Dungeon Lord- Ancient Traditions

by Hugo Huesca

  Behind him, he knew, Cleric Dalph was about to unleash the Light’s divine fury upon anything and everyone. Jayden, next to him, seemed to be thinking the same thing. The darts did nothing against their magical protections.

  Only that the divine fury never came.

  They made it halfway before the man at the front of the Akathunians raised his hand and uttered a spell that Dalph should have countered easily. Necrotic hands surged from the ground all around Gallio and Jayden, inhumanly long. The hands grabbed at Gallio’s legs while trying to pin him down. He saw Jayden fall, slashing at the hands as if they were real enemy combatants. Gallio pushed forward, trusting his divine protections to shield him from the necrotic damage.

  Mohnuran overtook him. The minotaur threw his battle-axe at the enemy spellcaster, and the axe flew with the speed of a throwing dagger thanks to Mohnuran’s massive Brawn ranks. The axe drew an arc too fast for the eye to follow and embedded itself in the man’s chest, bringing him down with brutal efficiency.

  “Well done!” Gallio and Mohnuran mowed through the Akathunians. Their win condition was to get Vaines and Wright in range of the sunwave. Wright, who was especially vulnerable to Alita’s fury due to a curse he had acquired years ago, would die instantly to it, and Vaines would be greatly hindered. The Dungeon Lords had to be aware of that, because they kept their distance.

  The Inquisitor’s sword rose and fell over and over again as the Akathunians tried to surround him. He felt their scimitars and darts slide harmlessly off his armor. His talents, which were empowered by his faith, made him into an unassailable castle as he readied to fulfill his life’s destiny.

  Cassimir was to one side, and Mohnuran to the other. The three of them fought off the six remaining Akathunians. Despite the famed skill of the Assassins, they went down like flies under the sheer might of the Inquisition’s best. Gallio plunged his golden blade into the heart of a tall Assassin and pushed the mortally wounded man against the one fighting Cassimir. There was an opening right in front of him, from which Gallio could see Wright, only a few feet away from sunwave range.

  The Inquisitor took his chance. He left Cassimir and Mohnuran to deal with the remaining Akathunians, then charged, sword high, as he summoned all his faith, anger, and pain at what would surely be his greatest sunwave. In just one strike, he would end it. He would redeem himself from what he had unleashed into Starevos…

  He locked eyes with Dungeon Lord Edward Wright. Where Gallio had expected to see anger or challenge, he only saw fear. And it wasn’t directed at him. “Gallio, get away!” Wright was saying. “It’s a goddamn trap! They infected themselves with—”

  Gallio didn’t hear the rest of Wright’s words, because something grasped his waist like a vise and stopped him in his tracks hard enough that his feet left the ground and all the air rushed out of his lungs, exactly as if he had ran chest-first into a wall. He hit the ground with a dry sound.

  What? he thought, stunned, as he jumped back to his feet. He looked down. He was being held by a silver-and-blue chain. A spell. More than that—a divine spell. He followed the length of the chain to find its caster holding the other end. Cleric Dalph stared at him with a confused expression. What? he thought again.

  “Dalph, what are you doing?” Had the Cleric betrayed the Inquisition? But how? His divine magic would’ve abandoned him!

  Mohnuran and Cassimir, surrounded by dead bodies, seemed as confused as he was. Inquisitor Jayden was up, seemingly unhurt. The others were dead.

  Edward Wright drew his sword and tried to run toward Gallio—which would’ve meant his death as soon as he entered sunwave range—but Vaines caught him and dragged him away. “They infected themselves,” Wright yelled at Gallio. Was Wright trying to warn him? “With Sephar’s Bane! They are not dead, they are toying with you!”

  “Is this one of your tricks?” Gallio managed to ask, but Wright only shook his head desperately.

  The bodies began to stir. Someone laughed. The spellcaster that Mohnuran had brought down with his axe stood and tossed the bloody weapon clanking to the floor. Gallio saw the wound—it was real, a crimson crater surrounded by broken ribs. He also saw how the wound began to knit closed by itself, as if the man’s muscles and skin were actually a bunch of disguised meat maggots. “That was fun,” the man-shaped creature said. “But playtime’s over.”

