Dungeon Lord- Ancient Traditions

by Hugo Huesca

  Dungeon Lord

  Ancient Traditions

  Hugo Huesca

  Hugo Huesca © 2019

  Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design.

  Www.bookflydesign.com

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  26. Chapter Twenty-Six

  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

  28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

  29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

  30. Chapter Thirty

  31. Chapter Thirty-One

  32. Chapter Thirty-Two

  33. Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Hugo Huesca

  Bonus Ending

  1

  Chapter One

  The Better Part of Valor

  Mohnuran woke up to a starry sky hidden by purple clouds. His heart was racing in his chest and sweat glistened through his fur. The minotaur shook his heavy head.

  Just a nightmare, he thought as he struggled to stand up, slowly, aware that sleep was a couple hours away now that he was awake.

  He may as well inspect the camp.

  Most of his company slept in a circle around a small, smokeless fire, shivering despite their cloaks, their weapons a hands-breadth from their reach at all times. A few others played with cards smeared with bloody fingertips near a corner of the campsite, small piles of ring-shaped Balts exchanging hands in the blink of an eye, over and over again. They acknowledged Mohnuran and gestured at him to join them, but the minotaur declined. He just couldn’t see the point. After all the effort they’d gone through to acquire those meager riches, why waste it in a couple hours?

  He’d rather spend his part of the loot on something to eat. Mohnuran needed a lot of food to sustain his bulk. And hunger just didn’t put him in the mood for playing games.

  Instead, he headed the other direction, strolling calmly to the edge of the rocky outcrop past the two men he’d left keeping watch, and gazed at the road below. He had selected the company’s hunting spot carefully, with the keen eye his years as a mercenary had given him. From this vantage point, they could see any potential prey or attacker long before they could spot the company, and standing as far above as possible from the earth was simply a good idea anyway, all things considered.

  The minotaur scratched his scarred flank and fumbled with his breeches. He took a long leak under the moonlight, steam rising from the soaked grass at his feet. He could hear wolves far in the distance and the song of cicadas everywhere around him. It was almost beautiful. For a brief instant, he could almost forget just how fucking hungry he was.

  A few more weeks, is all, he thought bleakly. A few more weeks and he could pull the company back into the safety of Raventa’s woods. Maybe the Bandit King would finally allow them inside the Deepfall Garrison, wherever it was. It was rumored that the feasts there ran day and night without end, so perhaps Mohnuran would find enough food there to satisfy his hunger once and for all.

  Deep in his thoughts, he almost missed the strange shimmer down below. It was as if the dry expanse behind the outcrop was burning without flame, all of a sudden, for the briefest moment.

  The rugged mercenary-turned-bandit narrowed his eyes as he hurried to fasten his breeches. Instinct finely tuned by years of battle and hardship told him that despite facing naked rock and cracked ground all around, he was in great danger.

  There. Illusions. A chameleon spell of some kind, he thought, finding the shimmer again. As a minotaur, he had a natural resistance to illusion magic that no one else in the company shared. He’d thought for a long time some deity or another must’ve taken a liking to him… if he hadn’t awakened to pee, the ambush would’ve caught the entire company unaware.

  Calmly, as if he had seen nothing, he strolled back into the camp, passing by the cloaked figure of the nearest watchman, who was resting with his back against a boulder. “We are under attack,” Mohnuran whispered. “Wake our mages, Bug, and get everyone ready. Do it quietly.”

  Holding the higher ground, the company could give most attackers a run for their money—or at the very least buy Mohnuran enough time to get the fuck out of there.

  Bug wasn’t moving at all.

  “Are you deaf?” Mohnuran grumbled, fighting down rage that would’ve given him away. If the kid had fallen asleep again, he’d bash his brains out against a rock when this was done and over. He shook the man like a ragdoll and saw the white-feathered dart protruding like an angry wooden bee from Bug’s neck. The kid’s eyes were wide open and bloodshot, and foam gathered in the corners of his lips.

  Mohnuran dropped the kid. “Oh, dunghill,” he said, and reached for his axe.

  Everything went to hell in a couple of heartbeats.

  A volley of darts screeched through the night like a swarm of angry bees and rained down into the men playing cards before they had a chance to react. About a third of the men collapsed, and the others rushed in all directions, looking for cover or their weapons. A few darts smashed into the ground only inches away from Mohnuran, who was painfully aware of how his bulk made him an especially juicy target for the attackers.

  Mohnuran raced into the camp bellowing, trying to rouse his ragtag bunch of warriors into something resembling fighting shape, while shadowy, child-sized creatures streaked in blurs everywhere around him, laughing and chanting in sharp voices. They stole the bandits’ weapons and threw dust into the fire, spreading a thick cloud of smoke that hid them from view. The minotaur swatted at them with his axe, but they always gave him a wide berth, and his iron only found air. The creatures had eight legs with upright, hairy, humanoid torsos like some kind of monstrous centaur.

