Viridian Gate Online: Darkling Siege (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 7) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Summary

  Shadow Alley Press Mailing List

  Viridian Gate Online Recommended Reading Order

  Eldgard

  The Dusty Mustache

  Bar Brawl

  Vows

  After-party

  Party Crashing

  Counterstrike

  Uneasy Thoughts, Unwelcome Guests

  Rotten Roots

  War Council

  Choices, Choices, Choices

  The Gates

  No Turning Back

  Open Wide

  Gatehouse Horror

  Spoils of War

  Command Post

  Complications

  Imperial Rescue

  Timely Intervention

  Campfire Chat

  Forged in Fire

  Leads and Lorekeepers

  Temple of Forgotten Waters

  The True History

  Favors Owed

  Building Haven

  Kiss and Make Up

  Final Preparation

  Inside Job

  Storm the Walls

  The Ritual

  The Raiders

  Serth-Rog Showdown

  Covert Infiltrators

  Skálaholt

  The Traveler’s Rest

  Rendezvous

  The Offer

  Hungry Ghosts

  Purify

  Ravenous Ghoul

  Assassin’s Blade

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  Viridian Gate Online: Expanded Universe

  Books by Shadow Alley Press

  Books by Black Forge

  litRPG on Facebook

  GameLit on Facebook

  Even More litRPG on Facebook

  Copyright

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Summary

  NOT EVEN GODS ARE SAFE from the power of the fabled Doom-Forged weapon.

  Grim Jack didn’t set out to be the leader of Eldgard’s united armies, but with dungeons falling one by one and hordes of Vogthar pouring into the material plane, it’s up to him to save both citizens and travelers from digital destruction.

  His doomsday weapon will take him straight into the heart of Morsheim, but once there, even the combined might of the Empire and the Crimson Alliance might not be enough. He’ll have to uncover secrets buried for millennia just to get within striking distance of a death god gone mad, and the choices he’ll make will change him and the world forever...

  From James A. Hunter, the Bestselling Author of the Yancy Lazarus Series, Rogue Dungeon, and Bibliomancer (The Completionist Chronicles Expanded Universe) comes the seventh installment in the LitRPG epic, Viridian Gate Online! Jack's adventures in a cutthroat virtual reality fantasy world will grip fans of Ready Player One and The Stormlight Archive alike. With over 250,000 copies sold, this is one series you don't want to miss.

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  Viridian Gate Online Recommended Reading Order

  VGO: Cataclysm (Main Series Book 1)

  VGO: Crimson Alliance (Main Series Book 2)

  VGO: The Jade Lord (Main Series Book 3)

  VGO: The Imperial Legion (Main Series Book 4)

  VGO: The Lich Priest (Main Series Book 5)

  VGO: Doom Forge (Main Series Book 6)

  VGO: Darkling Siege (Main Series Book 7)

  <<<>>>

  VGO: Nomad Soul (The Illusionist 1)

  VGO: Dead Man’s Tide (The Illusionist 2)

  VGO: Inquisitor’s Foil (The Illusionist 3)

  <<<>>>

  VGO: The Artificer (Imperial Initiative)

  <<<>>>

  VGO: Firebrand (Firebrand Series 1)

  VGO: Embers of Rebellion (Firebrand Series 2)

  VGO: Path of the Blood Phoenix (Firebrand Series 3)

  <<<>>>

  VGO: Vindication (The Alchemic Weaponeer 1)

  VGO: Absolution (The Alchemic Weaponeer 2)

  VGO: Insurrection (The Alchemic Weaponeer 3)

  Eldgard

  The Dusty Mustache

  ICY SLUSH SQUISHED up around my boots as I threaded my way down one of the narrow, twisting cobblestone streets of Harrowick, searching for the next tavern on my long list of potential taverns. With frost-numb fingers, I pulled a crumpled strip of parchment from my pocket, carefully unfolding it as I scanned the names. The Excited Bee. The Wilted Leaf. The Dwarf’s Beard. On and on they went, scrawled out in loose flowing script, each name stranger than the last. All of them were crossed out, save one. The Dusty Mustache. Cutter had to be there, unless my informant with the Ministry of Whispers had completely missed the mark and he was in a different city entirely.

