by Hugo Huesca
Oftentimes, he suspected the fiends of the Netherworld actively tried to be as cartoonishly evil as possible.
“A fistful of holy ground, thoroughly desecrated,” Jarlen went on, taking a pouch full of dirt taken from a corner of the Haunt’s cemetery where a drunk batblin had been caught pissing during Spriveska. She set it on the second circle.
“The heart of an innocent virgin, plucked before its time,” she said, her tone oozing scorn as she brought out a bloody organ the size of a fist, and set it on the last of the circles. “Listen to our summons, O Dark One. With these offers, the doors are open. Step forth—” she uttered the true name of the cursewing creature, which sounded as if a unicorn was choking on a depressed teenager’s diary. Then, Jarlen lifted her chin in Ed’s direction, expectantly.
The Dungeon Lord sighed. “And a drop of royal blood seals our covenant,” he stated matter-of-factly, as he drew a small silver knife from his belt. With a deliberate motion, he pressed hard against his arm.
He blinked. There had been no cut, despite having felt the pressure and the cold bite of the edge. Narrowing his eyes, he pressed again, this time trying not to unconsciously summon his Spirit to bolster his Endurance against expected damage. A stab of pain, and then a line of blood so red it was almost black slid down his arm and onto the ground. Almost instantly, the tiny wound burned pale blue sparks as his spectral regeneration took over, and the skin closed, leaving only a trail of sulfurous smoke as evidence there had been a wound at all.
Perhaps I have more in common now with this fiend we’re summoning than with a normal man, Ed thought, troubled.
The blood on the ground shone bright red. There was a distant song that was becoming way too familiar to Ed. The chanting of the Lucky Five grew in intensity, and all the torches went off at once, at the same time that the three offerings were engulfed by flashes of fire that reduced them to ashes.
And then the lights returned. Even the vampires looked bewildered. The summoning circle had all burned out, but nothing else had changed. There was no cursewing fiend anywhere around.
“Did we do something wrong?” Ed asked, furrowing his brow. If he had wasted an entire talent on a dud, he’d be fuming for weeks.
“Impossible!” Jarlen claimed. “We did everything by the book. Except that damn heart, of course. Lord Wraith, if only you had allowed me—”
Somewhere above Ed came a sound like a heavy drape falling over. Ed saw a wide shadow around his feet, growing bigger. He raised his head in time to see something like black silk, tiny fangs everywhere, flutter his way—
“What in the name of every single of the Light gods’ genitals is that thing?” Kes asked, arms closed, keeping well away from Ed. “And what is it doing on your arm?”
The prototype storage section of the Research Facility was crowded with the amount of people reunited there tonight. The Dungeon Lord, the Researchers, Klek, Alder, and Kes. Only Lavy was absent, but she had kept to her quarters for a while now, working frantically in the shadows, cackling here and there.
Ed raised his arm, which was draped up to his shoulder by a creature best described as a gothic flying stingray. The upper side of its body was inky black. Its inner half had been bright red, but it seemed to have a degree of shape-shifting, because soon after the ritual was done it had changed the red to a Haunt-appropriate pink-and-purple. Judging by the concentric rows of fangs, this part was its mouth. If that was the case, the creature was half mouth and half… well, whatever the rest of it was.
“This is my new cursewing, remember? From the talent,” Ed said awkwardly. “It’s my new cape.”
Kes cocked her head. “I… don’t know what to say. It doesn’t look like a cape. But at least you’ll stop using that damned green Thieves Guild rag you keep around.”
“You don’t mean his enchanted Hood of Silence?” Alder asked. “That thing is a classic. It started a fashion trend on the Haunt!”
“I like it too,” Klek added, for moral support.
“Now that you mention that hood, where is it?” Ed asked. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”
“Maybe some batblins mistook it for a cleaning rag and used it to shovel dung from the hell chicken hatcheries,” Kes said. “In any way, good riddance. It made you look like a dirty minotaur commander.” Ed narrowed his eyes at the Marshal, suspecting that his favorite cape had been the subject of a political assassination in the name of fashion.
