After a visit to the Eights' medical supply cache in the main camp, Harding now sported a fully restocked medical kit. He had even added a few new things like a new orange-labeled tin of burn ointment and a baby blue vial of antivenom. Oddly, it was marked with a black line across the top, but he had no idea what that meant. While fully supplied, he was still untrained.
He took the portal down to the raid and wandered. He didn't have the official count, but it seemed like most of the people were up and moving about. The raid attitude seemed positive and energetic as well. There were no longer casualties being treated and the floor had mostly been cleared of debris. Many raiders sat on or around the empty crate piles. People are social animals, even at rest. Perhaps, especially so. He didn't see Jarred and was hesitant to just walk up to Aleister and Vestok without his benefactor. He was still an imposter after all, there only by social connection.
Fortunately, he spotted the eminently approachable Osmundus Jones.
Harding happily sauntered over, smiling at the blade who was perched on some boxes to crowd watch. With a wave, "Jones. How are you doing?"
"Not a complaint. Looks like you're helping out," the blade commented with a hand motion towards Harding's healer gear.
"Trying to at least." Harding lamented, "It really sucks not being useful. All this stuff is way out of my league."
"You tried attacking with spirit?"
"Sure. Doesn't do anything though except against slivers."
"Eh," Jones grunted noncommittally, "Maybe. But I would think it should. All of magic is just modified spirit after all."
Harding shrugged, "Those seeds and where they come from seem pretty important."
"And yet they still require spirit. If the seeds come from the gods, then where does spirit energy actually come from," asked Jones.
"They haven't taught us yet," responded Harding absently before the question began to burrow into his mind. The easy answer was that it existed as part of the world, but that was a lazy explanation.
What feeds the ambient energies?
"Maybe they don't really know," Jones postulated. His attention snapped to someone in the background and he raised an index finger to signal his request.
"Anyways," he added, hopping off his box, "you need anything before we advance?"
Harding deadpanned, "Couple of godseeds and three years of combat training."
Jones laughed, patted him on his shoulder knowingly, and jogged off to whomever it was that was waiting for him.
"Oh hey, didn't realize you'd be here on a guild event," said a familiar voice behind him. Harding turned to face a huge chest, bare and muscled. Looking up he found the familiar face of Howie the Bouncer.
"Hiya Howie," grinned Harding. "They let you out? I thought those poor duelists would be in danger without you."
"They'll manage. Besides, we all need actual experience. And gear. Security is just my contribution to the guild effort."
Harding took a step back and looked him over. Howie stood there with very basic plate greaves over leather pants, an oversized thick leather belt and heavy boots. He was, however, shirtless.
"So," Harding commented in humor at the giant, "You're an evasion tank?"
"What? Oh. Heh, no. Damned Breastplate is like wearing a plastic bag." He absently scratched his side, "Saved up a bunch for custom work and then come down here where the twenty foot tall mechinels don't give a fuck what you're wearing."
"Mechinel?"
"Mech plus Sentinel."
"Please tell me that's what we are calling those."
"Nah," sighed Howie. "They are mostly calling them Juggernauts."
Harding suggested, "Jägernauts?"
"Thank you! We can't let these bland naming conventions stand."
They shared a chuckle and a moment of quiet camaraderie, though through the laughter Howie held a hint of seriousness in his face. Harding didn't press.
Howie pulled a pouch from his belt and sat on a barrel. Opening up the draw strings and stretching the bag's mouth wide he exposed the top of a rectangular loaf wrapped in oiled paper. Howie proffered a selection to Harding. Harding leaned in and peered at the end to see that it was a pre-sliced slab of baked food loaf. They were very similar looking to the candy bar-like food he had seen the Eights eating earlier. He took hold of the top and peeled it away. It was slightly sticky and had some give to it while remaining firm.
"What is this," he asked before taking a bite.
"Howie Bar. Standard guild recipe is nuts, dates, coffee beans, honey, and a mix of herbs. Essentially a baking plus herbalism superfood," Howie clarified as he pulled one off for himself. "I make my own version though as a loaf instead, then add in some mint, orange peel, whey, and a few non-standard herbs."
Harding chewed the bar. It was firmer at the edges, gritty and had an earthy flavor. It wasn't bad tasting and had a subdued fruity sweetness and aftertaste. If it gave some kind of stat bonuses as well then it was amazing. He did wonder though what exactly non-standard herbs meant.
They chewed their bars as they watched the crowd. Howie offhandedly observed, "We haven't found chocolate in this world yet, I bet it's on another continent."
"There are other continents," Harding asked. No one had really ever mentioned it. It was always just the kingdoms and the empire. Vague terms with little explanation. Admittedly, Harding hadn't really tried to learn about either geography or politics.
"Gremuth is one of three starter cities. Being this close to the city means this place is probably a first tier raid. There are raid-like monsters that rarely spawn in the wild. We killed some of those during the beta ourselves. But a whole raid dungeon, no one's done it. This could be a world first."
Harding frowned, "Why didn't anyone do one before?"
"Couple reasons really," Howie explained, looking in his pouch as he contemplated another snack. He pulled off another bar then offered the bag to Harding again. Harding shook his head, more interested in the conversation. Also, the last bar was sitting a little heavy. They weren't unpleasant, just very filling and dense.
"The closest known raid dungeon is another whole kingdom away, behind a regular dungeon, and it's only available when that regular dungeon is open. Next, you might have noticed but you gotta get powers so gearing up the whole group takes time. And with the death mechanics, you can't just grind a raid."
Harding related to that acutely and wondered how he could finally get a seed. But, it was an impolite question.
Howie wiped his fingertips on his pants and continued, "And finally, while some guys came in with actual fighting skills, those skills are for fighting mundane people. Once you have to fight things that are twice my size and have powers, you need a whole other set of techniques and weapons. We actually had to design some weapons just for certain mobs, learn to craft them, build enough, train with them… Killing regular people is way easier."
Harding arched an eyebrow at that. He understood it from the technical comparison but the way Howie said it still sounded crass.
"But people ‘ve started raids before," ventured Harding, "they just didn't clear the whole thing?"