  The Akathunians that Gallio had slain rose, blood and gore still spouting from their wounds—wounds that his divine magic should have stopped from regenerating even if they were imbued with unholy enchantments. Mohnuran and Cassimir tried to fight them, but this time, surrounded by the Assassins, the results were very different. It was over in seconds. They died quickly, in silence, without understanding.

  “I must say, I did not expect you to be here, Inquisitor Gallio. You keep blindly stumbling into our plans. A quality you share with our friend here, Lord Edward Wright. A different person may think it fate. However, as you may learn today, Inquisitor, some men are but moths. The flame attracts them, although they may never understand it. And if they were ever to reach it…”

  Inquisitor Jayden was in front of Gallio. His sword hung limply from one hand, and his gaze was blank. Vacant, even. “I don’t understand,” he told Gallio weakly.

  And then ran him through.

  There was a piercing sensation, deeply cold, more painful than anything he’d ever felt before. The blade hurt just as much leaving his body than it had going in. His knees failed him, and suddenly his body was heavy, heavier than he could withstand. He collapsed, his chest rising and falling like a fish stuck at the edge of the beach while his lungs tried to pump enough oxygen to his brain to keep him conscious.

  Darkness enclosed on the edge of his vision, and it grew with every failed breath.

  The last thing the Inquisitor could think before unconsciousness claimed him was one simple idea.

  I don’t understand either.

  “NO!” Ed tried to shake Vaines off him when the Akathunians began executing the Inquisitors. He almost managed it, too, and had he succeeded he no doubt would’ve died with Mohnuran and the others.

  He refused to even acknowledge that Gallio could be dead, even as the Inquisitor lay on the floor, pale as a corpse, in a crimson pool.

  “Keep it together,” Vaines said, seething, next to his ear. “Or you’ll suffer the same fate.”

  “I brought them here,” Ed said. Why was he reacting like this? The Inquisitors were never meant to survive. They were at war. They had killed so many Haunted minions. Gallio’s fall, rationally, had to mean less than nothing. But Ed’s reaction had nothing rational about it.

  You’re supposed to be my nemesis, no one else is allowed to kill you, the Dungeon Lord thought as something akin to fury—but uglier—claimed him.

  “So? Their lives bought us a few extra seconds to gather our thoughts,” Vaines went on. “That means your plan, as far as we are concerned, was a success. Think, Dungeon Lord. Our mind is our greatest weapon. Use it. Why are we still alive?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know—?” Ed snapped.

  “Think!”

  He used her own words against her. “Because we are more useful to Malikar alive than dead.”

  “Exactly. So as soon as we can we must find out why.”

  It was too much, too sudden. Ed hadn’t seen creatures like Malikar since Nicolai.

  The mere implications of Malikar’s presence, what he was… No. He couldn’t deal with it. Not yet, at least.

  Instead, he chose to follow Vaines’ advice, but in his own way. Think in the short term only. Deal with the situation in small bites, one step at a time. He glanced about. Virion was still alive, and so was Jarlen. They kept to the background, probably looking for an opening to continue their fight, or for instructions. Ryan had his back against the Portal. He had wet his pants, and no doubt would’ve run away a while ago had it not been for the circlet.

  Ryan. The Planeshifter. Short term, they needed to regroup. F
igure out what was going on. Ryan could achieve that. He only needed a chance.

  In the meantime… he turned back. Malikar was cleaning up the gore from his torn shirt. No wound marred his skin. He drank from a tin flask he kept at his waist. “Well done, brothers. Everything is in place. Master shall be pleased, but our work isn’t over yet.” He turned to the Cleric that had betrayed Gallio. “Stand over there and try to remain inconspicuous. You’ll have to use that Relic of yours soon enough.” He gave a quick round of instructions. “Knowing the Regents, they’re watching us right now, but can’t hear us, so keep your current forms and wait for our signal.”

