Troll Nation Read online

  Table of Contents

  Summary

  Shadow Alley Press Mailing List

  Bloody Recon

  Griefer Blues

  Clockwork Killing Machine

  Path to Progress

  Never Gonna Give You Up

  Marketplace Intrigue

  Mai’s Tale

  Beneath the Hood

  Transmute Magick

  The Hero Sieve

  Rock Eggs

  Favors

  Legion of Sticklers

  Misdirection

  A Barge of Scoundrels

  The Floating Isle

  Blankets, Blankets, Blankets

  A Handsome Profit

  Septic Brewmaster

  Co-Conspirator

  A Bargain Struck

  Life’s a Grind

  Final Form

  Troll Nation

  Wheeling and Dealing

  Battle Plan

  Board Meeting from Hell

  Caged Animals

  Arena Ambush

  Crossover

  The Outcast’s Tale

  The Grand Inquisition

  Change of Heart

  Moving Pieces

  Bro_Fo Bait

  Karma’s a Bitch

  Home Field Advantage

  The Hero Falls

  The Grand Prize

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  Viridian Gate Online: Expanded Universe

  Books by Shadow Alley Press

  litRPG on Facebook

  GameLit on Facebook

  Even more LitRPG on Facebook

  Copyright

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Summary

  BUILD. EVOLVE. CONQUER. The dawn of the Troll Nation has begun ...

  Roark von Graf—former noble and hedge-mage, current mid-level mob in a MMORPG—has taken down the Dungeon Lord of the Cruel Citadel, but the battle has only started.

  Lowen, right hand to the Tyrant King, has come to Hearthworld, and he is building an army of his own. Worse, Lowen and company have taken over one of the most powerful dungeons in the game, The Vault of the Radiant Shield. Even as a Jotnar and a newly minted Dungeon Lord, Roark is supremely outclassed and he bloody well knows it. If he’s going to weather what’s to come and topple the Tyrant King, he’ll have to unlock the secrets of the stolen World Stone Pendant, master his new Hexorcist class, form some very unlikely allies, and most important ... Grief some heroes. Let the games begin!

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  Bloody Recon

  THE VAULT OF THE RADIANT Shield was located in a sand- and wind-blasted wasteland of brilliant red rock towers that stretched up into the sky like a stone forest. Roark von Graf, most commonly known in Hearthworld as Roark the Griefer—the newly minted Dungeon Lord of the Cruel Citadel—stood on the top of one such formation with Kaz, Zyra, and Griff. A brutal breeze pounded at him from the back, the edges of his cloak fluttering like mad as grit and dust bit at his exposed skin.

  “That’s it,” Griff said, gesturing a scar-crossed hand at a golden structure built on the tallest of the towers in the distance. “Atop that hoodoo there.”

  The sparkling ovoid structure had been built around the top of the rocky spire like one of the massive soldier wasp nests, which slowly took over trees back on the steppes of Traisbin. It was an opulent thing of gold, white marble, flying buttresses, peaked archways, and opal inlays that glittered brightly enough to make him squint even at this distance. Glinting winged figures, no larger than wasps from this far away, flitted in and out of holes in the sides of the Vault, completing the illusion of a massive hive.

  Beside Roark, Kaz shaded his onyx eyes from the last rays of the sun and leaned toward the golden edifice. “What are those little dots?”

  “Malaika Heralds,” Griff answered, clutching a bronze spyglass in his gnarled hand. He handed the glass over to the Gourmet Chef, Roark’s second-in-command. “They’re the ones I was telling you about, Griefer. Final evolution—and named—every single one of them.”

  Roark scowled at the winged shapes darting through the air. Griff had been the first of them to scout out Lowen’s base of operations. When the weapons trainer had reported back that each and every creature in the Vault of the Radiant Shield was a named mob—a term Griff had taught Roark for the monsters native to Hearthworld’s landscape—the creeping suspicion Roark had that he was running out of time before things with Lowen came to a head had turned into a certainty. Worse yet, when Griff had rattled off a few of the names, Roark recognized them from home.

  His true home, Traisbin, a world away.