"Oh yeah," Howie waved. "We haven't done anything mentionable until we finish. Even then, it's unlikely we won't keep it a secret for a while so we can farm it."
Harding's brain churned and he made a questioning face, "Dungeons don't just respawn if you clear them though, right? And when they come back, they're often different. Since a… raid dungeon? Whatever this is hasn't been completed, you don't know if it will come back."
"Yep. Gotta get there first though, no point in getting excited about it until we do," the bouncer reasoned.
"Fair."
Howie held out his snack pouch again and Harding grabbed another despite himself. "These are good Howie, you should go into business. Make some new armor money, invent the breathable breastplate."
Howie laughed with a big smile. "Thanks. I could use the money, but the guild manufactures the standard bars and issues them as supplemental nutrition for events. Mine are just for friends and barter."
"Barter?"
"Every guild event, but especially raids, turn into a giant craft fair to kill the copious down time."
"Can't they just sped up healing somehow," tested Harding. It seemed ridiculous to him that people should have to wait so long between fights.
Hardly good game design.
"Eh, I'm sure there are ways. We are nowhere near end game and then there's...”
Howie got lost in thought on that topic and Harding finished his second bar and drank some water. The people in the landing chamber were moving around more, social groups breaking up to start dressing for battle again.
"Hey Howie, how long are we on break for," Harding asked.
"Oh, should be soon. Most of the people are healed. Something about unusual energy density or some such, I don't know," the big man shrugged. "They'll call a ten minute warning, then everyone will scramble to get all their gear tightened."
"Cool." Feeling like he needed to get ready, Harding stretched and made ready to move on, "Thanks for the bars. I'll catch you around."
"See that crate over there, the one marked with the HC and tilted crown logo," he directed, pointing at a wooden crate sitting on a stack of boxes. "That's my supplies. Go ahead and grab a pouch. I always pack plenty extra. Keep your head down and your eyes up and we'll go drinking at the end."
"Thanks again, I'll definitely grab one," Harding enthused and waved in parting. He stopped by Howie's crate and lifted the lid. It was full of pouches. He glanced down, the two crates below it were also marked HC-crown.
"Damn. He's already running a full bakery," Harding marveled to no one and grabbed a pouch.
Having stored the pouch in the back pocket of his medic bag and set out in search of familiar faces. If the fighting was to start again soon, he still needed to ascertain his upcoming role.
He wandered through the crowd. He passed several clusters of house blades and even Vestok and Bitterman who were engaged in lively discussion with Aleister and Agnes. He didn't stop there though, while they would end up with the Garnets he didn't feel he belonged in that circle without Jarred.
As he continued searching he came across the medic that had instructed him earlier.
The man stood at a cluster of barrels drinking. The barrels had an up arrow with a teardrop logo beside it seared into the wood. Harding stopped and offered, "Hey, just wanted to say thank you again for the help,"
"Oh yeah, no problem. Not really used to non-guild people around, so sorry if I was a bit curt."
He introduced himself, "Harding Hill."
"Albert Kirk," responded the medic, taking another gulp of what appeared to be dirty water or cold tea out of his mug.
Harding fished out the Howie pouch, opened it, and offered the opening to Albert.
"Those Howie's?"
"Yeah, Howie gave me a pouch. Take a couple."
"Thanks," exclaimed Albert. His enthusiasm being the first show of something other than stress from him.
"What's that you're drinking," Harding inquired, though Albert already had a bar in his mouth.
"Mmrf," he intoned around the mouthful and took a gulp to wash down his bite. "Enriched water, basically just distilled water refortified with minerals, salts, etc. Little bit of flavor. Honestly, it tastes like tepid lemonade. Unless you get someone's custom brew, then who knows."
"Wow," Harding marveled. "You guys really are industrious."
"Ha. Yeah. Guild rule," he explained. "Everyone learns and does something that supports the guild's function beyond your fighting skills. Most of us have been together for multiple games so everyone just does their thing and we adjust as needed. We already had people who find places, leverage funds, set up workshops and that kind of thing. Samson, our second tank? He is one of the accountants."
"Cool. What do you do?"
"I make the medic bags and vial bandoliers you're wearing. Some other little bits too out of canvas and leather, mostly pouches and organizers."
"TEN MINUTES," boomed a voice.
"They're playing our song," Albert quipped before finishing his second bar.
"So, ah, what should I do during the fight? Just run around and heal people or…" Harding inquired. The constant search for functional meaning was wearing on him but he needed an answer. He needed something to apply himself to other than the more academic exploration of spirit.
"Eh. You're not guild, don't sweat it. We always got a few medics in back, the rest of us fight and then just switch gears afterwards. Do whatever your normal task is with your faction and help when it seems more important."
My normal task…
"Good luck, see you around," Harding told him and headed off to let him get ready. As he walked through the back of the crowd, he saw the duke with both offspring stroll out of the portal. There was some heavy scoring in his armor along the right side of his chest and arm, but he seemed recovered and alert. Harding altered his travel to join them.
The three Garnets strode forward with purpose towards Vestok and Aleister. "They just called the ten minute warning until they move out," Harding told Jarred as he joined the group. Jasika suppressed a scowl and focused ahead.
"Thanks, Harding," replied Jarred without looking over. He seemed focused on something else, though with the fight looming most were.
"Do you know what you want me to do during the next fight," Harding asked quietly. He felt conscious of his insistent asking and not just his persistent failure to be of any real use.
"No clue," sighed Jarred. "I guess just stay with us and be ready to drop back if it gets crazy."
Harding followed the group as they joined the raid leadership. Aliester and Agnes waited for them along with Bitterman. Harding noted that Aliester's equipment looked pristine while Agnes’ looked battered. It was all the more striking to him because Aliester looked even more exhausted than usual while Agnes was bright-eyed and rocking from foot to foot with nervous energy. The two were talking things out, but both glanced at the duke as he approached. The duke in turn was careful to not interrupt their last minute planning.
Harding watched Jarred watch his father. It was clear that Jarred looked up to his father and was actively learning to emulate him. When a lull in the leadership debate occurred the duke asked, "I was not here at the end, did the bodies of the dead get handled properly?"
