Dungeon Lord- Ancient Traditions

by Hugo Huesca

  In the training grounds, Klek and Tulip practiced military drills alongside a new squad of spider riders. The Haunt’s batblins were a good inch taller than malnourished forest batblins, and Klek dwarfed them all. Ed couldn’t pinpoint the exact point his furry friend had grown so much—to him, Klek would always be that scrawny little creature that had faced a mindbrood with him despite being terrified.

  Good thing that he’d grown, too, because Tulip was a horned spider princess. Although she was smaller than her sisters, all the experience points that she and Klek had racked up lately seemed to be doing their job. She was twice as big as a normal spider warrior and was about the size of a young pony, which was enough for Klek to almost disappear atop her. Ed made a mental note to talk with them about their infiltration missions, which had surely gotten harder now that they couldn’t use just any bush or shadowy corner to go unnoticed.

  A nearby screech called for his attention. He had reached a section of the Haunt off the limits for most minions, a long tunnel surrounded by traps and warnings in red letters. A pair of Monster Hunters flanked the sides of a round iron door which had a “Danger: hell chicken testing facility” stamped on the center.

  The kaftar saluted as Ed approached them. “Lord Wraith,” they called.

  “Hunters, how are our favorite murder chickens doing?”

  “Same as always, Lord. We’re making progress—slowly. These damn things are the greatest challenge for our breeders since a Dungeon Lord a couple decades ago asked the clan to domesticate a sphinx. Apparently he enjoyed riddles with his dinner.” He gave the iron door a small knock with his spear. “Today, we’re testing a diluted version of Master Andreena’s lovely perfume. The plan is to find out if we can recreate the loyalty they feel toward a potential mate without… well, the desire to mate.”

  Ed’s eyes flashed Evil Eye green as he used dungeon vision to take a peek at what was going on behind that door. A pair of non-minion Haga’Anashi wearing the tribal attire of their clan stood on a balcony as a hell chicken chased at a drone below. The drone looked terrified out of its mind and was frantically spraying itself with a tin bottle. The hell chicken looked like a lovechild between a feathered dinosaur and a bad fever dream. It had jet-black feathers, corrugated gray skin, curved claws like daggers, a beak that could punch through mail like it was wet paper, and a pair of cruel red eyes currently glinting with raw desire at the increasingly terrified drone, who was losing ground by the second.

  “Good luck with that,” Ed told the kaftars. “Call me if you need any more drones.”

  “You’ll be hearing from us soon, then,” they said as he left.

  By the time the Dungeon Lord caught up with Alder, the Bard was alone in the Inner Gardens, sipping hell wine from a brass goblet while relaxing against the green waist-high railing that separated the gravel path from the exotic Netherworldly plants. Alder looked away from the plants, his gaze set on the ceiling, lost in some daydream. A spotted man-eater plant was using this chance to quietly creep a tendril toward the Bard’s shoulders. Ed saw the thick bulb of the man-eater lick its lips with a long pink tongue.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he told it as he strolled toward the Bard. The man-eater let out a shrill whine and retreated its tendril.

  Alder snapped back to reality. “Ah, Ed. I didn’t realize you had returned.”

  He was a tall, young Heiligian man, with straw-blond hair, pink cheeks, and an easy smile. He liked to dress in shiny colors and bold cuts, and was currently sporting a puffy yellow doublet with a small white cape draped over his shoulder, along with checkered white and blue trousers made of some satin-like fabric. The belt around his waist was braided leather, dyed in the colors of the rainbow. His shoes were pointy and carved out of wood. Alder loved that outfit and insisted it was considered the highest of fashion in Elaitra, where the Bardic College was located, despite not having visited the island for as long as Ed had known him.

  “You shouldn’t hang out alone in this part of the garden,” Ed told his friend. “Half the things in here want to eat you.”

  “What, you mean the man-eater? No way, we’re buddies. She just has a very unfortunate name. Isn’t that right, gal?”

  The man-eater shrugged a tendril. A few other plants, like the blood roots, also attempted to look as innocent as they could.

