Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series)

by Alex Oakchest

  “What’s yer business?”

  Gulliver smiled and took off his cap and swung it in front of him, bowing. “I’m traveling Xynnar to find new dancing girls for my show. You fellows might make the cut, but you’ll have to sway your hips.”

  “Very funny. I’ll just write ‘traveling prat.’ And you? A core of some kind, no doubt?”

  “You’re wasted on gate duty,” I said. “You should be the town’s lead investigator.”

  “A right pair of comedians, eh?” said a guard.

  The other one leaned closer to me. “Listen, core. Hogsfeate knows how to deal with lumps of rock like you, oh yes. We won’t be tricked again. One word out of place, the faintest whisper of wrongdoing, and we have places we can keep one like you. Dark places, places where the sounds of screams never escape.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I said. “I need a holiday. But let me ask you, do you treat all visitors to this speech?”

  “Don’t need to. Most bipedal folks can be trusted to behave.”

  “Bipedal, eh? Interesting phrasing.”

  “Are you saying I’m prejudiced, Core?”

  “Tell me something, man. Are cores outlawed anywhere in Xynnar? Is there any special writ that says you should threaten to put me in a dungeon? Which, by the way, is ridiculous, and you’ll understand why if you think about it.”

  The guard stared at me for a while, before dismissing us with a wave. “Go on then, core. Bugger off and enter the town, by all means. But don’t expect smiles and hellos.”

  “Thank you. One last thing; your town will have a charter of laws that everyone is entitled to see, even visitors, yes?”

  The guard scratched the corner of his eye. “That’s right.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look?”

  “Bloody hell. It’s around here somewhere, are you really going to make me search for it?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Fine,” he sighed.

  After the guard had procured the town’s legal charter and I had found what I needed, Gulliver and I crossed the gate threshold and headed into town. “What was all that about?” he said.

  “Cores don’t have the best of reputations. If people don’t understand us, they fear us. The people who do understand us have the sense to fear us even more. I didn’t expect a better welcome.”

  “At least we’re here.”

  Hogsfeate was built on a steep slope, with the fancier houses sitting at the top of it and the quality of dwellings getting worse the further down you went. Their plumbing system consisted of trenches that ran down the sloping road and then were diverted out of town. Here in Hogsfeate, crap quite literally flowed downhill.

  On the level ground was the town center, a giant plaza filled with shops and taverns and cafes and smithies. After spending much of my second life in the Dungeon Core Academy and then a dungeon, I wasn’t used to the kind of crowd that I saw milling before me. I watched people stumbling out of taverns, patrons haggling with fishmongers, potion brewers, and herbs sellers, couples strolling arm in arm and stopping at market vendor’s stalls. I didn’t like the smells of bread and beer and dirt, and I liked even less the sounds of laughing, chatting, and singing. It made me miss the solitude of my dungeon. The best I could do was to mute most of my core senses so that the smells and sounds of the town were dulled.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I said. “Where’s this mage?”

  Gulliver was looking in the direction of a tavern across the plaza, which had a sign hanging outside that read ‘The Lazy Urchin.’

  “No, Gull,” I said. “We’re here to see Mage Hardere and ask him to track Cael and his portal. I still need to get back and fix this business with Reginal and Galatee.”

  “Surely we can have a little drink, Beno? Come on! Two drinks wouldn’t take us long at all. I mean, don’t be such a stick in the mud. Having three measly drinks? That wouldn’t add too much onto our trip.”

  “The mage, that’s our task. Being in this crowd makes me remember why I love slaughtering people so much. Now, where would a mage be?”

  “Probably tucked away from the central merchant’s district. Mages don’t like people. You two should get along perfectly. Let’s try over there…”

  “You!” shouted a voice.

