Grand Game 475: A Minefield of Auras (Patreon)

Note from Tom: Just a heads up, I've made some minor corrections to the previous two chapters to cater for inconsistencies and plot holes a few of you picked up. Some of the things changed:

The dialogue of Rider elites in response to Michael's appearance.
The void thief triggering messages.
The Pact messages (to account for him being in disguise).
Added Sworn-related messages after killing Sworn.

Thanks once again for all the comments. I take everything on board, and it only helps to make the story better :)
____________________________________________________________________________

My head whipped up to see the bright shining length of a longsword whistling down. Throwing myself to the left, I rolled out of the way.

You have evaded Leafbright’s attack.

A hostile entity has failed to detect you. You remain hidden.

I bounced back to my feet less than five yards away, berating myself for my stupidity. If not for Ghost’s warning, I’d be dead. No more distractions, I told myself grimly.

Refocusing on Leafbright, I saw the druid had not stopped chanting. That did not prevent her from repeatedly sweeping her blade in glittering arcs over the spot I’d just occupied, though. 

She still can’t see me. My gaze flickered downward to my two swords, held fast against the ground by the wiry roots wound around them. I’m not getting them back until I kill her.

But I didn’t need my blades to do that. I had other options—the most obvious one being my psi weapons. Gathering my will, I prepared my next spell. 

You have cast astral shurikens.

The luminous psi creations formed in my hand, each a miniature three-pointed star. A deep shade of translucent violet, they throbbed as if eager to be used. Flicking my wrists, I sent them on their way.

Roots shot out to intercept them.

Your astral shuriken has injured 3 ironwood roots.

Your astral shuriken has injured 3 ironwood roots.

My eyes narrowed to slits. Four roots had emerged—the first pair to intercept the shurikens, and the second two to absorb the bounce damage. It implied an intelligence on the root’s part—an awareness that could analyze incoming attacks and respond appropriately.

As the shurikens faded from existence, their spelled-energy spent, the roots retracted back into the ground. Leafbright was also looking over in my direction, but the druid’s attention concerned me less than what I did next.

The roots appeared capable of blocking all incoming attacks. It didn’t matter if the weapons were real or formed from psi, the roots would stop them all the same.

I could, of course, try wearing down the roots with my shurikens—the astral weapons had damaged the damnable things, after all—but I had no idea how many roots there were, and doing so would take precious time I didn’t have. There was also shatter. But it, too, didn’t lend itself to a quick resolution.

That left me with only one option.

Opening my backpack, I extracted my stygian blades. Sheathing them, I reached in again and removed ten stoppered bottles. This was no time to be conservative. I had to end things with Leafbright—and fast.

Glancing around me, I verified that the immediate vicinity was free of threat. The nearby Riders were either focused on Ghost or searching fruitlessly for me.

Right, let’s be about it.

Winding back my arms, I flung free the bombs—all ten at once. 

Predictably, the roots sprung up to intercept the projectiles. Ten roots for ten bombs. They failed to wrap themselves around the bombs though. Instead, the fragile bottles shattered on contact, just as they were meant to.

You have ignited 10 ice bombs, creating a freezing cloud.

10 ironwood roots have been frozen (duration: 3 seconds).

Leafbright has passed a magical resistance check! You have failed to freeze Leafbright.

The elven druid stopped chanting, her eyes narrowing in anger—or was that concern? Lowering her sword to point in my direction, she sent spell energy racing down its length. Clearly, I’d just been designated a bigger threat than the pollen.

I didn’t stop what I was doing though. I already had another double handful of bombs ready, and without delay, I flung them the way of the first. 

Heart in mouth, I watched them go.

The bombs I’d just thrown were the last of my supply of ice bombs. If they didn’t work…

More roots shot up.

I counted rapidly. Eight, I exulted. There’s only eight!

A bar of liquid green hit me mid-center. Leafbright’s spell.

A blight ray has hit you! 

You have ignited 10 ice bombs, creating a freezing cloud.

