Dungeon Lord- Ancient Traditions

by Hugo Huesca

  He thought the cause just—without the Haunt’s intervention, thousands of innocents would’ve died. To stop that from happening again, he would fight, and kill, which meant more people would die under his command.

  Warring for peace was an oxymoron, clamored a voice in his head, the voice of the young man with a human heart. With every person the Dungeon Lord killed, as blood pooled around his feet, that voice grew fainter.

  Kes and the others were quiet. They were his friends, and he would gladly die for them. But he was also their leader. There could come a time when they may have to die because of a failed call he would make. Although no one would ever have acknowledged it, Ed knew this meant there was an unsolvable distance between Dungeon Lord and minions.

  This was the price of power.

  So be it, he thought fiercely. “In the Factory, I may have to make a call that ends with one or all of my followers dead. I won’t do that to you. The solution is clear.” He shook his head. “The Haunt’s needs you. Kes, you are my second-in-command. If I were to fall, you are to take over. Find a way to go on without a Dungeon Lord, or find an allied one, somehow, or take up the Mantle yourself. We have the fragment of the Hero’s preserved Mantle, have the Researchers pull something out of their ass. Fight, if you believe you can win, or evacuate as many as you can into the Netherworld otherwise. Lavy’s Research is too important to risk her. Alder, your Chronicle is your life’s work. It won’t go unfinished if I can help it. Tell our story. Make the world listen. And Klek… your people need your guidance. You are the one they look up to. Show them how far they can rise.” He steeled his will, and met all their gazes, unflinching. “My decision is final. We are not debating this one. According to the minionship pact—to the ancient traditions of the Lordship—all minions are supposed to lay down their lives in defense of the Dungeon Lord at a moment’s notice. However, the Haunt shall have its own traditions. The Lord of the Haunt is the servant of the Haunt. If I am not willing to risk my life for the protection of this place, of its people—of you—then I am not a leader worth following.”

  The silence that followed was so thick he could’ve drained its Endurance with his skeletal hand. The Evil Eye, which had flared during his speech, slowly drained to an ember as his emotions eased.

  “Dungeon Lords are creatures of the underground,” Kes said, very quietly, after a while. “My soul was born of cloud and sunlight, even if I was cast down. If you fall, I shall lead our people as best I can, but I won’t become a second you.”

  “That is fair,” Ed said, just as quiet.

  “And if you fall,” Alder said, louder, “I’m ending your part in the Chronicle with ‘and we went down like a massive asshole, leaving us all to fend for ourselves.’”

  “Not so fair,” Ed said. “At the very least add your saddest musical piece to that scene.”

  The Bard cracked a small smile. “I have been practicing the violin. Let’s compromise. You get a slow violin piece, but your character is acted by a horned spider standing on her hind-legs and wearing a green cape.” Kes snorted, and Klek let out the breath he had been holding. That was Alder all right. Holding up a temper wasn’t in his nature. Thanks to him, the tension in the table was broken, and everything was back to normal, as if a spell had been broken.

  But there was still the invisible distance. Perhaps wider today that it had been before. Love them, and they shall leave you, the voice of the forest whispered on the Dungeon Lord’s ear, and sorrow stabbed his heart like an ice needle.

  So be it, he told himself. As long as they live.

  “Who will be the third minion?” Klek asked.

  Ed’s smile grew wider. With dungeon vision, he could see Lavy listening just outside, apparently cleaning some dust from her eye while waiting for her cue. He wasn’t about to rob her of her big moment, though, so he said, “Well, I was thinking of either an ogre or one of Laurel’s Spider Queens—”

  The doors smashed wide open. “You shall do no such thing!” Lavy exclaimed dramatically as she barreled inside, purple cape fluttering behind her in a way only achievable by a discreet breeze spell. She was followed by a big, shambling something that made Kes and Klek immediately spring to their feet and reach for their weapons.

  “Put those down,” Lavy said. “They wouldn’t do any good, anyway, so don’t bother.” She pointed a finger at the Dungeon Lord. “Ed! I heard it all. There’s no need to say more.”

  Ed raised his hands and tried his best to act surprised. “Lavy, what is the meaning of this?” he asked.