  Which would be a disaster.

  I pulled up my interface with a thought and checked the time: 4:25 PM. Crap. I was cutting it awfully close, and this was one quest I couldn’t afford to fail. Amara would never forgive me. Like literally. She would hold this against me forever, and Cutter probably wouldn’t survive the night.

  “Come on, Dusty Mustache,” I muttered under my breath, crossing my fingers, “don’t let me down.”

  The clop of a horse’s hooves and the creak of wooden wagon wheels filled the air. I moved over to the gutter of the road, making room for the lumbering cart with its shaggy chestnut mare and solemn-faced Imperial driver decked out in the typical Legionnaire battle armor. The driver wore a thick, fur-lined cloak, the hood pulled up around a weather-creased face to protect him against the cutting, humid chill and the light rain spitting down all over the city. He looked equal parts miserable and pissed—understandable, given how cold and wet out it was—and carried a curled whip in one hand.

  He scowled at me, daring me to get to close to the cart.

  Wagoners in Harrowick were an unforgiving group and prone to using their whips on passersby as often as on the mounts that pulled their supply carts. I reached up and ran a finger along my cheek; a red welt ran across my jaw from the last waggoneer I’d encountered two streets over. They were awfully quick with those whips, especially if you happened to be of the Murk Elf persuasion. No love lost for the Dokkalfar around these parts. I hunched my shoulders, the plain brown travel cloak obscuring my custom gear, and slid over another few steps, plunging my foot into a frozen puddle. The slush promptly soaked through my boot and into my woolen socks.

  Terrible, though still better than letting the grumpy sad sack on the cart take out my eye with that whip of his.

  Once the cart had finally rolled past, I resumed my trek, rounding a tight dogleg, which opened up on a section of street flanked on both sides by claustrophobic three-story buildings of stone and wood. The rooves were made of wooden shingles that shed the rain onto the street in a constant pitter-patter of water. Ornate copper gas lamps—pitted and green from the constant moisture in the air—dotted the roadway, casting weak pools of yellow light across the cobblestones while simultaneously illuminating the wooden shop signs jutting out from above doors shut tight against the elements.

  Including the tavern I’d come searching for.

  The Dusty Mustache was three doors up on the right, its cloudy glass windows glowing with warm, welcoming firelight.

  I checked both ways, making sure I hadn’t accidentally missed another horse cart, then cut an angle across the street, stepping nimbly to avoid the numerous potholes littering the roadway—all of them brimming with more icy water. I paused a
t one of the windows, cupping my hands around my eyes as I peered in, searching for any sign that all my hard work was about to pay off. Unfortunately, between the poor quality of the glass and the steam coating the interior of the windows, I couldn’t make out many details beyond the shuffle of bodies crowding around tables and moving across the floor.

  It seemed busy enough, though, which was a good sign.

  Cutter’s first favorite pastime was drinking, but he rarely drank alone, and his second favorite pastime was gambling. Another social activity that required gullible suckers willing to part with large sums of money.

  With a disgruntled sigh, I left the window behind and quietly pushed my way through the heavy front door. A small brass bell tinkled, announcing my entrance, though the sound was lost in the lively clamor emanating from the rest of the common room. The floorboards were heavily stained and covered in a loose layer of dirty golden-brown straw meant to absorb the slush and mud from the wet roadways. I’d seen the same setup in just about every bar, tavern, and inn I’d visited over the past few hours.

  A brunette Imperial woman in an incredibly sheer gown swayed on a cramped stage, singing an upbeat drinking melody while a thickset Imperial man accompanied her on a worn fiddle. Rough-hewn tables filled most of the bar, and those tables were packed with bargoers and patrons looking to escape the cold, get a hot bite to eat, or gamble away whatever money had recently found its way into their pockets. There was a lot of the latter going on: men and women—though mostly men—packed in around tables where dice rattled, cards slapped, and coins clinked as they exchanged hands.