8 ironwood roots have been frozen (duration: 3 seconds).

The corrosive bar driving into my chest didn’t let up, piling on more and more magic damage. I paid it no heed. Gritting my teeth, I spun psi and stepped into the aether.

You have teleported into Leafbright’s shadow.

I reappeared behind the elite. Bereft of a target, the blight ray petered out. A puzzled look on her face, the druid lowered her sword. 

“It’s because I’m behind you,” I whispered into her ear just before I slit her throat.

You have killed Leafbright with a fatal blow.

You and Ghost have reached level 226!

You have slain a Sworn servant of Mammon!

✵ ✵ ✵

Haiken has died.

Letting the elf’s corpse fall lifelessly to the ground, I retrieved faithful and ebonheart, then surveyed the battlefield.

Ghost had matters well in hand with her own foes, and at the north and east doorways, the fighting was waning as both sides’ losses from the pollen steadily mounted.

The center of the storeroom was conspicuously empty, Tyelin and Malikor its only occupants. Bern and Haiken were both dead, having fallen at some point during my battles with Zultan and Leafbright. And now even Tyelin looked in trouble. 

Ever so often, the Blade envoy’s footing slipped as he dodged and weaved around the paladin. The errors were slight, barely perceptible, but present nonetheless.

Malikor, on the other hand, looked none the worse, though. Frowning, I reached out and analyzed both envoys.

Malikor is at full health, his stamina is at 80%, and his mana is at 50%.

Tyelin’s health is at 40%, his psi is at 30%, and his stamina is at 15%.

My frown deepened. “Tyelin, what in—” I began stridently, then stopped myself. 

Taking a deep breath, I began again. “Tyelin, why is Malikor barely scratched?” I asked diplomatically instead of what I really wanted to ask, which was: “What the hell have you and your people been doing all along?”

The envoy laughed hollowly. “Why? It’s because the bastard’s Class is designed to soak up damage. His armor makes him nearly impervious and what damage we have managed to inflict, his auras replenish.”

I pursed my lips. “What was the plan to kill him?” The envoy had to have had one.

“The plan was to wear him down,” Tyelin replied bitingly. “The plan did not anticipate the early arrival of the others. The plan required Lune.”

The Blade stumbled again, and this time the misstep nearly proved fatal as Malikor’s broadsword came hurtling down. Somehow, though, Tyelin managed to twist out of the way in time.

Drawing psi, I renewed my buffs. “Is that you?” I asked as I strode closer. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to intervene in the fight, but it was clear Tyelin wasn’t going to be able to kill Malikor on his own.

“What?” Tyelin envoy, sounding perplexed by the question.

“Is that really you fighting Malikor and not one of your copies?” I clarified. “You’re not hiding in the shadows somewhere, are you?”

The Blade Sworn chuckled even as he executed another acrobatic dodge. “I wish,” he said wearily. “But I couldn’t withdraw even if I wanted to. Keeping his foes chained in combat is another of Malikor’s little specialties. Once you engage him, you too will be unable to withdraw.” His lips twisted wryly. “Unless, of course, you’re able to resist a tier six taunt-variant.”

“That’s just great,” I muttered, my mouth twisting sourly.

The flat of Malikor’s blade struck Tyelin a glancing blow and sent the smaller player tumbling across the storeroom.

Watching the display impassively, I drew to a stop a healthy distance away. “Then I guess you better tell me everything you know of Malikor’s abilities while you still can.” 

Picking himself up before the paladin could reach him, Tyelin reset his stance. “Before I die you mean?”

“Yes,” I replied forthrightly.

“You won’t intervene earlier?”

I folded my arms across my chest. “No.”

Across the distance, I saw a smile steal onto the envoy’s face. “Still trying to hide yourself, Jasiah?”

I shrugged. “Something like that.” Which was true—as far as it went. No few of my abilities had been at play during the battle, but Tyelin had not seen enough to guess the entirety of what I was, and I wanted to keep it that way. 