  It took me a second to locate its owner, which was a man strutting across the plaza. He looked battle-worn in his old, scratched leather armor. His hair had receded so far over his scalp it was as though it was trying to run away from him, and half his face was covered by stubble. Around his right eye was a runescript tattoo. I had no idea what it said, but most runescript tattoos meant nothing like what their owners had intended.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  “You’re a core?” he asked me.

  “Gulliver, you never told me Hogsfeate was home to so many geniuses.”

  The old man pressed his palm on his sword hilt, which swung from a sheath on his waist. “By order of the heroes’ guild,” he said. “You are trespassing in our town.”

  “The laws of trespass don’t apply to a public space.”

  “They do to you, you grubby gem,” he said.

  “Ah. You speak for the whole heroes’ guild, do you?”

  He puffed his chest proudly. “I do. My name is Pvat, and I represent the Hogsfeate chapter.”

  “A chapter that should have been removed on your first edit,” I said, and stared at Gulliver. When he didn’t respond, I said, “That was a writing joke, Gull. You’re a scribe.”

  “Scribe or not, a bad joke’s a bad joke. Sorry, Beno.”

  “Fine. What’s the heroes guild got to do with me visiting the plaza?”

  “You’re not allowed, not wanted, and not welcome, in that order,” said Pvat.

  “There’s not a single law in the land that prevents me from visiting a town just as anyone else would.”

  “No? Let’s see about that. Guards!”

  Gulliver leaned close to me. “Let’s just leave the plaza, Beno. We’re wasting time that could have been spent in a tavern.”

  “No, I want the hero to have his fun. Let’s see what happens.”

  Two guards wandered over to us. Evidently, Hogsfeate didn’t select its guards based on physical fitness. One was red in the face when they reached us, and the other wiped crumbs from his chainmail.

  “Everything alright, Pvat?” said a guard.

  “Does it look like it? We have a core floating around our town.”

  Before the guard had time to say anything, I cut in.

  “I already looked at your town law charters. There’s nothing that prevents a core from accessing any part of Hogsfeate. You can check it with your pals over by the gates, but it would be a waste of everyone’s time.”

  “Is he right?” one guard asked the other.

  “Dunno, mate.”

  “Right of entry to Hogsfeate town boundaries,” I quoted from memory. “All civilized people and races enjoy right of entry, subject to criminal records, bounties, and purpose of visit. Exceptions; monsters of sufficient violence, demons unaccompanied by relevant warlocks, and tax collectors.”

  “Sounds true, but I dunno much about the law,” said a guard.

  Pvat’s forehead scrunched so much it looked like an elephant’s arse. “He’s selling you a cart full of crap. He’s a damned core, for gods’ sakes! He’s the living embodiment of a demon!”

  “Really, Pvat?” I said. “Embodiment of a demon? Such superstition from a member of the heroes’ guild…you should know better than that. I’m no more a demon than you are a competent swordsman. Anyway, you can check the charter for yourself. Section 2.5, under Immigration and Freedom of Movement.”

  The guards exchanged looks, before one said, “Sorry, Pvat. I never heard of banning someone just because they float and they’re made of rock.”

  Pvat walked away, muttering to himself. I watched him thread his way through the crowded plaza, his shoulders trembling with anger.

  “You
just made yourself another enemy,” Gulliver. “You’re rather good at that.”

  “It’s something of a skill, being universally hated. I’d like to say that at least the instructors at the academy liked me, but Overseer Bolton was my favorite teacher, and I managed to make an enemy of him.”

  “I think you’re alright, for a core, and I’ve met all sorts of wretched people. I wouldn’t worry about being liked, you know. Trying to dictate what people think of you is like trying to control the weather.”

  “Truth be told, a core isn’t meant to have any friends at all. Not even in our dungeon. It’s frowned upon to befriend your own creatures because it makes it harder to send them to get slaughtered by heroes. I think that’s part of why Overseer Bolton has been disappointed in me since I left the academy.”

  “That, and you blackmailed him once. Hey, see that?” Gulliver pointed across the plaza. “Who’s the bloke walking over to Pvat?”