  Viago, Marek Konig Ustar’s favorite berserker. Vittoria, chief of the Tyrant King’s Inquisitors. Barazel, one of the most vicious mages in Marek’s ranks.

  Somehow, Marek’s right-hand mage, Lowen von Reich, was transplanting warriors from the Tyrant King’s forces to Hearthworld. It was this revelation that had forced Roark to risk coming to the Vault himself. He had to see it with his own eyes. Had to know how Lowen was doing it.

  “I don’t like it,” Zyra said, fiddling with her enchanted wrist wrappings. In the fiery sunset, the Reaver Champion’s toxic armor seemed to glow black, a stark contrast to the snowy white ringlets spilling from her hood. “They’ve got the flight advantage, and without wings, there’s only one way in.” She motioned at the wide stairs spiraling up and up and up the side of the rock tower. “And you can bet they’ve got a guard watching that at all times. It’s suicide.”

  “Not for us,” Roark muttered. “Let’s go. We aren’t learning anything standing out here.”

  The four of them climbed back down the rocky protrusion to the dozen high-level heroes waiting impatiently for them at the base.

  As they approached, a golden-hued elf in black robes studded with emeralds stepped out to greet them. The nameplate [Braind_Fish] floated above her circleted head.

  “Well, Reb, what do you think?” she asked Roark.

  In his Troll form, Roark stood eleven feet tall—a ghostly pale Jotnar Defiler with twisting violet tattoos, glowing the length of his arms, and a pair of leathery wings hanging uselessly from his shoulder blades. But thanks to the World Stone Pendant around his neck, he had the ability to cast an Illusion Cloak on himself once a day. What the heroes saw approaching was not the Dungeon Lord of the Cruel Citadel, but the lean, olive-skinned human Roark had been before jumping through the portal into Hearthworld. The illusion also hid his name under the spidery white text [Rebel_of_Korvo], which Braind_Fish seemed inclined to shorten to Reb whenever she spoke to him.

  “The stairs are the only entrance accessible from the ground, but they’re hardly watching it,” Roark replied. “With your shroud magick covering us on the approach, we should be able to steal in without being attacked.”

  “Saddle up, guys,” Braind_Fish said, nodding to the other heroes. “We got Heralds to kill.”

  The elf, a level 31 Gravepriest, had them get into formation, then began to weave her hands in a series of intricate motions. Glowing sigils appeared in the air, a host of complicated spells—one to shield the party from Detect Life spells, another which acted as a Stealth multiplier, and even one for partial invisibility. Roark paid special attention to the sigils as she worked, curious as to how she was inscribing them on the air itself. Obviously her magick was a distant relation of Enchanting, one of his own Trade Skills, perhaps a form of Hexing. Certainly something to look into.

  While she finished the Shroud, Roark settled himself at the outside edge of the group, just behind Kaz and to the left of Griff.

&
nbsp; Already being human, Griff hadn’t needed disguising before they came on this mission, and Zyra was similarly easy. With her willowy body and the hood covering her face and the onyx recurved horns poking up from the top of her head, she could pass for a duskier-skinned version of a dark elf.

  Kaz had been the tricky one.

  He’d recently undergone his final evolutionary transformation, taking on the form of a Thursr Knight. And at nearly fifteen feet tall with blue-black skin and fists bigger than Roark’s head, the Troll Knight would never have passed for even the largest of Rogs. It had taken Roark most of a day to perfect the curse on the O-Rogiri armor Kaz was wearing for this mission. When worn as a set, it decreased the wearer’s size and strength by a full 30%. A devastating price for most of the heroes who roamed Hearthworld, but a negligible loss for the Mighty Gourmet.

  Once again, his skill as a Hexorcist had proven to be invaluable beyond measure. Yes, it required Roark to think outside of the box, but that was precisely what he was best at.

  Once the shroud was cast and the signal from Braind_Fish given, Zyra and a level 28 Blackguard Rogue disappeared into the darkness, scouting ahead for traps and ambushes. The rest of the party followed behind, winding through the forest of rock formations.