"Yes, your Grace," informed Bitterman, though she hesitated slightly at the start. Harding tried to not arch an eyebrow at the way she had said it.
The duke just nodded. "Bitterman, are we still in your team?"
"Our team is the same."
"Excellent, I look forward to the next victory."
Harding eyed Bitterman, unsure of what was going on. She seemed off but no one was saying anything. He wasn't going to figure it out though. Instead, he climbed onto a crate and from the precariously perch he surveyed the chamber.
It was as wide as the upper yard, but not even half as long. With the gate to the elevator at the back, the front had twin exits. While both sported the same look as the other spirit barrier portcullises, they were open. The other ends of the yard had inset ornamental Corinthian-style columns where the upper yard had ramparts. They were the first real attempt at ornamentation Harding had seen in the domain. Someone had moved the portal from the lift tunnel to the side of the tunnel entrance. Besides it was an odd plaque on the wall, but Harding did not investigate it further. The whole place was lit with magic torch stands from the camp above.
The Garnets must have a ton of those.
Orientated, he hopped down from the crate and adjusted his gear. He saw that the Garnets were checking each other's armor and found himself relieved. It was one more thing he didn't have to fumble. When the raid was called to advance, the guilders and blades moved into the right passage in a predetermined order. Once more, Harding didn't have to know anything other than to follow Jarred.
Through the portcullis the way was just narrow enough for three men to stand shoulder to shoulder. The floor descended as a slight ramp which curved to the right as it descended. The ceiling was arched and twenty feet high, making it taller than it was wide.
"This would be a terrible place to be engaged," commented the duke.
Why do people feel compelled to jinx it?
A short distance down the ramp they found a section of recessed building facades. Doors and false columns carved into the otherwise perfectly smooth walls of the ramp. When investigated, the men reported them to be little more than one to two room chambers. Empty, small and simple.
The curve of the ramp changed and started to bow back the other way in the middle of the stretch of side chambers. The place was indeed perfect for an ambush.
Now I'm doing it…
The duke looked to Vostek, "Defensive staging area?"
"Probably, Sir," he agreed, focused on their surroundings. "Notice the gouges along the walls, this area has seen heavy combat."
Informed of Vostek’s observation, Harding could make out irregularly angled lines marring the otherwise clean craftsmanship. The light was poor but the motif of vertical elements in the architecture made the horizontal cuts stand out all the more.
As they continued forward the ramp leveled and straightened until the end bent quickly to the right. From where they stopped, Harding couldn't see through the archway at all.
"Aleister, would you agree that this is as good of a choke point as we will get," asked Vostek.
"Aye. Agnes, send a runner to the porters, I want two cannon, barricades and munitions brought up and staggered to fire on this point."
"Got it,* she acknowledged and she turned to find a messenger. The crowd was a tight press. Everyone had to turn sideways to let a person through, and the length of their procession spanned past the visible distance between curves.
This is really not good…
The downward curve was too long and tight to charge our retreat, and if any one guy fell it would be catastrophic to the mobility of others. Harding didn't know how raid pulling mechanics worked in Life, but no intelligent monster would charge up that ramp. Especially when all those side chambers could be loaded with men and traps.
And, apparently, cannons.
The raid was anything but stealthy. With a small army in armor marching down the narrow stone tunnel anything capable would be aware of them long before they got there. Metal clanked and scraped over the sounds of amassed humanity. And yet, none spoke as if the collective discipline would achieve results.
The attempt at silence was oppressive.
"Sounds ahead, multiple. They're light and metallic," reported a scout to the officer group. Harding strained to hear but detected nothing over the muted din of the crowd. Even ahead of everyone, the scout must have enhanced senses to hear something. The raid stood still but the chance of the group hearing or seeing anything was essentially non-existent.
Habit pushed them to try anyway.
"An intermittent breeze of fresh air ahead," the scout reported.
"Some kind of magic too," said a different voice, "but it's… colorless?"
Harding heard others by him start to sniff as they tried to smell the fresh air. Told something existed they attempted to experience it. They were a column of tense men seeking some clue to the unknown, knowing that in the darkness waited death.
A fart ripped into the silence, somewhere in the back. Laughter ensued. A clue seeking sniffer gagged which caused more laughter.
"Fuck it," sighed the defeated Aleister. "Light it up."
Harding had been impressed with the blades’ flare launcher. The Eights were invested in the same concept, but someone had pushed the alchemical technology further. Hollow bloops coughed ahead as the scouts launched multiple flares. Brilliant light poured into the open archway then dimmed as the flares sped away. They were brighter than the Garnets’ and Harding didn't even have direct vision of them.
The new lights in the chamber ahead peeled back the shadows of the ramp. The column marched quickly forward to push out of their confines. As they exited the ramps mouth they spread out in an arc to protect their retreat. Despite having launched their flares, the wholeness of the chamber was still not revealed. Areas of deep shadow persisted along the walls and ceiling.
This new chamber was of different construction than any other part of the domain. Intermixed with the place's usual cut rock were natural outcroppings. It was as if a natural cavern had existed and they just cut away portions as needed. In the middle stood a large ring of pillars, easily twice Harding's height. The size of the chamber was quite large, more than the upper yard in all dimensions though how much bigger Harding couldn't tell. Along the edges were recessed facades, similar to the ramp’s buildings though larger in scale. A couple of small teams scouted the nearby structures to make sure no nasty surprises awaited them.
Harding stared into the gloom.
He could hear little clicks out in the dark now, rhythmic 'tinks' of metal on rock. It, whatever it was, was coming closer at a relaxed pace. Realizing he was holding his breath, he exhaled and tried to relax.
Whatever is coming will come.
Emerging from the ring in what was presumably the middle of the chamber, was a metallic, spider-like thing. It was maybe shin high, standing on six legs of slender triangular metal plates. In front of it, two smaller arms were folded against itself.
The raid all watched it emerge from the shadow nearly seventy five yards away.
"Ee-epp," it sounded in an alarmed little chirp. It fled, skittering over the floor in its haste. Harding watched, fascinated by how the thing’s legs moved with blinding speed. The construct moved slower though, as it was suffering some slippage from its hurried pace. It was almost cute.