There was more to my reasoning than that, though. 

Mostly, I didn’t want to commit myself to a fight from which there could be no retreat, and after seeing how poorly Tyelin and his elites had fared against Malikor, I was beginning to doubt I would do any better.

If I couldn’t see a way to kill Malikor, I would not engage. As simple as that. 

This was not my fight, after all. And I was fairly confident I’d done enough to ensure the Riders lost control of the sector—in the short term, anyway. Given how many of the faction’s players were dead or dying, it seemed almost a certainty that Malikor would not be able to reinforce the sector defenses before the one-hour deadline.

When I didn’t add anything further, Tyelin sighed. “Very well, you win. I’ll tell you what I know.” He ducked beneath a whistling blow. “To begin with, Malikor is not a damage dealer…”

✵ ✵ ✵

You and Ghost have killed 1,271 hostile players.

You and Ghost have reached level 232!

Tyelin has died.

The Blade envoy managed to escape death for a full two minutes. He spent the entire time talking non-stop, providing me with what sounded like an exhaustive list of Malikor’s capabilities. At the same time, my nature unchained spell whittled down the rest of the Blade and Rider forces to nearly nothing.

“It’s done,” Ghost said.

For a moment, I thought the pyre wolf meant Tyelin but then I realized she was speaking of her own task: mopping up the survivors of the pollen—Riders and Blades. Tearing my gaze from the tall paladin who was prodding Tyelin’s corpse with an armored boot, I studied my familiar. 

Ghost’s health is at 17%.

The pyre wolf’s draining bite had been more successful than I expected, and as a result, her health was not as low as I feared. “How are you?”

“Good enough to keep fighting,” she assured me.

I wasn’t so sure about that, but instead of contesting the point, I threw her a health potion. “Drink that.”

Catching the stone vial in her jaws, she bit down, sending the life-invigorating liquid coursing down her throat.

Ghost has restored herself to full health.

“Ah, better,” she murmured, absently sidestepping a floating pollen. 

“That reminds me.” Closing my eyes, I momentarily turned my attention inwards.

You have deactivated nature unchained. Mana remaining: 9%.

Malikor looked up as the vines shrank back to their original size. I couldn’t see his expression—his visor was down—but I couldn’t imagine it was anything pleasant.

A second later, the envoy swiveled around, searching the room with his gaze. “That your pet, Jasiah?” he sneered, his eyes coming to rest on the chamber’s only other visible occupant—Ghost. “Go on, send it to fight me. It won’t last any longer than the Blades, I promise.” 

Ignoring the Sworn, I retreated toward the north entrance where the pyre wolf waited. “What’s going on in the rest of the fort?” I asked her.

“There are a few score Riders in the floors above,” Ghost answered, “but either they’re not brave enough to enter the basement, or they’ve been ordered not to. They’ve sealed the doors leading down and have set a guard on it.”

“Come on, Jasiah. Show yourself!” Malikor taunted. “Or are you too scared?”

“Are they enough to be a threat?” I asked.

“No,” Ghost replied dismissively.

Resting his bloodied sword on his shoulder, Malikor began to stalk around the room. “The others may believe you a Power, but I know better. You’re just a player pretending to be one.” 

Ghost’s gaze slid beyond me to the Rider Sworn. “Are you going to respond to him?

I smiled. “No. Let him stew a bit. It can’t hurt.”

“Why are you still here?” the paladin demanded, his gaze flicking back to Ghost. “You must know by now that whatever ploy you and Blythe concocted has failed. Mammon will be here soon. You’d be wise to flee.”

“He’s lying,” Ghost scoffed.

I nodded. “I think so too. Wherever Mammon is, he isn’t coming to Malikor’s rescue. He’d have been here before this otherwise.”

“Do we fight him?” Ghost asked, voicing the question on both our minds.

Bowing my head, I pondered the question. Killing Malikor would be neither quick nor easy. 

