Doom Forge: Viridian Gate Online (Chapter 13 - 14)

THIRTEEN: 

Respite

Cutter sent out a message to the rest of the crew complete with a map marker for the local Thieves Chapter House, which turned out to be an Apothecary in one of the classier sections of Cliffburgh. And not just any Apothecary, but the 1st Ranked Phoenix-Class Apothecary. I still wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but Cutter seemed clued in and was only too happy to explain. Apparently, the Svartalfar were an orderly folk and put great stock in knowing exactly how every cog in their society fit together. And to that end, they had a rigid hierarchy, which applied to everything from crafters and adventurers, to businesses and temples. 

Seven Classes—Dragon, Kraken, Phoenix, Manticore, Centaur, Warg, Boar—all named after mythical lore beasts, each with 13 ranks apiece. Each person was assigned a class and rank, though technically multiple people could fill each class and rank. Not so with businesses or crafters, however. Each city could only have one 1st Ranked Centaur-Class Blacksmith and if that Blacksmith advanced, they would become the 13th ranked Manticore-Class Blacksmith—knocking another Blacksmith down in the process. Dragon was the highest class and it turned out that there were no Dragon-Class businesses anywhere outside of Stone Reach proper. 

According to Cutter, earning 1st Ranked Phoenix-Class in a town this size was no small feat.   

The rest of the crew met us at the safe house half an hour later. Full night had long since come—sunsets, though spectacular up here, didn’t seem to last long—and the cloud-filled sky obscured the light from the moon. Abby, Forge, and Ari arrived first, hoods up (or veils up in Ari’s case), heads down, while Amara arrived a few minutes later, practically hauling our new Acolyte pal, Carl, behind her. 

Inside, a silver-haired woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties, manned a glass fronted counter filled with a variety of potions, all top end and worth their weight in gold. She smiled serenely at us as we pushed our way in; a little brass bell above the door tinkled, announcing our presence. I whistled softly. As far as fronts went, this one was awful convincing. The woman certainly didn’t look much like a thief, and the wares lining her racks seemed legit. 

Wooden shelves edged the walls, each near-to-bursting with carefully labeled ingredients. Tied bushels of bronze phottan. Glass jars of ground Furious Osipa and powdered Slater. Tinctures of Hidglow Root. Many of the items I recognized from my journeys—Deadly Baneshade, Creeping Faemoss, Spiced Ginger—but there were about a thousand other things I couldn’t even begin to put a name too. One shelf held book after book on alchemy, potion brewing, and harvesting. They had titles like Herbology of Eldgard, the Spelunkers Handbook of Crystals and Gemstones, Fundamentals of Potion Permutations, and Junior Alchemy for Budding Botanists. 

Small tables, all polished to a dull glow, dotted the floorspace, showcasing some of the rarer and more valuable ingredients—everything from Dragon Scales and Troll hearts to polished gemstones—along with a variety of Alchemic equipment. Those I recognized from my time spent hanging around with Vlad in his workshop. Glass beakers, stone mortars and pestles, empty holding vials, brass goggles, engraving awls, even steam-punk looking respirators. None of it was as fine as what Vlad used, but for a beginner to intermediate Alchemist or Potions Master this place was probably just this side of heaven. 

“Please come in, come in.” The woman stood and beckoned us forward with slim hands and a warm smile. “Please, get in and take some of that chill from your bones.” Amara was the last to enter, prodding and shoving Carl like an unruly toddler who needed constant attention. “It’s so lovely to have you all,” the shopkeeper crooned, her voice gentle, soothing, pleasant. A grandma whispering sweet words to a favorite grandchild. “Quite lovely indeed.  

“Not often we get such a crowd in here. Especially not at this hour, goddess no.” She resumed her seat and folded her hands on the glass counter before here. “So, how can I help you this evening, hum? A spot of Crimson Polkweed, perhaps, or maybe you’re interested in my pre-brewed wares.” She knocked gently on the glass case before her. Inside were a myriad of potions. She had elixirs that temporarily increased Attributes or fortified skills. Some that even granted incredible abilities for short bursts of time. 

“Afraid not,” Cutter said. “Friends of Marcus. Here for his evening tea.” 

