Dungeon Lord- Ancient Traditions

by Hugo Huesca

  Silas nodded toward the bloody figure of the Inquisitor sleeping on the bed. “The way the kid speaks of you is like a puppy looking up to an old dog. The Church raises its Inquisitors for their loyalty, does it not?” He chuckled bitterly, his gaze lost in the distance. “Their loyalty did the others no good. We were sent to that dungeon to die, Eminence. It was hell on earth. A nightmare.”

  There was something refreshing about talking to someone who didn’t worship him. Truth be told, Silas seemed as if he couldn’t care less if Gallio dropped dead that very moment. He instantly took to the old Ranger—perhaps because Rangers reminded him of another time.

  “You have fought against Wright’s dungeons before,” Gallio pointed out. “And won.”

  “Victory came harder every time,” Silas said quietly. “We should have had more men and more experience points. Griffins. Mages with more spells.”

  Gallio agreed. “Until the army arrives, our forces are limited,” he said. “Griffins cannot be everywhere. We must use them against the most threatening dungeons or Wright will burst through our defenses. Magic is always in dire need.” He gave Daizas a cursory glance. Gallio feared the day that Examiner Harmon simply left the wounded at the mercy of the non-magical healers and had all Clerics join the field teams. “Please, Ranger Silas, work with me. I want to avoid more disasters like what happened to your team, but I need to know what changed.” The Examiners sure as hell won’t tell me.

  “Everything went on as usual.” Silas grinned. “Then again, that’s how disaster always starts, doesn’t it? The reports about the sightings were right. We arrived at the dungeon’s approximate location, set up a base, found a batblin patrol, traced it back to the dungeon entrance. The spellcasters and the Rogues marked the traps, wards, and so on. We went in.” The smile vanished from his lips. “It was an ambush. They knew we were coming. As soon as we stepped through and found no guards, we tried to turn back, but it was too late. The doors were barred from the outside. Fireballs rained down on us; the mages barely kept us alive. The walls were hollow, you see, and they had these small canals running through them, too small for a man to use unless he crawls. Big enough for batblins, though. They could safely use fireball runes from the openings on us and forced us to rush deeper into the dungeon or die when our barriers fell.”

  “No demands of surrender?”

  “None,” Silas confirmed.

  Gallio frowned. Before, when the minions were aware of the Inquisition’s arrival, they offered to accept surrenders. But an Inquisitor would never surrender to the Dark. All fights were to the death. Apparently, wasting time talking only gave the Inquisitors the chance to strike and kill, so Wright’s forces had stopped offering.

  The war grew messier as the bodies piled up.

  “At least the damn ceiling didn’t fall down on us—that much we got right; the pillars were load-bearing. The dungeon was manned by former bandits and a Necromancer. We thought we’d be facing undead, so we brought silver and holy water. It was the wrong call. The Necromancer didn’t summon a single undead. I only got a look at him once—he appeared behind us through a secret passage and cast a blight cloud spell on the cramped corridor. Not a word from him, and he left before I could shoot him,” Silas said. “The mages dispelled the cloud, but not quickly enough. It disabled the Rogues. After that… things became too messy to remember clearly. These… acid oozes poured out from the ceiling. Straight over the mages. They were big enough to block both exits, and they closed in on us.” Silas slowly brought his palms together.

  Those were lethal traps. Cruel designs, meant to kill and not to disable. At first, Wright had tried to take prisoners, which meant he’d had to hold back on the lethality of his traps. Gallio attributed three lost dungeons to that kindness.

  Now it was gone.

  Wright was learning. And the Inquisition were the ones teaching him.

  “But you got out,” Gallio said, urging Silas to continue.

  “One of your mages managed to get a spell off from inside the ooze, though I’ve no idea how. But it pulverized the thing and herself. Bathed us in acid droplets, but it saved our lives.” Silas lowered his forehead bandage to reveal the red burns of acid he hadn’t managed to neutralize in time. “We fought our way out, blasted the door off its hinges, and rushed back to the surface… just in time to see the batblins run off with half our horses. Myself and Ranger Mikkel chased after them, and that’s how we found out the critters had also seeded the area with explosive runes. Mikkel stepped on one.” Silas shuddered. “That was the end of him, but not instantly. I grabbed the reins of the nearest horses, loaded him up; returned to the others. They were bunkered up atop a hill and exchanging arrowfire with the minions.”

