Vigils wrath a litrpg ad.., p.6
Vigil's Wrath: A LitRPG Adventure (Vigil Bound Book 4), page 6
Or making gunpowder.
I considered Arturo’s words for only a second. “Then it looks like we’re going to expand our trading empire. I want you to send a representative to Trevento, and I want to buy their operation outright. Since we’re already in the mining business, it might not raise too many red flags. Not for a while, at least.”
Arturo drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “It’ll be costly,” he said absently, as though running the cost projections in his head. “Still, I suspect we’ll be able to afford the offering. But that will only buy us so much time. Eventually, someone will connect the dots, Boyd. Like that pompous blowhard from Stralbruck gracing our back stoop. And what happens then, hmm?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said.
He didn’t look even remotely satisfied with my answer, but he grunted and raised his glass anyway. “To creating problems for our future selves to solve.” He downed the remainder of his drink then issued a thunderous burp. “Now that we’ve got the business handled,” he said, “tell me how the Hunt goes, eh? I’m assuming not terrible since you’re still alive.”
“Still alive for now,” I replied. “Though we’ll see how long that lasts. We’re throwing a little get-together for all the most dangerous assholes of the Fae Wylds in a few days and I’m pretty sure Renholm is going to try and throw me under a horse cart.”
Arturo laughed. “And what else is new?”
“This is different,” I said, an edge of worry in my words. “The little shit wants to abdicate the throne, Padre, and he wants me to take his place. As king…” I filled him in about Renholm’s scheme then reluctantly told him about the Legacy Scroll I had tucked away in my vault. He asked questions every now and then, but mostly he let me talk. Let me vent. Between raging at Renholm and this whole fucked-up situation, I told him about my fears and concerns.
That this wasn’t what I signed up for.
That this wasn’t what I wanted.
That I wasn’t built to be a king.
Leading guys into a firefight was one thing, leading a nation was another entirely.
“I warned you not to get involved with the fae,” Arturo said as I finished. It was a gentle admonishment, but there was no real bite to his words. “But that is one bridge you’ve already crossed, I’m afraid to say. Past you has made quite the predicament for present you, it seems.”
“Wow, that’s exactly the kind of astute wisdom I was hoping for, Captain Hindsight.”
“No need to be an ass just because you are showing yours at the moment,” he said.
I sighed. “Yeah, fair enough. But I really do need advice. Fighting a dark god is one thing, but this feels way out of my league. What should I do?” I asked, genuinely looking for any advice that might point me in the right direction.
He frowned, his lips pursing into a thin line. “I suppose the question I have is, why not you?”
His words caught me completely off guard.
“Come again now?”
“Why not you, Boyd? What makes one king more fit to rule than another? They are born to the job, but trust me, I’ve worked with enough nobles to tell you for certain that they are no better than the common man. Oftentimes, they are worse. Privileged. Entitled. Egotistical. So why not you? You are strong, smart, courageous. You care about people. About justice. Are those not admirable traits for a king? And unlike most nobles I’ve had the displeasure of serving, you are humble enough to listen to the advice of those with more wisdom than you.” He smiled and tapped his chest.
“Glad to see one of us is humble at least.” I offered him a half-hearted grin.
“Joking aside,” he said, “I’ve often found that those who don’t want power are often the best equipped to use it shrewdly. And as a warrior who has seen friends die in battle, I think you will be less likely to sentence those you care about to death over petty grievances or perceived slights. You’ll need help with the administrative duties, certainly, but so long as you surrounded yourself with competent advisors and ambassadors, there is no reason why this couldn’t work. It is your choice, not mine, but for what it’s worth, I think you’d make a fine ruler.” He paused and smirked. “Especially when Renholm is the alternative.”
That landed like a sucker punch to the gut. Here I was worrying about whether I had what it took to rule, without ever really taking the time to consider that Renholm—a fairy with no discernable skills, critical thinking, or leadership potential—was currently filling the post. He’d been king for all of three months and had already gotten us involved in a multination war and had committed several war crimes. If that was the bar, it would be hard to do worse.