“Ah, of course. That makes sense.” She nodded sagely, hands drifting toward some unseen thing below the counter. There was a click and a bookcase behind her swung inward, revealing a short hallway and a set of descending stairs. “Well, all the same, welcome to Maggy’s Mystic Elixirium. Ring if you need anything, lovelies.” She waved us through. 

Cutter led the way, the rest of us trailing behind him down the stairs, which let out into a scene that was far more familiar. A traditional Inn not so different from the Broken Dagger back in Rowanheath. A quaint tavern filled with time-worn tables and hard looking men and women—mostly Dwarves—in dark leathers festooned with throwing blades and long handled knives. I immediately spotted Cutter’s cowl-wearing contact from the Smoked Pig, nursing a drink in the corner all by his lonesome. 

After a few brief words with Cutter, the man stood and ushered us down a short corridor which connected to a sprawling training complex complete with a sand-lined sparring pit, a melee room with straw mats and practice dummies, and a knife throwing range with targets propped up at the far end. Off to the right was a Room of Doors overflowing with practice doors and padlocked chests. A trio of hooded thieves occupied the room, fiddling around at the various locks, deep in concentration.

Our taciturn guide directed us to a connecting hallway studded with more wooden doors, though these clearly weren’t of the practice variety. I’d been at enough Inns and guild chapter houses to recognize guest quarters when I saw them. We stopped at a pair of adjoining rooms at the very end of the hall.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” our guide said, gesturing toward the doors. “And if you need anything else, let me know.” He paused, stealing a sidelong look at Cutter. “It’s not everyday that we have a Gentlemen in residence, let alone a rebel king.” He shot a glance at me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed, and politely saw himself off. He looked shadier than a three dollar bill, but dang if he wasn’t the politest thief I’d ever met. 

I watched him go, waiting until he disappeared from view. “Alright,” I finally said, once he was gone. “We’ve got some catching up to do.” 

The guest room was nice, though nothing fancy. A pair of twin beds, a scuffed wardrobe, a deeply creased leather club chair, and a small nightstand with a chipped porcelain basin on top. There was an accompanying pitcher of water nearby and a brown towel which had seen better days. Still, a room was a room, and this one was safe. Well, as safe as a room in a thieves guild could be. 

“So,” Abby said, rounding on us as I closed the door with a click. “Are you finally gonna fill us in? What in the shit happened back there? Is Peng dead or what?” 

Forge held up a blocky hand. “Before we start bumpin our gums, what do we want to do about this guy?” He nodded at Carl. “I mean I can go stick him in the other room if you want. Won’t take but a minute, and I’m more than happy to watch him. Make sure he doesn’t try to rabbit on us the second we turn our backs.”

“Let’s just ask him. Well, Carl? You want to know what’s going on?” 

He hesitated for a moment, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, balling and unbaling his blocky fists. “No,” he finally said with a firm shake of his head. Sober, his Philly accent wasn’t quite so noticeable, though I could still pick it out from time to time. “Look, I might be a terrible Acolyte but I’m not a moron. I was too drunk to put it all together before”—he tapped at the side of his head with one thick finger—“but I’ve sobered up, okay. And I’ve also been doin’ some math on the way over. You guys are Crimson Alliance.” He faltered, looking around as though the room might have ears. “And not just regular Crimson Alliance. You’re him, aren’t you. The Jade Lord?” 

I nodded. 

“Yep, that’s what I thought,” he replied. He pursed his lips. “In that case I definitely don’t want to know what’s goin’ on. I’m out. I’m not a hero. I’m not an adventurer. I just want to live out my second life as drama free as I can, you know? Drink honeyed-mead. Eat good food. That’s pretty much the extent of my ambitions. And, no offense, but wherever you guys go? It’s trouble. 

“I mean, I’ve known you guys for all of two hours, and already I’m on the run, and hiding in the guts of the Thieves Guild. It’s nothing personal—you guys all seem alright—but I don’t want to get dragged into any business with the Alliance or the Empire. Me? I’m not a fan of politics. And when little guys like me get caught between powerhouses like the Alliance and the Empire. Eh, we have a way of getting crushed in the mix. So nope.” He folded his arms, working to keep his hands from quivering and his voice from trembling. 

