by Hugo Huesca
“I cannot stop you, Lord Steros,” Xorander said gravely. “But I won’t aid what I think is a mistake. If you want to turn a neutral party hostile, do so without risking my forces.”
Steros, young and full of hormones, reddened with rage. “May the Dark take you, you devious cheat. I knew you’d be the first to try to pull off something like this. If Wright and I lose minions or are wounded fighting Sanguine, then you get the numerical advantage on us. Wetlands, perhaps you’d tell Molmeda you had nothing to do with killing his ally. Is that what you intend, Cassara? You mean to switch sides on me?” He took a step toward her, and Maser and the others closed ranks in front of her, their swords partly drawn out of their sheaths.
“You won’t talk to me like that, boy,” Xorander said, face pale with anger.
For a second, it seemed as if Steros was about to fight the four of them on his own. Perhaps he may have won. But then he stopped and looked down at Ed’s extended arm in front of his chest, cutting him off.
“Wright,” Steros whispered darkly, Evil Eye blazing. “What—”
Ed shook his head. “Drop it, Steros. No point in doing Sanguine’s work for him. Lady Xorander said she won’t interfere—that’s good enough for me.” Truth be told, he would’ve faced Sanguine on his own.
“So we just leave her behind?” Steros asked, a bit too loudly. “So she can go to Molmeda whenever it suits her?”
“There is nothing we can do to force her loyalty,” Ed explained. “We are working together because the others are. We are not allies yet. That takes trust. And I trust Xorander will do what she considers best for her and her people. Isn’t that right, Lady Xorander?”
“Obviously,” she said. “The two of you would do the same.”
“Then it’s settled,” Ed said. “Our job is to make sure that what is best for the three of us is to keep working together. Lady Xorander, cover our rear, and give us a warning if anyone comes. Lord Steros, I’m sure the two of us are more than enough to deal with Sanguine.” He added a tiny hint of challenge to that last part, trying to appeal to Steros’ pride.
Steros, as Ed hoped, stiffened his back. “Very well. Your funeral, Wright. If I were a betting man, I would put gold on you being Sanguine’s main target.”
“That suits me just fine,” Ed said, letting out the breath he had been holding as the tension between the Dungeon Lords dissipated… for the moment. “In fact, Xorander here has given me an interesting idea on how we should greet our friend over there.”
He turned to Rolim, who stood in silence by the back, a hulking figure draped head to toe in a ragged cape. Ed grinned. “Do you know how to kill a Dungeon Lord, Lord Steros?”
Sanguine tensed as the door creaked open. His fingers twitched with the impulse to cast a spell against the clumped-up minions as they stepped inside. Next to him, Malikar—unnecessarily—signaled for him to wait, which made the Dungeon Lord grit his teeth in annoyance.
He saw a cloaked Ranger with a longbow and enchanted arrows followed by a pair of naga. He glanced at their character sheets—they were spellcasters of Improved rank. As an Advanced caster himself, and with the element of surprise, the three of them were nothing he couldn’t take.
The two miragefiends stood frozen near a corner, their illusion magic disguising them as statues to anyone that glanced their way. They didn’t move an inch—as expected of them, since they were the best illusionists Sanguine’s dungeons had in store.
The Ranger began to clear the place. Sanguine’s heart raced. The minion’s character sheet showed some competency in trap-finding and a decent enough Perception. If he somehow lucked into finding the traps or discovered the miragefiends’ illusions, the ambush would fail.
No skin off my bones if that happens, he reminded himself. We’ll simply retreat before they have time to do anything.
“Enough of this,” a young man’s voice said, loudly. The upstart from House Steros strolled confidently into the vast wing. What was his name again, Luras? Sanguine recalled. Luras Steros. “Let’s hurry up and beat Vaines to the end while she wastes time on non-existent dangers.”
The Ranger tried to argue, but was shot down with the same confidence that only the young, who had never been defeated, possessed. “Idiot,” Sanguine whispered.
After Lord Steros came Wright’s minions, which Sanguine recognized immediately—he had done his homework. He wouldn’t allow Wright to insult him again.