  “That’s when you escaped?”

  “That was when the ogre arrived.” Silas unconsciously placed a hand over his wounded arm. “Our scrying hadn’t picked him up before. He was summoned.”

  Gallio raised an eyebrow. “From the Netherworld?”

  Cleric Daizas turned to him. “You didn’t hear this from me, but the Diviners believe the ogre came from the Haunt.”

  That was a small relief. It meant Wright wasn’t yet strong enough to summon feral fiends. He had to get them the old-fashioned way, by capturing them, securing their loyalty, and then allocating resources to house them. Still, a summoning circle could change the course of a battle, as proved by the very castle Gallio stood on.

  “Inquisitor-in-charge Felix faced the ogre alone, bought time for the rest of us to get away,” Silas said. “The batblins chased us through the forest the entire way out, shooting darts and hurling javelins. They only left us alone when we reached Raventa’s borders and a scouting party came to our aid.” The Ranger leaned back on the bed and spoke no further, having said his part.

  “Thank you for sharing this with me,” Gallio told the man. He rubbed his chin. Silas’ story worried him. The way Wright was going reminded him of another Dungeon Lord, one whose name was also a synonym for the worst monster known to man.

  As the fights against the Inquisition had piled up, Dungeon Lord Sephar had grown devilishly clever, and as his desperation grew, so did the brutality of his actions. By the end, Sephar had captured entire cities to force the Inquisition to parley. Those hostages, after being freed by the Silver Knights, had turned out to be carrying mindbrood larva inside their heads.

  Sephar’s Bane had turned into one of the bleakest times in Heiligian history. The psychological damage the Militant Church as a whole carried from having to execute the very same people they were meant to protect felt like an unhealed wound, an unspoken shame, casting a shadow across the entire organization. They had answered brutality with their own, making Lotia pay in blood for the terrible deed of its Dungeon Lord.

  And yet…

  Lord Sephar had also started small, just like Edward Wright. A single dungeon on a secluded place. The Chroniclers at the time said he had been lulling his foes to a false sense of security, but now Gallio wondered if that had truly been the reason.

  Sephar’s Bane, but our shame just as much, Gallio thought.

  This never-ending fight was like a spiral. Men grew strong and terrible in order to surpass their enemies, but the men that faced them a generation later grew even stronger and more terrible in response. Perhaps the spiral would only end when civilization was aflame. Perhaps the only thing waiting at the end of the history of Man was Murmur’s hungry maw.

  Gallio wondered how long it would be until Wright would follow in Sephar’s footsteps. What weapon would he use, the one that would also doom him as he wielded it? The Wraith’s Bane. Perhaps unknown magic from his world? An Artifact like the ones we use to command the Heroes. That would be fitting. From what Gallio knew of the Eternal Foe, the Dark god, he was the kind of being who would enjoy an elegant grand finale even more than total victory against the Light. Mortals lived as entertainment for Murmur.

  Perhaps Wright and Gallio himself were yet another spin in the spiral
of history. More would come after them. But no matter how futile it was, as long as Gallio could move, he would fight. No one had ever taught him how to surrender.

  Perhaps that was his own personal Bane.

  “From now on, assume all reports from the countryside are seeded with false information,” Gallio told Silas. “Wright has fooled the locals and is working with them. We cannot trust them any longer. Spread the word. All dungeon invasions should be treated as if the enemy knows we are coming.”

  Even though Examiners Harmon and Bartheny would never listen to him, Gallio would try anyway. They needed to invest more resources into each team. Adventurers to guard the camp outside the dungeon, enchanted armor for the leading team, more training, better intelligence. Gallio had grown to know a great deal of Constantinians during his time in Starevos. Perhaps he could infiltrate his way into Undercity, set up a network of informants. The intelligence that their spy Mohnuran had given them already proved the usefulness of such a plan, despite the danger.

