Tree Dungeon

by Andrew Karevik

I also noticed that the first time the dwarven folk had died, I was able to draw in a great deal of life essence, but the second time, there was barely enough to power a simple spell of door creation. It would seem they lost a great deal of strength when undergoing the resurrection process, strength that would have to be built back up.

  With my troll army decimated, most of the traps and doors destroyed, there was little for me to do to defend against the nine archers who were systematically exploring me. I was growing nervous with each passing hour, as they were slowly figuring out the secret passageway that led to the Staff. But as I watched them intently, I began to notice an opportunity was forming.

  One of the archers, a tall elven woman, looked rather irritated with the protracted search. She made the argument that they had already gained more than enough wealth from the dwarves. Spending any more time on a “low-level” dungeon was just wasting their efforts and energies. A few of the others agreed with this woman, but the leader—a brash minotaur—was insistent that they continue searching every last nook and cranny of the dungeon.

  The unrest began to build. They obeyed their leader, but the conversations amongst each other grew more agitated with his directions. I could hear every bit of their words, their whispers and complaints. And after listening to one particular voice for a while, I became confident that I could replicate it. Using just a bit of magic, I began to emit sound that blew like a breeze, right past their leader’s ears.

  “I say we should just kill him and take his share of the treasure,” I whispered. I was imitating the voice of the lizardman, the only one who carried a longsword.

  “Oh, you do?” the minotaur shouted, spinning around to face the rest of the party. He had been leading them down the troll hall, firmly in the front of the line.

  The group all stared at him with mild curiosity, for no one had said anything to him. But the minotaur was beginning to huff, as if working himself into a rage. “Do you know how I handle insubordination, Skrawshis?”

  The lizardman looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t really care. Can we get back to searching now?”

  The minotaur stomped forward, shoving the others out of the way until he towered above Skrawshis. He snarled and huffed, reaching down to grab hold of the shorter adventurer. Skrawshis, of course, did not like to be roughed up and leapt back, shouting profanities at the minotaur. Heated words were exchanged, and I added some more fuel to the fire, whispering in the voice of others that now was the time to strike.

  My gamble paid off. The minotaur went into a frenzy, charging violently at the lizardman, who was quick to draw his sword and fight back. Bows were fired, crossbows unleashed and within the minute, the minotaur lay dead on the ground.

  “Damn Hornhead,” the elven woman said as she started to loot him. “I told you all he was a powder keg waiting to go off. Let’s get out of this dump.”

  They all agreed and began their journey outside of my domain. The minotaur’s lifeforce, unlike his equipment, remained behind. It was stronger, I realized, than any of the other essences I had absorbed before. The power burned with a rage and I felt some of that anger transfer to me, perhaps as a byproduct of the process.

  Ideas came to my mind, ways of creating powerful, one-off traps that would devastate my enemies. A collapsing roof, a devouring wall, all of these new thoughts came to me in a flurry. I had a great deal of magic stored up, now that the minotaur’s power was my own. I could unleash these spells now, upon these adventurers. I could crush them in an instant, obliterate them and then feast upon their essences.

  I watched as they walked down the long, dirt path leading back to the entrance. At first, I felt a spark of excitement at the prospect of bringing their demise, but before I could unleash Ragnarök upon them, a question came to mind. Would this be honorable? They were not pressing inward, seeking challenges and preparing to steal from me. They had been searching high and low but had nothing to show for their efforts. All treasure they owned had belonged to the dwarves.

  I had a choice at this moment. I could crush them all, surprise them and kill them without a struggle, using my magic to intervene, or I could let them leave. They were retreating, after all. There was no honor in killing those who did not wish to participate any longer. I could use this new magic to create better, more permanent traps instead of just wasting it on a single attack.

  On my honor, I allowed them to leave. If they meant no more harm to me, then I meant no more harm to them.

  Chapter 6

  Time was against me, I began to realize. My hallways were too short. If a party chose to go to the right, they would happen upon the False Staff very quickly. Even if I killed them, if they were resurrected, they’d be able to quickly get back to the Staff. I would not have time to rebuild broken traps or make changes on the fly. Even if my magic stores were full and fat, dungeon magic took time to work. It would only take an adventurer thirty minutes to find the Fake Staff from the time they began the adventure. Fifteen if they knew where it was to begin with.

  And so, I started to make serious alterations to myself. I used a powerful distortion method that would allow my internal world to be much, much larger on the inside. From the outside, a person would see a mighty ash tree, towering fifty feet above them. But upon entering me, they would be taken to a land bigger than the forest I resided within.

  I worked to create long, meaningless hallways. I didn’t have the magic to lay them all with traps, but that wasn’t the point. Eventually I’d have that magic, but for now, I just needed more time. These hallways were long and complex, sometimes leading to empty rooms, sometimes leading to dead ends. But I made sure that they were hard to navigate. I cut off the entrance on the right, so that the only option adventurers had when entering was to go left, through the Troll Tunnel. From there, the number of choices each adventuring party would need to make would only increase.