“That certainly gives me something to think on,” I said.
“So what will you do?” he asked after a beat.
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I replied, my mind already working through what this meant long term. “But for now, I need to get back to Starlake. And I need some bribes. You got what I need?”
The chair squeaked and groaned as Arturo stood. Beneath the wall of weapons were several chests, covered by a thick canvas tarp. “Of course, my liege,” he joked. Or, at least, I thought it was a joke. “I set them aside first thing.” He yanked the tarp away, revealing three different chests. He motioned to the first. “Nearly a hundred pounds of raw Selitrium Ore—it’s worth five hundred gold Kelkadian crowns on the open market, so be sure not to misplace it, eh?”
I whistled through my teeth.
Five hundred Kelkadian crowns was more than most people ever saw in an entire lifetime. A silver crown would get you three hots and a cot for a day, while a golden crown would pay the bills for a month. Although an exact currency exchange was impossible to make, a rough calculation put a golden crown at right around two thousand dollars. Which meant there was damn near a million bucks in raw ore sitting not but three feet away from my feet.
“And since our iron ore is yielding an extra payload,” he continued, “I decided to include twice that amount in iron ore.” He kicked the second chest with a boot. “I figured you might be able to smelt it down and turn it into weapons for your growing army.”
“And the last chest?” I asked, eyeing the third crate with interest. I noticed Arturo didn’t kick that one.
“The first complete batch of black powder.” He dropped to a knee and carefully opened the lid as though it might be booby-trapped. Inside were neat rows of brown wax paper parcels carefully stacked on top of one another, each package secured with simple brown twine. “Seventy pounds, all tied into half-pound packages.”
Granular black powder may not have been as powerful or explosive as modern gunpowder or the TNT they used in mine blasting, but it was still more than powerful enough to bring a city wall crashing down.
“That one, I would handle with care,” Arturo said, gingerly shutting the lid. “The alchemists tested it rigorously and assured me it’s safe for transport, but I have my doubts. Some of the earlier iterations were”—he pursed his lips into a thin line— “volatile.”
“No need to tell me twice.” I reached down, pressed my palm against each chest, and whisked them away to my Soul Vault for storage, via Fae Tether.
“Good luck, Boyd,” Arturo said, once the last of the chests disappeared into the ether, leaving only a dusty footprint on the floor where they’d been moments before. “When it comes down to it, I’m sure you’ll make the right choice. Not necessarily the smart choice, but the right one. You always do.”
I sure hoped he was right.
7
Play Nice
Turned out, Arturo’s chapel in Ironmoor wasn’t the only place filled with pushy, unexpected guests looking to cut a deal now that we were swimming in money, resources, and influence. Even though we were still days away from the party, Starlake Keep also had come down with a bad case of freeloading leeches: visiting dignitaries from two different Fae Courts, presumably looking to cut a deal before the next Hunt. Unlike the douchey trade ambassador from Stralbruck, looking to get his sweaty hands on several casks of black powder, I actually needed these leeches.
Emissaries from both the Sibylline Court and the Araethyrea Primacy had finally crawled out from beneath Ionia’s thumb and were waiting for me down in the recently renovated ballroom. According to Lena, my Keep castellan, Melwyn and Renholm were both already down there, stalling for time.
Honestly, I wasn’t particularly shocked by the news.
Bogen CrowEye, the champion of the Sibylline, had failed spectacularly during the first hunt and had ratted out the other champions for a chance to live. If he showed his face in Mythis Syve without some powerful new friends backing him up, Ionia would eat him alive. And Drusk, the mantis warrior of Araethyrea, was in exactly the same position. Not only had he botched the attempt on my life back in Mag Aisling, he’d had the sheer fuck-you audacity to not die horrifically in honor of the Oblivion Court.
Both champions had nowhere to turn except to me.