  Ed narrowed his eyes. “Right.” He gave the plants a warning glance. “Well, let me remind your pals about the cannisters full of pesticide ready to douse them if they so much as lick anyone they aren’t supposed to.”

  “I’m sure there are a few minions that will be sad to hear that,” Alder said with a shrug. The blood roots looked contrite.

  The Dungeon Lord and the Bard strolled through the Garden’s hedges, which were a source of rare ingredients for potions and venoms. The Garden had been the idea of Andreena the Herbalist, but she was a Starevosi woman who had never set a foot into the Netherworld before, and as such had little idea about the care required for the strange—and often dangerous—plants. Thus, Ed had had to hire a couple of corrupted dryads from Xovia to serve as caretakers and gardeners. Thanks to the Garden, the Haunt’s selection of potions had increased, and the Monster Hunter recipe for envenomed darts was currently being improved.

  “Your chameleon runes worked perfectly last night,” Ed told Alder. “But we used up the entire lot. Any chance you could make the Haga’Anashi some more soon?”

  “Well, not soon soon, but I’ll try,” Alder said. “It will be faster once I buy the mass illusions talent, but I’m still grinding out the prerequisites.” He scratched the patchy beard he was trying to grow. The Bard looked nervous. Despite his high Charm, he’d always had trouble hiding his emotions, and it was clear something was bugging him. “Since we’re talking shop, I thought you might wanna know, Undercity’s nobility is mighty pissed at you. A few are conspiring about having you deposed.”

  “Again? Some people just don’t learn,” Ed said. “What’s their deal this time?”

  Alder crossed his hands behind his head and tried to appear calm. “Remember last month when we raided the slave pits? Killed every slaver inside, made an example of them, and then you made that threatening speech to the survivors while still drenched in blood and gore?”

  “Vaguely,” Ed said, raising an eyebrow and feeling his throat dry up.

  “Well, a few noble families owned a share of the pits. Turns out it was an important source of income for them, and with the naval blockade, it was the only source of income some had left. They’re going around telling the other nobles that you’re exterminating them on purpose,” Alder said. “Also, since almost all the Merchant Guilds either kept slaves around or had deals with people that used them, well, they suffered losses and are threatening to stop paying tribute—” the Bard coughed and corrected himself “—taxes, I mean.”

  The memory of what they’d seen when they raided the pits flared into Ed’s mind. The squalor. The open sores oozing pus. The cries for mercy, for freedom, for death. Kids’ foreheads branded red with the sigils of their owners. At first, he’d simply planned to rout the slavers and free the prisoners. Instead, when they had seen the reality of the situation, Ed had cursed himself for letting it go unchecked for as long as he had. He’d ordered the doors to the pit closed shut behind him and his minions, and they had set to their grim work. Later, after the slaves had been freed, Ed had burned the pits to the ground and scattered their ashes to the wind. The flames had risen so high that surely the Heiligian Navy had seen it from their positions in the blockade and wondered if Undercity would be razed before they had their chance to do it themselves.

  Ed wondered if he should just treat those noble families the same as the slavers and be done with it. His skeletal hand ached as if it were submerged in ice.

  “We’ll talk to them,” he said. “Perhaps we can find them something else to do other than trade in slaves.”

  “Really?” Alder said, raising an eyebrow. “I was almost expecti
ng you’d just feed them to Jarlen.”

  “If we make bloody murder our first response against any offense, people will just straight-up revolt when they make a mistake because they won’t have anything to lose,” Ed said. “What happened in the pits was… I wasn’t thinking and could’ve handled it better. Maybe. But these nobles are our allies against the Inquisition. We need them and they need us. If we just kill them before trying to smooth things out, then we unravel the fabric of the society we’re building. Whether we like it or not, we must learn to live with them.”

  For years, Heiliges and the Militant Church had ruled Starevos with an iron fist, purging evildoers at the first offense. Necessary or not, their zeal had laid their groundwork for Ed’s rise to power, creating eager allies for him after the fight against the Heroes. Before that night, Ed had found common ground with the Netherworld and its Demon Regents, a decision which had been instrumental in the Haunt’s survival and eventual triumph. Because of these experiences, the Dungeon Lord firmly believed that the way to make the Haunt thrive was to learn to compromise.

