Dungeon Lord- Ancient Traditions

by Hugo Huesca

  In Ed’s experience as an Ivalis Online player, the best way to kill a Dungeon Lord was to overwhelm him and then cut him down before he could escape.

  He found Sanguine’s empty cart halfway through the tunnel, near a group of statues frozen-mid-song in what seemingly had been praises for Saint Claire’s attractive retirement package for his minions.

  Ed stopped a few feet away from the car, his Evil Eye casting eerie shadows across the moss-laden walls. “I can see you, you know,” Ed told the statues. “Veil-Piercing talent.”

  “It’s just not fair,” said one of the statues, stepping down from its dais. The illusion dispelled to reveal Sanguine, all battered, covered in wooden splinters and streaks of his own blood. He had a knife in one hand and the other held behind his back. “That damn talent counters half my build.”

  “That’s the problem with crippling overspecialization,” Ed said, almost feeling sympathy for the man. “If you can only do one thing really well, you’re shit out of luck when someone immune to that thing comes along.”

  Both Dungeon Lords faced each other, taking their enemy’s measure. Sanguine had a facade of cool nonchalance, as if they were having a friendly chat over brunch. “Well, I tried and failed,” the Lord of Vandran said. “That’s what I get for trusting a mere minion, I suppose. Very well. I surrender, Lord Wraith. Take me prisoner and my House shall pay a satisfactory sum as ransom.”

  Ed raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so, Sanguine,” he said, then took another step forward.

  “You would kill a fellow Lord in cold blood after he has surrendered?” Sanguine said, the very image of wounded nobility. “That’s a terrible precedent to leave for any future spats you have with the Lordship. You’ll be enemy number one.”

  Ed smiled sadly as he considered Vandran’s words. “No, Sanguine,” he said, taking a third step forth. “I don’t think I will be.”

  They swung at the same time. Ed’s one-handed slash struck Sanguine across the face, making an almost musical ring against his helmet and lighting the tunnel with magical feedback from the clashing enchantments. At the same time, Ed swatted with his left hand and caught Sanguine’s knife, closing his hand around the blade, confident that even if the edge was envenomed it would do nothing to the skeletal appendage.

  Sanguine cursed and attempted to pull away, but Ed had a firm grip on him and stepped into Vandran’s path while at the same time bringing his sword down like a mace against the Lord’s free arm as he attempted to swat at Ed’s face. The strike of metal against metal showered them in sparks, the enchantments in Vandran’s gauntlet barely stopping Ed’s blade from punching through and severing the appendage. Still, Ed felt the dry, dull crack of bones breaking. Sanguine screamed in agony, his arm now dangling uselessly.

  “Fireb—” he started, but Ed’s Frightful Evil Eye burned only an inch away from his face, and this time Ed brushed off the terrified Sanguine’s Spirit like he was swatting away a fly. Vandran’s pooling magic dissipated in a wave of wasted heat around him as his eyes widened in raw fear. “I yield,” he begged.

  He tried to kick at Ed, but Ed expected it and swiped Vandran off his feet with a simple sidestep. Ed twisted Vandran’s knife’s arm, then jumped onto Vandran’s chest. Grunting with effort, Ed pinned Sanguine’s arm down with one knee, then reached for the man’s neck with both hands.

  “Stop,” Sanguine rasped as Ed’s hands closed around his throat. “Stop. Mercy.” He tried to reach Ed’s eyes, but couldn’t wriggle himself free.

  “I heard you the first time,” Ed said through clenched teeth, then squeezed.

  Glyphs shimmered in bright agony along Ed’s armor as Vandran’s enchantments and talents tried to stop him from collapsing the man’s trachea. Ed pressed on, the smell of burning ozone saturating his nostrils. Beads of sweat pooled on his forehead. Ed squeezed harder, using all his Brawn attribute, his thumbs inch by inch introducing the front of Sanguine’s throat to his spine.

  The Lord of House Vandran didn’t go easily. Ed squeezed until Sanguine went bright red, squeezed until the red turned purple and the man began to kick and shake frantically like a lover in the throes of passion, squeezed until Sanguine’s eyes went white and his tongue rolled to the side of his mouth. Sanguine went limp. Ed kept squeezing.