  “You won’t make me go back there, will you?” Silas asked, his voice haunted. “To that damned dungeon?”

  “No,” Gallio said. “Next time, I shall go myself.”

  12

  Chapter Twelve

  Interlude: Vaines

  Vaines rushed back to the garden, her minions and servants following as close to her as they dared, the weight of their terrified stares already burning into her back. Good. They should be afraid of her, for their failure would not go unpunished.

  “We can still shoot him down,” one of her Wizards said as Lord Wright’s silhouette disappeared into the night and got farther away, his flying minion flanked by two others, each carrying one human figure.

  “No,” Vaines said. “You might hit Argent instead. Let Wright go. Kharon’s Chosen shall find his way back to us soon enough.” No one could easily imprison the Planeshifter. That was the point of his power, a fact that Wright would learn soon enough.

  Lord Virion gave her a quizzical look. “What makes you so sure he’ll return?” he asked. “Argent fears you. He could go anywhere.”

  “From what I saw of their brief interaction, he hates Wright. Whatever their relationship was back on their world, Argent is not likely to accept mercy from such a man. His pride is too great.”

  “Or maybe it is not Argent you want to protect?” Virion said. “You’re awfully calm for the kind of trickery Wright just pulled. He played us—played you. The Lordship shall remember tonight. They’ll see it as a sign we’re growing weak.”

  “Let them think what they wish,” she said, still looking into the night. She fought down a smile. “It’s not often I get to eat my words. Wright is a true Dungeon Lord.” If the rumors were true, Murmur himself had chosen the man. The notion comforted her in a way, knowing that the Dark Father looked after his kingdom after all, and was taking steps to ensure Lotia’s survival.

  Of course, Wright was not the solution to their problems—that was never how Murmur worked. The Dark One merely provided an opening; it was up for mortals to prove strong enough to grasp it. That was the Dark’s way. While the Light offered safety through order, the Dark was raw opportunity. In Heiliges, the many lived neutral lives, and even their leaders were rarely extraordinary. Lotia, though—in the good old times at least—offered a life of hardship and tribulations, and great power for those few who proved strong enough. Vaines was the living embodiment of that philosophy. A dying breed, she thought sometimes.

  But perhaps not.

  “He humiliated you,” Virion went on. The man was jealous. He was powerful, that was true, but he had likely reached the apex of his potential. The arrival of a new, untapped challenger, was a primal threat to his standing.

  “No, we simply exchanged philosophies,” Vaines said. “He is courting my favor. Lord Wright is looking to make worthwhile allies. A group of catty Dungeon Lords that came into power by nepotism are as useless to him as they are to us. Truth be told, I’d rather have him as my disciple than Argent.” Had Wright come to her right after arriving in Ivalis, she would’ve shaped his potential into a legendary figure, perhaps the head of the new generation she had always dreamed of.

  But was that potential always there? Or was Starevos itself what created it? she wondered. It was a matter worth pondering. The Dungeon Lady decided she’d talk with the Ember Clerics and send a couple Bards into the haunted country of Starevos. Maybe they could figure out what had been going on these last couple of years. Perhaps even if Wright didn’t survive the Endeavor, the country could be of use still.

  “Is that your final say in the matter, my Lady?” Virion replied stiffly. “Should I go easy on Wright when we meet in the Standard Factory?”

  “No. Coddling is not our way. Wright must prove his potential. If you consider he has insulted me, Lord Virion, feel free to avenge my honor as you see fit.”

  The man’s grim expression brightened. Such a disappointment. He had huge strength… but so did an ogre. A Dungeon Lord’s true power was their capacity to rule. Strength alone wasn’t enough to create a lasting kingdom. By courting the favor of young Lord Steros, Wright had shown Vaines he was thinking long term even under harsh conditions.

  Still, jealousy would motivate Virion. He would push himself further in the Endeavor. Letting her former apprentice clash against the newcomer simply ensured Vaines would be the one to reach Evangeline Tillman’s deed of property before anyone else.

  The Dungeon Lady had no intention of fading into the background. She would save Lotia herself, or die trying.