  Alder nodded slowly, scratching at the scar on his neck. “Well, I for one am glad to hear that. The gods know there’s killing enough in our past and future. But these people are very angry, Ed. Sometimes the people willing to talk get their teeth broken by those who aren’t.”

  Without thinking, Ed’s hand came to rest on the handle of his sword. “Ah, well, if talk fails, then that’s when we Jarlen them,” he said. “Don’t worry, Alder. It’s one thing to be reasonable and another thing entirely to be lawful stupid.”

  The new Research Facility was one of the better-protected sections of the Haunt. It was located under the Library and out of the reach of all minions except for Lavy and her underlings. The traps around the entrance, which was hidden beneath a statue, were set to trigger if intruders attempted to enter. The circular walls of reinforced stone were covered with a sheet of blessed iron, and were inlaid with silver runes from top to bottom, glinting angrily under the weight of their magical consumption. A miniature Scrambling Tower stood against a wall, while different anti-scrying devices rested opposite it. The center was covered in magical circles of advanced designs, and a single crystal pod embedded into a heavily enchanted silver rim was encrusted to the floor.

  Ed found Lavy and her cadre of spellcasters hard at work, hunched over rolls of parchment, or drawing complex magical circuits with their fingertips and discussing possible enhancements. Animated skeletons wearing the Haunt’s tabards shambled diligently, assistants of sorts, carrying stacks of books or rune collections. Stress and lack of sleep permeated the air while Lavy glided around the Lab like one of her spirits, pointing out mistakes in the research of her underlings or praising others’ work before demanding even more effort. Lavy was human, but most of her researchers were abnatirs—a pufferfish type of Netherworldly fiend with an affinity for magic, which offset the vulnerability of their floating balloon bodies, leathery and covered in small spikes. The rest of the spellcasters were a couple of ill-tempered naga from Xovia citadel and a succubus from Braaga.

  A rhythmic clunking extended through the Lab as a skeleton walked onto a wall, over and over again. The researchers mostly ignored it.

  “Lavy,” Ed called. “You got a moment?” Instead of the usual fanfare and rows of salutations, his arrival barely received a few nods of acknowledgment from the researchers, who were too busy to waste time on boot-licking. Ed really liked spending time in the Research Lab.

  The Witch blinked at him, clearly noticing his presence for the first time. She gave the malfunctioning skeleton a dirty look and went to meet the Dungeon Lord. “For the guy who pays for my stuff? I may even have two,” she said.

  Ed studied her Galemoorian dress, silk frills with shining pearls from the Heiligian sea lining its breast and neck. It was uproariously expensive, as was the jewelry hanging from her pale hands and glinting out of her long black hair. He was absolutely certain the Haunt—or his own wallet—hadn’t paid for any of that.

  He turned to the skeleton smashing itself against the wall and smacked the back of its skull, pushing the body to the side. The skeleton stopped, slumped its shoulders, and after a quick pause, returned to its duties. “There we go,” Ed said. “That was getting annoying.”

  “It had been doing that for a while. How did you know hitting it would fix it?” one of the researchers asked.

  “Probably a bug within the pathfinding parameters,” Ed said, giving a small shrug. “I’ve got a bit of experience with those. A good shake usually resets them to the latest instruction, but you should take a look at it anyway, since the bug is still there.” Like many programmers back on Earth, Ed had a love-hate relationship with bug-finding. On one hand it could grind a project to a halt and waste far too much time. On the other, the satisfaction of finding that one troublesome bit of code and patching it was second to none.

  The cheeks of the succubus turned pink. “A bug? But I cleaned the bones myself before raising the body.”

  “Arieselle, are you suggesting our Dungeon Lord is mistaken?” Lavy said sternly, her hands on her hips. “You probably missed a marrow scarab somewhere in the pelvis, grab a scrub and check again, you klutz!”

  “Yes, Master Lavina!” the succubus said, scrambling to obey and knocking a set of expensive-looking vials over in her hurry, sending them crashing to the ground, where they started spreading green liquid everywhere. A couple of nearby pufferfish dove for cover when the liquid began to smoke.