Alder strolled forward and carefully jabbed a finger at the cursewing’s black hide, which didn’t react to his presence. “So what does it do?”
Ed showed him the fiend’s character sheet:
Cursewing, unnamed. Exp: 100. Brawn: 6, Agility: 10, Spirit: 5, Endurance: 13, Mind: 5, Charm: 5. Skills: Disguise: Improved I, Brawl: Basic V, Survival: Basic I. Talents: Cursewing Shape-shifting, Thermal vision, Fiendish Nature, Familiar.
“Uh,” Alder said. “Those stats are way too low. Did you get a defective fiend? Can you return it and get another one?”
Ed was about to scratch the back of his head, realized the cursewing covered his hand, and shook it until the creature shifted to leave his fingers alone. “Well, no. If I did the ritual again, the same one would reappear. That’s what the familiar talent means, we’re bonded.”
Researcher Arieselle, a fiend of the Netherworld herself, although of an entirely different type, approached timidly. “Can I take a look, Lord Wraith?” she asked. Carefully, she caressed the soft hide of the cursewing. “It is but a baby. The adults of his kind are much bigger and have a hide as tough as enchanted leather, and elders can even turn into terrifying weapons of teeth and bone. Did you… ah, skimp on the summoning ritual somehow?”
Sitting on a corner, still grumpy from the ritual’s failure, Jarlen scoffed loudly.
Oh, boy, Ed thought. “I was hoping no one would ask. The ritual called for a young virgin heart, so—”
“Those are a pain in the ass to find, are they not?” Arieselle asked, commiserating. Then she blushed, perhaps for being too familiar with the Dungeon Lord.
“So,” Ed went on, “we used the heart of a gray hell chicken butchered for the Spriveska.” Then, at seeing the scandalized expression of the fiendish Researchers, he felt compelled to add, “What? The instructions didn’t specify a species.”
“Nice dodge,” Klek whispered, as the fiends expressed their disapproval as loudly as decorum allowed.
“Thanks.”
Arieselle pursed her lips and flicked a lock of brightly colored hair off her face. “That’s that, then. Your Deviousness thought it fitting to skimp on the offering, and the Dark Powers found it fitting to skimp on the cursewing’s age as well. Fair is fair, I guess. In time, it will age. In the meantime—” she petted the fiend “—I have to admit it’s really cute. Like a puppy.”
“That’s not how I would describe it,” Kes muttered. Then, to Ed, “Is it sucking your blood?”
Ed shrugged. “Eh. It only takes a little. With spectral regeneration and the rest of my new talents, it doesn’t even sting, really. Hell, it’s actually quite comfortable, once you get used to the texture. And having a living demon-cape reminds me of this badass old movie I saw once, so all in all I’m happy with my choice.”
“Dungeon Lords,” Kes muttered, making it sound somewhat like a curse. “Ed, I love you like a brother, but sometimes I think you’re the weirdest person in the room, and look at the company we keep.” She gestured at the flying pufferfishes, the lizardman, and the succubus from Ivalian hell.
“You only just noticed?” Alder asked her, grinning. “He keeps a spiderling in his boots everywhere he goes. That should have clued you in.”
“You don’t?” Klek asked. “How do you find out about the latest rumors, then?”
Alder opened his mouth, then visibly changed his mind. “Well, nice baby fiend you’ve got there, Ed. How about we take a look at the new toys your minions cooked up for the Endeavor?”
“Hell yes,” Ed said, perking up.
Heorghe strolled into the room the same way he did everything—boisterously. Following after him came his apprentices, who pulled a wheeled post covered by a sheet. “Your new set of armor, Lord Edward,” he said proudly, as he unveiled the post. “Made it following your specifications, this beauty is the bleeding edge of the Haunted armories.”
