Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
TREE DUNGEON
Divine Seed: Book 1
by Andrew Karevik
Tree Dungeon: Divine Seed (Book 1)
Copyright © 2019 LitRPG Freaks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
Chapter 1
A seed carries many things: the energy of a new life, the death of an old tree, the memories of what has been and the hope of what will be. As I drifted down into this strange realm, called by the natives, Yehan, I could feel the ancient powers pulsing through my tiny little body. I was a pod, no more than the size of an acorn, but within me was the divine force of Yggdrasil, the World Tree—the Great Mother who gave court to the gods.
Ragnarök came, but the gods defied the prophecies. Deity and giant both refused to play their parts, instead hiding behind proxies and pawns. The sun grew black, the great winter came, and rebirth was denied. For Ragnarök was not meant to be simply an ending, but also a beginning. As the tree dies, so the seeds give birth to new trees. Life is but a cycle, moving forever in one circular direction.
My Mother, the World Tree who hoped to give rebirth in the nine worlds, saw through the greed and foolishness of gods and realized that Ragnarök would not end with a renewal. It would only end with obliteration of everything. They who clung too tightly to life would ensure that everything would perish with them. Even the mortal walkers, the two humans meant to repopulate the earth, were killed in the petty fights between the proxies of the gods.
And so, I was born. My sisters and brothers, eight in total, were created as seeds, imbued with the divine power of Yggdrasil. The Mother Tree could not renew the plane of the Norse and so, she found new planes, other realities with new gods and strange lands. We were scattered, to grow and thrive, and to carry on the legacy of the World Tree.
I know all that my Mother did, all but her great sorrow. Now, as I settle into the lush, warm ground, I begin to collect the magic in the air, just as she did when she first began. In a few short centuries, I shall loom above Yehan. Perhaps I will become just as she did, a sturdy and glorious tree, a place for the gods to hold their court and to plan their plots. A home to great beasts and wise men, who count the stars at night. I would do all that I could to honor Yggdrasil.
Years passed and with each passing sun, my size grew. At first, I was but a tiny sapling, no different from that of any other tree. But within fifty years I towered mightily over the forest known as the Feverwood. The mortals had given it such a name because of a strain of plant that grew there; an herb known for curing fevers.
I would watch the humans and elves of the wood come out on expeditions to collect those herbs. They were curious of me but knew not that I was aware of their words. At first, I struggled to understand their language, but over the years, as I drew more magic from the land, I began to grow fluent. Elves spoke the Elvish tongue, often used to mock their human companions. The humans spoke in all manner of strange tongue. They seemed to be from lands far away from the Feverwood.
Yet, they spoke freely in front of me. Lovers, hiding from the rest of the world, would talk and laugh, sitting on my branches and sharing an embrace. Thieves would climb atop me and wait for their victims to come by. The curious would take pieces of my leaves and examine them, as if hoping to glean some understanding of the natural world.
I did not mind being used in such ways, of course. I could not communicate to them, for such magic was beyond me in my youth. I could sway in the wind, bend my branches ever so slightly and rustle, but that was about it. More strength would come with time, but it would seem that on the fifty-first year, I had run out of time.
A war campaign had begun in the Northlands. The savage and cruel Kria people had made their way to the human and elf lands, fighting in long, bloody conflicts. The Feverwood became a battleground, as it was the only connection between the Northlands and the Great City of Oregmyer. Kria, the green-skinned orc tribe, fought without regard for their own lives, whereas the human-elf alliance sought to preserve themselves. Battles erupted often, with both sides striking quickly, but the Oregmyer soldiers would be forced to retreat. They always retreated.
It was in this conflict that I began to understand what mortals did to the trees in times of need. Large burly men, armed with axes and saws, took down tree after tree, hacking them to pieces so that they could create weapons of war. Siege engines, ballista and barricades were erected in war camps by both sides. Fortifications were raised quickly and then destroyed within the week.
My connection to the land allowed me to watch as these mortals ripped the Feverwood to bits. They were fighting so hard to gain dominance of the area that they neglected to realize there would be nothing left if they continued in their folly.
The Kria finally advanced and claimed the land that I inhabited. Their eager, bulging eyes saw so much fresh wood, and soon they would set about cutting down my little neighbors. These trees had no conscious mind, nor a soul, so I did not weep for them. But I knew that soon the Kria would look at my large limbs, at the size of my trunk and come to the conclusion that I would make for a fine collection of battering rams. Six months the fighting in the forest continued, and by the end, sure enough, they began to speak of cutting me down.
Such an endeavor would require great equipment, axes sharpened with magic so that they could cut clean through such thick wood. In the early morning, I watched the shaman prepare their spells, chanting and calling out to their gods to bring about a divine power to the blades of the woodcutters. The bearers of these enchanted weapons would bring their blades against their own cheeks, slicing their own flesh to show that they were prepared to sacrifice blood for their god.