  The smell of ozone was replaced by that of soiled trousers. Slowly, Ed released his grip on the man’s ruined throat, and realized his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He stood up and rubbed his palms on his sleeves, although they were clean of any blood.

  He forced himself to look at the fruit of his labor. He had killed men before, but never like this. Never this close.

  “How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

  “Long enough,” Jarlen said, somewhere behind him. The vampire came into view, an ugly grin framed by her bat-shaped black helmet. “I almost thought you wouldn’t do it.” She examined Vandran’s shape with a critical eye. “A nasty way to go. He lasted much longer than a normal mortal would have. Turns out that being hard to kill can be a curse as well.”

  “Right,” Ed said without looking at her.

  “On our side, no one except for Mohnuran got hurt, and he’s obviously expendable.” She paused. “You know it had to be done, Lord Wraith, right? Men like him can nurse a grudge for a lifetime. He would never have stopped coming for you.”

  Ed stepped over the corpse. “Loot the body,” he said, forcing his mind to shroud itself in ice. “Then burn it when you’re done.”

  He was halfway out of the tunnel when the world shifted violently under his feet, and in the blink of an eye he crashed hard against the wall, now a slanted floor, while angry red lights blared in all directions along with the deafening scream of an alarm.

  -CRIMSON ALERT. DUNGEON FALL PROTOCOL ACTIVATED. REMAIN CALM AND HEAD FOR THE EMERGENCY EXITS IN AN ORDERLY MANNER-

  Minions and Dungeon Lords stumbled across the illusionary screens as the Standard Factory stirred, bones cracking and towers swaying like trees in a thunderstorm.

  “What’s going on?” Kes asked, going almost as pale as Jarlen. One second ago, Ed had been ending Sanguine’s threat under the ever-present screams of the crowd. Now, the Factory was going crazy, alarms screeching everywhere, the titanic undead dragon shifting as if collapsing.

  She finally understood what was happening when the skeletal wings extended. The sway of the wings created an instant wave of dust like a desert storm, which quickly headed toward the camp. “It’s about to lift off,” she whispered, unable to contain her awe. The magic involved in allowing such titanic weight to take off… it was something she couldn’t even fathom. Terrifying and magnificent at the same time.

  “But why now?” Lavy asked, next to Kes.

  “Because a Dungeon Lord died on its grounds,” Diviner Pholk said, almost fully deflated from raw fear. The dust storm engulfed the first tents of the camp and the shadow of the Factory of Nightmares rose up to the sky, a mountain in flight. “Now its defenses are fully active,” the abnatir went on. “Or like Lord Wright is prone to saying, shit just hit the fan.”

  Archlord Everbleed summoned a dome of protection that withstood the Factory’s take-off while the rest of Korghiran’s underlings disappeared under the buffeting waves.

  The scrying ball went black—it would be a while until the Diviners returned the image. He didn’t need to see to know what was going on, however, for the previous Endeavors had gone the same way.

  Mutated creatures woke up from their stasis, their holding cells open, bloodshot eyes glinting hungrily under the cover of darkness. Ancient golems roamed through dust-covered passageways, ready to destroy the intruders. Deadly defenses took aim in hidden corners and waited for the first poor soul to step into view.

  So far, no Dungeon Lord had managed to get past those surprises.

  Next to Everbleed, Lady Golsa clapped in delight. “Finally, some real action,” she said. “I was starting to think they’d yell threats at each other all day, all ta
lk and no bite.”

  Everbleed watched as the Standard Factory punched through the crimson clouds.

  Not long after Korghiran’s Dungeon Lords had left the Museum, Saint Claire & Tillman’s maintenance beetles skittered out of the shadows. The intruders had done some heavy damage to the Memories Tour—worst of all, they hadn’t even enjoyed the trip.

  The beetles assessed the damage done to the coaster tracks and reported it. They also cleaned the bodies, put out the fire in the middle of the tunnel, and diligently got rid of all the blood.

  There was, however, one body they left alone. That one was still alive and thus was not their problem.

