Dungeon Lord- Ancient Traditions

by Hugo Huesca

  “That’s fine. I only need it for that hag Hilda’s birthday party next week,” the woman said. “Ah, the face she’s gonna make!”

  Lavy set the tin locket on the table and handled Coldren, who hadn’t looked up, a couple pennies.

  “You’re short eleven Vyfaras and half,” the shopkeeper said.

  “Owner’s discount,” Lavy said nonchalantly, as she pocketed the item.

  The shopkeeper’s mercurial skin swirled in alarm as he recognized the voice and looked up. “Master Lavina, you’re here? Oh, gods help me…”

  Lavy threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure no Haunted minion was around. “Come on, Clarence, how have I ever done you wrong? Your store is doing amazing since you kindly sold it to me. You should thank me and cherish me, not fear me.”

  “Sold you my store…? Your thugs threatened me until I had to sell all my stock to you at a clearance, forcing me into debt, then you bought the store for a pittance!”

  “Well, hate the game, not the player,” Lavy said, shrugging. “I also bought your debt to the bank, so you’re welcome. Without my help, some ogre may have thrown you out of the citadel without a floating buff to soften the fall.”

  “My family has sold cursed items to the unwary for generations! All my life, I dreamed of amassing riches by teaching people moral lessons through carefully selected cursed stock to match their flaws in character.” The man pitifully buried his face in his hands. “But now look at me, forced to work at my own store, little more than a slave—!”

  “Whoa,” Lavy said quickly. “We don’t use that word around here.” It usually ended with someone fed to Jarlen, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be Lavy. “You are a proud Trevil’s Runes and Relics associate, Clarence, with a nice salary and dental better than you had before. Don’t make send you to the motivational retreat. Again.”

  Coldren’s lips trembled. “The retreat? Please, not that. Forget I said anything. How can this associate be of assistance, Master Lavina?”

  “Now that’s the spirit. Did our agents find the item I asked for in my last letter?”

  “Of course, Master Lavina. Allow me to fetch it at once.”

  He hurried to the back. Lavy nodded in approval. Coldren had the potential to provide a satisfactory customer service, he just needed to be properly motivated. She made a mental note to talk with the Runes and Relics HR department about that. Perhaps they could come up with a motivational chant the associates could sign at the start of each day. Add a couple discrete suggestion canticles, enchant the floor of the back-store, and presto, you had a ritual to magically keep associates happy.

  Lavy grinned. She was in her element, dealing with the accursed magics of customer service.

  “Here,” Coldren said, setting a box on the counter, sealed with leather straps engraved in shoddy silver runes and prayers of protection. Lavy eyed the handiwork with a critical eye. Whoever had made those runes needed to grind their skills way higher. “The Canopy of Quebenef, a nasty piece of Akathunian history, courtesy of your friends the Adventurers Guild. This bad boy not only contains the undead brain of Grand Vizier Quebenef, ever hungry to siphon knowledge from the mind of the unwary, it also makes for excellent table decoration.”

  The box seemed to lie in wait, like a predator wetting its lips. “Perfect,” Lavy said. “It is just what I need.” She handled the shopkeeper a bag full of coins to cover the expense.

  Coldren looked sullen. “It is what you think you want,” he said sadly. “But what you really need is to learn a moral lesson about greed and humility.”

  Lavy grabbed the box, which was not all that heavy. Her carriage waited for her outside. As she turned to leave, she said over her shoulder, “Greed, right? Didn’t you say you dreamed about amassing riches? Because it seems like I granted your wish, while at the same time teaching you an important moral lesson about humility.”

  Realization struck the shopkeeper like a sack of bricks. “Oh, fuck me—!”

  Lavy left her store, closing the door behind her, carrying the canopy on one arm.

  Diviner Pholk, the abnatir, waited for her floating next to her carriage. “Did you find everything you looked for?” he asked pleasantly.

  She grinned and raised the box so he could see.

  Who dares wield the dreaded Canopy of Quebenef? asked the Canopy of Quebenef, somewhat muffled by its box. Oh, it is just a young girl. Darling, today is your lucky day. How many wonderful sights I can show you, if only you just open your sweet innocent little soul to me!

