Part of Augusta Cowen’s soul cringed as windows and doors shattered under the assault of her fellow Professionals, spilling into the antechambers. The Chateau looked very much the part of a royal palace, and those places deserved respect.
Then, again, it was the heart of the Dominion of France, the abode of the Tyrant, built upon spilt royal blood. He might not have pulled the lever that cut the King’s head, but Napoleon was the endpoint of the French Revolution.
Still, it pained her to do this.
“You have your orders. Now, start sweeping. Most of the high-tiers will be in the side areas and probably upstairs unless we’ve interrupted some meeting.”
Most of the British acknowledged the command, as Millard added.
“If you find yourself against a large team, don’t hesitate to retreat. The idea is that we make them die for their Dominion, not that you do. If you get knocked out, you can’t help anymore. Regroup and then go back at it.”
The Imposing Knight turned to the second team and their mender lead acknowledged silently. The two teams started running toward the right side along the small hall. Their target was the upper floor, and their stairs were that way.
The first room they crashed into was deserted, but when she ran into the next one, she spotted a handful of fleeing people. None of them registered as Professionals based on her Gauge Enemy, so she didn’t signal for an attack from Myrl Douglas on the retreating figures.
Pursue them, however, she did. They were running the way her objectives lay. As she crossed into other rooms, she peeked to the side. An inner courtyard offered a view of more rooms inside the castle, but she spotted little movement through the windows.
“Nobody expects the British Expedition,” Habborlain said just behind her.
“The surprise is complete,” one of the other team replied.
Yet another team, with a different objective, snorted further behind.
They crashed into a small reading room. Library cabinets lined the walls, and a pair of Professionals entered at the same time she and the rest arrived.
Cédric Ballouhey
Level: 551
…
A low-to-mid tier-five Professional. His companion was around the same level. This was a part when she regretted not having the fifth rank of Gauge Enemy or further, to get the vitals or Profession for the build, but that did not matter right now.
The leftmost Professional – one Alceste Bachelot, her skill informed her – launched a Firefall around her, but the four teams that had burst into the room simply ignored that area of effect. Myrl Douglas merely launched her Flame Bolts along with another caster, and Aubert, Foale, and the rest of the British fighters rushed along with Cowen to the two hapless French. They valiantly tried to support each other but fell extremely quickly to superior numbers and levels.
Jack Millard peeked into the Marble Court. It was mostly deserted. A handful of people were visible, walking toward the Chateau.
“They haven’t figured out we’re there,” the Inevitable Bulwark of his team noted.
“No. But I don’t see the skyships.”
“We’re possibly early. Those things can’t be scheduled down to an hour,” someone replied.
“No matter. Our intelligence suggests that the Tyrant must live somewhere in the King’s Apartments upstairs. If he doesn’t suspect he’s under attack, he’ll know it soon.”
All around him nodded in acknowledgement, as the teams rushed toward the stairs of the leftmost section.
Cowen and the teams had split upon reaching the stairs. Two of the teams had pressed further along the ground floor; their objective being to make sure none of the lower floors hid large teams ready to counterattack. Meanwhile, the ten Professionals were the vanguard upstairs, before a handful of others were to arrive to reinforce them against whatever surprises this floor would have.
So far, no serious problems. All individual team leaders continuously monitored the global team list, to take notice if someone took a beating. The status wouldn’t update as fast unless you were nearby, but if they spotted some people in serious trouble, and within range, that was a good way to regroup.
That was also the first point where she had to make a decision. What to sweep first. The southern wings, or the front castle facing the gardens. Although the other team was slightly higher than hers, the mender turned to her, interrogative. Cowen’s membership in the British Scouts counted a bit more than mere levels in this.
“We need to press on and fast, keep them busy. Split?”
“We take the wing. You sweep the centre, and regroup with the rest at the end?” the other leader asked back.
“Remember Millard’s instructions,” she insisted as the team turned to move into the depths of the Chateau.
Cowen’s own followed her as she traced their path on this upper floor. She stumbled upon a small room with a large table filled with painted lines and names.
“Is that a map of the French Labyrinth?” Aubert asked.
