a loose semi-circle while the Casters took up a position behind the main force. Peng strode forward, cocksure and radiating barely-contained violence. “There will be no trouble, cowboy”—he imbued the word with the utmost scorn—“so long as we get what we’re looking for.” He paused for dramatic effect. It certainly seemed to work since it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “I seek a former Acolyte of the Shield and Hammer. A Svartalfar. Give us this man called Carl and we will leave. Fail …” He trailed off and raised a single hand.

One of his lieutenants, a thug in black plate mail with a blue lantern painted across the chest, moved at once. He pulled free an enormous black-steel nagamaki and slammed it down into a nearby table. The wood groaned in protest as the blade passed through in one easy motion. Those sitting around the table scampered from their seats as though someone had just set them on fire, putting some much needed distance between themselves and the invaders. 

Something I could totally understand. Heck, I wanted to put some distance between us, and most of the folks here weren’t warriors but merchants and traders. 

“Now,” Peng said, his voice gruff but not loud, “give me what I want and I will leave you and the rest of your patrons in peace.” 

For a moment no one said anything, though both Chuck and our bartender, Tammy, shot furtive glances toward Carl. 

“Look, partner. I don’t know who you are,” Chuck finally said, reaching under the bar and pulling out a double-headed war axe covered in golden script. Looked Dwarven made. Probably was, considering where we were. “But no one gets to come into my bar, bust up my shit, and make demands on my guests.” 

“That is where you are wrong,” Peng said. “I can. Since you don’t seem to know who I am, let me inform you. I am Peng Jun, leader of the Peng Jun Tong. Rightful conqueror of Glome Corrie, a willing Darkling, and the right hand of Serth Rog himself. Each of my men carry Malware Blades capable of permanently killing every man and woman in this bar. We will do so without a single moment of regret or hesitation and then we will burn this place to the ground unless I get what I want in five.” He lifted a hand, fingers spread wide. “Four …” A finger dropped. “Three …” Another. 

“For Pete’s sake. There,” Tammy burst out, thrusting an accusatory finger straight toward Carl, busy cowering behind me. The imminent threat of death at the hands of a Darkling general had sobered him right up. “Right there, alright? He’s the drunk dwarf. Standing behind that fella with his hood up.” 

Peng’s eyes narrowed as he really saw me for the first time. “You,” he growled, drawing the enormous club from his side. “Grim Jack in the flesh.” A quiet ripple of shock worked its way through the room at the mention of my name. “I suppose this meeting was inevitable. And I’ve been looking forward to it. I owe you for taking my home. It is time, I think, for you to pay your debt, cao ne ma. Give me the dwarf and perhaps I will consider making your end quick, instead of killing you slowly, a day at a time, for the next hundred years.” 

I pulled my hood away, stowed my khopesh, then drew my warhammer. “It doesn’t need to go this way, Peng. Turn around and crawl back into whatever hole you’ve been hiding in or you’re going to regret it.”

Peng smiled. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word regret, but you will learn.”