For a second, no one did anything.
"Ee-eep," came a response from the darkness. Three more answered, then untold numbers echoed it from every direction until it became a singular, echoing alarm.
Not cute.
"Hold the tunnel," Aleister shouted. The raid took a defensive posture in a nearly singular motion. The alarm noises continued for a while but no attack came. The alarm calling stopped all at once and Harding could feel the group collectively tense.
Yet still nothing happened.
They stood at the ready, focused on the darkness until they finally gave up. Taking a more relaxed posture, but not spreading out they murmured between each other.
Someone, Harding didn't recognize the voice, muttered, “Life just likes to fuck with your head."
Behind them, from the ramp, creaked wooden wheels as their backup had arrived.
They had brought up two field cannons, short barreled and wheeled. "No way," whispered Harding. He knew they were coming but it was still amazing to see.
The tunnel was too narrow for them to be abreast, so under the supervision of leadership they staggered them where the ramp started to be straight around the direction change. The cannon crews packed charge in both but not the ball. Behind each porters started stacking shot and powder charges.
Troubled, Aliester commented to Agnes, "I don't like that big open area, it feels like a boss. And they let us down that ramp without challenge."
Agnes wrinkled her nose and shrugged, "You know how it is here, everything is unoptimized and actively learning how to be tougher."
They returned to the front of the raid and looked out at the softly lit center. "More lights," grumbled Aliester.
More flares were launched with thumps from the scouts. They lit up the whole room, launching over a dozen flares before ceasing. Harding thought it a bit too much, but also wondered why they hadn't done that to begin with. Having no idea of the cost nor duration of the light sources, he couldn't judge.
The lights going out mid-fight would be bad.
The vast chamber before them was somewhat of an oddity. The central area was roughly circular, though perhaps that was a bit of an illusion created by the ring of pillars. As he had noted before, the walls were a mix of smooth cut rock and natural outcroppings. Harding wondered if it had been several chambers at one point. If it was symmetrical there would be eight entrances, but the outcroppings obscured the view of some. The ceiling was so high the light did not make it visible.
Four of the passage entrances were completely cut and styled. The one the raid stood at was mirrored nearby and Agnes had ordered scouts to confirm that it was in fact the other ramp. And that it was empty. No matter how much they dug in, they could be flanked unless they split their force.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
All the way across the open plaza, the flares had revealed a great building. It retained the Greek architecture styling and held two portcullises on either side of the stairs. The other four potential entrances appeared to be narrow, curving openings spidering off to the sides. Whoever had built this place had cut them back a little, but left them to retain some natural surfaces. While the visible ones seemed to be without gates, what lay beyond remained unseen.
And in the middle of this plaza of pillars was a section that looked as if some grand design cut into the floor. From their angle though, they couldn't make out its mass of complex lines.
Jarred confided to Harding, "I don't like this."
"It does seem like a trap," confirmed Bitterman who had overheard the comment. Like before, the raid had all paused for some kind of response from their expected but unseen adversary. None was forthcoming.
In his conversational voice Aliester requested, "Runild?"
She wasn't around, yet by following Aliester's gaze Harding found the woman flowing through the press of bodies. It didn't look that unusual, but Harding couldn't understand how people just moved out of her way without noticing her. She slid through the press, between their unconscious leans, presenting a predatory grin. "You called," she asked, all teeth.
Aliester flipped two fingers towards the plaza. "Find out what that is and maybe see what you can stir up," he ordered.
Her grin widened and she moved off in a rolling sway. Harding stared as she serpentined, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He opened his spirit senses sure that it had to be a power. But with nearly sixty people all magiced up in anticipation of a fight, it was an opaque wall of noise.
She went out into the middle of the plaza and looked back with a shrug. "Some kind of diagram on the floor," called Runild without care. She spun slowly, her head looking down at the floor. Following the patterns lead her to step this way and then that. "Looks like a complex ritual, it moves but in weird ways."
Harding wasn't sure why but Runild 's pronunciation of weird was off.
"Hmm," muttered Aliester.
Agnes finished a quiet conversation and then informed the group, "All buildings and ramps are empty, side passages are not being checked."
Harding wondered where they got their information. They either had comms outside of Life, which was supposed to not be possible, or some kind of ability within the game. He hadn't seen anyone approach.
"Looks like there's no avoiding it," Aliester sighed wearily. Aleister led the command group towards Runild to investigate. The raid followed, the men spreading out instinctually. They all stood at the edge, only Aliester joined Runild in the circle to work out the meaning of the complex inlay.
"Can you imagine if the whole thing is a trap," chuckled a man behind him.
Another responded, "Whole place is a damned trap if you ask me."
"Yeah, but like instead of hiding it they just put out a big magic trap…"
"And all the idiots stand on it trying to read it?"
"Yeah…"
Harding looked out at the two standing there, whispering to each other. A puzzle would draw the curious and the general members of the Eights' resistance to all run and look was impressive.
What if, indeed…
As Harding watched the two, a sound started seemingly at random. It was an unsteady crackling grinding, like a stone falling down a hillside into the scree. Harding watched the two look at each other in confusion.
Here it comes.
A rapid staccato of stoney clacks filled the air and two raiders near him fell over, one holding their bleeding foot. Out in the ritual Runild moved suddenly and Aliester looked down and shouted, stomping at something with his boot instinctually before stabbing with his sword.
Darkness.
At first, Harding thought all the lights had gone out. Then he realized that there was still light and he could see, but his eyes had to readjust to the sudden gloom. The light that had been illuminating the place was now just a faint glow, strangled by a blanket of magical darkness. There was a hiss in the dark, then a whosh-thud. Then another, then more. The raid started shouting in alarm, almost completely drowning out the new sounds.
"Up," someone yelled.
Another yelled, "Flyers!”
"DROPPERS," thundered Agnes' raid voice.
Harding had no clue what to do, but started to see shadows loom as dark shapes glided overhead through the grimy fuzz of the unnatural darkness.
"Back to back. Withdraw to the tunnel," Bitterman called. The duke's group inverted into an outward looking circle, but were almost immediately set upon.