Six in all were given the proper blessings. They approached me with little regard, as if I were nothing in their eyes. Of course, I was nothing to them. I was just a tree, a big one, but just an ordinary plant that would serve their purposes. There was fear in me, at first. I had been gathering and storing my magic for this inevitability, but I was unsure of what I could actually do. Up until now, all of my magic had gone to nourishing my roots and growing my body. This would be the first time that I flexed my powers, that I manipulated the world outside of myself.
As they approached, barking in their orcish tongue, mostly joking about how they would be using my limbs, I began to direct my magical reserves to my longest branch. I focused my energies, operating off of instinct alone. And, as I hoped, my limb came to life, moving as the mortals move their own arms.
“What in the Seven Flame
s?” one of the loggers shouted as I merely stretched my branch down to him. A display must be made, one that would discourage any discussion of bringing me harm.
“It’s enchanted!” he screamed as I flexed, wrapping my branch around him, lifting him in the air. He was small, a peon in comparison to the size of my limb, but spirited. He writhed and shouted, calling for help. I had a choice, I knew. I could crush the life out of this mortal, squeeze until his body became a fine paste in my grip, or I could show mercy.
Mortals live short enough as it is, I suppose. A broken ribcage should be sufficient.
And so, I cracked his tiny frame, tightening until he yelped in agony. One of my other branches grasped at the others, who were quick to back up. I dropped the logger to the ground and uttered a single word. I could not quite speak yet, but I could rustle enough to form sounds. “Fleeeeee,” I cried, “Fleeeee.” I doubt that my words were necessary, as they were quick to retrieve their companion and scamper away, crying about foul gods and druids gone mad. No one came to my part of the woods for a long time after that.
Chapter 2
Winter had begun to arrive in what was left of the Feverwood. The long, protracted war was over. I could see the armies parting back home as the snow started to fall. They would be forced to hide in their homes, to avoid death by frostbite. My neighbors, the few trees that had survived the war, did as all trees do when the cold arrives. They went to sleep. They shed their leaves, leaving them naked and scant. I, on the other hand, warmed by a powerful and ancient magic, was just as green as the day I sprouted.
The peasants, the herbologists and the scavengers were all gone for the season. I thought that the Feverwood would be bare, but to my surprise, I saw a new type of mortal. These were odd men and women, who dressed as if they were going to battle. Their weapons and armor shimmered with magic, but they bore no banner. A few of them would come and go, sometimes loudly arguing about their quest. Some would declare that “it was somewhere this way” only to grow hopelessly lost.
I would watch these strangers and discover that they were different. They were not afraid of the elements, nor of the beasts that walked the woods. Some were even seeking out monsters to slay, laying traps and bait, joking as if they were not fighting a nightmarish horror but were instead hunting squirrels. Many a peasant walked lightly in the woods, hoping to avoid danger. These strange mortals seemed to want to find that danger.
I grew a liking to them. Their conversations were about treasures and exotic places. Mages would argue with priests about spells, minotaur men would chime in about philosophy, and the leaders would tell rousing tales of heroes past. They did not stay in my woods long, of course. But as long as winter raged on, I knew that I would see these people. At least, as long as the treasure was still around.
It was during the height of winter, when the nights were longest, and the cold was fatal, that I was approached by one of these mortals. He was a tall, pale and unhappy man. The cloak he wore was made of dark-spun thread that shimmered as he walked. An afterimage followed him, making it hard to trace his exact movements. Useful, perhaps, when under arrow-fire. He carried at his side a large book, hanging off his waist, and in his right hand, an oak staff with a skull atop it.
He stopped dead in front of my trunk and looked at me. He was not, I realized, gazing at me as if in thought, or perhaps daydreaming about some errands he had yet to do. No, this stranger, a wizard no doubt, was staring directly at me, as if expecting me to do something.
“Well?” the wizard asked, his voice utterly annoyed. “Do you have something to say to me?”
I did not reply, for that was still beyond my abilities. I had saved a small reserve of my magic for self-defense, but the rest of my power was still pushing my roots to extend deeper into the ground. I could feel a source of magic beneath the land, and if I kept growing downwards, perhaps I could tap into it.
“I see,” the wizard said. He took hold of his spell book, a large thick tome, and unclasped it. He mumbled a few arcane words and I could perceive wisps of light come forth from his mouth as he enunciated each syllable. The wisps formed a rune in the air and a voice came into my mind.
“Do you understand my language?” the voice asked. I could see that the wizard was moving his lips, but no sound was coming out. A spell to connect our minds! Quite brilliant.
“I do,” I replied, thinking back to him. My leaves began to shake with excitement; this would be the first time I could speak to a mortal! What a curiosity it would be, to find out what he had to say.