  24

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Interlude: the Lotian

  Malikar stood, head lolling to one side like a ragdoll until the severed tendons in his neck stitched themselves back together. His ribs danced painfully, cracking and resettling on his chest. The rest of his wounds followed suit.

  He was alone in the darkened Museum with only the beetles for company, and they knew very well to keep their distance.

  The parts of himself that were not human—the parts he considered his true self—sent pangs of hunger through his human spine. For a second, he considered going after Wraith and showing the young Dungeon Lord what he could truly do.

  He shook his head. That was the instinct talking. His mission was much more important than his needs.

  Vandran’s demise hadn’t been entirely unexpected. The Dungeon Lord of the House of Pleasure had been useful only because of his lack of foresight. He had brought Malikar—and thus his master—right where he needed to be. And with the Factory soaring through the sky, out of the reach of Everbleed and the High Clerics, their plan was well under way.

  With one cheerful swipe, Malikar dipped his fingertip in the pool of his own blood. Humming to himself, ignoring the hunger and the desire to keep toying with his prey, he drew the first glyph of a summoning circle on the floor.

  25

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Factory of Nightmares

  They lost their first men not long after leaving the Museum, soon after realizing they were being followed.

  The series of rooms they arrived in had been protected by a security checkpoint. Had. A pair of man-sized ballistae lay in splinters to the side of the entrance, with the half-collapsed ceiling above revealing the entrails of a ruined trap mechanism.

  Every once in a while, the world around Ed trembled as the Standard Factory maneuvered through some challenging air current. As a child of Earth, he was used to the concept of flying in a vehicle, unlike anyone else there—even Jarlen seemed uncomfortable with the bouts of turbulence.

  The Lord of the Haunt was not worried about falling, but he was worried about how much more vulnerable they were now. There would be no drones or Portals in the middle of the sky, away from any ley lines. Would the summoning circle that had been the ace in his sleeve still work? There was really only one way to know.

  “It’s a recent battle,” Xorander announced, pinching at the empty air and tasting it. “This is the work of spellcasters.”

  Ed nodded. That much was obvious. “Vaines, Molmeda, or the Bone Lords?” Of the three, he’d much rather encounter the latter. Regent Dolmanak was an unknown entity, with no enmity or allegiance to Korghiran. Also, Ed’s group had two undead. Maybe that counted for something.

  “I cannot tell,” Xorander said. “Minions did this, though. A proper Dungeon Lord wouldn’t dirty their hands unless they really had to.” There may have been a meaningful side-eye thrown at the specks of blood marring Ed’s mail, or it may have been his imagination. He chose to ignore it.

  Lord Steros didn’t. “So the reason for your restraint in the Museum is that you’re saving yourself for Vaines, then? How thoughtful of you, Lady Xorander.”

  At that moment, Macer and his Rogues gestured that the coast was clear. Ed pushed forward between the other Lords in his team, not unlike a wedge between the two clashing personalities. You just have to keep them together until the Endeavor is over, he reminded himself.

  Actually, only until right before we reach Tillman’s office, responded a small, cold part of his mind. This, too, he chose to ignore. For the moment.

  They stepped into a wide room, badly lit with faulty magical torches, framed by wide iron bookshelves, and strewn with upturned, rotten wooden tables and broken chairs. Stained papers littered the floor. If not for the obvious signs of a recent fight, it would have been as if Ed had suddenly traveled back in time.

  He studied a nearby desk, which was still strewn with writing utensils and a wooden frame with bright ceramic beads for counting. “Déjà vu,” he muttered. The materials were different, and there were no computers, but a cubicle row was a cubicle row in any reality.

  “Did you say something, Lord Wright?” Xorander asked.

  “Never mind,” Ed said, feeling once again like a young office worker of Earth and not like the eldritch-hearted Dungeon Lord he was today. “These are Saint Claire & Tillman’s offices.” His cursewing stretched out like a tongue, grabbed a paper from the floor, then “handed” it to him. It was an expense ledger from a decade ago. Ed was by no means an expert, but judging by the amount of red ink it seemed Saint Claire & Tillman had been going through a rough time before their untimely ends.