First came the Nightshade, Jarlen, a harlot with some experience working as Korghiran’s agent and for a couple dead and humbled Dungeon Lords after that. Her presence here meant she was the best Wright had in store. Sanguine smiled. His spies had told him that Wright’s favorite minions were two humans, a wingless avian, and a batblin. He’d bet a dozen Vyfaras that they were all Wright’s lovers. Perhaps after killing Wraith, he’d find them and either kill them slowly or put them at work in one of his pleasure houses. A cheap one.
Then a minotaur. A dungeon Boss, according to Malikar’s sources. His character sheet was nothing extraordinary. A meat-shield, Sanguine decided.
After that came a second meat-shield, bigger and slower. This one gave the Dungeon Lord some pause.
Human, activated undead. Exp: N/A. Brawn: 18, Agility: 8, Spirit: 9, Endurance: 19, Mind: 7, Charm: 5. Skills: Brawling: Improved II. Talents: Undead Resilience, Eldritch Composition, Bound, Minion.
“What in Murmur’s name is that creature?” Sanguine wondered aloud. He had never seen a thing like that before. Doctor Frederick had sometimes showcased meat golems in Vandran’s palace, but their mental attributes had been zero. They were animated things, they couldn’t earn experience or have talents. “You didn’t mention this in your report, Malikar.”
“It changes nothing,” Malikar whispered back nonchalantly. “Isn’t it suspicious, though, that Lady Xorander isn’t here? Her Rogues should be leading the group, yet they haven’t showed up.”
“Good for us. The bitch probably dumped the two of them already.” Sanguine pushed forward, to the very edge of the wooden hill. “Where is Wraith?” His minions were in the room, but the Lord of the Haunt hadn’t shown his face.
Slowly, the enemy group spread through the wing, taking in the dimly lit sights of Saint Claire and Tillman’s egocentric Museum. They went past the iron carts at the bottom of the wooden rails that eventually turned into the artificial hills Lord Vandran used as cover. They fanned out and almost reached the exit, then went back, pointing out interesting details to one another.
Vandran stared at the door, hands at the ready. Next to him, Malikar hadn’t bothered to raise his crossbow at all. With a spark of irritation, Sanguine followed the minion’s gaze, and found he was still looking at the hulking undead construct, which stopped exactly at the center of the railway chaos, still like a statue, staring straight ahead.
“Time to leave,” Malikar said, then started to crawl back, hefting his crossbow to his belt strap.
“What are you talking about?” Sanguine asked in an angry whisper. He caught Malikar’s wrist, forced him to stay still. “Wraith hasn’t showed yet!”
A strange flash came and went through Malikar’s eyes so fast that Vandran thought he had imagined it. The minion jerked his hand back. “Idiot,” he said through clenched teeth. “It is a trap. They know we are here.” He nodded past Sanguine’s shoulder, at the creature below. “That thing has a straight shot at us if he turns—”
The Dungeon Lord shifted uneasily, feeling as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice straight down his stomach. It was fear. Wright’s construct was looking straight at them now, its cloak partially pulled back to reveal a heavy, long iron tube attached to its left arm. Worse still, next to the creature, somehow, stood Edward Wright. Both Dungeon Lords locked eyes just for an instant. Wraith smiled—and waved.
“Shoot him!” Vandran yelled, but just then the undead creature raised its arm, muttered something, and the world around Lord Sanguine Vandran collapsed in a confusion of light and sound li
ke the scream of the damned.
All around the Endeavor’s camp the crowd screamed in excitement, some cheering for Ed’s plan, others urging Vandran to react. Kes saw, with her heart pounding in her chest, how Ed leaped off his hiding spot under Rolim’s cloak just as Lavy’s monster took aim.
“Give them hell,” Lavy said, as if her creation could listen to her all the way through the expanse.
Rolim activated the eldritch fireball rune at the base of the cannon. The explosion pushed a four-and-a-half inch lead ball out of the muzzle fast enough to put the strongest bowman to shame.
Rolim took a step back, straining a bit to keep his arm level through the recoil that would’ve torn through the shoulder of a normal human.
Sanguine, to Kes’ frustration, actually managed to put up a barrier spell before the impact. It didn’t matter much—Rolim hadn’t aimed at the Dungeon Lord.