“Wonderful,” the voice replied. Although he was using a positive word, he did not seem that enthused. “I am the Archwizard Urioc, Animator of the Dead, Father of Falsehood and Acolyte of the Order of the Broken Staff. And you would be?”
A name. Mortals had names to distinguish themselves from others. “I have no name, for I am alone in this world. There is none other like me, nor shall there ever be,” I replied.
The wizard did not like this. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot a little, scowling at me. “Hide your name if you wish, it will not grant me any power over you. I have sought you out for it has become apparent that you are an entity of great magic. In my time in these woods, I have watched you grow immensely. I paid little heed of course to a fast-growing tree, as that is a simple trick any druid can achieve. What captured my attention is the fact that you have been immune to the effects of winter. I cleared the druid scourge quite some time ago, so I know they did not help you.”
“You speak truthfully. I have received no aid.”
“And you were the one whispered about by the Kria shaman, the great spirit who lives in the woods?”
“I am.”
The wizard smiled a little at that. At least, I believed he was attempting to smile. “Then perhaps there is a bargain to strike? I have long been in these woods, living in my tower, hidden from sight, so that I may conduct my experiments in peace. Many a hero has sought after my place and my treasure, but to no avail. At least, not until a drunken dwarf bumbled his way into my basement. A map has been drawn, and now my best wards are useless against the hordes of adventurers who seek to plunder me.”
Adventurers! That was the word to describe those heavily armed strangers who appeared to have no real direction in life. Of course, it all made sense. But what did this wizard wish from me? I did not reply for a few minutes, instead opting to ponder his words. A bargain? What did either of us have to offer?
“Speak more,” I said.
“I wish to begin a long journey, to find artifacts that would aid me in my various endeavors. But my home is no longer sufficient to protect my belongings. I would propose a simple trade. You would agree to guard my treasure, and in exchange I shall give you spells that will aid you,” the wizard said. He reached into the satchel at his side and pulled out a handful of seeds. At once, I could see the glimmer of power radiate from them. I did not know what they were, but I felt…hungry for them. My branches began to shake once again.
“These seeds, what are they?” I asked.
“They are,” the wizard said as he knelt on the ground and began to dig away at the dirt, “soul seeds. They contain the life essence of great warriors, wizards and healers. When a great adventurer is slain, their raw essence is left behind for anyone savvy enough to collect. Even if that adventurer is restored to life by Agara, this essence does not return to him. It simply becomes a part of the world.”
“And the essence contains a great magic,” I said, watching as he carefully buried a few of the seeds in my ground. Instantly, I began to stretch a root to entangle those seeds, piercing them so that I could consume their contents.
“Indeed,” Urioc said. “These six seeds carry the essences of a great rogue, a warrior, two wizards, an archdruid and a priest. Draw upon their magic and you shall gain great power as well as the spells that they knew.”
Already, I could feel the energy surging through me. Words of arcane insight an
d divine prayers came to my mind. Knowledge of monsters and battle rushed through my limbs. Every part of me was growing in a way I didn’t think possible. It would have taken at least four hundred years to accrue this much magic!
“You like it? I can sense your glee,” Urioc said.
I had wanted to ask him how it would be possible for me to guard his treasure, but with this new magic came great knowledge. I could extend myself, grow hallow. I could create chambers within my body, chambers meant to hold items. And with my power, I could guard anything I wished. Construction would take time, but with this initial boost of energy, I knew how to create a single room within me.
My trunk began to contort as it opened up, the wood within giving way to reveal a hole large enough for any mortal to enter. Soon there would be a hallway and two doors. One for his treasure and one for his study, should he wish to return.
Urioc’s sneer grew wider, turning into an earnest smile. “So? What do you think?”
“We have a deal,” I replied. “Bring all of your valuables here. I shall guard them for you.”
Chapter 3
There was a word to describe me, coined by the adventurers who were always on the lookout for treasure and loot. Dungeon. That was what they would call something like me. A dungeon was where they would go to test their mettle, prove their worth and find riches. Urioc explained all of this custom to me as he traveled to and fro, bringing all manner of strange artifact with him. His motives were his own, he would not reveal his plans nor his reasons in hording all of these objects. This was, he claimed, typical of all wizards.
I was to expect trouble soon. Adventurers were like ants: the moment one of them saw food, they would all come swarming. I prepared myself, learning to use the different spells from those seeds to create all manner of curious traps. The first one was innocuous and simple, but I was proud of it.
Upon entering my mouth, they would be greeted by a long hallway with two doors. But what they would ignore is that I trained the ground to open beneath their feet as they walked through, causing them to fall a great distance. They would end up greatly injured and dissuaded from entering me. The only way out would be through a tunnel I bore, leading to the edge of the forest. I also made sure that the doors were sealed, so that only Urioc could enter.
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