“Looks like. Probably not a full one, though. Doesn’t look like there’s enough listed,” Douglas commented.
“Knowledge cannot be stolen.”
Cowen threw a look at the cowled figure of their Physics, before internally acknowledging the fact that the table was probably a bit too heavy to lift and carry. Hopefully, they’d get time to take notes later.
Cowen and her team crashed the doors and entered a long, richly decorated hall. To one side, there were huge windows, letting lots of light enter the place. To the other, mirrored fake windows reflected that light, making it seem as if the long hall was illuminated on both sides. The only time she’d seen such a rich parquet, or over-decorated ceilings was twenty years ago, at the Royal Palace, back when they were the first, and the Royal Company didn’t even exist yet.
Two people were walking in the middle of the hall, their back turned to the intruders. As the sound of the slammed doors resonated, they startled.
The figure who turned toward her was far too familiar.
Jacques Deschanel
Level: 1089
…
“Well, well. Jacques Deschanel.”
The Frenchman smiled.
“I think I heard zat one before,” he said. “Zis time, I am surprized you come to visit poor myself.”
“We couldn’t let the occasion pass,” she answered.
“I assume you bring more guests. I do not think you will let me notify Napoleon of your coming?”
“No, I think not.”
The other Professional moved to the side, flanking the Tyrant’s henchman. His individual descriptor revealed around 450 levels, very early tier five but more probably late-stage four. Barely dangerous, and certainly not to the level of the powerhouse she faced. The man had “only” gained over 40 levels since that encounter in London, which meant he had yet to switch Professions building toward whatever tier eight he would be aiming.
Back when he was imprisoned in the Tower of London, experts had used high-rank Gauge Enemy to decipher his status and had been baffled by the mix of Milestones. It seemed as if the man switched builds every tier or something similar, although there was a method to his picks, as he didn’t show too large a Professional burden compared to a more classic build. But he sported a large set of bonuses and wide skills in combat, spell, utility…
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Deschanel’s clothing flickered, and Cowen blinked at his new appearance. Gaudy… was a term she would use.
Gaudy and extremely dangerous.
His hair seemed as if on fire, a billowing mass of glowing yellows above a slowly rotating set of glowing runic-looking symbols surrounding the top of his head. A large robe of pure blackness, with brief flashes of lightning seen in its depths, interrupted by a clashing bright red sash sporting a lion’s head silver buckle with coloured blue and green gemstones as its eyes. His hands were shrunk as if the grey cloth was covering only bones rather than flesh and muscle. In both, he held two completely identical-looking swords from which white fog came, emitting a crackling sound like ice breaking as they moved. A chain of heavy rusted-looking iron links falling over his torso completed the sight.
Artefacts. Lots of them. Certainly more than Cowen had, and she counted herself lucky from the forays against the Legends she had access to. But then, again, it was not surprising that a high-ranked lieutenant of Napoleon would have gathered more than his just share.
“I hesitated,” she sighed, realizing her mistake.
“You let the moment pass. But now I am ready…” Deschanel said, spreading his hands wide, “and we are in a dance hall. Shall we dance zen?”
A green glass pane popped, blocking Myrl Douglas's incoming Flame Bolt. Cowen raised her sword, as sparking blue lights raced across it. In response, lightning flared from the Frenchman’s hand, sparking across Habborlain and Aubert.
She rushed him, and he brought forward his twin swords, crossed and blocking her attack. She saw his right hand flare briefly, an unknown spell being used while he let his defensive reaction skill lapse.
Blair Habborlain grunted. A sound she rarely heard. A brief look at her team told her immediately what happened.
Aether Locked. Aetheric skills reduced by 65% until 871 aether has been spent.
She realized he had certainly decided to go all-in against the team’s healer. If he could deprive them of Blair’s support, he might even take another or two of her team before they could finish him. Or wait until he got reinforced.
That would not do.
She brought down her greatsword again, only to see it fail to land, sliding across a spearhead that had suddenly appeared between her and Deschanel.
While they were focused on the tier seven Frenchman, his companion had switched gear as well, and was now wearing a full set of chainmail and a long weapon that left little doubt on his own build.