Ed whistled as he circled the gleaming armor display. “It truly is a beauty.” The breastplate was so polished he could see his reflection, distorted by the silver gilding and the shark design etched along its chest and belly. The design was more sober than his exuberant old one, and the plate was not as thick. The Y-shaped helmet was round and sloped at its lower end to help deflect a blow away from the neck. The plate parts were smaller than the other armor, leaving more body unprotected, but underneath them was a fine mail tunic and under that, a snug spidersilk vest. The air around the entire set buzzed with protective enchantments.
“It is lighter than your last one,” Heorghe explained. “Which shall give you the versatility you’ll require to survive the unknown dangers of the Endeavor. Your helmet packs an advanced momentum-diffusion enchantment, so you won’t snap your neck if thrown against a wall or something of that sort. The mail is infused with silver, so you’ve a degree of protection against undead there. The spidersilk vest you already know, but Empress Laurel sewed it herself to show her concern for your health. We managed to give it a small protection from the elements enchantment, so you don’t overheat under so many layers. The plate is, of course, also enchanted with the latest designs of our Research wing.” He gave a nod to Researcher Churla, the lizardman, who stepped forward.
“Much appreciated, Forgemaster. Lord Wraith, thanks to our study of the inner components of the Laptop Artifact,” Churla said, “we designed better glyph-layouts for item enchanting, not unlike the pattern of the new fireball rune. Our new layout is smaller at no sacrifice of complexity, which allows for a set of armor that packs a denser magical pattern.”
“Good job. We just unlocked miniaturization on our tech tree,” Ed said. Churla’s tongue darted in and out of his mouth, his chest bursting with pride. If—when—the Haunt managed to create batteries that could hold magical charge, they would have access to weapons that could challenge the Heroic-rank. Let the Inquisition sort that one out, Ed thought savagely.
“Just try not to break this one, it’s ten times more expensive than the last. Now, for weapons,” Heorghe said, as his apprentices hurried to drag a large mahogany chest inside. The Forgemaster reached inside and brought out a longsword and a fine black sheath. “Your standard enchanted blade. Steel, silver runes, very flexible. You stick the baddies with it hard enough, blood comes out. Repeat until you win or you somehow manage to numb the edge. Which you’ll probably manage, anyway, so I’m adding a short sword to the list, as backup. Let’s hope all those fancy talents let you handle all the weight, eh?” He sheathed both swords, then set them aside and brought out a leather sling. “Silver throwing knives, but these pack a twist, courtesy of Chief Kaga himself, sent with his regards. The knives are tied to a small fireball rune. I’m sure you can figure the rest out yourself.”
After the knives came an adventuring backpack that contained a set of Thieves Tools, courtesy of the Guild. Ed had learned a bit of what to do with most of them, although not as well as Alder, given the lack of time. The rest of the backpack’s contents was the standard—a pouch for a variety of runes, a first-aid kit, small provisions in case the Endeavor lasted too long, even a ruby in case somehow Ed managed to find a ley line, create a dungeon, and set up a Portal. There was also space for a set of potions, but it was still empty.
“Thank you, Heorghe, everyone,” Ed said. “Thanks to your efforts I’m closer to making it out in one piece.” He bit his lip. “What about the gnomes’ secret project? Any last-minute breakthroughs there?”
Heorghe shook his head. “The fun powder. No, Ed, I’m sorry to report the gnomes are still stuck. So far, we managed to get the cannon, as you call it, to fire its projectile by using a fireball rune instead of a powder charge. It… does the trick. However, it’s way too heavy for you, and I doubt you’ll be able to drag it along the Nightmare Factory, even if we add wheels.”
Ed rubbed his chin. “Can you get the revolvers to fire the same way?”
“Absolutely not. The explosion is too strong, the barrels just turn to slag. Wizard Moog almost lost a hand trying.”
“A shame,” Ed said. He had high hopes for that project. He could almost see the face Vaines and the others would’ve made if he and the rest of his minions stormed the complex with blazing, magic-enhanced flintlocks. However, unlike in his favorite videogames, in real life not every secret project paid off just in time for the final battle.
“We do have a small surprise,” Alder announced. “It was mostly Arieselle’s idea, but Kes, Klek, and I came up with the concept,” he said happily, as Arieselle hurried to retrieve a small parcel from the pile of prototypes.