  Don’t bother, Canopy, today is not your day, sighed a second voice coming from inside Lavy’s purse.

  The Canopy jerked in surprise. Brief Introduction, is that you? By Tormegris’ balls, what are you doing here?

  Oh man, do I have some bad news for you, Brief Intro said sadly, as Lavy stepped into her carriage. She whistled happily. Studying an intelligent brain in a jar would do wonders to speed her research. She’d have to learn how to vivisect an undead appendage though, but learning was the name of the game, and she loved to play.

  Vivisect? asked the Canopy of Quebenef with a trembling voice as Pholk closed the carriage door behind Lavy and the spectral horses whinnied and pulled the vehicle through the crowded street. Now, now, madam, let’s not get carried away…

  17

  Chapter Seventeen

  Spriveska

  The sun shone brightly over a pristine blue sky during the week previous to the Spriveska. The breeze was warm and placid and men and batblin were often found napping under the shade of trees all around the Haunt. Fruits and vegetables sprouted juicy and shiny, and the smell of warm grass cooling slowly on the long afternoons awoke memories of childhood to all parents, and the promise of a never-ending summer to their kids.

  As the day of the festival approached, the marketplace between the Gray Highway and the dungeon entrance dressed itself in the colors of harvest. Brick brown and bright orange ribbons fluttered lazily atop every stand, and bushels of delicate flowers brightened every corner, nook, and cranny. Someone gave the fountain a crown of wild margaritas, and several farmer families left offerings to Hogbus and the spirits of the harvest all around the plaza. The smell of burning incense mixed with the aroma of blossoming flowers, and the happy chatter of the Haunt’s population as they welcomed the ever-growing line of visitors was like a melody in itself.

  Hoia’s birds chirped, the trees waved contentedly, and even the nights were fresh and quiet.

  The morning of Spriveska, Dungeon Lord Edward Wright and Klek Adventurer Slayer sat on the ledge of the Observatory to oversee the preparations below, as the drones hurried along Starevosi musicians, Herbalists, Shamans, and Witch Doctors to their assorted places. This vantage point gave both Ed and Klek an eagle’s view of the slumbering storm clouds as they blotted the horizon, a fine black line at first over the sea, and then a rolling mass of wind and water that rushed toward the forest, and in mere instants extinguished all dreams of summer warmth and replaced it with a curtain of water and wind that slapped Ed’s face like an insulted goddess, and threatened to send Klek tumbling down the Observatory.

  Below, on the marketplace, the crown of the fountain all but dissolved into petals that rose skyward faster than any avian, the offerings to the spirits turned to slush and scattered along the mud, and the dance of the brown-and-orange ribbons became frantic and desperate as the storm tried to rip them apart.

  Autumn, the last guest of the festival, had arrived.

  Dungeon Lord Edward Wright sighed as he helped Klek down the ledge. “I don’t know what else I expected,” he muttered. But what was he to do, roll his eyes at the changing of the seasons? Below, the Haunt’s inhabitants scrambled for the safety of the dungeon.

  “Every year, the same thing happens,” Klek screamed over the wind, his face completely covered by his sloshing fur. “My father used to say the spirits get all excited because the party is about to start, so they make a mess of things.”

  “They could�
��ve waited for the after-party to screw everything up, like normal people,” Ed said as they ran back inside, trying not to slip on the polished stone floor, which was now as deadly as any trap. Ed made a quick mental sum and realized there was no way he could fit both Haunted and visitors from the rest of the Constantinian countryside inside the dungeon. “Say, Klek, you think we can fit everyone inside the Gray Highway?”

  Back inside, the batblin shook the excess water out of his fur and almost drowned a passing drone. “It will be cramped,” he said. “That’s good. We’ll be warm.”

  “Gray Highway it is,” Ed said. His eyes sparked green as he activated dungeon vision and his gaze traveled all across the Haunt. He used his drones to rally the wet, grumpy crowd, and directed them back outside, through a sea of mud, toward the entrance to the Highway. The drones brought spare furs to the young and old, and whoever had parasols and umbrellas wielded them like spears against the spirits of the storm as the procession exited the dungeon, their magical torches like pinpricks in the darkness.