They were still incredibly dangerous, I reminded myself. Hell, it was possible they were even more dangerous now that I’d managed to back them into a corner. I reckoned there was still one way they could get back into Ionia’s good graces—they could plant a knife in my kidney, then cut the head from my shoulders and give it to the Queen of Oblivion by way of apology. I had a feeling my untimely death might just be the olive branch they needed to mend old wounds.
With that firmly in the back of my mind, I took a deep breath and pushed my way past the heavy wooden doors standing sentry over the ballroom.
The first thing to greet my ears was the scratch of flatware on fine porcelain and the chortles of polite laughter. The room looked even fancier than the last time I’d seen it. A domineering crystal chandelier now hung from the ceiling, casting glimmers of firelight on the guests below. Huge banquet tables, draped with finely embroidered silk tablecloths, had been set up to form a U shape. In the center of the U sat a large table, covered with a spread of succulent meats and bewitching-looking fruits.
A small army of Bocra wearing gold-and-red livery scurried about the room, serving food and pouring drinks for the assembled guests. I got a good look at the new uniforms as one of the Bocra shuffled past—stitched in gold thread was the sigil of justice that graced my forehead. Perfect. Despite my best efforts, Melwyn was trying to turn me into actual royalty.
On one side of the U sat the three mantoid delegates from Araethyrea.
Drusk, I immediately recognized, thanks to the heavy, sensible armor covering his torso. It was also hard to forget the face of someone who had actively tried to impale you, even if they weren’t human in any sense of the word. The other two mantoid creatures were significantly smaller than their champion, and even at a hundred yards, I could tell they were talkers, not fighters. Aside from being less physically domineering, they wore elaborate and wildly impractical togas made from spun opal fabric, embellished with silver thread.
No one with any degree of combat sense would ever wear an outfit like that into an enemy stronghold, regardless of the ironclad laws of hospitality that the fae seemed to stick to. Still, just because I could probably take ’em in a fight, didn’t mean they were any less dangerous than Drusk. As I’d learned through painful personal experience, physical violence was often the least potent form of power.
Sitting opposite the mantoids on the other leg of the U were the two feathered representatives of the Sibylline Court. Like Drusk, Bogen CrowEye wore his customary assassin leathers and had a pair of daggers belted low across his waist. A bandolier covered with matte black throwing knives ran diagonally from shoulder to hip. The crowman was the first to see me and dipped his beak in a curt greeting. No hard feelings, that nod said, business is business, nothing more.
I returned the gesture with a grunt.
Bogen’s traveling companion was a willowy humanoid peacock with pearly white plumage. He wore a kimono-like gown of blue and green silk that brushed the floor. Bright, iridescent plumage that matched his robes spread out behind him like a fan; it didn’t take me long to notice that the eye spots on each feather weren’t just for show. They were actual eyes: black, glossy, and strangely intelligent. Several blinked at me, while others roved around the room, surveying every corner of the space for potential threats. More still seemed to stare off into the distance, seeing things that no one else could.
Unlike the mantoid dignitaries, the peacock left me feeling extremely uneasy. I got the distinct impression that he was a snake, just waiting for a moment of inattention to strike.
Seated at the head of the U were Renholm and Melwyn. The Princess of Petals sat in a high-backed chair covered with braided columns of flowers in a riot of hues—neon pinks and deep blues, fiery oranges and vibrant reds. She wore a black gown as glossy and dark as raven feathers that made her porcelain skin seem to glow by contrast. She was stunning, and the perfect picture of regal authority and inhuman grace.
Then there was Renholm…
The little turd was presiding over the shindig from atop a miniature throne of gleaming gold, polished gemstones, and rat skulls all artfully mashed together. Sir Jacob Francis was curled up beside the throne, purring loudly while his tail flicked idly back and forth.
Renholm’s oversized eyes landed on me and they burned with mischief that left me feeling even more uneasy. As dangerous as these visiting dignitaries may have been, none of them were as treacherous as the good intentions of the Pookah.