“Only one problem, friend,” Cutter said. “Your problem isn’t with Jack. It isn’t with the Alliance. It isn’t even with Osmark and those bastards in the Legion. That Risi bastard back at the tavern? The guy looking to put your arse on a first name basis with the reaper himself? That was Peng Jun. And he isn’t with the Empire, friend.”

“He’s part of something way worse, Carl,” I said, meeting his eye and refusing to look away. “He’s a darkling. And not just any darkling. He’s the right hand of Serth-Rog. And they won’t just crush you, they will kill you. And I’m not talking sending you for respawn. If they kill you, you stay dead. And a guy like Peng won’t hesitate to do it. Not for a second.”

“No, no, no,” the Acolyte said, breaking into a nervous pace, his brown robes swishing around his feet as he walked. “Shit. I don’t want this. None of this. I don’t even know what you all want from me! I’m a nobody, okay? Not sure if you were listenin’ back at the bar, but I’m a 13th Ranked Cleric in a Boar-Class Temple. I’m literally the worst rated Cleric in the whole city, and I even failed at that. Why would anyone even be interested in me?” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don’t get it. Not any of it.”

“Well,” Abby said, “Remember how you said you were a part of a super boring order that no one ever visits? Turns out that’s not exactly the case. Your order is actual a crucial part of a world event quest. Pretty important one.” 

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” He blurted, eyes bulging as he ran his fingers through his lank hair. “The Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer are dedicated to a minor forge visage. Dude’s been in a coma for like 500 years—and that’s if he ever existed at all. And even assuming he does exist, no one knows where his shrine is. Buried somewhere inside Stone Reach according to temple lore. But passed that? Phft. No one has a clue. Why would anyone be interested in that?”

“Because of these,” I said, reaching into my inventory and pulling free the three Doom-Forge relics, which I promptly laid out on the nearest bed. There was a collective gasp around the room.

“How did you get the third piece?” Abby asked, inching over, running her fingers along the chunk of strange ore. 

“Turns out Cutter is even sneakier than we thought. While everyone else was making a break for it, he stabbed Peng in the neck while simultaneously lifting the item.” 

“Does that mean Peng’s dead?” Forge asked, a hopefully edge to his words.

I frowned and shook my head. “No such luck. He made it out along with one of his casters and one of his lieutenants. But we gave them one hell of a run for their money.” I quickly filled them in on the rest of the battle and our escape through the back, while Devil held down the fort. 

“Lool, I’m sorry,” Carl said once I’d finished recounting my story. “But obviously I’m missing something here. Are those supposed to mean something to me? Because I’m drawing a big, fat blank here.” 

I lifted the pommel from the bed and tossed it to him. “These are relics,” I said, “created by your comatose deity, Khalkeús. And we need to find him, because he’s the only one that can put these pieces back together again.” 

Carl’s eyes went hazy, presumably as he read the item description, his jaw dropping a little further with every second. 

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” he said. “No. This can’t be happening. These things aren’t even supposed to be real! The Doom Forge is a legend. And like a really obscure one.” He paced frantically, the swish-swish-swish of his robes carrying over the pregnant silence. “Okay, so let me see if I have this straight. You want me to help you find an Aspect—who no one has seen for five hundred years—in order to get him to build you a weapon capable of killing a god. And I’m guessing this other guy, Peng, wants the same thing?” 

“That is an accurate description, yes,” Amara replied, hands folded behind her back as she watched him like falcon eyeing a mouse in the field. 

He deflated a little, looking positively defeated. “There’s gotta be someone else better for this job. I mean I’m a failed Acolyte. I feel like I’ve made that clear, but just want to hammer that home. Failed as in washed out. There are a bunch of full clerics who are bound to know loads more than I do.” 

“Right,” I said. “And what are our chances of getting into Stone Reach without some help? And even if we do get in, what are the odds that one of those guys is going to talk to us? You don’t even want to talk to us, and we just saved your life. Plus, we’re on sort of a tight deadline. We’ve got about forty-eight hours to pull this off before I drop dead.” 

“Forty-eight hours!” He visibly blanched as horrid realization dawned on him. “Oh no. I’m the chosen one. Oh sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m the chosen one.” He took a deep breath, holding it for a long three count before exhaling loudly. “Wow does this suck.” He doubled over, breathing hard, clearly on the edge of a panic attack. 