  This would slow them down immensely. Since the majority of the dungeon was empty, devoid of any treasure or traps, most adventurers would become discouraged. Those who did end up dying would hopefully abandon their search. I had no one to observe yet, but I believed that it would take any regular party at least a solid four days to reach the Staff room.

  After weeks of building and developing these rooms, I was satisfied. All of the magic granted by the minotaur was gone, having been used to create these rooms. Now all that was left was to, once again, wait for more adventurers to come.

  I must admit that, at first, my one focus was simply on protecting the treasure. At the beginning of this new endeavor, I thought that little effort would be necessary to ensure the Necromancer’s Staff was kept safe. Now, I understood that most of my energies would go towards keeping this dungeon operational and efficient. I found it stimulating, almost a game of sorts. These adventurers were clever and smart, always seeking ways of getting treasure and taking what did not belong to them. I must work to be ahead of them, always.

  My long-term goals had not changed, of course. I still sought to grow gigantic, to become the World Tree to Yehan and this plane. But how I achieved that goal, I believe, was changing drastically. Instead of just waiting, idly by, allowing for the magic to collect over thousands and thousands of years, I could consume the raw essence left behind by adventurers when they fell victim to my traps. With that kind of power regularly coming to me, I would not only be able to grow faster, but I would also become stronger than Yggdrasil was. Perhaps, if the end of this world were to come, I would be able to not only survive it, but also to protect them all from their own Ragnarök. I would like that.

  ***

  It was in the late afternoon, of an especially hot summer day, when the goblins arrived. There were fifty of them total, all ragged and weary. I could see that they were in poor health, with a great deal of wounded and sick. It appeared as if they were marching to some place, but the heat of the day had forced them to stop and take shelter beneath my leaves.

  I
noticed that while they all carried weapons, mostly knives, that no one stood guard during this break. They were instead sprawled out on the ground, trying to catch sleep or, in some cases, fighting with one another over the last bits of food. The only one that did not seem to be bedraggled and broken was a slightly taller goblin, wearing a white band of cloth over his left eye. In his hand was a small, gnarled staff that radiated with a kind of magic that I could recognize as divine in nature.

  I presumed that this goblin was the leader, for he had ordered them to cease their bickering and sleep. Upon the staff he leaned, eye shut, whispering fervently.

  “Great spirits of the woods, I implore for food. Whisperers in the trees, Seekers of Mischief, I beg that wildlife be vexed and lured here for us to feast. Our people are weak and dying; I entreat upon you spirits, bring us something, anything.”

  I felt a sorrow for this little shaman, for there were no spirits within these woods. My presence had given all of the spirits a great motivation to flee, for fear of my power. Indeed, should they have remained in the vicinity, I very well could have consumed their power and shaped them to serve me. But I had been too weak to do so in the beginning. This shaman was entreating spirits who would not help.

  Yet he continued, despite the futility. I watched for hours as he begged and called forth spirits to bring any kind of assistance. His plight was most terrible. They had been a small goblin society, living on the far end of the forest, when a human band of warriors arrived to clear them out. Their village was decimated, and he recounted the devastation, in the hopes of getting the attention of either a spirit of pity or vengeance.

  It became too much for me to bear. I opened a tiny bit of my magic reserves, to allow fruit to grow from my branches rapidly. This fruit, foreign to an ash tree, would nourish them for weeks and aid in the recovery of their wounds. These round, red fruits grew swollen and could not be held by my branches for long. They fell onto the goblins, rousing them from their slumber.

  In joy, they cried out and began to feast, hurriedly eating to their hearts content. It was a kindness that I gave to them and I was proud of what I had done. The World Tree Who Nourishes. Perhaps that would be my first of many titles.

  Yet, while the other goblins and their young ate and rejoiced, I noticed that the shaman had not taken part in the feasting. Instead, he unbound the cloth around his head and stared at me, his good eye shut.

  “You are not a spirit, nor a god,” the goblin shaman said as he approached me. “What are you?”

  I said nothing. My custom now had been to only speak in deed, and I saw no reason to change just because a shaman realized I was different from other beings.

  “Oh, so you mean not to speak to me? Why? Will your silence make me believe you to be aloof and uncaring? Do you hide for fear of danger?” the goblin pressed. “I am a speaker of spirits. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

  Of course, I was not afraid of him. I found it somewhat amusing that he would even suggest such a possibility; after all, he was a tiny goblin, no more than three feet tall.

  “I may be small, Great Tree, but my magic can be quite strong,” the goblin said. This gave me pause, for it seemed that he could hear my own thoughts.

  The goblin snickered. “I plucked my eye so that I could see in the world unseen. I gouged my left ear so that I could hear the world unheard. I could not sense you until you cast your spell to feed my people. I thank you, kind spirit, for helping us.”

  “You are welcome,” I finally decided to reply, using the magical technique for mental communication that Urioc had taught me.

  “My name is Chief Ehdrid,” the goblin said. “We have been on a long journey, one without an end in sight.”

  “My fruit shall last for years,” I said. “Take all that you wish, and you will survive the trip.”

  Ehdrid thumped his staff on the ground three times. “You are a mighty dungeon.”

