Fortunately, Narri’s wet-work assistants had been thoughtful enough to leave Eric not one but two bullpup blasters. But there was a limit to how fast even a warrior of Eric’s speed could shoot, especially if he wanted to avoid what he feared was overheating the barrel, which he was certain had been as much a contributing factor to his weapon’s explosive expiration as the perfectly placed musket shot. So he didn’t hesitate to leap off the far parapet when the crack and fire of one musket became ten, then twenty, the orcs terror and confusion becoming fury as all of them roared out before charging to the far wall, eager to finish off the intruder that had dared to challenge them in their own keep.

“Assassins in the night! Send out the berserkers before they can escape Red Claw justice! Men, to the South wall, and don’t forget to reload!” Yelled the orcish equivalent of a sergeant, the first to arrive, glaring out into the pitch darkness with curled lips, holding his own bayonetted long rifle with an angry snarl, before taking his own advice and pulling out powder and ball.

Before blinking in confusion when the world seemed to spin endlessly, eyes bulging at his sudden inability to breath as the world turned red with pain, before catching sight of his headless body collapsing in a shower of blood.

You have critically struck orc sergeant!

The night was alive with the scents of sulfur, lye, blood and offal, the air ringing with the desperate shrieks and furious confused roars of countless orcs gazing out into the gloom, battlements alone well lit with torches that did nothing for their night vision, but had made Eric’s first foray truly perilous.

At that moment the only thing racing faster than Eric’s feet were his racing thoughts, analyzing everything he did right, and so many things he could have done differently.

He was as glad to have over two score orcs under his blaster kill count and the night had just begun. HE felt like such a fool losing such a priceless weapon of war, utterly irreplacable save with the unique confluence of supreme luck and dire peril, and knew he would have been far better served taking full advantage of the night, using hit and run tactics while taking full advantage of inhuman Quickness and undead bulwark both.

Then again, his brain had screamed warning when he spotted not one but four cannon batteries secured to this one keep. How could he not expect the absolute worst after how close he had come to kicking the bucket, however many nights ago since he had first dared the pods? It could have been a single night or a month, he already knew that he lost all sense of time whenever he used one.

“Taint! Gather the men! It’s the halfblood we were warned about. Bring me his head on a pike!” Roared the powerful voice of what could only be a chieftain as Eric zipped right past the front portcullis slowly creaking open, his goal being the exact opposite corner to the one he had first hit.

He refused to castigate himself any further for his choices, however from perfection hindsight painted him. Because four cannon batteries had demanded immediate action, and if it had cost him over 34 charges and, indeed, a priceless Mark I blaster, that beat the hell out of being a shredded corpse and a notch in someone else’s belt.

Of course he had scanned the logbook in the split second he had had. He noted the four Assistant Gunners he had taken out. And how easy it would be to credit himself for mastering a keep with too-heavy to move 24-pounders and a skeleton artillery crew.

Yet such thoughts did nothing to ease the band of tension tightening around his chest.

The fear that his true enemies… whether they were elite gunners being deliberately held in reserve, high level marksmen, or worse of all, goblin assassins eager to light him up like a christmas tree the minute he dared pause his mad racing about the battlefield, was a nagging worry that only grew. Driving him to ever more desperate focus as a quick Strength and Finesse check saw him somersaulting over the lip of the farmost battlement battery, to the surprise of no less than three orcs desperately breach loading powder and shot with clumsy hands… before they collapsed to the ground in showers of blood, silently screaming to the heavens with windpipes painting the stones an arterial shade off red as long gun, canisters of shot and barrels of black powder all disappeared between one gurgling death rattle and a second.

Iado skill check made! You have successfully struck your targets in the literal blink of an eye!

Fast-Draw is now Rank 13!

Then Eric was off like a shot, racing thoughts crystallizing in a single definitive option as Demolitions and Flesh Sculptor helped him reconfigure claimed powder, shot, and casings of bone and rigid rawhide into presents perfectly mirroring gifts he had left countless other orcs while conquering his first city, not at all shy about using what amounted to internal blueprints, since results, not skilling up, was the order of the day.

Hunching over for the bare handful of seconds needed to draw his own blood and forge a dozen primers that he alone could use, his gifts were ready just in time for furtive paranoid eyes looking over the keep to widen with the sense that something was wrong in yet another corner of their citadel.