“Trust me,” I replied. “I know the feeling. But here’s the thing. You don’t have any options here. Peng will keep coming for you. And even if you manage to go to ground long enough to throw him, eventually he’ll just go kick in the doors of your order and start indiscriminately killing until he gets the answers he wants. Obviously, you’re on the outs with your order, but I’m sure you don’t want to see the place razed to the ground. So, help us prevent that from happening.” 

Carl plopped down on the opposite bed and tossed the Doom-Forged Pommel onto the mattress with the other items. He slouched forward. Forearms resting on his thighs as he stared morosely at the items across from him. After a time, he sighed in resignation and nodded. “Yeah, okay. Guess I’m in. What do you need from me?”

“What we really need,” Abby said, taking a seat across from him, “is access to your temple in Stone Reach. I’m sure they have some books or artifacts that hold the clue to finding the Doom Forge, wherever it is.”

“Well there’s the first problem. See, I’ve been temporarily exiled from Stone Reach and from the temple. That’s part of the whole, me-being-a-failed-Acolyte thing I mentioned before.”

“What happened?” I asked, taking a seat next to Abby.

Carl squirmed a bit, glancing this way and that, not wanting the meet my gaze. “So … turns out I might have like a little drinking problem.” He cracked his fingers. “Just a tiny one. One night I was on library duty. The worst shift in the most boring place on the planet. I might’ve got a little drunk on the sanctified wine, which is not really that big of a deal by itself. But I also accidentally—and I can’t stress that enough, this was a completely honest to God mistake—set a bunch of sacred texts on fire. Most of them were replaceable, but one of them was a third edition. The Biographical History of Eitri Spark-Sprayer. Only known copy.” 

“Eitri Spark-Sprayer,” I said, tapping a finger on my chin. “That sounds awfully familiar. Where have I heard that before?”

“That is easy,” Amara replied promptly. “Eitri Spark-Sprayer was a friend to the Dokkalfar and a close confidante of Nangkri, the Jade Lord himself. After Nagkri’s death, he forged the Horn of the Ancients for the Chieftain Isra Spiritcaller.” 

I snapped my fingers. Yep, that was it. The Horn of the Ancients was still back in the Darkshard Vault. A one off item that would let me call back the honored Dokkalfar dead to do battle on my behalf. I’d earned it as part of my reward for taking down the Sky Maiden. 

“So why is the book so important?” Abby asked. 

“Eitri was a demi-god of the Forge, but not just any demigod,” Carl offered. “He was Khalkeús’ scion. His son, by way of a Dokkalfer mortal named Boonsri. He’s the one that forged the original alliance with the Nangkri dynasty five hundred years ago. The book I accidently burned is one part biography, one part journal. Or at least that’s what everyone thinks. No one knows for sure, ’cause the book had a lock on it that no one could open. The Arch Cleric, though, well he thought it had clues to the …” He trailed off. 

“Clues to what, friend?” Cutter said, pulling free one of his daggers, casually cleaning his nails with the tip of the blade. He could be awfully intimidating when he wanted to be.

“Clues to the location of the Doom Forge hidden in the pages,” Carl finished after a long beat.

Forge grunted and threw up his hands in obvious frustration. “Damnit, Carl!” 

“Hold on,” the Cleric said, lifting his hands as though to ward off an impending blow. “Look, okay. It’s not all bad. I’m exiled, but my ban isn’t permanent. The Arch Cleric gave me a quest to earn my way back in. There’s a Dwarven ruin about three hours or so due east of here. Bad place. Super dangerous. But inside is supposed to be another copy of the book. If I get it, I’ll be welcomed back to the Temple with open arms.”

“A blighted dungeon raid?” Cutter said. “Gods, Jack, we don’t have time for that. That Death-Head clock is kicking away. We’ll be bloody running errands for this sod”—he jerked the tip of his dagger toward Carl—“wasting bucketloads of time in the arse-end of nowhere and there’s no guarantee this book is even there. I don’t like it. Gotta be a quicker way.”

“Hey look, guys,” Carl said, “if you want to find the Doom Forge this is the only way I can think of. There’s an even money chance that whatever clue your looking for is in that book, so unless we do it, you’re probably gonna be out of luck even if you get to the Temple and get one of the Elder Clerics to talk—which you won’t. Those sanctimonious assholes don’t even trust me with the ‘full secrets of the order.’” He air quoted. “And I’m a junior acolyte. Or I was anyway. They’ll never trust you, no matter who you are. 