  As Mohnuran reached the shapes of the two spellcasters in his group, he felt a sharp sting in his arm. Without thinking, he reached for the dart, pulled it out, and threw it away, hoping his Endurance-enhancing talents would be enough to resist the effects of whatever poison was now running through his body.

  “Blue-Eyes, disperse that smoke!” he exclaimed, catching a lanky spellcaster that was about to turn tail and run and pushing him back toward the fray. Most of Mohnuran’s job as a leader of either mercenaries or bandits was to ensure they stayed and fought, instead of fucking off at the first sign of trouble. Another good chunk of his job was to make sure the spellcasters in the group used their allotted daily spells for something useful instead of just protecting their own hides.

  Blue-Eyes Manford gave him a dubious glance, probably wondering if he would be better off stabbing the minotaur and making a run for it. “Gust!” he screamed instead, and a surge of teal energy burst through his hands and spread out into the night, taking the shape of a gale powerful enough to disperse the smoke.

  Now that he could see, Mohnuran liked their situation even less. The centaur-spider-things spread away from the light, leaving entire zones
covered in web and adding to the bandits’ general confusion. Mohnuran dragged Blue-Eyes along with him, keeping an eye on the man’s arm just in case he tried to stab the minotaur after all. They reached the second spellcaster of the company, Coughing Cayden, who had already blown half his daily spells to protect himself. A small dome of force shone around him, protecting him from projectiles, and his body had taken the color and texture of the ground in an attempt at camouflage.

  “Cayden, you idiot, cast light!” Mohnuran said as he tossed Manford next to the rock-colored mage. If they were to have a fighting chance, Mohnuran knew the bandits needed to at least see what they were up against.

  Cayden was a coward, so he was easier to intimidate into compliance than Manford. A shining sphere sprouted from the mage’s staff and spread a circle of light through the camp, finally giving Mohnuran a crystal-clear take on the situation.

  Six of his men were down, webbed or poisoned; five were in the process of running away; and seven were standing back to back, a fierce look in their eyes and a confused expression in their faces as they looked for an enemy that wasn’t there. They held shields against the occasional dart volley.

  “With them,” Mohnuran said, leading the two mages toward the pocket of resistance and through a maze of webs. “Get behind those shields and save your spells for something you can see.” Quietly, he let them get in front of him.

  Then he turned around and tried to run away as nonchalantly as he could.

  Dozens of heavily armed kaftar marched into the field from the exact direction Mohnuran had chosen for his escape. The hyena-men wielded scimitars or man-sized shields along with spears. After spotting their well-kept furs and their professional demeanor, Mohnuran’s hope that he was up against a rival group of bandits or a bunch of forest critters vanished.

  Only one faction in Constantina had the Haga’Anashi clan in its employ.

  More kaftar poured in and surrounded the campsite. Their numbers were bolstered with horned spider warriors. The group of bandits faced them with whatever weapons they’d had time to reach right as the battle began.

  A tense calm reigned in the outcrop, broken only by the whining of the wounded and poisoned. The pocket of resistance behind Mohnuran kept quiet, and the minotaur was painfully aware that everyone was looking in his direction, but at this point he cared very little. His main goal was to surrender in the most non-threatening way possible.

  A second before he could throw his axe down, the rank of shield-bearing kaftar in front of him parted to give way to a human clad in black plate, who strolled forward to face Mohnuran.

  The man held a rune-engraved longsword in one arm, and the other hand covered in some kind of gauntlet that mixed charred bone with spiked steel. From the visor of the helm shone two pinpricks of eldritch green light, and a tattered cape that had once been green fluttered behind him through the remnants of Blue-Eyes Manford’s gust spell. Mohnuran caught a glimpse of the carvings in the breastplate, showing images of spider Queens and burning monsters whose visages sent shivers down the mercenary’s spine. He tried to take a look at the man’s character sheet, but most of it was hidden, which meant that he was either too powerful or under magical protection—neither option boded well for Mohnuran. It didn’t matter, though, because he had a pretty good idea who he was up against, taking into account the armor and the eerie green eyes.

  In a way, this moment was the entire reason Mohnuran was here in this forsaken province of an even further forsaken country. Still, he would’ve preferred that the moment never had arrived at all.

  “Lord Wraith,” Mohnuran said, trying to keep his voice level. “We, ah, meet at last.” Mohnuran’s company had been avoiding Wraith’s minions for months now, briefly getting into skirmishes with small patrols of horned spider warriors or running away from the Haga’Anashi. Seeing the Dungeon Lord himself leading the force was like having the Bandit King himself arrive with a score of his best knights to help Mohnuran’s company steal a couple Balts from a cabbage seller. In other words, it wasn’t something a reasonable man expected to witness in his lifetime.