  Malikar was now headed toward them, followed by the second traitor, the Inquisitor that had wounded Gallio. Ed took one look at that blank, idiotic face and it took all his willpower not to attack at once, escape be damned.

  “Your honorable Evilnesses, I’m terribly sorry for making you wait,” Malikar told Vaines and Ed. “My master shall meet with you presently. This is a reunion he’s been looking forward to for so very long now.”

  “If you say so,” Vaines said regally. “In that case, let us not keep him waiting. You may summon him now.”

  “Ah, that won’t be necessary. He is already here.”

  The Inquisitor next to Malikar began to melt. It happened fast, unexpectedly. There was panic in his expression before his jaw crumbled like a piece of paper, and then the features of his face rearranged themselves.

  There was a crunch of bones breaking, tearing noises of ripped skin, then the man screamed in agony… or attempted to. His throat was bulging with fluid and gas and he only managed a wet guttural sound that seemed to drill into Ed’s soul. It was as if the Inquisitor’s body was made entirely out of crawling maggots, and they were breeding right in front of Ed’s eyes.

  Whatever was happening, the only rational response a man could have was to run away screaming. Or to try to burn the pile of flesh. But Ed could only stand there, frozen, like someone watching a train crash right in front of them.

  “No,” the Inquisitor said weakly.

  And then he was an entirely different person, the transformation seemingly over. The man standing naked in front of Ed and Vaines was slender, with long black hair, an aristocratic nose, and purple eyes. A Lotian. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, but that said little in Ivalis, where appearances deceived. His glance met Ed’s and he smiled confidently.

  Malikar produced a silky black robe trimmed with flowing golden patterns from the travel pack at his back and reverently dressed his master while the man extended his arms as if about to give a welcoming hug.

  “You are Lord Edward Wright,” the man told Ed. It was a statement, not a question, as if by uttering those words he were in fact investing the Lordship into Ed. “We meet at last.” He then faced Vaines. “And Aramis. We meet again.”

  “My title is Lady Vaines. Do I know you?” she asked dryly.

  “Of course. You are a Lady now, all grown up,” he said, smiling warmly. “I forget. My apologies for what happened to your brother. Then again, war is war… as we all well know.” There was something unnerving in those Lotian eyes, Ed thought as he tried to surreptitiously read the man’s character sheet. His manner was pleasant enough. Far more polite than Vaines. Friendly, even, given the circumstances, except that he had completely ignored Lord Virion, almost pretending as if the other Lord didn’t exist. Even that tiny gesture said something to Ed about this man’s true nature, although he couldn’t tell yet if it was mere carelessness or cold calculation—Virion had nothing to offer and thus did not matter.

  Vaines narrowed her eyes. Ed noted that there was blood dripping down her breastplate. “It is customary for a man to introduce himself when he addresses the Lordship. You claim to know me, and do seem somewhat familiar, but you have not told me your name.”

  He turned to Malikar. “I’m making a mess of this introduction, aren’t I?” he told Malikar jovially. “It’s been so long, and the Lordship used to have so many traditions.”

  “You are doing fine, Master,” Malikar said. “Although I do suggest you hurry. The Archlord will come as soon as he senses your presence.”

  The man shrugged, then turned back to Vaines and Ed. “Pardon my manners. I’ve lived with only myself for company for far too long. That can turn any man eccentric, and I was never the most well-adjusted before. As for my name, you may not believe it if I told you. So I’ll speed things up with a demonstration,” He walked away, regally, effortlessly, like a king in a fable. He climbed the small raised dais that displayed a few of Saint Claire’s remaining legendary weapons. He ignored most of them, and finally stopped in front of the armored statue holding a spear. “Objectivity does not allow for a person to change the name of his character sheet for another’s, because that name is his identity as interpreted by Objectivity itself. He may hide it, of course, or keep it a generic ‘human,’ but Aramis Vaines can never be Edward Wright. Otherwise, anyone could change his name to, say, Murmur, and suddenly have all of the god’s permissions to alter our reality.”