Yet before a single guard could do more than shout a warning in Eric’s direction, he was already off like a shot once more. Quicky turning the corner of the keep battlements, taking a mental snapshot of no less than thirty confused, surprised, or angry looking orcs before darting right back around to roars and a single musket ball fired.

Yet in the time that took, Eric was already making full use of his throwing practice and finesse, lobbing a package high over the battlement walls to land smack in the middle of the battlement walkway diagonally from where he stood, though not squeezing tight the blood-soaked rag calling out to him and exactly two seconds had passed, enough time for a reinforced bulwark of necromantically infused beast hide, flesh, and bone, to encapsulate him before the air shook with a shockwave of fatal pressure and shrapnel streaking through the air as fast as any musket ball, the resulting screams and messages flashing across his interface all he needed to see before his bulwark dissappeared in the blink of an eye, and he moved NOW!

Racing across the corner like the devil himself was at his heels… or perhaps the zeroed-in scope of a sniper curving its lips in a sharp-toothed grin even as Eric tore into his prey.

You have successfully constructed 12 black powder shrapnel bombs!

You have successfully modified your necromantic bulwark!

Black powder shrapnel bomb has critically struck 12 orcs!

Mad Bomber perk modifiers are in effect! You earn 15% of maximum experience for every kill made using black powder ordnance!

In truth, those notifications were all but irrelevant. All that mattered were the last two, as he desperately raced through the dazed, prone, and shell-shocked orcs that had survived the initial blast, now cloaked in perfect darkness as he took full advantage of the opportunity before him, one frightened cry, bark of confusion, or roar of challenge after another broken off with a single deadly pilum thrust, or perfectly cast throw.

Concussive blast has stunned 32 orcs!

Organized resistance has been shattered on West Wall!

All torches and lanterns have been snuffed out or flung free of West Wall!

Walkway has suffered partial collapse on West Wall!

Finesse check made!

You have successfully speared 15 prone orcs!

Thrown pilums have successfully pierced 17 orcs!

Javelin Throwing is now Rank 18!

Eric held back the rictus on his face that was far too anxious to be the furious smile he liked to think it was, as terrified at the thought of a skilled sniper painting a bead on his back just like he had taken out so many others. So he didn’t hesitate to weave and dodge in the heartbeats before plunging one pilum after another into the stunned or critically wounded orcs scattered all about, Unified Perception so effortlessly picking out those still living, even if this battlement wall was now dark as pitch, and the musket balls whizzing so close to his face he found it hard to believe they were potshots in the dark.

He deferred from using Mithril Blade, Flame fist, or his white-hot sling bullets or javelins, embracing the icy cloak of midnight, now far less concerned about developing his skills or claiming experience than he was completing his mission as quickly and efficiently as he could.

Two more cannon batteries, he thought to himself, and for some reason the tension only increased as he took a quick breath and dove around another corner just a heartbeat after the keep roared once more with a double-charge explosive, Eric racing around the corner, his pilum already cast as he gazed into the wide, horrified eyes of a too young sniper who had, in fact, been aiming a recurved double-shot crossbow his way.

With perfect discipline the boy had waited at the ready, or so the wide brown eyes already filled with blood tried so hard to convey. Not giving in even once to the temptation to fire blindly at the demon ripping through the keep. Just waiting for the perfect moment, ready to make the perfect shot, once Eric made it around the final bend that allowed for the perfect ambush just as much as the wooden battlement design ended up giving Eric partial cover, even from the defenders within.

And Eric would be dead, if it weren’t for the explosives he had lobbed. The concussive shockwave stunning the too thin marksman, knocking him right off his perch. Eric knew that, didn’t he? Knew that his opponent by all rights should have won that round. Or so the dying boy seemed almost to plea with his eyes as he began to shake and spasm, dropping his already discharged crossbow, pink froth coming from his pale blue lips as his eyes rolled in the back of his head while Eric’s jerking pilum continued tearing up the dying boy’s lungs from the inside.

“Oh fuck, god in heaven,” Eric choked out a sob, his chest squeezing painfully tight at the sight of a kid no older than Nick dying in his arms.