The red-lacquered armor the paladin wore was a legendary set. It was highly resistant to piercing and would supposedly turn away even empowered backstabs. Worse yet, the set’s helm granted Malikor mental immunity—rendering my psi abilities useless.

Then, too, there were the paladin’s auras.

There were a whole host of them, from ones that repressed a foe’s buffs to others that made Malikor resistant to hostile magics, from ones that slowly burned his enemies to others that healed him. In fact, almost everything about the paladin was designed to increase his survivability while simultaneously reducing that of his foes. In short, Malikor was a player who specialized in defense.

And therein lay the silver lining.

The Sworn was not similarly equipped when it came to offense. Other than the paladin’s broadsword, taunts, and limited ability set, I had little to fear from him. 

Of course, all of this was secondhand information derived from Tyelin.

But the Blade envoy had no reason to lie when it came to Malikor—and every reason to want me to succeed—and I’d seen for myself the impunity with which Mammon’s Sworn strode the battlefield. Nothing had unduly troubled him, not nature unchained, not Haiken’s daggers, and not even Tyelin’s blades. There was no doubt in my mind: Malikor was one tough bastard.

Difficult to kill. But not impossible.

The most obvious way to defeat the paladin was to open the trapdoor and let in Tyelin’s reserves. But such a fight—one against many—was exactly the kind of fight a player like Malikor would excel at. 

Even with an army arrayed against him, Malikor would not fall easily, and with his foes packed tightly around him, the paladin’s broadsword would not miss—could not miss.

There would be losses. Significant losses.

And that in turn would hurt the Blades chances of reclaiming the sector, something I wanted to avoid. It made more sense for me to tackle Malikor on my own.

“We do,” I said, answering Ghost at last. “Not immediately, though.”

Tilting her head to the side, Ghost waited curiously for me to go on.

“We slay the remaining Riders in the fort, every last one of them and their hellbats,” I explained grimly. “Malikor is not going anywhere, nor is he likely to be reinforced from outside the sector, and the smug bastard is too arrogant to flee.” I nodded slowly, my strategy solidifying in my mind. Yes, I thought, it’ll work. 

“FIGHT ME, JASIAH!” Malikor roared suddenly. 

“Why?” I asked mildly, using ventro to disguise my location.

Malikor turned to face the east doorway—the direction from which my voice had emerged. “Why?” he repeated. “Because you’ll not claim this sector otherwise.”

I laughed lightly. “What makes you think I want this sector?”

My response seemed to give the paladin pause, and while he pondered the question, I ushered Ghost out. “Let’s go.” 

Turning tail, the pyre wolf slipped silently into the north corridor. The motion, unfortunately, still drew Malikor’s attention and he spun around. “Fleeing already, craven?” he jeered.

“Oh, never fear,” I retorted, hanging back. “I’m still here.”

“Where is your pet going?” he demanded.

“To slay the rest of your minions,” I answered truthfully, curious to see how Malikor would respond.

The paladin did not budge, which did not surprise me at all. 

“By the time I’m done here,” I continued, “not a single Rider will remain standing.”

“You will have to kill me for that,” he declared, readying his sword as he turned about to face the east doorway again.

“I intend to.”

“Cheap words,” he sneered. “You can’t kill me. I’m the—” 

“‘Devil Himself?’” I mocked.

“Yes!” he hissed, with no trace of embarrassment at the pretentious title.

“We’ll see,” I murmured. Drawing psi, I flung a casting at his mind.

You have cast slaysight. 

You have failed to shatter your target’s mental defenses. Malikor’s mind is protected by the Helm of Asmod, rendering him immune to all mental manipulations of tier 6 and below.

My spell’s failure was not unexpected. Casting it had still been necessary, both to test the truth of Tyelin’s words—and as a decoy.

“Ha!” Malikor crowed. “Your mind tricks won’t—”

Leaving the paladin to spout nonsense at the uncaring room, I raced up the north corridor after Ghost.