  “I host a mighty dungeon,” I corrected him. “I am the World Tree.”

  Ehdrid shrugged; those words meant nothing to him. “We did not enter you for fear of the terrible things you would do to us. But, may I come in unharmed?”

  “There is a mighty treasure that I must protect on my honor,” I replied. “I slay those who enter for they seek that treasure.”

  “I seek no treasure,” the goblin said as he began to walk towards my mouth. “But a home.”

  A home? What a strange thing to look for in a place of terror and violence. I watched with curiosity as he entered me and glanced around.

  “It is cool and dark,” Ehdrid said. He touched the rough, vine covered walls. “Much like our home. We goblins are not friends of the toplands, for humans often see us as a threat. Our ways are a threat to them. We serve not the gods but the spirits, and as such, the humans have a holy crusade to slay us whenever they can.”

  “A cruel plight. Have you not interceded to the gods for protection?”

  “What the gods say and what the humans believe the gods have said are two very different things,” Ehdrid replied. “Our goblin coffers are fat with treasure and magical goods. Our lands contain mines with access to gold and diamonds. How convenient are their crusades against us.”

  “So, you wish to stay within me? I must warn you, adventurers come quite often in search of wealth.”

  “They arrived weekly at our homelands as well,” Ehdrid said. “But we did not have a host like yourself to protect us. Allow me to make this offer, World Tree. Carve us a level of your dungeon, deep into the earth, where we may live our lives. Feed us this fruit to sustain us. And speak your will to me. I shall see that what you wish is done.”

  “What could you possibly do for me?”

  “Fix your traps, for we are great craftsmen. Collect the riches that adventurers leave behind and place them where you wish. We shall even enchant rooms with charms meant to weaken those who would dare oppose you,” Ehdrid said. “And in turn, you give us home and food. We live together, in harmony. A thousand generations of my kind shall live and die within you, but each generation that comes will have a shaman who knows to obey your will.”

  His offer was intriguing. I had been struggling for quite some time with the fact that moving things within me was expensive in terms of magic. It was a sincere waste of energy to move the contents from one room to another, especially since I could use that magic for dozens of other purposes. Having many hands, scurrying about and doing as I requested, would solve these problems. And, the many traps that adventurers love to destroy could be repaired quickly.

  But could I trust Ehdrid? I knew little about goblins. This could be a potential trick, meant to gain access to the treasures within me. But at the same time, he had not been aware of my presence until after I had fed them.

  “I shall allow you entry into my dungeon,” I said, “and you will serve me. But be warned, for no goblin may ever cross through the Mage’s Door. If one crosses the door, all of you shall be expelled. Understood?”

  “And so, it is, my master,” Ehdrid said. “And so, it is.”

  Chapter 7

  The goblins brought a great deal of solutions to the many problems I had been struggling with. The dead adventurers were thoroughly stripped of their precious items and then buried in graveyards. The gear and treasure were distributed through the eight new rooms I had built. Spikes were sharpened, doors were constructed out of the wood I provided them. There were only fifty of them, but it felt as if I had an army of engineers working tirelessly to improve my designs.

  True to his word, Ehdrid spoke on my behalf. He took orders only from me and would distribute my instructions to the others in the morning. They were busy building their own huts and housing in the lower levels that I had designated for their living. This section, called Ehdridton, would be where they would spend their time, safe and sound. They were happy, and I was proud of my accomplishments.

  Ehdrid and his people were mine to watch over. They were to become
a valuable part of this ecosystem I was developing. I vowed on my honor to ensure that no harm came to them of my own intentions. I taught them of all my traps, and when I would create a new room they were the first to know.

  The Mage Door was a temptation for Ehdrid, however. On more than one occasion, I spotted him standing in front of the door, simply staring. I grew worried that perhaps the nature of the Staff was calling to him, offering him some kind of bait that made it worth the risk of having all of his people expelled from their new home. But I did not mention my observations to him. He would have to make his own choices.

  Yet, while the goblins’ arrival was beneficial in a great number of ways, there were drawbacks. They needed to eat, and while I had assumed that my fruits would last them a lifetime, they had eaten the entire supply within a month. Growing more fruit would waste more and more magic, and I was unsure that I was able to meet their nutritional needs. At the core, goblins were carnivores, who needed meat to survive. My magic could sustain them but was incapable of providing the satiety and satisfaction that meat brought.

  Fortunately, Ehdrid brought forth a solution to me one morning. He had noticed that there was a surprising lack of monsters within the dungeon. The trolls were proving to be too hard to control, as they would often get into fights with anything including each other (or in one case, when observing a mirror, themselves). Worse yet, they were attacking the goblins on sight. Normally, the goblin folk were quick to avoid danger and stay out of the troll tunnel, but one unfortunate accident led to the death of two goblin engineers. They too were buried in the graveyard.

  Ehdrid insisted that we make some changes after this incident. The trolls needed to be placed in pit traps or locked into specific rooms, where they would be free to feast on adventurers who entered, as opposed to simply just wandering around. The collateral damage these creatures caused was too much. But Ehdrid had some ideas on how we could add more monsters to the dungeon—monsters that we could control.