  “Sorry about that,” Ed muttered as they went. The Haunt’s security protocols demanded that the Highway and the dungeon weren’t directly connected, in case they needed to collapse the Highway as a last resort during an invasion.

  After dealing with the crowd, he sent more drones to the kitchens to help package anything the rain might ruin—mostly food, firewood, and the musicians’ instruments. Finally, he sent a couple messages to Governor Brett and Father Zachary to handle the rest, and checked on the rest of his friends.

  Kes, Alder, and Researcher Arieselle were just coming out of the Research Facility. They all looked like they needed some sleep. Arieselle carried the laptop’s container with her, which gave Ed a small prong of anxiety, but he and Lavy had drilled the importance of the object to every researcher and the succubus held it with utmost care, almost reverently.

  Kaga and the rest of the Haga’Anashi had arrived after the crowd inside the Highway. They fared worse in the rain than Klek did, because kaftar warrior clans weren’t exactly big on personal hygiene, and judging by the way people stood away from them and pinched their noses, wet kaftar weren’t exactly pleasant kaftar.

  Andreena and Heorghe were among the crowd, helping Zachary and Brett organize the musicians. Zachary was in the middle of a heated discussion with a batblin shaman from a distant cloud, and Andreena and a couple other Herbalists were dousing the food with what Ed recognized as Vitality potion, probably to avoid flu from spreading like a pandemic among the cramped crowd.

  Finally, he couldn’t find Lavy anywhere. He found out why a second after, when the disheveled Witch passed him and Klek on the corridor, carrying a bunch of scrolls, coils of copper wire, and something that resembled a paper kite toy fashioned like a bat.

  “There you are!” Lavy exclaimed at Ed, her face hidden by the stuff she carried. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Can you give me access to the Treasury?”

  Ed pointed a finger at her and cocked his head in curiosity. “You… aren’t going to explain what for, are you?” A couple days ago, right after he had come out of the Infirmary, Lavy had asked him to build her a dungeon room right next to the Aviary with some strange specifications. Seemingly, she was headed that way now.

  “No,” she said simply. “That would jinx it.” Whatever it was, she seemed excited about it.

  “Fine,” Ed said. “Just don’t bankrupt us.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said as she hurried upward. “I enjoy seeing those piles of gold in the Treasury way more than you do.”

  Klek watched her go with a confused frown. “I thought she hated that thing Alder does where he keeps stuff secret until the last second.”

  “I think she only hates it when people do it to her,” Ed mused. He shrugged. “Let’s hurry, if people wait for us a minute longer before the feast we’ll have a riot on our hands.”

  The underground festival was like a flood of music, color, and heat as people dressed in traditional Starevosi garments danced and shook around the bonfire in what was both a dance routine and divine ritual.

  Kes sat placidly on one of the kaleidoscope cloths set around the bonfire for people to watch the ritual, and sipped at her tzuika horn, enjoying the warm fruity flavor travel down her throat. She glanced down at the half-empty drinking horn and wondered just who had drunk all her booze without her realizing.

  That’s a mystery for another time, she thought, waving the horn at a passing drone until she caught its attention. Thankfully, her years as a roaming mercenary allowed her to hold her drink as well as any dwarf, because otherwise she would’ve been tipsy already.

  “So?” asked Arieselle, who was sitting next to her. “What do you think?”

  The Marshal coughed to dismiss a burp that filled her mouth with the taste of berries. Yup, dwarven resilience alright, she thought, as she took another sip. “Sorry, you were saying?”

  “I don’t understand the point of these festivals. It’s autumn. Harvest already came and went,” Arieselle said, crossing her arms when she realized she was being ignored. “In the Netherworld, the only parties we have are to praise our Regent for not eating us.”

  “In a way, Spriveska is similar,” Kes said, summoning every inch of her Spirit attribute to not slur her words. “It’s set after springtime to thank Hogbus and the spirits of the harvest for not letting people starve during the incoming winter. All of this—” she waved at the dancing and the musicians playing their instruments “—is really an excuse to gather with your loved ones and feel grateful you all get to live another year.”