“It’s a shield,” Arieselle said, as she unpacked a sort of thick, wide vambrace. She strapped it on her own forearm and held it in front of her. It was definitely not big enough to be a shield, Ed thought. “Although we cannot yet build a device that stores magical charge, we managed to create an item that transfers it. It’s not a breakthrough, most advanced Enchanters can make items like these—however our method is a bit cheaper. This shield is built to cast a basic barrier spell, which Kes—Marshal Kessih, that is—says you don’t have in your spell list. Unlike a trap, which has to be charged beforehand or connected to a ley line, you simply establish a connection to the device, then feed it one of your daily basic castings. Like this—barrier!”
A floating, semi-transparent shield built out of concentric, fiery half-spheres appeared in front of her, coming from the vambrace. Behind the succubus, the Researchers mumbled with interest and envy, while Churla stared daggers at her.
“Fantastic. Thank you. I won’t have to worry as much about a fireball to the face, with this in my load-out,” Ed said, as Arieselle handed him the vambrace. “You’re much closer to solving the battery issue than you know. If we could give a hundred Haga’Anashi shields like these with five charges, we would have a force to be reckoned with.”
Kes winced. “Yeah, and we would also be bankrupt. It’s cheaper than building an advanced magical item, not free.”
“The road to a huge discovery is paved by small steps,” Ed said. He turned to the Researchers. “Thank you all for the extra effort you’ve put in the last months. You’re saving the life of our warriors with every bit of progress and furthering our chances at victory.”
Researcher Churla scratched his back, unsettled, clearly not used to a Dungeon Lord’s praise. “Think nothing of it, Lord Wraith. It’s also our own skin hanging on the balance.”
Ed took a step forward and placed his human hand on the clean surface of the new breastplate. It was cold to the touch. “Very well. Time to assemble the team.”
Ed tapped his cheek, nervously, sitting in the War Room. His friends weren’t going to like what he had to say. Better to get it over with soon.
“The Regents have a truce,” Ed explained. “To avoid turning the Standard Factory into a battlefield, there’s a limit to the number of minions each Dungeon Lord may bring to the fight. This way, there’s not as big a chance that someone blows up some important piece of machinery.” He raised three fingers. “Three minions per Dungeon Lord. One of them, you already know. The second is Jarlen. The third… well.”
Kes’ hand gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. “You are not bringing any of us with you, are you?”
“Of course he is,” Klek said. “Me and Tulip, the two of us, shall be the third. A batblin and a horned spider should count as a single minion.”
The words of the god of all of Starevos’ forests ringed in Ed’s ears. His curse. And every st
olen victory shall turn to ash in your hands… love it, and it shall leave you…
“I don’t think we can get away with that,” Ed said, grinning sadly. “Sorry, guys, but Kes is right. You are all too valuable to the Haunt—and to me—to risk. Chances are, none of the minions that I’ll bring with me are making it out alive, even if I manage to win.”
Just as he had suspected, his friends didn’t take this decision lightly. Kes scoffed and cursed in some language she had picked up in one of her trips. Klek wriggled his hands, troubled. Even Alder had a dark look to him. The Bard was the first to speak:
“Ed, it sounds as if you were going there to die.”
“After all the effort everyone has made…” Kes added. She composed herself. “Ed, if you go there without believing—truly believing—you can win, then your attacks shall lack conviction. Without conviction, a warrior is dead on his feet. If you think this is a suicide mission, then just don’t go.”
She was about to say something else, but Ed raised one hand that cut her off mid-sentence. “The Endeavor is our only hope at surviving the Militant Army. I’m going, no matter what. And I’m winning. No matter what. You, more than anyone else, should understand what that means.” There was a weight to his voice that hadn’t been there before the Battle of Undercity. There, Ed had led men and women to their deaths. Because of his decisions, people on both sides had lost their lives. By his hand, men that thought themselves good had met their gods to face judgment.
After that, there was no going back to the person he was before.