  “I swear to Hogbus, one can’t find good henchmen anymore,” Lavy muttered under her breath.

  “You know that’s not what I meant,” Ed told her.

  “Still, she probably did miss a scarab,” Lavy said, smiling innocently.

  “Any progress on the power source?” Ed asked her. In front of them, a couple brave researchers doused the smoking floor with a neutralizing agent. A smell like rotten eggs filled the air.

  Lavy sighed. “Maybe if you’d been gone a month. After a week, though? Nothing much to report. This… Laptop Artifact from your world challenges even a genius such as mine. Eventually it shall lay its secrets at my feet, but for the moment it still resists me.”

  Ed nodded. He had spent many sleepless nights working over the differences between Ivalian spellcraft and Earth hardware and software. He had found that there were some similarities. Programming and spellcraft were both, at their core, a complex set of logical operations stored and executed sequentially in a circuit. In a computer, the circuit was a real, solid object, the crowning achievement of many lifetimes of technological development. In a spell, the circuit was a metaphysical construct, stored into Objectivity itself, and could alter reality when called upon by someone with the magical energy to empower it.

  Lavy and the others had understood that quickly enough, but the parts where the similarities ended gave them trouble. The most obvious difficulty was in simply charging up the battery so Ed could turn on the damn thing and show them how it worked instead of writing basic “Hello-world” programs on a chalkboard and comparing the process to the way spellcrafters created the simplest magical spells.

  At least Heorghe and the engineers are having an easier time working with the Summoned Hero’s gun, Ed thought. A gun was easy to understand, by comparison. A small explosion in a confined space that threw a hard piece of whatever really fast at someone. With the help of a couple gnome engineers and a splash of combat magic, the Haunt was making progress in a couple interesting directions. The main problem was doing enough in time to make a difference in the upcoming Endeavor.

  The Witch and the Dungeon Lord headed for the crystal vat in the middle of the room. Inside, a naked corpse floated among a viscous liquid. The body was that of a male, but without any distinguishing genitals and with a face whose features seemed as if carved out of wax, like a doll. Burns and unhealed wounds covered the body, and the slash of a sword had uncovered the inner workings of the creature’s magitech machinery that show
ed under the fake skin. Its chest had been carved open and a cavity lay in the spot where the heart should have been.

  “At least that’s one mystery solved,” Lavy said quietly. Next to the vat with the corpse of the Hero Ryan Silverblade was a smaller vat, this one filled with a muddy embalming liquid and a carved cube of black meat floating inside. The cube beat rhythmically, despite being dead. Ed had seen black meat such this once before. It had come out of Kharon the Boatman the night Ed had been summoned to Ivalis—and was now a part of Ed. It was his Mantle, the heart of a Dungeon Lord, source of all his powers.

  The Inquisition was using parts of Dungeon Lord hearts to power its Heroes.

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” the Witch went on. “How they keep yapping about being bulwarks against evil, and now it turns out these pristine protectors of the Light use Necromancy to build their glorified golems. Wetlands, give me a power source like that and I could turn my Rolim thrall into something just as fearsome as a Hero.”

  The Heroes could gain experience points like a living being because they held Dungeon Lord hearts in their core. A normal undead heart lacked the power to animate such a creature, an artificial being that enjoyed the growth that Objectivity granted to the living. Undead, after all, didn’t reap experience points. But the Mantle was different. It was sacred flesh, created by Murmur himself—some priests even believing it was a bit of the god’s own body. Be that as it may, divine magic was on an entirely different level of power than that of mortals.

  The Inquisition is doing something pretty fucked up trying to bend these hearts to their purposes, Ed thought.

  “Abominations,” one of the researchers muttered. “The Mantle is the Dark god Murmur’s unholy gift. To have it defiled in such a way by our enemies is disgusting.”

  Ed stared at the cube of heart-meat, painfully aware of the pounding of his own heart. Did those two share the same beat? “They think this is the only way to keep the Dark in check. Were you to ask them, they would say they are sacrificing their own integrity in order to ensure the survival of their people. The Heroes are their answer to Murmur’s Dungeon Lords. In a way, the Dark forced them to create creatures such as this.”