The noise of the hit went unheard, since the screens didn’t pick up sound. Kes felt it anyway, a rumble in her bones. Splinters and shards of iron exploded in all directions as the cannonball flew through the railway like an exhalation, in and out, faster than a heartbeat.
And the railway where Lord Vandran lay in wait folded like a house of cards under a strong breeze and went down, Dungeon Lord along with it.
A dense sawdust cloud spread through the Memories wing, and Vandran disappeared under a shower of falling debris as Ed closed the distance, sword in hand, followed by his minions. On the other side of the wing, Steros and his men fought the only surviving miragefiend, the first one cut down by the Ranger’s arrows just as Rolim shot what Ed could only think of as a roller coaster frame.
The Lord of the Haunt delved through the smoke, coughing, Evil Eye blazing and trying to pierce the dust as if it were an illusion. He held little hope that the fall had actually killed Vandran—Dungeon Lords, he knew firsthand, weren’t that easy to dispose of. They needed to find him before he could get away.
His cursewing shifted, reacting to his cough, and enveloped a strip of itself around Ed’s mouth and nose, becoming a sort of scarf in the process, tails flapping behind Ed as he ran. He could breathe better now, but the smell was like putting his nose inside an inkpot suspiciously filled with blood.
“Spread out,” he told Mohnuran. “Jarlen, cut off the exit. Rolim, stay with me.” He threw a look in Steros’ direction, but he couldn’t see much.
The beam of crackling green light came out of nowhere, passing above him close enough to singe the magical protections of his armor, the glyphs glowing red hot for an instant as the Dungeon Lord rolled for cover with his reflexes turned on. “Shit!” he exclaimed and threw himself to the ground, more beams flying past his head, all of them too close for comfort. “Stone pillar!”
How strong is that spellcaster? he thought, hiding behind the pillar that sprouted in front of him. The beams were too powerful to have come out of a rune. They were definitely talent-enhanced. That meant the caster only had a handful more uses before he ran out. Or so Ed hoped.
The next spell wasn’t a beam but a sphere of hot gas that boomed out a few feet away from Ed and rippled through the dust. Again, the glyphs of his armor flared to life, and he could feel the bloodcurdling sensation of his Endurance being tested by something nasty.
Poison, or acid, or both. He went belly down against the floor, his cursewing tightening around his face and acting as a filter against whatever the caster was throwing. Splinters and shards of glass pressed against his armor and tried to cut at the exposed parts of his hands and face, but slid harmlessly off thanks to his new talents.
Enough, he thought as a different deadly something went past.
The longer he lay there the more time the caster had to figure out a spell that could do real damage. The Dungeon Lord withdrew a throwing knife from his belt. “Eldritch edge!” he cast, green flames sprouting from the steel like a will-o’-the-wisp. He tossed Rolim the blade. “Run!” he ordered, pointing at a far-away spot.
The undead man listened, then bouldered through carrying the blade, uncaring of the flames licking his dark gray hand. Immediately, spells flew his way. One hit him square in the chest, a green beam of necrotic energy that burned through the creature’s clothes and covered its chest in black soot.
If Rolim felt any pain, he didn’t show it. He kept running, unhindered.
“Well done, Lavy,” Ed muttered, half-crazed with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He rushed at the source of the spells, aware that the caster was moving in a random arc. Ed ran straight ahead, vaulted over a pile of debris, and landed in the way of the spellcaster—easily seen by the erratic pattern of spells going off every few seconds.
“Smudge,” Ed said, aiming low, and thick magical oil oozed into existence, spreading across the floor almost immediately.
A beam went wide, and the Dungeon Lord could hear the unmistakable sound of someone cursing in Lotian.
He ended the smudge spell, then ran toward the noise. He considered calling for Mohnuran, but that would give him away.
The man on the floor wasn’t Lord Sanguine, but a Lotian with a familiar face; the man Sanguine had brought to Vaines’ dinner, and then to the Endeavor. There was a crossbow lying a few feet away from the Lotian. Ed’s Evil Eye blazed—the weapon was heavily enchanted.
Both Lotian and Dungeon Lord locked gazes. The Lotian was closer to the crossbow, but Ed had a sword.