  And no wonder, he thought, recalling the roller coaster in the Museum. These guys never struck me as being financially responsible.

  “Do you think her office is here?” Steros asked, some feet away from the main group, dangerously close to wandering into a dark corridor by himself.

  Ed shook his head. “I don’t think it’s really that easy,” he said while the Rogues spread out to clear the offices of traps. “Otherwise the Endeavor wouldn’t have lasted as long.”

  “The Standard Factory famously shifts its interior at random,” Jarlen pointed out. “Perhaps our luck is changing.”

  Mohnuran guffawed. “Us? Lucky? Have you lost your mind, vampire?” He reached Ed and pointed at the darkened hall from which they had just arrived. “We are being followed, Lord. Something in the ceiling. I can hear it crawling up there whenever the Witch’s abomination is quiet enough.”

  There was no movement in the shadows, but Ed had learned quickly enough that didn’t mean anything. “The beetles?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Mohnuran said. “Too big. I’d bet a horn it’s a creature of some kind. Meat and bones.”

  Ed grimaced. If Mohnuran was right, it meant something other than the Dungeon Lords and their minions was there.

  “Perhaps we should activate your plan, Lord,” Mohnuran said. “That thing behind us, and Vaines in front… it could get hairy without backup, and your Lord friends are almost at each other’s’ throats anyway. If you ask me, I’d rather have Marshal Kessih watching my back than Lady Xorander.”

  The Dungeon Lord’s response was cut short by a loud, mechanical click—the second most feared sound an adventurer could hear in any dungeon.

  “Dunghill!” exclaimed one of Xorander’s Rogues. “My bad.” Those words were the first most feared sound.

  It was as if Ed’s sword had flown to his hand, and he readied his barrier shield; next to him, Mohnuran hunched his shoulders and readied his axe.

  “Idiot!” Xorander told her Rogue. “What did you do?”

  “Pressure plate,” the Rogue explained through clenched teeth.

  Everyone fanned out, watching the walls, ceiling, and floor, every sense on high alert, trying to listen for any mechanical hiss or catch any signs of whatever nefarious trap the Factory was about to unleash.

  What’s it going to be? Ed wondered, trying to keep his heartbeat under control. Poison darts, a controlled collapse, a deadly gas filling the chamber? He wondered if they could break out of the room, but that kind of panicked thinking was exactly what trap-makers counted on when creating their contraptions.

  The sound came faint at first, growing louder with ea
ch repetition. Rhythmic, familiar clanking. Like metallic footsteps.

  “Here we go,” Mohnuran said cheerfully.

  A rusty brass-and-iron golem stepped through the farthest exit. It was full of dents, and its design was round and cartoonish, its creator clearly having intended it to be as unthreatening as possible.

  “Greetings, unidentified visitors,” it told them cheerfully. “This area is off-limits to guests without proper clearance. Please show me your credentials or return to the Museum and wait for a Saint Claire & Tillman tour employee to come retrieve you.”

  A pin drop could’ve been heard in the silence that followed.

  “Please show me your credentials…” the golem went through its entire spiel again.

  Ed and the other Dungeon Lords exchanged a meaningful glance.

  “I am Lord Luras of House Steros,” said the young swordsman, stepping forward. “That is all the authorization I need. You are an unclaimed minion of a dead Dungeon Lord. Accept my pact of minionship or be destroyed.”

  The golem considered his words. “Credentials unrecognized. Please show me appropriate credentials or I will be forced to call security. Warning: The arrival of security precludes an end to a guest’s enjoyment of Saint Claire & Tillman’s family-friendly areas in ninety-nine percent of cases.”

  Ed wondered how far the golem’s rudimentary programing went. Could he trick it with illusions, or maybe mess with its directives? Or would any attempt trigger its hostility? He opened his mouth, but Lady Xorander beat him to it:

  “A good try, Lord Steros. But our friend here wants to see real authority. I’m of the mind we show him some.” She pointed a long finger at the golem in a gracious manner. “Fireball,” she uttered.

  The explosion sent pieces of golem flying in all directions along with fragments of desk. The ceiling crumbled and a shower of dust rained on the group.