  “You think you march alone from the Endeavor to protect your friends,” Lavy said. “Our noble Dungeon Lord. But I shall not allow it. Behold, the fruit of my labor. The result of a lifetime’s effort.” At a gesture from her, the gray boulder of a man scooped her over with a wide, stiff motion and placed her on his shoulder as if she were a child. He didn’t even tilt, as if she weighed nothing whatsoever. “There’s no damage he can’t survive, for he is already dead. Fearless, obedient, modular. Through him, I fight by your side. This is Lavy’s monster—my Rolim!” she finished by jumping down with a theatrical flourish that surely could’ve qualified her to take Bardic talents.

  Rolim just stared straight ahead, his bald, scarred, stitched face expressionless, misty eyes of different colors focusing on nothing.

  “So that’s why everything smells of formaldehyde,” Alder noted. “You finally went off the deep end, eh, Lavy? You sure that zombie thing can take what Vaines can dish?”

  Lavy’s smile widened. “Not any zombie, little Alder. An intelligent zombie. Empowered by what I learned of the study of ancient Necromancers and Unholy Clerics before me. It can take what Vaines can dish, and then some. Give it a mace or something heavy, and he’ll be the one bringing on the pain.” She then whispered, “Who is the genius now, Frederick?”

  Ed studied Lavy’s creation for a long while. It was as strong as an ogre, and way more durable. There were also all the resistances the undead had, and judging from his character sheet, a handful of other upgrades. He was about to praise his friend when Kes jumped to her feet, as if struck by lightning.

  The Marshal rushed to Lavy’s side. “Can it aim?”

  “Well, he has a seven in Agility,” Lavy said. “Why do you ask? Arming him with a bow would be a waste of his strength.”

  Kes’ smile was fierce. “No, not a bow.” She turned to Ed, face flush with excitement. “If Lavy doesn’t mind I’ll hitch a ride on her show. Maybe a part of me gets to fight with you, Ed, after all.”

  This time the Evil Eye shone with excitement, not sorrow. “Let’s do this,” Ed said. “All those Lotian Lords won’t know what’s about to hit them.”

  19

  Chapter Nineteen

  Interlude: Gallio

  Gallio almost made for a sorry sight as the doors of the upper floor of the concert hall parted to let him through. The Inquisitor had cleaned up as an afterthought before leaving the palace, that much was clear, but that was the only clean thing about him. His boots left a trail of mud and congealed blood in his wake, his breastplate was dented and murky with smidgens of gore, and his cheek sported a long, thin gash that the Clerics hadn’t gotten around to healing yet.

  The reason he didn’t make for an entirely sorry sight was in his eyes, bloodshot, pupils small like pinpricks, and in the way his right hand rested as an afterthought over the handle of the sword resting by his side, as if a part of his mind wasn’t entirely sure that the killing was done for the day.

  It wasn’t so strange, then, that when the highly trained Militant guards that watched over the pavilion stepped in his way, they did so nervously, like a kid that has fallen into the wrong side of a fence and is staring eye-to-eye at an enraged warthog.

  “Eminence, the Examiners are not taking visitors for the duration of the concert,” said one of the guards, the oldest, his knuckles white as he gripped his halberd.

  In the distance below, the voice of Uta Stribei, famed Galtian singer and pe
rformer, traveled down the stage like a haunted breeze, weaving into the harp and the violins of the Heiligian musicians as they grew toward a frantic crescendo that simulated divine ecstasy.

  Gallio eyed the guard for long enough that the guards shuffled in place, uneasy. In their place, he would’ve felt the same—a sunwave in a tight enclosure would’ve had catastrophic results, for the building and any sinner caught in the blast alike. And everyone knew that none was without sin in the eyes of the Light.

  Still, their fears were unfounded. Gallio sighed, and relaxed his sweaty back against the elegant, crimson and gold wall. “Until the end of the concert, you say? Fine. I shall wait,” he said.

  The guards stood there, gaping, unsure how to react. On one hand, Gallio was the Starevosi Inquisition’s golden hero. Since Wright had erected those accursed Towers, Gallio’s powers had saved the skin of many brave, young men and women. Some of which, probably, were friends and lovers of the guards here.