The defender might not be a large threat at his relatively low levels, but it could still be a huge pain with the right skills, intercepting and neutering some attacks against his boss.
Meanwhile, Deschanel had not stayed put. With his sidekick in action, he was moving toward Habborlain, and Cowen, along with Aubert and Foale, tried to bar the way. But, against a high-tier Professional, anything simply physical, unbacked by a skill, was a mere annoyance. Hundreds of Strength might move incredible loads, but they couldn’t delay a level 1000 Professional very much. The Frenchman advanced, night robes billowing around him.
Freeze Limb flared, the spell effect racing across her weapon to land into her enemy. Even if she was not a primary aether user, she could still slow down the man at least a little bit. But most of her Aetheric skills, picked from side professions, were tuned for an enemy that attacked her, not one that was focused on someone else.
Deschanel responded with a large-scale Rock Spikes. For a moment, the parquet floor of the Hall of Mirrors cracked, vanishing, replaced by phantom rock spurs that pierced defences, and dropped Agility. The only one really bothered by that would be Foale. Well, and herself, since Dodge worked better with high levels of Agility, but it wasn’t as if he was going to attack her physically. He had skills for that, she knew from his file, but he was obviously all-in for aether spells.
“Our spies say nobody ever sees you. I vonder if you are a man or not,” Deschanel said, launching Freeze and Entomb, reducing again the mobility of Habborlain. “Maybe you are a secret spy from Africa?”
Cowen frowned in confusion.
The screaming swords turned away Foale’s own swords and another green Aether Window deviated Aubert’s dagger play, as Deschanel stopped, starting to launch streams of Flame Bolts at his target. Myrl snarled, but a flicker of the Frenchman’s hand told Cowen that he’d just dropped the same Aether Lock spell on her. The Spellthrower kept on casting, as she had no choice but to spend her aether, efficiently or not. And Deschanel slowly advanced, like a juggernaut rather than a spellcaster. He reached as if to grasp Blair's robe, but his sword turned to parry another hit, and he brought it back closer to his chest.
Cowen couldn’t see how she could help her team take him down and turned toward the defender, slicing along his spear. She turned around him, making sure the man was focusing on her. He followed her for a few seconds, before suddenly realizing he’d be better off trying to keep attacks off Deschanel. Her own toolset was not good against one who went pure spellcaster, so she had no such dilemma and kept hounding him.
Habborlain’s health crawled back up. More than two-thirds of it was already gone and…
Aether Locked. Aetheric skills reduced by 65% until 871 aether has been spent.
… Deschanel had relocked the Spectacular Physics. Even if he couldn’t refresh that damned spell’s effect until it was done, and had no way of knowing when it was over, he was preternaturally aware. That, or he wasted aether trying to keep Blair locked no matter if it worked.
He probably had aether to spare. Even if it distracted him from doing damage.
Waves of fire briefly blew out from the Frenchman, leaving a nasty status on her. Damage and regeneration undercut, which meant that even if Habborlain had time, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
The man probably does have multiple tier seven spells. And rank boosts. AND way too many vitals…
She’d joked about taking both Deschanel and Napoleon at the same time, but the reality was very different. Her team was facing only one, and it was like fighting a Legendary guardian, on Earth. She would pay a price, even if she won.
Habborlain stood, calmly taking the fire. Most Professionals accompanied spellcasting with gestures to help their concentration, but Blair had never been one for instinctive theatrics. Support could be done quietly.
“You are good. Too bad, you should have been French.”
The defender crumpled. Cowen blinked. She hadn’t even realized that the man was on his last legs. Her Armament of the Biskantan Swordbearer was good, but not that good. She was a defender, not a damage dealer.
No time for reflecting on shoddy gear. She could now try to provide whatever help on Deschanel, as Habborlain’s health entered a dangerous low.
“I hadn’t realized you were so buff,” she said, trying to distract him in a mundane way.
“You fought me naked in London. Here you fight ze real me.”
Habborlain crumpled, his health expended, and Deschanel turned to face her.
“Napoleon will hate me for ze new decoration,” he said. “But ze dance haz been lively. I liked it, even if it was well ordered.”