Harding could see only a couple feet before things got inky. Some shapes in the gloom turned to men, others to monsters. In the chaos, both needed to be defended against until mutually identified.
Two shapes came forward at Harding, emerging as monsters that seemed a miniaturized variation of the mechinel bosses. These were under four feet tall, with the same fluid shape and skin of the Jägernauts, though made from living stone instead of metal. The most striking difference though was a second set of arms.
Instead of wings, they had a pair of upper arms which each grasped short, narrowly tapered spears. In their lower arms they held a saber and a heater. One put a shoulder down, shield forward, and attempted to ram into Harding. Harding sidestepped the charge and thrust his staff into its legs, causing it to trip forward. The impact pulled the staff's end along the floor, turning Harding slightly. The shaft of the near spear smashed Harding in the mouth as the monster fell, cutting his lip against his teeth and making him flinch. His hesitation had no cost though as Jarred quickly brought his sword down on its neck and cleaved through it to the very floor. The monster turned to gravel on death. Harding didn't care what these things were going to be called as his mouth filled with the taste of his blood. To him these were gargoyles.
Harding spat blood.
A clash made him remember the other gargoyle, but as he turned he watched as the duke pulled down its shield with his axe’s beard and slid his sword over the top of it into the thing's throat. The gargoyle didn't seem to care, presumably having no anatomy, and swung the sinister spear sideways just barely missing a direct hit on the duke over his thrust. The duke grunted and ripped his sword sideways out of the throat to no effect.
Harding, taking a quarter grip, brought down his staff on the other side of the neck. The shaft of the staff vibrated hard in his hands causing a numbing sensation in his forearms. The attack appeared to have no effect. Fortunately, the angle of his attack fouled its following spear attack at the duke, momentarily caught up against Harding's staff.
Harding pulled back, braced the back of the staff and thrust it into the side of the gargoyle's head. This time he keyed the staff with his spirit. The impact threw sharp shards of stone as the head came loose and rolled off into the gloom. The gargoyle, no longer animated, crumbled to gravel again. Even when dead, the gargoyles could affect the fight by making the footing unsure.
Harding returned to his positioning, holding his staff at guard and watching. He saw shapes in the darkness, but nothing came towards him. Their defensive circle made an orderly retreat, making slow and steady progress to the tunnel. Occasionally, they would attack a gargoyle that was on another group near them. Everything was orderly.
Until Bitterman screamed.
Harding glanced over to see a short, slim stalagmite buried in Bitterman's shoulder. As Harding gathered the situation, the chunk of rock which looked very much like a slim carrot bent towards him. On the top of it was a single eye, grotesquely human against the smooth living stone of its body.
It blinked at him, then scrunched its eyelid closed and shook itself inside the wound. Bitterman reached up for it as blood started flowing out faster. As she touched it, thorns sprouted, penetrating her gloves. Bitterman staggered and cried out. Bent over a bit, she looked in shock at her torn up, bloody gloves.
Harding stepped up to her, intending to try to pull it out despite the thorns, but she swooned and crashed to her knees. Her arm on that side dangled helplessly. The eye watched him with a blank expression.
Harding, being short on options, tried attacking it with his spirit. It had no effect. He extended his spirit into a spike similar to what he used on the crypt, but twisted into a more condensed lance. He rammed the lance into the monster's eye and pushed harder. He persisted through the resistance which sagged and then gave way. His spirit lance punched through.
Bolstered by the initial success, Harding thrust down deeper still. The thing started to spasm and attempted to burrow deeper into Bitterman, but he pressed harder through the knot of spirit density and broke free into a pocket within its spirit. The sudden void made him hesitate. It felt familiar.
A gate.
He flooded through its energy channel to fill in the gate with his spirit. Despite being foreign and monstrous, the thing was operating on principles he could understand. He could grasp the mechanics and manipulate it. Harding could feel the root excreting its own spirit into Bitterman, invading and poisoning her as it fled him.
He just kept pushing, right through the bottom of the gate. Bitterman's agony drove him forward through his uncertainty and through to the next gate.
Or, at least, what he thought was a gate as it was solid within. It was filled with fibrous structures, like a knot of roots. While pushing through it Harding was vaguely aware that he was drenched in sweat. His energy was almost empty.
BREATHE.
He tried to breath but his consciousness was fully within his spirit, somehow deeper in than any meditation he had experienced. There on a battlefield, he'd lost control of his body and hovered entirely within the spirit. He knew he was going to fail to save Bitterman because he didn't have enough energy.
BREATHE.
He felt like he was suffocating. While he could pull out, he would not accept quitting. He would have to trust his autonomic system. If he passed out he'd probably be fine. He hoped. The spirit didn't need to breathe, it-
Oh.
Harding pulled in spirit from the saturated internal environment he was buried in. He fed on the monster's energy, sucking it down greedily. It wasn't pure but now was not the time to be timid. He was gulping the spirit equivalent of dirty water and in his thirst he didn't care.
He pulled deeply.
He slid his mind back to the gate and wrapped his spirit around the non-spirit energy, finding it anchored in place by what he imagined as calcified spirit. He scooped it out, cutting with a hardened edge of his spirit through the fiber structures. Once completely detached it dematerialized into more spirit. He ate that too.
The monster went still.
Pressing on the cavity of the now open gate did nothing other than cause Bitterman to puke all over his feet. Quickly he pulled up to the top gate and contracted the spirit. He felt the thorns retract.
Success.
Harding pushed to the roots gate and tried to control the gate. He pulled on the gate but the root didn't react. He pushed and broke into a new flavor of spirit. It was different, less alien, though still with that subtle alien taint. He sucked harder, feeling energized by it. Bitterman groaned and swayed.
Shit, that's Bitterman.
Harding was consuming Bitterman's spirit through the monster like using a straw to suck a drink from a cup. He immediately stopped, but was unsure what to do.
With little options left he could think of, since he seemed limited to push/pull and up/down, he thrust all the way down and through the gate. He wasn't subtle or cautious, he blew through it and was met by an immense pressure of foreign spirit so strong it overwhelmed Harding and he collapsed into darkness.