“But this should be a cake walk. I mean, I haven’t been able to get the book because, well look at me.” He waved a hand at his rumpled robes. “I’m not exactly the adventuring sort. Not really chosen one material if you will. But you guys are the Crimson Alliance. It’ll be easy. We raid the ruins. Get the book. And then I’m back in at the Temple. You help me, I help you. Chances are what you need is in the book I need, but even if it’s not, I can help you guys find whatever you’re looking for in the main library after I get back into the good graces of the order.”

“This does sound like something Sophia would totally do,” Abby said, her face pensive, thoughtful. “She’s the one who pointed us here. Interfering takes a toll on her. I just can’t believe she’d drop Carl in our lap if there was another way. An easier way.”

“I’m sorry,” Carl interrupted. “Sophia? Who’s that?”

“No one you need to worry about right now,” I said, waving away his question. Then to Abby, “Yeah, you’re right. This is exactly the kind of curve ball she likes tossing our way.” I paused, drumming my fingers restlessly on the edge of the mattress. “This feels right. You said this place is three hours to the east?” I asked, pinning Carl in place with a look.

“Yep. Three hours. Though fair warning, it’s rough country up that way.” 

I pulled up my interface and glanced at the time. Just after eight PM. Everyone was tired, hungry, gross, and still recovering from our battle against Peng. As much as I was loath to kill time, we were safe, warm, and had proper beds. No telling when we’d get a chance like this again. “Alright. Everyone get cleaned up. Let’s grab a bite to eat, then hunker down for some shuteye. I want to be on the road before first light.”
 

FOURTEEN: 

Dwarven Ruins

Carl hadn’t been joking about rough country; everything that lay to the east of Cliffbourgh was rugged, wild, and downright treacherous. There was a road that lead west and another that shot due north from Cliffbourgh all the way to Stone Reach. But this land was unsettled. Untouched by human hands as far as I could see. Just rolling hills covered in deep powder, densely packed tree cover, and jagged rocks poking up like giant teeth. Fast moving rivers cut through the vails and valleys, following the contours of the land, creating a number of deep ravines that looked nearly impassable on foot.

Thankfully, we weren’t on foot. 

Beside me, Cutter piloted the Hellreaver, carving our way through the freezing, star-riddled sky. He muttered darkly the whole time. About ‘how bloody early it was’ and ‘how bloody cold it was’ and how much he ‘wanted to drop kick that blighter Carl in the face for dragging us out here.’ I wrapped my cloak around me just a tad more tightly, a small protection against the vicious cold and murderous winds. Cutter wasn’t wrong—not completely. It was early and it was bitterly cold. I couldn’t really blame Carl, though. He was just another average guy, not so different than me, pulled into something much bigger than himself. 

We’d set out at early, well before the sun had even thought about rising for the day. It was 5:30—the first hints of light breaking along the eastern horizon dead ahead—when I spotted the tips of golden-spires jutting up from a rocky cannon filled with frost-kissed evergreens and deep drifts of white snow. It was a fortress, somewhere firmly between a picturesque Disney castle and Doctor Frankenstein’s gloomy lab. 

There were sweeping parapets lined with stylized merlons which looked like crouching gargoyles. Angular bastions custom-built for archers or siege weapons. Circular towers, impossibly tall, clawing at the sky, capped by pointed spires and minarets of gold and bronze. Faint early morning light glinted off those towers and played across elaborate stained-glass windows inset high into the keep. Lacy bridges glimmered like cut diamonds, connecting each of the windswept spires. Near the back, butting up against the canyon wall, smokestacks poked up like soldiers in formation. Huge things, though the fires that fueled them were long dead.

I whistled. I’d done a fair amount of dungeon diving since coming into V.G.O. and even I had to admit the ruins looked damn impressive. 

“Any activity down there,” I called to Forge, who stood near the bow of the airship, a familiar looking bronze spy-glass pressed up against his eye. 

“I reckon there might be some forest critters patrolling in the trees. Big ass wolves, maybe—”

“Those would be Dread Wargs,” Carl offered from nearby. The guy looked better than he had the night before. A shower, clean robes, and a decent night sleep had done wonders for him. “They’re pack hunters, but I doubt they’ll give us much trouble. Mostly cannon fodder for newbs and lowbies.” 

