Godsword: A Deckbuilding LitRPG (Goblin Summoner Book 3), page 1
Godsword
Goblin Summoner Book Three
Tracy Gregory
P.W Hillard Fiction
Copyright © 2021 P.W Hillard Fiction All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: GetCovers.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Goblin Summoner – The Rules
Chapter One
Gareth ran, the ferns that filled the rainforest floor crunching beneath his boots as mud splashed up the side of his leg. Sweat beaded on his head and ran down his neck, the combination of sweltering jungle heat and physical exertion getting the better of him. His hand fell to his belt, his fingers resting on the top of his deck box. The problem could easily have been solved by turning and fighting, cards transforming into deadly monsters and destructive magic. Gareth resisted the urge; it wasn’t the point of the exercise.
The sound of wood splintering filled the forest, the beast chasing Gareth bursting out into the small clearing. It was a massive thing, a creature of snapping jaws and deadly fangs, its brilliant rainbow feathers quivering in anticipation of the kill. It was still something Gareth wasn’t used to, the ancients of the forest as close to dinosaurs as he could ever wish to meet, if substantially featherier than the dinosaur toys he had grown up with. To his untrained eye, the beast looked like a T-rex, though a little smaller than he expected.
It was still more than big enough to swallow Gareth with a single gulp.
“You lot better be ready!” He was getting closer now. Just a few more metres and then he would be free of the beast chasing him.
Hopefully. The truth was that this was the first time they had attempted to make something like this work. It was why Gareth had volunteered to act as bait, as a duellist the magic within his deck would protect him from harm—to a limit at least.
He leapt over a fallen tree, one painted with a large red X. The monster had nearly caught up with him, the creature’s long strides making it surprisingly fast. Only the dense trees had allowed Gareth a chance at escaping, his smaller form letting him slip between their vine-covered trunks.
The primal bellowed, its roar shaking the trees and allowing a bolt of sunlight to sneak through the shifting canopy. The small clearing it found itself in had been chosen with care, just large enough to pull off the plan whilst being small enough that the primal couldn’t evade or escape into the jungle easily.
“Now!” shouted Imelda, the wyrmkin sitting in the branches of a tree at the side of the clearing. Alongside her was a group of nervous-looking humans, mud and dirt staining their faces and hands.
The men let go of what they clutched in their fingers, each holding onto part of a log that had been tied higher up in the tree with vines woven into makeshift rope. Long sharp shafts of wood had been hammered into holes bored in the side, the log transformed into a weapon, one that was now being unleashed on the monster below as it swung forwards. At the far side of the clearing, another group sat in the tree line, a second log swinging down to meet its mate.
The primal roared with pain as the logs slammed against it. The weight of the swinging wood imparted huge kinetic force to the makeshift weapons, the spikes protruding from the sides piercing the hide of the monster easily.
The beast thrashed in pain, the logs twisting with it as it spun on the spot. The vines held, the trees they were attached to bending forward slightly as the primal pulled against them.
“Let that thing have it!” Imelda said, dropping her hand in as dramatic a fashion as she could muster.
On each side of the clearing, in the people sitting on the branches, a handful of bows appeared, three on each side. They were makeshift things, simple curved pieces of wood carved from the treeline near the tower and strung with thread salvaged from the collective underwear of the survivors to much complaining. Nocked on each bow were gleaming pink arrows, the projectiles crafted by the crystalline spiders that shared the tower with the Wildermount refugees. The webs they spun were harder than steel, and the spiders had eagerly gotten to work on forging tools and buildings for the humans to use.
The arrows were loosed with a whistle, the archers each pulling a new arrow from the makeshift quivers they carried and firing again.
The shots were punching through the skin of the primal, and its movements were slowing dramatically, blood spreading out across vivid feathers and shifting their hue to a dark crimson.
“Cease fire!” Imelda said. Whilst she had spent her life in a forest that was drastically different her skills were easily transferable, and she had been spending most of her time in the week since fleeing Wildermount sharing what she could with as many people as possible. That was the point of the entire exercise. The survivors had seen some success catching the smaller wildlife of the forest with snare traps, but it wasn’t enough to sustain the small settlement forming and bigger conquests were needed. It had been decided to try a method that didn’t rely on the magical might of the duellists.
Eventually, it would come time to check on the status of Wildermount and the survivors would need to cope without the duellists when that arrived.
The primal fell forwards, the vines finally giving way and tearing loose from the trees. It crashed against the ground, its tongue loping from its mouth, blood pooling across the dark earth.
Raging Predator defeated. 78 experience points gained.