He raised a tiny crystalline glass and tapped the edge of a miniature fork against the side with a soft clink-clink-clink that carried on the air. “Ah, it seems the Vigil has returned at last. He was busy attending to the very large and extremely lucrative Selitrium mine, which we hold in the Oakenward Province.”
“Duke Boyd.” The peacock stood and bowed—just the merest dip of his head—one feathered hand pressed against his stomach. “It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance. You’ve been the talk of every court as of late.”
He squinted and all of his eyes seemed to regard me as one. A cold sensation washed over me, and chills raced across my skin. He was using some sort of magical scrying skill, though it wasn’t one I’d experienced before. It felt like he was somehow looking directly at my soul.
“Yes, quite the impressive specimen,” the peacock continued after a moment. “Your core formation is quite peculiar and there are pieces of information blocked even to my advanced senses.” He bobbed his head up and down in a motion that reminded me of the pigeons that occasionally invaded the city walks in Lexington. “Impressive and peculiar, indeed.”
“Renholm has been regaling us with tales of your many adventures since arriving in our world,” one of the mantoid delegates added when I didn’t immediately respond. Its voice had a droning quality to it, and I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. “You’ve lived quite the exciting life for one so young to our world. Slaying Mortka, rooting out corruption, building a trading empire for yourself. Not to mention all of the feathers you’ve managed to ruffle among the courts of the Wyld.”
“Nothing would ever dare ruffle my feathers,” the peacock added with a chuckle.
“We should all hope not,” the mantoid ambassador added playfully. “But now that you have decided to grace us with your presence, we would love to hear more about you from your own mouth. I, for one, am most curious about the world you left behind. Renholm was telling us you were a soldier of one sort or another and died gallantly in battle. Is that so?”
I stood there for a long beat, looking at the delegates in turn. Something snapped and fury bubbled up inside my chest.
In four long strides, I crossed the room, grabbed the edge of the serving table, and upended it with one great heave. Cups, plates, food, and utensils came crashing down onto the floor of the ballroom with a thunderous clatter. Everyone froze, looking at me with shocked expressions. Melwyn, in particular, looked mortified.
“Apologies, Vigil,” the peacock man said. “If we said something that offended, it surely wasn’t our intention.”
“What’s offensive,” I growled, staring at each of them in turn, “is that you’re sitting in my home, eating my food, and making polite conversation as though we aren’t actively at war. As though you and your allies aren’t currently trying to figure out a way to murder me and my friends. Less than two days ago I had that fucker right there”—I thrust a finger straight at Bogen—“chained to a chair not but a hundred feet from where we’re sitting. Renholm was torturing him, and I was prepared to cut his head off unless he sold out Ionia. Just yesterday, Drusk impaled me with a spear and pinned me to a wall like a damned bug.
“Me? I take that kinda shit personally,” I said, voice soft but threatening. “I get that this Hunt is all fun and games and fancy fucking dinner parties to you, but it ain’t fun and games to me. And I’m guessing it wasn’t fun and games for Aymer, whose headless corpse is rotting outside Mag Aisling. Or for the five hundred and seventeen souls of Orezan who are dead because of this game. We’re monsters, all of us, so let’s stop pretending we’re not. We might need each other, but we’re not friends. So cut the bullshit platitudes and false civility, and let’s get down to brass tacks—tell me what you want and what it’s going to take to get you to turn on Ionia.”
The silence after I’d flipped the table had been thunderous.
The silence filling the room now was deafening.
8
Negotiations
“This is outrageous, we will not be spoken to in such a fashion,” one of the mantoid delegates hissed, clearly insulted.
“Yes, yes we will, Irukki,” Drusk said placidly. He reached out and rested a slender forearm against her—or maybe it, who the hell knew—shoulder. “We will because we have no other choice, and we all know it. The Araethyrea have been on the outs with the Oblivion Court for the better part of three decades—ever since she ousted Elomir and took the throne. Everyone here knows that Queen Ionia isn’t the forgiving sort, and she’s never forgotten that we backed her husband.”