  As they made their approach, the sun disappeared below the tower-studded horizon, and the sky darkened to deep purple. Overhead, the darting of winged shapes continued, but against the darkened sky, the creatures left streaky light trails behind them that faded slowly. Beautiful to be sure, but not ideal for stealth. Roark thought if he had a crossbow with appropriate range, it would be a simple matter to pick them off. Even better, a heavy ballista—or several—set up on one of the adjacent rock towers could have devastating effect if employed correctly.

  He stowed that thought away for later.

  Full dark fell as suddenly as if someone had snuffed out a candle, and then it happened...

  The hive-like Vault began to glow a dazzling white gold like an oil lamp in the night. The gleam illuminated the canyon floor around the red rock tower, throwing long shadows in every direction.

  Roark’s breath caught in his chest at the sight, and Kaz gasped audibly. It was a breathtaking display. It was also going to be a nightmare to sneak up on. Braind_Fish’s Shroud had better be damned good if she wanted her party to make it within a hundred yards of the Vault’s spire.

  Either the elf’s Shroud was powerful enough to hide them all or the Heralds in the Vault preferred not to attack until their prey had been coaxed onto the spiraling staircase, because they made it to the first step untouched.

  Zyra and the Blackguard Rogue appeared.

  “The steps are clear of traps,” Zyra announced, pitching her voice low to avoid attracting unwanted attention from above.

  “You checked all the way to the top?” Braind_Fish asked, quirking an eyebrow.

  “Three-quarters.” The Rogue offered a lopsided shrug. “We couldn’t go higher without being seen.”

  If there were any shadows up there, Zyra could have, Roark knew, but he kept his mouth shut. They were supposed to be nothing more than mid- to high-level heroes, and as far as they knew, heroes didn’t have Shadow Stalk.

  The elf nodded as she considered this. “Any kind of platform up there or will we have to run into the first room blind to keep from pushing each other off the stairs?”

  “There’s a half-moon-shaped platform surrounding the entrance,” the Rogue said. “Probably ten by twenty.”

  “All righty then,” Braind_Fish said, rubbing her hands together. “I want tanks first, two by two, followed by DPS. All us squishy spell casters, we’re bringing up the rear. And make sure you’re aiming. We’re gonna be in tough enough shit without hemorrhaging HP to friendly fire.” She glanced at Zyra and the Rogue. “Once we make it to the platform, you two stealth off and see if you can’t clear the first room for us. Everybody got it?”

  The group muttered an affirmative, then began shifting into the new formation, bulwarks of muscle like Kaz moving to the front. Roark found his place a few rows back beside a level 28 Wrath Ronin and pulled out his Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter. The comforting weight of a full quiver immediately settled against his back.

  Under normal circumstances, Roark preferred slinging spells to firing arrows, but on this excursion, he was posing as a level 15 Archer. Other than the exploding tips he’d cursed specifically for this mission, he didn’t plan on using anything that might give them away as Trolls. Not until he had to, anyway.

  “Let’s move,” Braind_Fish said, her tone firm and ready, but pitched low enough to avoid drawing attention from above.

  The troop began the climb up the spiral, weapons in hand. Armor clinked and creaked softly, fabric rustled, and boots scuffed against the steps, the sounds strangely muted beneath the elf’s Shroud. Below, the ground began to fall away, at first a few yards down, then a few dozen, then what seemed like a hundred. Having grown up in the mountains, climbing pitched slopes and sheer rock faces, the height was nothing of great note to Roark. The Wrath Ronin beside him, however, paled visibly and inched farther and farther from the edge until he was nearly touching shoulders with Roark.

  They were less than a dozen yards from the top, the ground a faraway dream at the bottom of a dizzying drop, when someone behind Roark sneezed.

  Roark cringed. The sound bounced off the formations, echoing back to them even louder than the original.

  “What the hell, Richard?” someone hissed.

  Richard sniffed. “It’s allergy season.”

  “Ever heard of Clearezitin?”

  “Ever heard of mind your own business?”

  “Shut it,” Braind_Fish snapped in a sharp whisper.

  Flitting shadows overhead caught Roark’s eye.