  It was that kind of night, apparently. To make things worse, Mohnuran realized that his attempt at running away must’ve seemed to everyone like he’d wanted to confront Wraith. The mercenary cursed under his breath. Playing at hero was the fastest way to get killed, and a rookie mistake he avoided like the plague.

  Constantina’s Dungeon Lord aimed the tip of his sword up at Mohnuran’s neck, as if he cared not that the minotaur was almost twice his height. “You’re the leader of this bunch?” he asked dryly. “I hear it’s customary to offer you a chance to fight back.” He held his sword one-handed, with his knees bent in a duelist stance.

  It almost made Mohnuran grin. Duelists were easy to take down—they expected you to follow rules. Then he noticed that Wraith held the sword handle close to his chest, a defensive variant of the same stance favored by human-sized officers in some armies.

  In other words, it was a feint. Wraith wanted Mohnuran to try his luck.

  Screw that, the minotaur thought. Of all the bad ways to die, being farmed by someone more powerful than him for his experience points was one of the worst.

  He raised his axe to the side. “I surre—”

  From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Blue-Eyes had broken free of the group of bandits and was rushing forward, aiming a hand at the Dungeon Lord. “Ice bolt!” the bandit roared, and a pale blue lance that glimmered with moonlight soared through the air at about the same time a dozen darts struck all over his body.

  Many things happened at once.

  Wraith exclaimed something too quick to make out, and his sword exploded in green flames. Faster than an untalented human could react, he swiped up and to the side with his blade, and the sword neatly parried the incoming spell. Flames lashed against ice, and the fire prevailed, spreading a small screaming cloud of vapor around the blade.

  To their credit, the bandits tried to fight it out, while a wall of angry kaftar mixed with horned spiders closed around them.

  Mohnuran sighed and swore to kill Blue-Eyes himself if they somehow got out of this one. Then he rushed at the Dungeon Lord, gripping his axe in both hands and tensing his arms.

  One strike was all it would take. Mohnuran’s Brawn attribute was high enough that he could take Wraith’s head clean off, even if Wraith used enchanted armor. The minotaur had done it before, so he knew it was possible. And Wraith was off balance because of the spell.

  The axe rushed at the Dungeon Lord, eager to sever the fragile human neck. Instead, Wraith bent his torso backward, pushing his sword against the ground for balance, and the axe parted the air above the Dungeon Lord’s face.

  At once, Wraith jumped to the side and punched at Mohnuran with his free hand—an unexpected move against a minotaur, like someone trying to punch out a mountain. Mohnuran didn’t even feel the hit. Before Wraith could regain his footing, the bandit kneed him in the torso and send him backward. Instead of falling down, though, the Dungeon Lord managed to remain standing and return to neutral stance, sword tip aimed again at the minotaur’s neck.

  Pain wailed in Mohnuran’s knee. Smashing bone against steel plate wasn’t the brightest of ideas unless you were a dwarf, but Mohnuran’s Endurance had enough ranks that he trusted nothing important was broken. He cursed, loudly. Had Wraith fallen over from the attack, Mohnuran could’ve killed him before the kaftar could have done anything to prevent it.

  The gods knew that killing the Dungeon Lord now would save him a lot of trouble.

  Around them, kaftar and spiders mowed bandits down so fast that Mohnuran couldn’t tell which of his men were down and which were still up and slogging it out. At least the Haga’Anashi were leaving him and Wraith to sort their fight out. Not exactly the brightest tactical maneuver, risking their leader like that, but that was the thing with kaftar. They probably thought something stupid—like respecting the Dungeon Lord’s one-on-one duel.

  Wr
aith pushed forward, moving with quick, short steps, drawing semi-circles around Mohnuran, and probing the minotaur’s defenses with quick, noncommittal slashes and stabs. Mohnuran tried to keep up, looking to close the distance between them in violent outbursts, but Wraith’s flaming sword kept him at bay, flashing around his axe like a snake toying with a rabbit and spreading intense bursts of red pain when it bypassed Mohnuran’s defenses and singed the flesh of his arms and hands.

  Strangely enough, Mohnuran could feel himself becoming winded faster than he’d expected. He risked a glance at his character sheet and realized that his Endurance had gone down by a couple ranks at some point during the fight.

  What in the Wetlands…? he thought. Some bandits believed that Lord Wraith could siphon the life out of his enemies by touch, just like a specter or a real wraith. At the time, Mohnuran had dismissed it as superstition. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

  Worse yet, it was as if Wraith’s entire battle technique had been taught to him by someone who personally knew every single damn part of Mohnuran’s fighting style and hated him with a passion.

  Just what exactly was he up against?

  A red filter spread through his vision as rage boiled inside his chest like a balloon about to burst. Wraith was playing with him. If only Mohnuran could catch him, then the Dungeon Lord’s tricks wouldn’t matter one bit. The desire to pound the man’s face into a pulp almost overwhelmed Mohnuran’s better thinking. Many of his peers had found death at the end of a spear by giving in to their tempers.