  This was exactly the kind of place Cutter liked to frequent, though there was one tiny, miniscule red flag: almost every single person in here either wore the regulation attire of a Legionnaire or a white toga, trimmed in purple or gold, so common among Imperial citizens and high Viridian officials.

  The Dusty Mustache was an Imperial bar to the core, it seemed. And after a quick glance at the bargoers, I’d bet good money that over half of the soldiers there weren’t standard Legion, but rather belonged with the Inquisition. The silver Griffin crest, emblazoned on several tabards, told me as much.

  “He’s cheating!” someone snarled, a hand slapping down on a tabletop with a thump.

  “Like bloody hell I am!” came a retort that carried over the rest of the sound. “Just because you’re absolute shite at Gentleman’s War doesn’t mean I’m cheating, you git.”

  Now that voice was familiar.

  I swiveled, scanning the crowd until I found the source of the commotion: a circular tabletop tucked away in the corner of the tavern, not far from the stage. Five men were piled in at the table, all of them holding glossy cards, while a crowd of onlookers pressed in around them, trying to watch the action. Of course, Cutter sat at the table, his back to the wall, a grin on his face and a flush creeping into his cheeks.

  He’d been drinking. And from the slur in his speech, I was guessing he’d been drinking a lot.

  Instead of the dark leathers Cutter normally sported—perfect for sneaking through a dungeon or blending into the inky shadows of a back alley—he wore the attire of a gentleman: a smoker’s jacket with a waistcoat, padded breeches, a pair of soft leather boots with matching gloves, and a short gentleman’s cape that hung just over one shoulder and trailed partway down his back. To most he probably looked like some tipsy Viridian noble out for a night on the town, but the golden rapier riding his hip told a different story for anyone with a discerning enough eye.

  Like all the Inquisitors stealing sidelong glances at him. That blade marked him as a Gentleman of the Thieves Guild—one of only eight in all of Eldgard.

  “Besides,” Cutter continued, leaning forward, forearms resting against the edge of the table as he leered at a pudgy balding man in a toga, “it’s an insult to dishonest men everywhere for an Imperial tax collector of all people to call someone else a cheat.” He narrowed his eyes, mouth twisting into a scowl. “You lot are the real thieves, and you don’t even have the good grace or, dare I say, class to steal with finesse, charm, or skill. The whole lot of you are crooked as a broken nose and dirtier than a Wyrdtide brothel.”

  Oh no. There was no way this was going to turn out well.

  For one, Cutter was a Wode, not an Imperial, which was already a strike against him. Two, he was clearly drunk, and when Cutter was drunk there was almost nothing he liked doing more than insulting Imperials—tax collectors in particular. And three, well, he probably was cheating, and with that many Imperials and Inquisitors watching him make an ass out of himself, it was only a matter of time before someone noticed his sleight of hand. And once that happened, there would be blood. Copious amounts of it. Cutter was at a high enough level to escape with his neck mostly intact, but I couldn’t say the same for the rest of the folks in the bar.

  When Cutter wanted to, he could be extraordinarily deadly.

  Time to put a stop to this before it went any further. Besides, we were burning time. I needed to get Cutter back to Yunnam, and I needed to do it an hour ago.

  I squared my shoulders, made sure my hood was still firmly in place, then shoved my way through the crowd, elbowing people out of the way until I made it to the edge of the table. My rough manner earned me more than a few nasty looks, but most of the people were so absorbed in the drama unfolding at the table that no one took it past scowls or rude grunts. I skirted around the onlookers, then slipped in next to Cutter, dropping a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging down.

  “I think it’s time for you to go, drunk,” I growled, trying my best to sound like hired muscle bouncing some cretin before things turned to violence.

  “Get your bloody hands off me,” Cutter snarled, turning his gaze on me as he reached for something tucked away beneath his jacket—probably one of his trademark black-edged daggers, if I had to guess. “Jack?” His hand faltered as he caught a glimpse of my face beneath my hood. “What in the bloody hell are you doing in an Imperial dump like this?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice even a little.