Harding woke again immediately, sick to his stomach and dizzy. He thought it was a good thing he was sitting as he was pretty sure he couldn't stand. A gargoyle stepped out of the dark towards him, but the duke just passed through it with two flowing attacks. Harding had a difficult time processing what had happened. The duke had moved like magic, sliding along it and ending it before it could react. It was mesmerizing.
Harding realized he was moving which was made clearer when a sharp piece of gravel jammed into his ass cheek as he was dragged over it. He was moving backwards, but he wasn't moving himself.
As he watched his party become distant, he saw that Jasika had his healing supplies and was pouring vials into Bitterman's wound as she pulled the monster out. It looked like a tuber to Harding. A stone parsnip of evil. The root of all evil.
Yes, they were Roots.
His head lulled back and he looked up to see Jarred, laboring heavily to pull him backwards to safety. "Thanks Jarred," he attempted. He wasn't sure it came out right since Jarred only seemed more concerned about him afterwards. Maybe he hadn't understood, as Jarred was preoccupied with dragging him. All Harding could see forward though was legs, butts and blood.
Jarred didn't give up. Up the ramp, past the cannons and into a side chamber. Jarred nearly fell backwards to get him through the door to the first side room where he collapsed next to him, sucking in air hard.
Harding laid backwards, in a barely controlled fall and stared up at the dark ceiling. His head throbbed, his vision narrow and all his efforts were focused on breathing without vomiting.
"Shit," gasped Jarred. "You're heavier than you look."
"You too man," Harding responded. It didn't make sense, it was just what had come out.
Jarred kept quiet, breathing slow and deep, hard enough that it was the only thing Harding heard besides his own pounding heart. His head felt like it was about to pop. A sensation that matched the feelings in his stomach.
"What happened to you," asked Jarred.
"I don't know," admitted Harding between breaths. "I think I vampired Bitterman. She tasted like hot sand. Don't tell her. Then I think I tried to vamp Life."
"What," said a clearly concerned Jarred.
"Don't taste Life."
"You really are messed up, I'm going to go find a medic."
"I'll be ok. But I'm serious, don't taste Life. It's like putting your face over a geyser and opening your mouth. It isn't going to end well."
"I don't understand you," complained an equally confused Jarred.
"Just give me a second to sort it out, ok? It was like… having the whole universe shoved down your throat in a fraction of a second."
"Ok."
"Rip your jaw off force."
"That doesn't sound-”
"I got curbied by the universe."
"You're saying nonsense again, I'm not sure I should leave you."
"I'm fine, Jarred. I'm just going to sit here in this quiet dark until the nau-”
Footsteps charged up the ramp and men stormed into the room across from them. He could hear several men talking loudly, while another was screaming in agony.
"Quieter," corrected Harding.
The distant sounds of fighting were suddenly broken by Agnes' reverberating raid voice, "RETREAT!"
A mass of footsteps pounded in approach, the weird sound of steel striking rock coming closer.
A voice yelled in the hall, "Load shot!”
"Nevermind," muttered Harding.
Jarred got up and started to make sure his gear was snug when men entered, dragging a wounded woman. She'd passed out clutching a Root of All Evil in her thigh. Harding realized it was Runild.
"Jarred, when you can, please get my medic bag from your sister."
The world was surreal and swaying. Harding swam through the sensation.
"Where's the medics," the man demanded angrily.
"I don't know, I'm going to go find someone," exclaimed Jarred. "But please make sure he doesn't pass out, he took a hard blow to the head."
Who, me?
Jarred ran out against the retreat to find help.
Help never comes.
Harding got up on all fours, groaned, then crawled towards the men who were ignoring him and arguing about what to do about the barbed invader in Runild's inner thigh.
As Harding got closer, he could see the root's eye moving around watching the men. He crawled up, getting no more than a glance from them as they debated if it was better to leave the root in since it wasn't moving.
"Gonna get you, you little bastard," whispered Harding.
He reached over before the men could react and poked the root in the eye with his finger. What they couldn't see was that Harding had extended his spirit body from his finger and turned it into that twisted lance.
It was a bit easier this time. Down to the fiberous energy gate, cut and bump. Up once, retract the thorns, down two from there suck a bit of the poison out. Pull out and it was ready to come out. It only took him five seconds this time.
Harding looked up at them grinning with pride, "You got a medic kit?"
"No, we aren't medics," replied one.
Harding nearly giggled, "Go get me one, this Rock Carrot is ripe."
Uh, why do I feel this way?
The man ran for the door as the noise outside increased. Harding could hear him yelling for a medic in the hall.
"How'd you do that," asked the remaining man as he examined the inert Root.
"Magic," he whispered mysteriously. His head swam in euphoria, nausea and vertigo. With a half-grin he threw up a little on himself.
Harding Hill, regal as hell.
It was mere moments before the man returned with a full medic kit. He regarded the mess that was Harding and shared a look with his partner. With the noise of the retreat outside thundering up the ramp, he knelt beside Runild.
The returning Eight pulled out a red and green vial, holding them in sequential fingers to unscrew the tops . "Grab a bunch of bandages," he instructed his friend. He addressed Harding, "Can you pull it out?"
Harding nodded. He was sure he probably could, but he didn't reveal his uncertainty. Instead, at their lack of coordination, he grabbed the top of it and pulled it straight out. With it came up blood pouring out. He took a little comfort that it wasn't spurting. The man with bandages soaked away the initial swell, then pulled away for the potions to be poured in. He pressed the bandages firmly back in place.
Potion man ditched the two empty vials and reloaded. Harding dug out fresh bandages. They repeated the process, this time with Harding applying pressure. The wound had looked terrible between applications of pressure. As he held the bandages in place he asked, "How do we close this up?"
The question was interrupted as more people entered the room, bringing in wounded despite being wounded themselves. Harding warned them, "Watch out for the devil rock."
"What," responded a familiar voice.
Harding focused on him and noticed it was Albert Kirk. "Oh hey, Albert." Harding paused, feeling like his eyeballs were going to pop out from the ongoing pressure in his head. "One of those evil stone-spiked things is in that corner. It should be dead?"
He had no idea what actually constituted death for a living rock.