  13

  Chapter Thirteen

  Giant's Woe

  Soaring through the night sky was like delving through an infinite black pool sprinkled with light. Camcanna and Ullira gave the clouds a cotton-candy-like feel, and the stars seemed closer and full of life. Ed would’ve enjoyed the trip back to the Portal had it not been for the pain in his torso, Shrukew’s claws digging into his shoulders, and the growing headache.

  Dungeon Lords didn’t excel on sea or sky. Ed had no access to the ley lines of the world at such a distance, and thus no drones or Mantle talents. He tried not to look down.

  Alder had no such troubles. “Yes!” he exclaimed, a few feet away from Ed as the three carrion avians flew in formation. “Ed, are you seeing this? This is amazing!”

  On Ed’s other side, a third avian carried the unconscious figure of Ryan, bound and gagged, not yet stirring from the effects of the poison ring. Apparently Kharon’s Chosen hadn’t bothered to buy any resistance talents.

  Shrukew chuckled condescendingly at Alder’s shouts of joy. “You land-dwellers are always like an avian chick on their first flight. It is charming, but also sad. At the end of the day, you must go back to the ground, while this realm is our birthright forever.”

  “I really need to introduce you to airplanes,” Ed muttered. The pain of his wounds made him grumpy, and the headache didn’t help.

  Unlike Alder, he didn’t feel like celebrating their win until all were back in the safety of the Haunt. Until then, he refused to relax.

  “Were the other Dungeon Lords what you expected, Lord Wraith?” Shrukew asked him as they flew toward the horizon. “Tell me more about this unknown land world.”

  “They’re different,” Ed said. He thought of Lord Steros, Sanguine, and Vaines. “Most of them are quite unlike the larger-than-life stories Alder and Lavy tell. Lesser, somehow. For all their power, they’re just like bickering housewives, plotting against each other while their world burns around them. Others have the potential to become more. A few, though, are just like the stories claim.”

  A long time ago, Kharon had told him the Lordship was in decay. A war that spanned generations could do that. Worthy men and women died before having time to pass on their traditions and values to their descendants. The Dungeon Lords of old had been proud and terrible. Ed should have been glad he didn’t have to face them. But in a way, it was also sad—as if the world was a lot less interesting without the
m in it.

  Perhaps Murmur felt the same way.

  “You all look the same from this distance,” Shrukew said. “Like angry ants. But if you hear the way Kessih of Greene speaks of the Haunt, it makes you curious.” He flapped his arms hard several times and took point on the formation to relieve Crait. “She told us about honor. About brotherhood. Building a nest in a far-away place.”

  “Is that what you hope to find with us?” Ed asked.

  Shrukew laughed, a sharp noise that sounded like a crow screaming. “Ancestors, no! Only our fat cousins care about platitudes. We are a practical people. Your land and our island have opposite climates. Normally, we are too far apart for a migration, but with Portal magic, there may be a way. My duty is to watch and learn and make sure the conditions are appropriate for us to live here during our winters.”

  “In a way, I migrated to this world for a similar reason,” Ed said. “Back on Earth, I often felt as if I was frozen in place. It was only until I came to Ivalis that I started to truly live. Which, considering how much we risk our hides on a daily basis, is a bit funny.”

  “Our migration involves us returning home after the seasons change again,” Shrukew went on. “Is that the same for you, Dungeon Lord? Shall you return to Earth once you’ve taken all the riches this world has to offer?”

  Now it was Ed’s turn to laugh. “Gods, no. Ivalis is my home. But I’ve come to let go of my resentment toward Earth.”

  He was starting to think he had done his birth world a disservice. In all of his time in Ivalis, he had never met a person or a community without issues. It was probably the same in every world that contained intelligent life.

  A ruler could have good intentions, but mortals had limits, and you couldn’t make everyone happy. Eventually you had to make a choice between two sides that allowed for no third option. The losing side would call that choice evil. Make them losers often enough, they would think the ruler was evil, and rise against him. The ruler would defend his position. He had done nothing wrong, after all, or so he would believe. But blood would be spilled nonetheless.