  A richly dressed couple passed them, hand in hand. They exchanged hushed comments as they passed the guards, and the man laughed loudly. The woman sniffed, scrunched her powdered nose, and turned to Gallio with a disdainful look, which turned to alarm as she took notice of his uniform. She then practically dragged her partner away, out of the Inquisitor’s reach.

  “You may as well take an empty seat and enjoy the concert, Eminence,” said another of the guards, a young woman, pretending not to take notice of the couple’s reaction.

  Gallio doubted, for a second. He felt wrong, out of place, here in a place of beauty—a place of worship of a different kind—bringing the stench of pain and death with him. Alvedhra had often joked that Gallio was only comfortable in the field, the sun at his back, and a sword at his side. Everything else was a distraction.

  The truth, however, was the opposite. Gallio thought that only the field was comfortable in his presence. Civilized society had no place for him.

  “Good idea,” he told the guard. She guided him to an empty private booth. The concert hall’s security made no move to stop them, although it wasn’t as if the Inquisition owned the place… at least not officially.

  Despite himself, the velvet sofa felt as a goddess’ caress on his mauled back. Alita’s talents turned him into an almost inhuman killing machine, able to fight for hours without stopping, capable of withstanding wounds that would’ve killed an untalented man by shock alone. However, his back hurt afterward all the same.

  Pain, it was said, was the flame over which zeal was forged.

  As he sat, the guard nudged his elbow and muttered, “When they hear you’re here, they’ll try to scurry away before the concert ends. They won’t expect you to be in this booth.”

  Gallio nodded his thanks as she left. He bent over the polished brass railing of the booth. Next to him, many faces under elegant hairdos did the same, gazes fixated on Uta Stribei and her vaporous dress as she extended her arms and reached notes out of the reach of an untalented throat. Sweat glistened on her smooth arms.

  The song was religious in nature, an ode to the sacrifices of the Light, guiding the Galtian children up the right path. Thus the presence of the Examiners and other high-ranking members of the Militant Church. Gallio had no idea if they would be pleased by Stribei’s performance—he had no frame of reference between a bad concert and a good one, as long as no one missed an obvious note.

  He wondered what the Galtian audience, which was about half of the attendance tonight, thought of Stribei now that she was under the payroll of the Militant Church. Was she a traitor? Or merely an artist doing what she must under the grip of an invading force?

  What, for that matter, thought the concert-goers of themselves? Traitors or survivors, or both?

  No answer came by the time the Inquisitor heard, through a brief lull in the song, the shuffling of feet somewhere behind his booth. Voices, hushed, most of them deferential. Two giving orders.

  Gallio stood and exited the booth and ran into Examiner Bartheny and Examiner Harmon and all their sycophants.

  For an instant, rail-thin and strict Bartheny widened her eyes in surprise and visibly withheld a gasp before regaining control of herself. “Inquisitor Gallio. Back already from the frontier?” She gave his clothes a disapproving glance-over. “Straight here from the battlefield, I take it. Not from the love of the art, of course.”

  “Of course, Eminence,” Gallio replied, bowing and making the gesture of the Light with his right hand.

  Both Examiners were dressed in their finest garments, the kind they would’ve worn on King Varon’s court. The jeweled earrings in Bartheny’s ears could’ve paid for several raids against the Haunt. The same applied to the golden cuffs in Harmon’s wide wrists.

  In this, they were at a disadvantage. The uniform didn’t make the man, but it announced his arrival. Despite the overwhelming difference in rank, Gallio was the one wearing a dented armor with broken enchantments, steel marred with the blood of the enemies of Heiliges.

  Examiner Harmon gave the courtiers and rich merchants around him a look that said, “Get lost.” They understood the message, to no one’s surprise. It was their job, after all.

  Gallio watched as the attendants exited the hall. The Inquisition was prideful, and they had reason to be. They were the most fearsome force in Ivalis. However, pride was a sin for a reason. If the Examiners thought that strength and zeal were reasons enough to ensure loyalty, they were in for a rude awakening. These conquered people were the sons and daughters of those who had known Starevos as a free kingdom. If the father’s past became the son’s dream, then the Inquisition’s Starevos hung by a thread named Edward Wright.