Another man found it and stomped on it with his foot. It crumbled to gravel, he didn't even need a weapon. "Good job, Albert," said Albert.
"Huh," responded Harding.
"His name is Albert too, he's my bodyguard."
The bodyguard acknowledged him and added, "You can call him Al."
Harding stared. It was too surreal.
"How'd you guys get that thing out," asked Al.
"We didn't, this monk did. He's a bit buggy, but he can pull them out like nothing."
"I'm not an NPC," he protested. Potion man just shrugged.
Albert looked at Harding, nodded, took a step and staggered, then limped to the door and yelled, "We can remove the tail spikes in here!”
Albert became the gatekeeper, showing Doomsicle patients and their supporters where to go. The otherwise injured people were directed to one of the other doors.
Harding started removing the monsters.
Potion man crushed them and helped. The other guy he didn't know helped Al triage the wounds. Harding tried to not think, he tried not to feel his devouring sickness, he just did the removal maneuver on command. Over and over, hovering just above exhaustion and keeping his focus off of himself.
The fighting in the tunnel got louder and then the raid voice rang off the walls, "CANNON, CANNON, CANNON!"
A couple seconds later, light flashed and a deep boom rushed through the room like a shockwave. Harding's ears hurt. They were dead for a moment, just like everything in front of those cannons. Then the ringing started.
The second cannon fired and he felt it even more in his chest.
"PUSH," commanded the voice. He didn't have time to ponder why he could hear that. He was sure couldn't stand, he barely could see, but he kept going. Sucking down the ambient and treating victim after victim that were dragged in front of him. He didn't count. The polluted spirit accumulating in him felt a feverish grime coating his soul.
The worst was a young man, a Terror Tater sunk real deep in his chest.
"He's dead," Harding said.
"No, he's moving," his friend said, covered in the patient's blood.
"It's the Psychopotato in him, eating his spirit and triggering reactions."
"If he's dead, why's his spirit still there?"
"Oh shit," Harding realized out loud, "They pin the spirit to the body to be consumed."
After that, he wouldn't stop. Alive or dead, they all had to come out and be destroyed. Harding's own spirit was getting gritty, lumps of alien floating in his spirit batter. Unsure how to resolve it, Harding started pushing his energy through the seedcrypt. It seemed to strain the foreign filth, leaving it in the contained voidseed. It took a bit to cycle the energy through it, like some spirit energy was being trapped in the crypt, but the area was so energy rich and he was, indifferently, feeding a little in other people's spirit as well.
Harding Hill, Energy Vampire.
By the end, existence was agony. Even the moments in-between felt like he was dying. He almost welcomed it and perhaps would have, but the victims had their spirits trapped to their bodies. And their souls were still chained to their spirits so the players were locked inside their own dead bodies as they were dissolved and consumed.
The only other positive was Jarred returning with his medic bag. Harding immediately consumed a half dozen of Howie's raid bars.
"Ugh," he moaned.
"What is it," asked Albert from the door.
"Gotta go out. We have to get those out of the dead. They're minds are trapped in their dead bodies while those things consume their spirits. Those things are Soul Anchors."
He was just making up terms at this point, but what did it matter? No one else knew any different.
Harding managed, supported by Al and Albert, to plod down the hallway from hell. The ground was several inches of gravel. The raid survivors had pushed back out into the open, looking for more enemies but the preternatural gloom was gone.
Dead or alive, Harding and company visited each victim of the Spirit Spikes. They found four dead but still aware, which Harding released from their torment. Surprisingly, they were able to save a House Garnet blade who had passed out, but was not yet dead.
Perhaps there is a way to resist the feeding?
Harding looked back at the tunnel, then at one of the nearby entrances. "Put me in the dark and forget me forever," he told Al.
Albert smiled at him, a genuinely compassionate look. They all but carried Harding to a dark chamber. One of the bigger chambers off the plaza.
"Here, drink all this, then rest," said Al.
Harding took a gulp and nearly spit it out. "Is that, uh, the Up drink?"
He was aware he was drooling it a bit, even his lip was quivering and numb.
"Kinda, I used it as the base, the rest is medicine for your head. Drink it all, you need it."
Dutifully, Harding downed it, then looked at his bag. "One more bar," he told them and immediately pulled out two. He ate one in one bite, chewing as if it was mortal combat and not just some extra calories.
"You guys are awesome," he said sleepily. "I couldn't have done that without you." He ate half of the next bar, slowing down. "If I don't wake up, you can have my bars… what did you give me Al?"
Harding blinked, looked up and braced himself with his hand as he laid out on the cold stone and passed out.
Harding woke later from a dreamless sleep to a headache, but it was merely all-present and oppressive, nowhere near the cognitive obliteration it had been before. His head was resting on a bed roll and a blanket was over him.
I don't remember that.
There was a dim, alchemical glow in the room and he saw that his medic bag had been refilled. Next to it sat two full bags of Howie bars and two wineskins of something. For the first time in a long time, Harding felt taken care of.
I can't remember when that happened last in real life. Bless those Eights.
He laid there for a while, just listening to the sounds in the plaza outside. It sounded like the normal raid camp, though quieter or perhaps more distant, and he felt no rush to move. He started to think about the people he'd met, both the players from the guild and the NPCs from House Garnet. It was eerie how he had become somewhat emotionally invested in characters who weren't human.
Then again, we often treat humans as characters in our lives. It shouldn't be that way, but maybe everything is just a character to my own narrative?
Harding sighed a long exhale through slightly parted lips. He sat up slowly, expecting his head to swim. It complained, but not nearly as bad as he was expecting. He ate yet another Howie bar and drank some of the water left him, before stowing everything away. His bag bulged and he had to strap the skins crosswise. The bed roll and blanket he carried under his arms.
Harding realized he'd brought an actual bag to the raid. Somewhere up there was a change of clothes and a few other things. He hadn't seen his stuff since dropping it off in the Upper Hall.
The freedom of non-existent material wealth.
Soft light glowed in the frame of the door. Through it a makeshift camp was visible, the same lamps having migrated down to provide illumination. It was clearly a rest time, but only a few groups stood around. There were none of the tents of the upper camp, but a lot of the people were just laying on pads or sitting clustered around light sources softly talking. To one edge was a large berm of gravel, the remnants of the gargoyles had been swept out of the way. No doubt the army of porters had proved useful once more.