  Arieselle flicked her hair as she pondered this, in a way unconsciously designed to be as seductive as possible. A lot of eyes kept close tabs on Kes’ cloth. The avian chuckled and took another sip of tzuika. “I hear the Lotians throw really nice parties,” Arieselle said. “I’ve never been to one, though, researchers don’t get much free time.” She turned to Alder, who was sitting in front of the two women. “What about your people, Chronicler Alder? Do the Heiligians celebrate anything other than carnage and warfare?”

  Alder blinked, and Arieselle had to repeat the question. “Ah, the Dance of Flowers in spring,” the Bard said. “I don’t think the entire kingdom celebrates it, but Elaitra does. The Horticulturist Guild sponsors it. For a couple days, entire streets are filled with exotic flowers, and people come out to dance and cook. It was during one of those festivals that I met the fabled Bard Soileau.”

  “Why is he famous?” the succubus asked, edging forward. Kes grimaced, sure that Alder was about to dash into an hour-long meandering anecdote.

  He merely gave the two of them a distracted shrug, though, and said, “He had the Bardic School longstanding record of concurrent partners.”

  “How many?” Arieselle asked, hugging her knees, clearly intrigued.

  “About four or five, I think. Interesting fellow. There’s this tale where he jumped down an active volcano… ah, but that’s a story for another day,” Alder said, before gazing up and visibly forgetting about the conversation.

  Arieselle turned to Kes. “Good for that one, but to be honest, Alder seems a bit… meek. Aren’t Bards supposed to be these legendary lovers? From the sound of it, a Lotian prince gets more action between his morning pee and breakfast than your average Bard.”

  “Remember that Bards wrote all the stories about Bards,” Kes said, holding up a laugh. “Anyway, our good Chronicler is distracted by something. Give me a second, I’ll have a word with him.”

  She switched places to be next to the Bard and gained his attention with a slight elbow to the ribs. “What holds you, friend Alder?” she asked, taking another gulp of her drink. “Usually you’d be slobbering all over Researcher Arieselle. And she seems to be into bookworms, so what’s your deal?”

  “Well, I’m kinda already seeing someone,” Alder said, wriggling his hands nervously. “It’s sort of… a complicated relationship.”

  Kes raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She had
to admit she hadn’t been expecting that answer. “Who? If Heorghe comes at you swinging, I’m not going to save your butt from that one.” The blacksmith had shoulders wide enough to make her believe he could make the shaping of steel a manual labor in the literal sense.

  “It’s not one of his daughters,” Alder said. “Anyway, I shouldn’t talk about it or I may end up as fish bait.” He stood up, then looked around. “If you ladies will forgive me, I must convince those fine musicians to let me join their next piece.”

  Kes and Arieselle exchanged a confused look as the Bard headed toward the musicians. “What now?” the succubus asked.

  The Marshal refilled both their cups. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something,” she said smoothly, then raised her cup. “Cheers. To bookworms.”

  The anger of the storm almost reminded Shrukew of the monsoons of his home. The distant crash of thunder, the pounding of the rain against the tarp of his tent, the wind trying to rip the supports out of their hinges and smash the tent and all its inhabitants against the rocks below the Aviary.

  Shrukew sighed with satisfaction, warm and content among his mates. Feathered wings brushed against his back as someone shifted in their dreams. He carefully lifted someone’s arms out of his way and he stood up quietly. Relieving oneself in the middle of a storm wasn’t the best experience, but it was necessary, and his wings had the waterproof talent, anyway.

  As he left the safety of the tent, the cold seeped into his bones. That did remind him of home, and not in a good way. During winter, the carrion avians retreated into their caves high atop the hills. According to Stranded Kessih of Greene, during Starevos’ winters, it snowed. He had barely survived the experience with Lord Wright and the frozen expanse of the Netherworld, he wasn’t keen on trying his luck again. Soon enough, he and his would return home. It was still to be seen if they would come back after that, with the rest of the clan.