  He turned right next to the statue to address them directly, and Ed couldn’t help but notice the man and the statue’s proportions matched perfectly. “To wield one of Saint Claire’s weapons, you must reveal your full character sheet to it, and if your name does not match the one the weapon is aligned to, it activates a powerful curse. It thus follows that the only mortal person that can wield this spear without losing a hand is the rightful owner.” He took the spear from the statue and drew a long wide arc in one smooth motion above his head. The spear reacted to his touch, but didn’t hurt him. Instead, it activated its enchantments, ready to be wielded against any foe, the air rippling in its wake. The motion ended effortlessly with the tip aimed straight at Ed and Vaines. At the same time, the man’s eyes blazed a green so intense that the lines of his skull could be seen underneath his skin.

  “I am Dungeon Lord Sephar,” he said.

  Sephar of the Wetlands

  Species: Mindbrood

  Total Exp: ?

  Unused Exp: ?

  Claims: ?

  Attributes

  Brawn: 16

  Agility: 16

  Endurance: 20

  Mind: 22

  Spirit: 22

  Charm: 20

  Skills

  ?

  Talents

  ?

  28

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Man Behind the Curtain

  Archlord Everbleed could not decide if the minions of the Haunt were brave because of the way they had chosen to stay and face him, or if they were foolish. Probably a mixture of both.

  He had lived long enough to appreciate the little things in life. For example, the batblin riding a spider who now faced him with a spear, as if the critter really believed he could stop Everbleed’s approach even for a second. The rest of the minions fanned out behind the batblin—the critter had pushed forward to meet Everbleed, disregarding the warnings of his wiser allies.

  Even if it was ridiculous—or perhaps precisely because of it—the Archlord stopped and regarded both creatures with the seriousness he’d have reserved for a real challenger. “So you defy me, small one?” Everbleed laughed, a sound like a grumble from a furnace coming deep within the ebony Devil Knight. He spread his wings to their full size, and he was fairly sure the red light from the Netherworld glinted on his black horns. “Know that I am Dungeon Lord Everbleed, Archlord of Lotia, the last of the free Dungeon Lords. I have eaten a thousand of your kind for breakfast and I shall yet eat a thousand more. Who are you to stand before me?”

  The critter was trembling, and the spider below him was one instant from bolting away—Everbleed knew how to tell. Still, neither of them moved. No, hilariously, it was the rest of the Haunted minions who advanced to stand with them. “I am Klek of the Haunt,” the batblin said. “And you can go fuck yourself, ugly.”

  Everbleed raised an eyebrow. “Are you aware I can end you with a single
swipe of my blade?”

  One of the other minions, a Witch with disheveled black hair, stepped forward. “To hell with it. Kill us if you want, but know that everyone in Lotia thinks your name is idiotic. Everbleed, really? Are you trying to compensate for something or what?”

  The kaftar cackled—that was kind of what they did. But even a few of the fiends that had approached to see the executions laughed, and that got on Everbleed’s nerves. The Dark knew he had suffered enough humiliations because of Count Bastavar to now have to suffer the mocking of lowly minions!

  “Enough,” he said. “I’m afraid to inform you that minions don’t get to give a last speech. You’ll simply die. And for your foolishness, I’ll make it slow and painful.”

  Another minion, a woman with a shield and a sword, stood next to the rest. “Funny,” she said. “Slow and painful is exactly how your mother told me she liked it last night.”

  Everbleed summoned his sword and spread his wings. He had decided he’d kill them one by one, in the order they’d spoken to him. He snapped his fingers and a wall of flames appeared between the rest of the minions and the batblin, who had jumped to his feet and… was actually charging at him!

  The Archlord extended his hand and tore the spear from the critter’s hand. The critter rolled away and produced a blowpipe. The dart bounced harmlessly off Everbleed’s skin. The Archlord then stepped on the batblin, careful not to crush the minion too much—he wanted to enjoy the kill. He locked eyes with the creature, who struggled uselessly to free himself.

  “Like I said,” Everbleed announced, raising his sword. “Slow and painful.”

  Let's see if anyone dares laugh after this, he thought. In fact, now that he realized it, few of the fiends were paying any attention to the execution at all.