“Right,” Forge continued. “Dread Wargs. Not much else, though. Place looks pretty quiet. Deserted almost. Got my hairs standing at attention, though. Something off about this place, you ask me.”

“You and every Dwarf in Cliffbourgh,” Carl grumbled, cinching his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “They all think this place is cursed. Part of the reason I haven’t had much luck clearing it. No one wants to risk coming here. They say there are monsters in the shadows. Ghosts from the long dead.”

That was exactly the kind of thing I liked to hear right before jumping feet first into a dungeon dive.   

“I’m starting to like this place more and more, Jack,” Cutter offered from behind the wheel. “Really feel like we made the right choice here.”

“Yeah. And why’s that?” 

He shrugged. “Big castle. Superstitious natives. Sounds to me like a place with something bloody good just waiting for a proper plundering. And if there’s anything I love more than booze and gambling, it’s a good plundering. I still bloody-well intend to retire in a bathtub full of gold marks before this is all over and done with. Can’t do that without loot.” Cutter cranked the wheel hard to port. “Make ready to land!” He barked without looking back.  

His Goblin crew broke into motion. A trio of the creatures stickered into the ratlines, tugging at a set of ropes. A great wooden jibboom popped from the side, unfurling a canvas fin that billowed out, catching a stiff breeze. “Half speed,” Cutter yelled absently, toggling a lever on the right. One of the goblins frantically shoveling coal into the rear furnace, ceased his work. Others scampered across the deck, chirping and growling at each other while securing sails and checking the cannons. 

I watched them work, a bemused smile on my face. 

They were such weird critters—all green skin, pot bellies, and gangly spider-like limbs. They were short, each one no taller than a dwarf, with twisted faces, hooked noses, and needle-sharp teeth. They wore sleek leathers, outfitted with pirate cutlasses and cog-studded flintlock pistols. None wore boots, though they didn’t seem to mind the cold in the least. They spoke only crude English and they bickered constantly with each other. They were fiercely loyal to Cutter and the Hellreaver, though, and that was all that really mattered. 

Cutter landed the Hellreaver a few minutes later, touching down on a clear patch of ground a short walk from the front of the ruins.

I shook my head and pulled my gaze away from the goblins as Abby, Amara, and Ari climbed up from the ship’s cargo hold, which was exponentially warmer than being topside. I was a little envious, but then I’d been the one who told them to go catch an extra bit of sleep on the ride over. No reason for all of us to suffer. 

“Holy crap. It’s colder than a Yeti’s asshole out here,” Abby said, shivering like a leaf in the wind as she surveyed the snowy wonderland. “I honestly never thought I’d miss the god-awful humidity of the Storme Marshes, but I take back every nasty thing I’ve ever said about Yunnam. The cold is a thousand times worse than the heat.” She lifted her hands, a chant on her lips. A halo of fire burst to life, fingers of flame twirling and dancing around her in a slow procession. Relief washed over her face. “So much better.” 

After a few quick words between Cutter and his goblin crew, we deboarded the airship, finding ourselves in knee deep snow. 

“Nope,” Abby said resolutely. “No one has the time or patience for this.” She waddled forward until she was at the front of the group, leaving a pair of deep furrows in the snow behind her. She stowed her staff, stuck both hands straight out, and unleashed an unending javelin of flame, melting the snow pack in front of us. She killed the spell for just a moment, glancing at us over one shoulder and cocking an eyebrow. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s go take care of this dungeon and find our book.” She turned her industrial flame-thrower hands back up to full blast and carved us a path.

Forge tromped behind her, axe out, Ari perched on his shoulder with her weapons at the ready. Carl came next, followed by me and Cutter, while Amara brought up the rear, making sure no one got the drop on us. The walk in was a bit longer than I expected—the ruins were deceptively big, and farther away than they first appeared—but relatively uneventful. We spotted the local pack of Dread Wargs lingering near the treeline, watching us with glowing amber eyes, their lips pulled back to reveal cruel fangs custom built for rending flesh and piercing armor. But Abby’s flamethrower impersonation seemed to convince them that we were predators, not prey. 