  It was not a flock of glowing Malaika Heralds, he saw as they dipped into the light, but a drove of stony beasts that looked as if they had been carved out of white marble. The creatures had razor-sharp tusks poking out of a boar’s mouth, wide marble chests tapering down to clawed feet, and the hunched back and muscular haunches of an enormous toad. Improbable wings of stone stretched up from the creature’s back, then flattened, sending them diving, tusks-first, toward the heroes.

  Just above their heads floated spidery white text declaring them [Gargoyles].

  “Overhead!” Roark shouted, lifting his bow and spinning to follow the dive of the closest creature.

  The heroes turned their combined weaponry against the sky. Roark released his first shot amid a flurry of multicolored spells and thrown spears. His arrow slammed into the shoulder of a [Lesser Watching Gargoyle], detonating on impact and sending down a rain of pebbles.

  All around him, heroes shouted spells and swung axes, staves, or swords. Throwing knives and ice javelins peppered the air, accompanied by a bevy of arrows.

  Seeing that the Gargoyles had quite a bit of Health in their red bars, Roark switched to firing off two and three of his cursed arrows at a time. Each one struck stone with a boom like thunder and tore away handfuls of life from the flying stone beasts. Dust and chunks of rock poured down from above. Kaz and the biggest warriors were out of Roark’s sight just around the curve of the tower, but he had no trouble hearing the Mighty Gourmet give a wordless bellow. Lucky Kaz had remembered he couldn’t use his accustomed war cry, FOR THE SALT.

  “Backs against the rock!” Griff roared over the frantic chaos of the attack. “Put your backs against the rock!”

  Roark followed the weapon trainer’s advice, retreating a handful of paces until he was pressed to the gritty red surface of the tower. Most of the heroes, however, seemed too preoccupied with fighting the Gargoyles to hear or follow suit. Sloppy teamwork—undisciplined. No wonder these heroes were so easy to grief. A level 30 Bog Witch fired off a trio of blue-green fireballs from his Twisted Root Staff, not realizing a [Vigilant Gargoyle] was swooping down behind him. A moment later, the Vigilant slammed into the Bog Witch’s spine, knocking him off the stai
rs. His scream echoed up from below for several long seconds before he went silent.

  As Roark spun to follow a [Lesser Watching Gargoyle] across the sky, he caught sight of Griff thrusting his old one-handed shortsword up into another stone beast’s momentarily exposed belly. The creature let out a piercing squeal, and ruby-encrusted entrails slopped from the wound. With a triumphant shout, Griff pounded his sword against his buckler and swung around to find another adversary.

  A few steps above Roark, a level 26 NecroKnight screamed as she was swarmed by four Gargoyles at once. Roark peppered the largest and most vicious of them with arrows, pecking away at the beast’s Health and blowing craters into the creature’s granite hide, but he couldn’t kill it fast enough. The NecroKnight’s Health bar flashed out a warning, then hit zero just before she tumbled off the stairs into the empty air, surrounded by a halo of red.

  The Gargoyle banked around and darted for Roark. Forcing himself not to rush and do something stupid like drop his arrows, Roark nocked a trio of shafts and leveled his bow, aiming the centermost arrow at the spot just between the creature’s eyes. The Gargoyle opened its tusked maw and let out a porcine screech.

  Roark loosed.

  The arrows smashed into the Gargoyle’s face, the explosion blowing its eyes and half its head away. Chunks of marble pelted Roark, but with a deft sidestep, he avoided being crushed by the falling stone body.

  Zyra and the Blackguard Rogue appeared on the steps leading to the entrance.

  “First room’s clear!” the Rogue shouted.

  “Get inside!” Braind_Fish hollered, a line of brilliant crimson running down the side of her face. A reanimated Vigilant Gargoyle skewered by a multitude of ice javelins flapped and hovered by her side, a sphere of sickly green light enveloping it. As another Lesser Watching Gargoyle tried to attack, the elf’s necrotic servant ripped it to pieces. “Shake your tail feathers, people! We’ll get the rest on the way out!”

  It wasn’t a wise call, Roark thought. If they couldn’t manage to dispatch the lesser creatures guarding the outside of the Vault, he didn’t know what the elf thought they could do to the higher-level ones inside.