Ed activated his Evil Eye and tried to frighten the spellcaster, Spirit against Spirit. It felt as if the Dungeon Lord had run headfirst into a stone wall. What the hell? he thought, then moved for the crossbow—but not fast enough.
“Eviscerate!” the Lotian exclaimed, aiming a finger at Ed. A focused beam flew toward the Dungeon Lord, straight at his chest. At this distance, dodging was impossible. Blocking, however—
“Barrier!” Ed said, raising the gauntlet that Kes, Alder, and the Researchers had created for him. It was the first time the new magical item was tested in combat. Ed desperately hoped it wouldn’t be the last. There was a sucking sensation as the shield ate a single basic spell slot and transformed its energy into the only spell it could cast. A transparent half-sphere burst to life in front of Ed and clashed against the beam, pushing it away and releasing a surge of magical feedback that made all the bones in his arm tremble.
The Lotian dove for the crossbow, and Ed followed a second later, muscles enhanced by his advanced reflexes, time slowed down to a trickle. The Lotian grabbed the weapon, raised it up to his chest, and aimed square at Ed.
And then the Dungeon Lord’s sword crashed against the weapon, hard, reducing it to splinters right as the Lotian fired. The bolt went high, right over Ed’s shoulder, close enough he could feel the heat from its deadly enchantments. It tried to correct course in midair, but it lacked enough space, and disappeared behind him.
Ed stomped forward, raising his blade while the Lotian scrambled to his feet and attempted to back away.
“Edward Wright,” the man said, a hint of nervousness masked by a confident smile. “We finally meet—”
Ed’s sword slashed upward, drawing a scarlet line across the Lotian’s neck. The line widened, then became a red gaping wound from which deep black arterial blood poured out before the Lotian had time to do anything but blink in surprise.
As the man fell to his knees, hands trying uselessly to stem the blood loss, Ed stabbed the blade into his heart, twisted the blade hard enough to hear the cracking of ribs, then tore it out. He kicked at the Lotian’s belly at the same time, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“Nice meeting you,” Ed said. He stepped over the bloodied corpse. Around him, the dust was settling. He could distinguish Steros and his minions in the distance, mopping up the remaining miragefiend, who had managed to keep them at bay with illusions until now.
Where are you, Sanguine? the Dungeon Lord thought savagely. He had no intention of pushing farther inside the Factory with Vandran lurking behind his back. But if the other Lord had esca
ped already, that was exactly what would happen.
“Lord Wraith!” Mohnuran exclaimed. Ed turned to see Mohnuran near the middle of the vast wing, slumping against a control panel, his left arm sporting some nasty burns. “Over there!” The minotaur pointed at a small tunnel between a railway mass, where a wood-and-iron roller coaster train had just disappeared.
Ed raised an eyebrow. “Jarlen, take a look at Mohnuran’s wound,” he called over his shoulder as he reached Mohnuran’s control panel. “Rolim, reload and block the exit.”
He studied the glyphs of the control panel. They were in Lotian, which was easier to read than the fiendish Netherworldly language, but he still barely understood the labels. He smacked a red button and pulled a lever, and the wing came to life, lights shining everywhere and a happy mechanical tune blaring over the sound of the skirmish.
The wing had been part of a guided trip mixed with a roller coaster, empty trains guiding phantom guests through the history of Lord Saint Claire and Witch Tillman. Ed heard about Tillman’s humble beginnings as a slave in a Heiligian corsair ship, as well as Saint Claire’s first failed dungeons, all the way to their fabled first meeting on an archaeological expedition on distant Plekth. If he had enough time, Ed would’ve loved to explore the wing, but given the circumstances he hoped that Saint Claire and Tillman’s spirits could forgive what he had done to their memorial.
He pressed another button, and the trains stopped. Most of the lights went out again. That would’ve left Sanguine stranded. And with Rolim covering the tunnel’s exit, the Lord of Vandran was like a rat inside a barrel filling with water.
Lord Steros had managed to push through the last of the surviving miragefiend’s illusion, and the creature was down. If Ed waited a little, they could all face Vandran together.
That, however, didn’t feel right, he mused bleakly as he stepped into the dark tunnel. Some things required a personal touch.