But not before Eric’s palm had smacked against the cast-iron cannon free of all shooters save the corpses of those he had already killed, that Eric instantly understood the boy had been using as a decoy.

Eric shook his head and sighed even as the night air rang with the screams and shouts of shell shocked orcs and reinforcements rapidly shuffling forward in the dark, for all that another lightless walkway thirty feet above the ground and the ruptured beams in the center that had already sent two stunned fools stumbling to their death made it clear that the orcs wouldn’t be racing across any time soon.

Eric gazed sympathetically into soft brown eyes even now slipping away in a dream-like haze. “You got anyone you need me to keep alive here?” Eric whispered, the pair of them now surrounded by Eric’s bulwark.

The boy’s eyes widened, an odd mixture of surprise, even gratitude.

“Emmy.”

The word was thought, more than said.

Eric wiped away the hot sting in his eyes. “Then I promise you I’ll do my best to get Emmy and any other human captives out of here. You can count on that.”

But the boy said nothing else, eyes already rolling up as he faded away with one final gurgling sigh.

Eric gazed at the warm body in his arms. Sure, the boy might have been there to kill him. But he was also someone’s friend, someone else’s beloved, and a child who had no doubt been loved and cherished by parents who would have done anything they could for him, less than a year ago. The boy was all those things, and Eric already knew that both orcs and goblins were good with making people offers they didn’t dare refuse. Yet now all the boy’s potential, everything he could have been, had been lost to the machinations of predatory assholes happy to let the kid die without a second thought.

Eric’s jaw clenched. He already knew that it was pointless to rail against fat. That there was nothing he could do for the nameless boy who had died so tragically, so stupidly, save avenge his death.

And Eric was all about revenge.

You have thrown one additional shrapnel bomb!

30 Additional orcs have been stunned!

17 Additional orcs have been slaughtered! (Mad Bomber Perk in effect. You earn 15% potency for all kills made with explosives!)

Thrown pilums (inert) have fatally struck 27 additional orcs!

You earn maximum potency for all kills made with soul-bound weapons!

“The ghost of Newark, it must be! The shaman told us the tale. We have to leave, now!”

A desperate plea that was cut off by a surprised gurgle, as a louder voice cut through the night.

“No, fools! There is no ghost of Newark!” A massive nine and a half foot tall orc that could only be the chieftain roared. “It’s the half-blood contender! Eric Silver! Aurelia’s lastborn brat! There is no other possibility! We were warned of this! Warned that he was coming! He thinks to get the better of us with gunsmoke and spells of darkness? Well, the fool has another thing coming! Illuminus Rego!” roared the voice.

Eric duickly dispatched the last begging orc before turning to peer down at the massive orc that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, only to find his eyes watering and blinking as he tried to look down into the central courtyard.

Then his eyes widened, feeling a faint tingle of alarm.

Why was it so hard for him to focus on the courtyard below?

And as concern quickly blossomed to alarm, he abruptly sensed the flow of arcane energies now permeating the air as a massive ball of light sprung up over the keep, highlighting a rag tag band of thirty or so musketeers on the farmost keep battlement, a single cannon surrounded by nothing but bodies covered in plasma burns, and the shredded bodies of countless orcs on all the battlement walkways Eric had claimed in his bloody campaign to seize all the artillery he could.

But what instantly grabbed Eric’s attention was the sight of over twenty orcs radiating the power of disciplined classers glaring at him from below.

If looks could kill, a startled Eric would already be dead.

Even worse, each and every one of them was equipped with pilum held at the ready, the tips of every last one vibrating with absolute killing intent.

Eric didn’t bother meeting the eyes of the coldly sneering chieftain who also radiated the magics of a shaman, or waste a single second groaning in dismay.

Instead he leaped for the far parapet, hurtling himself as far from the keep walls as he could as the air hissed with cutting death cutting through the air. Though what scared him the most were the pilum tearing right through the keep walls in a furious effort to tag him.

A startled Eric could barely suppress the cry when two pilums slammed against his mithril mail shirt, leaving him breathless as he hurtled the air, before a third one blasted through his kneecap, blinding him with excruciating pain that consumed his world, before a single desperate act claimed the javelin now rammed halfway through his leg and covered in his blood as his own.

Mithril Mail, essence infused lizard hide armor, and a Physical Resistance of 30 mitigates 2 Lethal Wounds to 2 stunning blows!