He turned and plodded up the ramp and through the portal to the camp above.
He threaded his way into the command area of House Garnet, but hesitated to go in. They were probably sleeping and he was neither family nor a high up servant. Jasika, despite her attitude, was right about that. He thought of Jarred as a friend, but it wasn't his family, his place or his job. How long would it be before he moved on?
"They're asleep," said a voice from behind him. He turned to see a man sitting in the shadows. He recognized the face, the mustache of the blade with the ceramic stick trick, but couldn't remember if he had ever been given a name.
Conversations are so much harder when their name isn't floating above their head.
"Is everyone ok," Harding asked, "that fight was… unpleasant." Unpleasant wasn't really how Harding would want to describe it, but he wasn't really sure what the proper term was for that hell and he had barely been in it.
"The House is ok, some wounds but they'll heal," the guard shared.
"I'm embarrassed to admit, I don't remember your name," Harding offered. He didn't want to be impersonal while asking after the well-being of others.
"William Payne. It's understandable, I couldn't tell you the names of most of these guilders. In fact, most of us are unsure what to call you."
"What, why? I'm just Harding," he said.
"You're a monk, but not. You act as the sometimes squire, instructor and friend of Master Jarred and yet you're not a noble, a member of the House staff, or any other defined role. There's just not any rules that tell us how to address a, ah, required guest of unknown status who stays on as an unofficial retainer but lacks an official function."
Harding gave an exhausted chuckle. It amused him that It wasn't just him trying to figure out his life. "That's… understandable. Unless a Garnet says otherwise, I'm just Harding."
Payne nodded.
"How's Bitterman? I was working on her when I blacked out."
"Tart's Tart. She kept fighting, one arm dangling. Until the retreat at least, then she got a sword in the leg. She's recovering now, but I think it will be a long while before she's functional."
"And Vestok?"
"Our Knight-Commander is a hero. He held with the rear guard as the wounded retreated. It seemed to be a noble sacrifice, but the rear guard made it back, bloody and running as if Vyx's own Creeper's were trying to crawl up their nethers. Wasn't a spot on him that wasn't cut up and yet he wanted to lead the charge after those cannons fired."
Payne shook his head in amazement, momentarily reliving it. "Then he took a spike to the chest and dropped."
Harding's breath caught, "He died?"
He waved away the concern, "Nah, you removed it. And then their medics went to work on him."
"I don't remember doing that. I don't really remember much of anything really."
"Welcome to the life. You'll probably remember more later and regret it."
Harding felt odd standing over Payne, so he sat. He pulled out a bag or Howie's. "Had one of these yet?"
"Nah. Seen those Guilders eating them though."
Harding proffered the open bag, "Try one, these are a special version."
Payne took one and bit the corner off as if he expected it to be hard, biting straight through its dense softness. He chewed once, then paused, then chewed to swallow. "These are amazing, those guys got so much stuff. If we could get outfitted with all that stuff- medics, cannons, special food. Well, …"
Payne didn't finish.
"I miss real food,* Harding mourned. "Feels like we have been down here a day."
"It's dark outside, you didn't get supper?"
"There was supper? I was asleep in one of the side buildings, got drugged by a medic."
"There might still be food, I couldn't tell you, was a couple hours ago. Here though, try this…"
Payne rustled through this pack and pulled out a rough linen bag. Opening it he proffered it to Harding, showing chips of a dried meat.
"Beef jerky," Harding exclaimed quietly, mindful of the sleepers. He grabbed a piece and put it in his mouth, working a chunk off.
"Pork jerky," Payne corrected.
"This is pretty goo-", Harding stopped as the heat rapidly built. His mouth felt like the flesh was being melted off. "Hot," he said in pained eloquence.
"Yeah, spices are expensive. We are issued salted jerky as part of campaign rations. The duke gave the House guard a small farm plot to grow our own stuff, cooperatively and all that. But most of the plot is just peppers."
Harding was only half paying attention, consciously trying to not rub his eyes. He grabbed some Up and tried to drown the burning, but it didn't phase the irritating oil.
Payne continued, "That's from the new hybrid, we are calling it Kasagosian Creep."
"Uh huh."
"Mixed some Eastrun Chili with Auterian Green. This is the trial run for the mix. We were thinking of calling it 'Burn Ward'," Payne told him.
Harding sat with his mouth open, breathing in and out through it, while his sinuses drained down the back of his throat.
Who codes this into a game?
"Good name," he breathed.
"Too spicy for you huh? I guess, you weren't born in the Eastrun."
"This is gonna burn through me until I have a southern run…"
Payne laughed with a toothy good natured smile. Harding couldn't help it, he laughed too. Payne put a finger to his lips, to signal to be quiet while he fought to not lose control himself. Harding covered his mouth, snickering and then realized his error, his lips started burning seconds later.
It hurt, but he quietly kept laughing.
Harding learned the value of camaraderie, even with an unknown soldier. He also learned the relief of stress through a shared experience, including food. Even if he was sure that food was going to kill him.
Harding handed over his skin of Eight-Up and told Payne, "This is what the Eights drink before fights."
Payne took a sip, then a longer draw and handed it back. "Damn. Guard needs to start brewing more than just mead. That stuff has a bit of pep."
"How much of that jerky you got on you," asked Harding.
"Burn Ward or just plain?"
"Definitely the Burn Ward."
"This one and another in my bag, plus some extra seasoning. Why?"
"Give you that skin and a fresh bag of bars for those two bags of jerky."
"Deal."
They exchanged bags, this time bonding over friendly commerce.
"I could get two bags of jerky for these bars alone," Payne commented.
"Doesn't matter, when I'm done those Eights are gonna have the screaming shits tomorrow," Harding grinned mischievously. He was already scheming.
"You know, you'll alright Harding."
"You too, William," agreed Harding.
Tilting the bag a little, he declared, "Gotta go spread the love. If Jarred looks for me, I'm busy doing cultural exchange."
William shook his head. Harding got up and set off to make new friends.