  “I’m trying to save your neck, you moron,” I whispered, leaning in so only he could hear me. “Not sure if you noticed or not, but these guys are about to murder you, and that’s nothing compared to what Amara will do to you if we don’t get back to Yunnam.”

  “Phft. I’m doing this for Amara,” he slurred, waving one hand dismissively through the air. “Me jumping ship is the best possible thing I could do, all things considered. As for these Imperial pigs”—he actually raised his voice as he insulted basically everyone in the room—“they don’t have the bollocks to test me. Why, I’ve been cheating all night, not even trying to hide it either, and they just keep letting me steal their bloody money.” He flashed a pair of cards with a twirl of his fingers, then disappeared them back up his sleeve without a trace.

  Unfortunately, everyone at the table saw the display, and—because he was just yelling at this point—everyone heard him as well.

  I was in no way surprised when the music fell silent, an unnatural quiet settling over the tavern like a blanket of snowfall, interrupted only by the squeak of chairs and the metallic schwick of weapons leaving sheaths. Great. Perfect. I glanced at the time. 4:32 PM. We had less than half an hour to get back to Yunnam, and I was halfway across the continent with a drunk thief, surrounded by an entire saloon full of pissed-off Imperial soldiers and cheated Inquisitors. This wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned this going. Although, based on my long and complicated relationship with Cutter, I probably should’ve known it would end up this way.

  “Look, everyone,” I said, lifting my hands, showing empty palms, “my buddy is just drunk—he constantly talks out of his ass when he’s like this. Just assume everything he’s said is a lie. Let me get him out of here and you guys can go back to your game, no harm, no foul. What do you say?” I offered them my most hopeful smile, silently praying they let us walk without incident.

  “Absolutely not,” the bald tax collector sputt
ered, shooting to his feet, hands planted on his hips. “This man cheated me! I’ve known it from the start, and now he’s not only confessed but shown the method of his deception.”

  “It’s true, Jack,” Cutter said, nodding along in agreement. “I took him for every copper I could get. Payback for all the times him and his kind cheated my people, if you ask me.”

  “You are not helping,” I hissed at him, before turning back to the dumpy, indignant, toga-wearing tax collector. “Let me just settle whatever debt you feel is owed to you,” I said, trying to sound gracious instead of desperate. “How much have you lost?”

  “Fifty Imperial gold marks,” he said flatly.

  I nearly choked. Cutter had cheated fifty gold marks off this guy? That was the equivalent of five thousand large, IRL. No wonder this guy was so mad.

  “Fine,” I said, reaching for a pouch at my pocket. “Fifty gold marks it is. More than happy to make you whole.”

  “Make me whole?” the tax collector said, his voice oozing sarcasm. “This man has made a fool of me and impugned the reputation and integrity of the Empire itself. Fifty gold is hardly enough to make me whole. A hundred gold marks and a month in an Imperial holding cell ought to see justice done, though,” he said with a smug grin, snapping his fingers. “Inquisitors, please take this man into custody. And bring his darky friend in for good measure,” he added with a dismissive sniff.

  Darky? This guy was sure wearing out his welcome with a quickness.

  “Listen, you guys are making a big mistake,” I said evenly as a group of Inquisitors closed in around us. “Seriously. Turn around now or this is going to get ugly for everyone.”

  They just kept coming.

  I sighed, hand creeping toward my belt. Looked like they were going to have to learn the hard way.

  Bar Brawl

  AN IMPERIAL GOON IN scale mail partially covered by a bloodstained tabard lunged at me, fist swinging for my teeth. I briefly considered going for my hammer and just knocking all of these guys back into the V.G.O. Dark Ages, but decided against it at the last minute. Chances were if I drew my weapon, I’d leave a tavern full of corpses in my wake—even if I wasn’t trying to—and these guys didn’t deserve that. They were obviously jerks, all bored and spoiling for a fight on a Friday afternoon, but none of them deserved a death sentence.