You have been critically struck with Crippling Blow weapon feat! Mithril armor does not protect! Damage Resistance has been partially bypassed!

Willpower check successful! Perception check successful! You have successfully saved versus disorientation!

Tuskers summoned!

You have successfully braced or impact!

Eric choked back a sob, his leg screaming with pain when he hit the ground, taking scant comfort in the fact that his arms could now cushion the impact from a 30 foot fall to hard packed dirt as easily as cannon-balling into the deep end of any hotel pool, just a lifetime ago.

The alarm bells ringing in the back of his skull denied him even a moment’s stupefaction as he made eye contact with no less than a dozen fiercely grinning Javelineers showing off all their tusks, and one smirking chieftain surrounded by an arcane ward reminiscent of so many shamans Eric had fced before him.

“There he is! The halfblood! Crippled and broken before us! Strike as one. You know what to do...”

Eric didn’t bother listening to the cut off speech or the furious roars as he frantically rolled out of line-of sight of the portcullis entrance, tossing a few things behind him as he continued rolling as fast as he could before lurching to one knee and using his pilum as a walking stick to make a frantic retreat right before his interface map warned him him of a flood of Javelineers exiting the keep with perfect line-of-sight to his back, despite the near pitch-darkness.

You have successfully summoned multiple undead bulwarks!

“There he is, men!” The chieftain roared triumphantly, and Eric just knew the bastard was sneering in Eric’s direction, propping his foot on a convenient stone just outside the keep entrance to look even more like a vainglorious idiot than he already was. A idiot who just happened to be in the right place at the right time to sign a temporarily wounded Eric’s death warrant.

“Look at the shivering elf, trying to hide between walls of flesh and bone! You all know what that mongrel bastard’s capable of! You all know your javelins can pierce even a wizard’s wards as well as the walls of this very keep, so his necromantic armaments are nothing before you!”

“But chief, there are four walls of flesh! Any one of them could be a decoy!”

“It matters not, fool! You have sixty javelins between you! Split up, five men per bulwark! Pin him down with javelins until Zilgoth finishes the Berserker ritual! Just avoid a killing shot. Elf boy’s the payoff we’ve all been waiting here for! Bloodtear Syndicate wants him alive? We’ll give him to them alive. Minus his fucking eyes and balls!”

The chieftain’s declaration earned the ugly laughter of his men, as was no doubt intended. “Now get throwing! We’ll circle and pincer the bastard and make that little shit pay in tears and blood for all the trouble he’s caused!”

“Sir!” A panicked orc shrieked so harshly to Eric’s ears as he waited for the agony that was his knee to finally stop throbbing. He knew if he closed his eyes and gazed inward, he’d be able to better see and understand the confluence of Cultivation Affinities and Essences working to both heal the physical damage and unwind the Crippling curse demanding that his injury only worsen over time.

Eric shook his head, biting back a snarl as his knee flared with a white hot ember of pain once more before he sensed something snap and a distant Javelineer curse, his knee instantly filled with the soothing caress of heeling once more.

“Boss, the fucker’s countered my Crippling Feat! We gotta get that shithead now!”

“You all heard him! Now start throwing those...”

“SIR!”

The chieftain audibly snorted. “What is it, Velic? I swear if this is another one of your paranoid—“

“That’s not a rock you’re propping your foot on, sir! It doesn’t fit the terrain at all. We would have cleared those away from the entrance! It has to be a—“

“Chief! What the hell is that? The ground is shaking!”

“Are those Elephants, chief? Those aren’t native to this territory!”

“No, you fools! It’s the Contender’s abominations! They’re charging right for us! Throw your—“

You have successfully triggered 7 shrapnel bombs!

You have critically struck 20 Javelineers and one Orc Chieftain!

12 Javelineers have perished! 15% Standard Experience earned.

Remaining Javelineers have retreated back through the gate!

Your Tuskers have charged through the gate!

Orc Chieftain has saved versus death! Spell ward holds!

Orc Chieftain has been trampled by 7 Tuskers!

Spell ward has been ruptured!

Unified Restoration has finished healing all injuries!