“So what’s the deal with this place anyway?” Forge asked as we made the trek. “This don’t look like no Dungeon I’ve ever seen.”

“I don’t think it is,” Carl said, his voice slightly muffed by the scarf he had wrapped snuggly around his throat and mouth. “Not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway. More like some kind of abandoned keep.” 

“Well if it ain’t a dungeon, then who built it. And why the hell would they go to all that trouble, then just leave it here?” Forge asked. “Don’t make no sense.” 

“According to my order this place was built by Eitri Spark-Sprayer. The guy spent a bunch of time down south with the Murk Elves, but when he wasn’t kicking around in the swamps, he was here. Working in his lab. Or something like that. Never did pay the closest attention.”

“Any idea why he spent so much time in the Storme Marshes?” I asked trying to put the pieces of this strange puzzle together. And I was sure there was a puzzle here. Some connection I wasn’t seeing yet. There were just too many overlaps between this demi-god Eitri and my predecessor, the Jade Lord, to be a coincidence. 

“Eh. No clue,” Carl replied with a noncommittal shrug. “His mom was a Murky, so it coulda been a family thing, I guess. But he spent the later years of his life here, at least until the other Aspects murdered him.” 

“Aspects?” I asked, feet slapping on the muddy ground. “You keep using that word. I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s just cleric lingo. Not likely to hear it unless you hang out in the temple district. You’ve heard of the Overminds, right?” 

I nodded, doing my very best to suppress my smile. “Yeah. I’ve heard a thing or two about them.”

“Okay. Cool. Well the Overminds represent sort of these big cosmic forces, but they all have various Aspects. Sorta like local deities that represent different parts of each Overmind. Every order worships a different Aspect of each Overmind. Khalkeús is a Dwarven Divine, and an Aspect of Aediculus the Architect. Heimdallr is one of Kronos’ Aspects. Bragi is a deity of the Bards and an Aspect of Gaia. There a shitload of ’em. Now, I’m not really much of a theologian mind you, but from what I understand, these Aspects, they have a certain degree of autonomy. Can kinda do their own thing, though they’re ultimately pieces of the greater unthinking Overminds they represent.”

Unthinking. Right. I didn’t bother to correct him, but inside it took every ounce of willpower not to laugh hysterically in his face.  “Following so far,” I said. “But why would these other Aspects murder one of their own?” 

“Well that’s the thing. Eitri Spark-Sprayer wasn’t one of their own, you know? Dude was a demi-god, fathered by the Aspect Khalkeús. Eitri didn’t have the full power of an Aspect, but he had a whole lot more than most mortals. The more important part, though, was that he didn’t have their restrictions either. Story goes, the other Aspects were super pissed that this guy could just run around and do whatever the hell he wanted. So, they elected these mortal Champions, imbued them with a portion of their power, then set them loose to hunt down Eitri. Ended up killing him.” 

Carl fell silent as Abby burned away the last patch of snow. A wide set of white marble stairs rose up before us, ending at a set of looming double doors, thick enough to withstand an assault from a cruise missile. Each door was made from a single piece of dark mahogany, except that was impossible because there was no tree anywhere in the world big enough to produce a door like that. Running across the front was an enormous carving of a tree, meticulously depicted in solid gold. A gnarled trunk ran down the dividing line between the doors, its twisting boughs reaching toward the archway overhead.

“Yggdrasil,” Carl muttered, working to hide his awe, and failing. “Huh. How ’bout that.” He craned his head back, bearded mouth hanging open. “This is a whole lot more impressive than I thought it’d be.” 

“So, uh, how do we open it, Hoss?” Forge asked, eyeing the entry for some sign of a door handles. There weren’t any, of course, but even if there were, no one would be strong enough to budge those monstrosities. It would take a war elephant—maybe a couple of them—equipped with breaching chains to pull those bad boys open. 

“Knock maybe?” Carl suggested. Probably the most unhelpful advice of the century.

Still, it was worth a shot. I broke away from the pack and headed up the huge steps, which seemed to be designed for someone with legs much longer than mine. The second my foot touched the landing the golden branches of Yggdrasil began to writhe, pulling and twisting as the doors swung outward without a sound. They crept to a stop just as silently, hanging wide open in invitation. 

Well, I guess that answered that.