Gareth was glad to see that his role as bait had at least earned him some experience points towards his next level. There was still some way to go. Since fleeing from the nightmares attacking Wildermount there had been thankfully no need to fight, the tower kept safe by the presence of the massive dragon known as Luthor.
“Oh! I unlocked a skill!” one of the survivors said, a thin wiry man with a scraggly beard. He was clutching a bow in his hands. “Ancient hunter. I can sense ancients within a certain range!”
“Nicely done,” Imelda said, jumping down from the tree and landing on the forest floor with impressive grace. “That will come in useful.”
Gareth nodded at her words. As a duellist, he earned himself massive amounts of experience points, his deck box multiplying it far beyond what any normal person would acquire. He had gathered himself a large number of skills and feats, but for most people, every skill unlocked was precious. Gaining new skills could come from a variety of sources and seemed to tie into the lifestyle of the person
unlocking them through some magic Gareth didn’t understand. All of his skills were related to being a duellist but the archer had been lucky enough to unlock one that helped his new job as a primal hunter. From what Gareth understood a lucky skill unlock or gaining a particular feat was what could set one craftsman from another or help someone propel their career in a new direction.
“We should get this out of here as quickly as we can,” Gareth said. “We don’t want the body to attract more predators. We should be able to get a lot of meat out of this thing. I just hope it’s actually edible.” They had targeted the primal on purpose, the predator spotted from the tower. It was big and aggressive, perfect for luring into a trap. “Anything is better than those little ones, they’re so gamey.”
“Yeah,” Imelda said. “We better hope that we can preserve some of this. Not keen on having to do this too often.”
“The spiders seem pretty confident their smokehouse will work.”
Imelda nodded at the people in the trees above, a sign for them to begin the climb down. Vine ropes had been tossed over a branch and tied off to make it easier, Imelda’s trainees not quite at her level of athletics yet. “We’re lucky that one of the people we saved was a smoker. They seem pretty happy with the spiders’ work at least.”
“Childhood me would be pretty upset about having to eat a dinosaur.”
“I can’t relate. Sometimes you forget that Acamida is not your world. Honestly, a lot of the time I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, it slips my mind honestly,” Gareth said. He reached into his backpack, his hand exploring the endless magical void within. He produced a bundle of rope, the real thing rather than a bundle of vines. Imelda did th
“Bind the head and tail, then get the rest of the ropes around the torso. We’ll need to make sure the weight is evenly distributed,”
Imelda said, pointing at the body. “Carrying this thing back is going to be a real pain and you’re right, it might draw in other predators.”
“We’re pretty far from the tower here as well.” The trek to the predator’s den had taken the hunting party some distance from the ancient structure around which the settlement was taking shape. The structure had stood for thousands of years thanks to a magical aura that had kept the creatures of the jungle at bay. When that had failed Luthor had come to investigate and the dragon’s presence at the tower was proving far more effective than any magical defence.
Luthor fed on magic, drawing strength from the powerful leyline beneath the tower but the ancients of the forest didn’t know that, keeping their distance from what they assumed was a giant predator.
“Just think of all the exercise it’ll give you,” Imelda said, bending down and sliding her rope beneath the loose jaw of the creature.
“This thing must weigh a bunch. It’ll be good for your arms.”
“Please, I’ve gotten more exercise since coming here than I had in my entire previous life. All these long walks have given me calves of steel. Never thought I would be able to see muscles.”
“Right, and now you can work on the arms as well.” Imelda handed Gareth the end of a rope. “It’ll be good for you.”
***
The tower loomed ahead as Gareth stepped out from the treeline and onto the perfect circle of grass that surrounded the structure. It was a massive thing of grey and gold, a temple built for a goddess who had long since fallen from grace. It was a magical thing, both figuratively and literally, the space inside far larger than what the outside would imply. The tower had been built by some of the earliest people to live on Acamida, stewarded by the wayward goddess Magdalena. She had taught them the secrets of the universe, revealing the runic language of Eternal, powerful magic that allowed them to bend reality. Over time that had transformed into the less powerful runes of the modern era, but the magic still underpinned the decks that were so ubiquitous.
Leaving the treeline meant travelling beneath the bulk of the sleeping Luthor. The dragon had a long snake-like form that he wrapped around the outside to form a solid living wall. He had made sure to tuck his hands beneath his body, leaving an archway through which the hunting party could travel. Gareth couldn’t help but glance
up as he did, the dragon’s body moving in time with his breathing. It was amazing that the creature had gone from approaching threat to eager friend by Gareth choosing to stop and talk rather than fight.
When he had been reincarnated in Acamida he had been given the gift of speaking every language, along with his deck, and it had proved a power of incredible use more than once.