  Traitors or survivors. What would they call the Lord of the Haunt if he arrived at Galtia’s doors with an army at his back?

  Monster or liberator?

  “So now a mere Inquisitor thinks he can dispose of the time of his superiors at will?” Harmon asked, his voice hard like the hammer-blows he had used to crush his enemies long before his rising through the ranks straight out of the battlefield. Now the violence in his heart was reserved for those who displeased him. “You are here. It better be for a good reason.”

  “My reason is to serve the Light’s interest, as is yours, Eminence,” Gallio said, bowing again, the perfect image of the obedient son. “After the latest raid, which I’m happy to report was a success—” Not that you asked, he thought grimly “—it came to my ears that you planned a strike against Wright soon, acting on information provided by our informant in the Constantinian frontier.”

  “It came to your ears?” asked Bartheny sardonically, raising an eyebrow as thin as the rest of her. “Classified information just comes to you now, Inquisitor? Truly must be another blessing of the Light that we unworthy are not privy to.”

  “Or, more likely, someone ran his mouth again,” said Harmon through gritted teeth. “Dear Examiner Bartheny, I believe we’ve been too lenient with the new recruits. Our rank and file are in urgent need of a lesson about the value of discipline.”

  Gallio shook his head. “No one but me had anything to do with my inquiries, Eminences. I accept full responsibility. However, before you think of a punishment, please heed my warning first. Wright is luring you into a trap.”

  Again, the raised eyebrow. Through years in the High Court, Bartheny had perfected that gesture into a true art-form, one with which she could convey myriad emotions, all of them a different flavor of scorn. “A trap, you say? Interesting, seeing as the informant was your idea. Go on, Inquisitor, you may as well. You’ve until we reach the exit, and then we shall decide on an appropriate punishment. Right now I’m thinking a month without leave, prayer on your quarters whenever you’re not training or fighting.”

  A day full of prayer is not a punishment for the faithful, Gallio thought. He didn’t say so aloud, though. There were limits to the degree he dared push the Examiners. They were his superiors, after all. Without submission, peace crumbled. He followed after them and spoke as they walke
d. “My proposal was to double-bind Wright’s spying set-up, we were not to take his claims seriously. Those laxer minionship terms he uses for captured dungeon minions are done on purpose—they do not fit with his personality, or Kessih’s. The entire point of the minotaur was to learn of Wright’s plans by listening to what he wasn’t telling us. Yet now the Inquisition plans to delve straight into what is clearly a trap? He even gave Mohnuran all he needed to make a summoning circle on his own, for the Light’s sake! How obvious can it be?”

  “Pretty obvious, for the sound of it,” said Bartheny.

  “We should step down from our positions and let you do the job, since you’re clearly better suited at it than us,” added Harmon. He turned brusquely to Gallio and jabbed at him with one huge finger. “What do you propose as an alternative, Inquisitor, are we to ignore this Endeavor? Allow Wright—or any other Dungeon Lord, for that matter—to capture a military resource of incalculable value? You weren’t alive in the times of Saint Claire and Tillman. You don’t know of the damage they and that damn factory of theirs did to our kingdom.”

  Gallio stiffened, cheeks burning with shame despite himself. “The Endeavor has failed over and over again. For what we know, Evangeline Tillman designed it so only Dungeon Lords cooperating with each other can have a chance of success. This goes against their nature. The Endeavor is unwinnable by design. If we go there, by giving them a common enemy, we risk uniting them through a shared enemy. This could very well be Wright’s plan all along.”

  “This obsession of yours with Lord Wraith clouds your mind, Inquisitor,” Bartheny said. “You failed to stop him in time, and now everyone is suffering for it, and your guilt stops you from seeing the bigger picture. Perhaps that’s the reason Alita empowered you—in her infinite mercy, she gives you a chance to make amends.” She shook her head, and smiled a thin, nasty smile. “Start by working on your humility. You are not talking to two recruits here. As Examiners we know to look for the bigger picture. Wright is not our only target. If we destroy the Factory and everyone inside, Heiliges will get rid of many dangerous enemies, including Aramis Vaines and Victor Virion. That is enough to justify the risk.”