Cowen was pushed back by an Air Burst, as the Frenchman smiled under his burning hair, crossing his icy swords in preparation for a new bout.
Then Foale sliced him to the side and the man crumpled on the ground.
Cowen breathed slowly, looking at the wreckage left from the fight in the Hall of Mirrors. Again, she lamented the devastation. In the Labyrinth, a lair would slowly regenerate until it was back to its original state. This was going to need tens of thousands of pounds to restore. Probably more.
“How could he stand so much damage?” Aubert breathed as he bent over Habborlain, already set to bring him back to life. Most Professionals would puke and heave, but Habborlain merely pushed Aubert back and stood up before his invisible hand reached for his staff, as if nothing had happened.
“I have no idea,” Cowen answered as she bent over the corpse of Deschanel.
Jacques Deschanel
Deceased, 18 hours, 8 minutes
Health required: 40228
Yes
No
She swore.
“Balls. I can’t even sacrifice for him even if I wanted to. The man had more health than a defender. He's got more than half over me!”
She looked at Habborlain, who was standing now at the side of the hallway.
“You’re good?”
“I am either dead or good. If not one, then the other.”
Douglas bent over the corpse, starting to frisk the deceased Professional.
“What are you doing, Myrl?”
“Can’t let that go to waste… fuck, it’s almost all 780 or above. Can’t even move any of that to my Puppet to store!”
“Well, if you can’t hold it, you can’t use it.”
“Yes. Yesss…” she whispered, bringing out a gold ring. Cowen could see snaking lines of fire swirling on their own around it.
“My preciousss! And 806 only! You, I will use, I promise.”
“Stop playing, Myrl. We have a job to do,” Cowen said, exasperated.
The woman deftly stripped out the grey gloves, shoving them into her robe’s pocket before stepping over the corpse.
“Gloves good in eight levels,” she commented over the glare of her leader.
“I wonder why he didn’t try to get help instead of fighting us alone?” Aubert asked as they reached the end of the gallery.
She spotted on the team descriptor a number of people starting to get into range and was reaching for the door when it was flung open by a British Professional.
“Cowen? Good. We regroup in the gardens.”
“Wait, why?”
“It’s over.”
“Already?” she asked at the retreating form of the Professional running across toward the other side, no doubt to call the rest.
The team exchanged glances, bemused. Save for the robed silhouette of Habborlain, already silently heading toward the stairs of that side.
----------------------------------------
The French Professional sneered at Millard.
“No, you will not win that one. The Tyrant will crush you.”
“My teams probably have flushed him out by now,” the Ringmaster replied, smiling.
“No, they won’t. All the high tiers are with him. And they will come back for you once they find out.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked, curious about the French’s conviction.
“Because once he’s finished hunting those Legends, he won’t be doing levels as he usually does. He’ll come and crush your force.”
“Wait, he’s doing major lairs?” one of Millard’s companions blurted out.
“What do you think? Three times a year, he goes for that. Getting Artefacts is how you really get ahead. He could leave that part to his lieutenants, but he leads by example. He sweeps the upper ranges of tier seven – he even unlocked a tier eight already, for the masses of creatures there. That’s how he stays on top. The best gear, the best experience. Maybe he wouldn’t have come back for weeks previously. But now?”
The Professional shook his head before announcing “He’ll be back.”
The man smiled, and his clothing shifted as it was replaced by Puppet-optimized gear. Then he launched a large blast at the middle of the British, catching Millard at the edge of the huge blast. Showers of shelving fell across the room, burning.
The man might have been upper tier-six, judging by the damage he did, but he was alone against six. Millard contemplated the half-mangled body, bent by a last smasher’s hit.
“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” he finally concluded.
Another Professional joked feebly, “That’s why he’s called the enemy.”
“Call back everyone and let’s get out. There’s no one to fight here. It’s too late. It’s always been too late.”
True Ring of the Luseverni Dread Master
Ring
Artefact
Requires: Level 806
Provides: +6 Flame Bolt ranks, +2 Aether Window ranks, +2 Aether Lock ranks, +241 INT, +213 FOR, +208 CON, +3168 health, +2649 mind, +2126 aether, +13% aether damage, +8% fire damage