“How’s the arm?” Gareth said, his words directed to Imelda. The wyrmkin was on the opposite side of the primal’s head, gripping tightly onto the rope.
“Still hurts a little,” Imelda said, rolling her right shoulder. “Wish we had someone here who was a proper tattoo artist, rather than someone who learnt it in prison. I still think there’s a chance this thing could get infected.”
“You’ll be fine. Besides, it’s worth it, right?”
“I suppose,” Imelda admitted. Hidden beneath her shirt, tattooed on her shoulder in handmade ink was an Eternal rune, one that allowed her the same gift that Gareth had been resurrected with. The entire group of refugees were having them done, allowing them to communicate with their crystal spider neighbours. It made living together much easier, going a long way to assuage the monster’s fear of humans.
The ease of communication had led to another welcome change in the camp. Some refugees had refused to use the simple buildings that the spiders had spun out of fear, but now they were able to speak with them not only had they been willing to move but the complexity of the structures had ramped up. The spiders had been more than happy to complete any modifications that the humans had asked for, proud of their web-spinning abilities. Entire houses had sprung up around the tower, along with a smokehouse, a storage shed and even a forge, though that last building was more wishful thinking than anything, its use untested.
“At least I won’t sound insane when I’m talking to a gremlin or something anymore.”
“Assuming we ever get to see a gremlin again. For all we know Wildermount could be gone and the undercity with it. Those…things, the nightmares, I’ve never seen anything like that.”
All Gareth could do was nod. He knew exactly what Imelda had meant. Some insane cultist had opened a portal to the space between worlds, a foolish attempt at toppling the nobility that ruled the city. The impossible things that had clambered through had begun a rampage, one that destroyed buildings and scooped up unfathomable numbers into their many mouths. Gareth and his friends had run, teleporting back to the tower with as many people as they could fit into the ring of magical power.
What made it worse was Gareth knew the truth about what nightmares were. The afterlife had been hijacked by rebel gods, beings that toyed with the souls of the dead. Those who were lucky were reincarnated and tricked into playing in an eternal game whilst everyone else had the spark of divinity within them stripped away, the emaciated remnants cast into the space between worlds. These souls thrown away like refuse were what became nightmares, twisted and distorted by the desire for vengeance into something that longed only to destroy.
It made Gareth sick. His resurrection had been an act of mercy, rather than being chosen to play the role of a hero in the gods’
games. The thought that he wasn’t worthy had annoyed him enough for him to make it his goal, but on learning the truth of things his spite had morphed into righteous anger.
“Yeah. Assuming that,” Gareth said. “There are some pretty powerful duellists who call the city their home. I might not be the biggest fan of some of the nobles, but at least they’ll put up a fight.”
“You’ve got a point, but…so, you remember back in the forest?
The woodwyrm we fought?”
“Yeah, of course.” At the time Gareth had been Imelda’s prisoner, his presence in the forest unwelcome.
“Well, see they’re one of the forest’s biggest creatures,” Imelda said, adjusting her grip on the rope as the hunting party trudged forward. “They’re also territorial, a woodwyrm will attack another on sight. That sounds like a good thing at first, once the fight is over there’s one less monster to worry about, right? The thing is their fighting causes a lot of collateral damage and sends other monsters
scattering. In the long run, it makes things worse before they settle back down.”
“So, you’re saying that the fight might just leave the city in ruins anyway? Yeah, I can see that. We’ll have to go back at some point, just to see really.”
“Not for a while though. It won’t be safe for a long time I reckon.”
As the hunting party made their way across the field, another group of people rushed to meet them. They were pushing a large slab of pink crystal mounted on four rough-hewn wooden wheels. The refugees consisted simply of whoever was present in Wildermount’s grand stadium when the nightmares burst into reality so were an eclectic bunch. They had all come for a day of exciting duelling, not surviving in the middle of a rainforest. Luck had delivered them a bowyer, but the wyrmkin man had been tapped to be a generic woodworker more than anything else and with only simple tools made of stone or spider crystal to hand he was doing the best he could.
“I see your hunt was successful.” At the head of the group was Sarkuran, the former demon lord had discarded the cloak he had worn since Gareth had first met him, instead opting to wear a loose-fitting shirt with the top button open. Combined with his long ash grey hair he looked more at home lounging in a tavern than organising the survivors of a catastrophe. Despite that Sarkuran had found himself almost subconsciously issuing orders, his lifetime of running an empire creating habits that were hard to break.
“What, this little thing?” Gareth said nodding his head to the side.
“Should give us enough food for a week, or two, depending on how much is actually in this thing. It could be all sinew.”