The groaning chieftain definitely looked the worse for wear when Eric stepped out from under the cover of his bulwark, all four popping right back into his storage. His footsteps hardly made a sound over the shouts and screams coming from within the keep, as he slowly approached the groaning chieftain, sensing that the handful of reds in the central courtyard were being gored and trampled to death by his tuskers. The crack and discharge of multiple muskets on the east battlement, the only one he had yet to hear, made it clear that there were dozens of orcs still manning the eastern battlement. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to be having any effect on his tuskers at all.

Much to his surprise, the chieftain immediately opened bloodshot eyes as Eric carefully approached, gazing blearily Eric’s way.

The creature spat a gob of blood as a javelin appeared in Eric’s hand.

“Cute trick, you goddamned bastard half-elf. Think you can walk right through our territory like you own the place?” The wounded and bleeding orc gave a wheezing laugh. “Well maybe you can, you little shit. Maybe you can.”

Eric slowly raised his javelin, senses utterly attuned to his foe, sensing the ebb and flow of multiple arcane wards and heartbeat alike. “You knew I was coming.”

It wasn’t a question.

The chieftain flashed Eric a bloody smile. “Damn right we did. Seems like you left a real strong impression on a couple of… friends.”

“The Bloodtear Assassins.”

The orc blinked, before grudgingly dipping his head. “Well, I guess you’re only half as stupid as you look They promised us 3 million credits in gold up front, and they were as good as their word. That’s in addition to a quarter of the bounty on your head. A full third if we can take you in alive. To bad we only had a handful of decent gunners left, none of them with your Terran abilities so useful for warping our deadliest tools. But we still had a pair of CSA Rangers that should have put a bolt right through your eye before you could even blink! And with 5 iron long guns, hell. We thought it was easy money!”

Eric smirked. “Turns out it wasn’t so easy after all.”

The orc gave a bitter laugh, turning to a wheeze. “Fortune and glory are promised to no orc on campaign. Only the opportunity to strive for greatness.”

“I guess propaganda bullshit is universal. And my Dominion Interface didn’t sense any of your Javelineers, and what else are there… berserkers hiding in the tunnels with your other shaman? One can only wonder how you pulled that off. Some shamanistic blood magic? Or wait… I know.”

Eric snapped his fingers, carefully focusing on the Orc’s stoic expression, looking for any tells. “The goblins! Those Bloodtear assassins. They gifted you with some some sort of cute toy that let’s you block your presence from the interface. I’ll bet that would be worth a pretty penny right there, hey?”

Eric held tight ring on his roiling emotions, mental gears spinning in a dozen directions as he flashed the wide-eyed and critically injured orc chief a glimpse of one of his Lesser Tier Spirit Fruit.

Though the creature was the farthest thing from a cultivator, the way its eyes widened, nose twitching as it fixated on the prize, it was clear that at the very least, it sensed a truly wondrous prize was being dangled in its face.

“I’ll tell you what, chief. If you promise to walk away from me and mine and hand over that goblin toy, whatever it is, you get to walk away with your life and whoever you want to bring along with you. Best of all, you’ll be up a spirit fruit that will probably net you a fuck ton more than 3 million credits on the open market. What do you say?”

The wounded chieftain gazed at the spirit fruit washing them all in the aura of freshly ripened fruit on a perfect summer’s day, and Eric could sense just how desperately tempted the orc was.

Before turning back Eric’s way, bemused gaze instantly turning hard and cold.

Negotiation skill check failed!

Mercantile skill check failed!

You suffer a Major Penalty for being a member of a reviled race!

“I’ll tell you what. How about you give me that pretty little peach and I’ll stuff it up your pretty little ass? Because sure as fuck, my berserkers will be buggering you proper in less than five minutes,” the massive orc declared with a bloody cough, his eyes twinkling with bitter glee. “Hell, I’ll even throw in a little extra for free. How do you think my shaman is powering our rituals, fool? He’s sacrificing all his little playthings, one by one. Listen closely with your clipped ears, pathetic excuse for an Elf! I’ll bet you can hear those girls screaming right—“

Piercing Strike!

5 Soul Reserve expended

Find Weakness skill check made!

You have successfully pierced Shamanistic barrier ward!

You have successfully ruptured cold steel breastplate!

You have pierced Chosen One’s heart!

Experience earned!

Javelin Throwing is now Rank 19!