  He was right; way across the plaza, a man had approached Pvat and was talking to him, taking shift looks this way and that.

  “It’s Claus,” I said. “I don’t like that.”

  “Let’s find the mage, then. I suppose there will be other chances to visit a tavern.”

  Mage Hardere conducted business from a tower, like most mages. His was no construction of ivory or marble, as most of them preferred. Instead, Hardere must have bought the chimney from an old factory, possibly a bakery, and had painted it to give an ivory effect. A sign just above the door read ‘Mage Hardere – Spells, Scrolls, & Scones. No love potions, hexes, or curses. I am NOT a witch. Anyone requesting such services will be burned to cinders.’

  “Seems like a nice, rational fella,” I said. “You choose your friends well.”

  “He isn’t my friend, Beno. I barely know the man. You’d do well not to get too friendly with a mage. But don’t annoy them, either.”

  We stood in front of the door for a few seconds in silence.

  “Aren’t you going to knock?” I said.

  “What am I, your slave?”

  “I don’t have hands.”

  “I need mine to write! Would you ask a…uh…mask model...to...uh…use his face to knock on a door?”

  “Gulliver…”

  “Fine.”

  Gulliver blew on his knuckles and gave the door the most delicate of taps. A hatch opened on the top half of the door, and a goblin stuck its head out. It had three diamond studs in its ear.

  “Closed!” it said, before closing the hatch and disappearing.

  “We’re here to see the wizard,” I said.

  No answer.

  “Gull, knock again.”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  The hatch opened, and this time I floated up and rested against it, pinning it back to the door so the goblin couldn’t shut it. The goblin stared at me, forehead furrowed. He had the fluffiest eyebrows I had ever seen, whether that be on a man, goblin, or even an owl.

  “We’re here to see the wizard,” I repeated.

  “Master is a mage, not a wizard.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Can I refer to you as a lump of rock instead of a core?” asked the goblin.

  “Fair point. Could we please speak with Mage Hardere?”

  “He’s busy with an appointment.”

  “Can we see him after?”

  The goblin sucked in his cheeks. “Ooh, might be a while. We are currently assisting a gentleman who needs not one but four cursed nipples removing. Come back when the cock crows five.”

  “At five o’clock, you mean?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said it in a stupid, and unnecessary way. People use watches and timepieces, goblin. Nobody tells the time by listening to crows cocking these days.”

  “Cocks crowing, actually,” said Gulliver.

  Just then came the sound of a cock crowing twelve times, announcing to the whole of Hogsfeate that it was midday. The noise came from the roof of the tower, where a magnificent poultry paced to and fro, puffing its feathery chest and shrieking.

  Gulliver and I walked away from the tower, hearing a hatch slam shut behind us. “I suppose we’re going to be in Hogsfeate longer than I liked after all,” I said.

  “Then that means…”

  “Fine. One drink, Gull. And I might as well see more of the city while I’m here, so we’ll take a walk.”

  “You won’t be sorry, Beno. Me and you going for two drinks. You’ll have a great time! Two buds having three or four ales, what could be better?”

  While we waited for Hardere to finish with his client, Gull and I went for a drink, which meant that I watched him swig down three ales and belch after each one. After that, we went for a stroll and a float around the warrens and alleyways of Hogsfeate. Gulliver, suitably filled with liquid courage, doffed his hat and flashed his smile to every pretty lady who walked by, catching a few wry smiles as a reward.

  Avoiding the plaza and exploring the backstreets of Hogsfeate, I got a better feel for the town, and an even better feel for its residents, which didn’t make me better disposed toward the place.

  Lingering glances. Sidelong stares. Muttered curses, barely disguised frowns. I had the feeling that I was never going to be popular around here.

  We stopped in front of a giant bronze statue of a man holding a shield and a sword.

  “Is it just me, or do people seem to hate me?” I said.

  “It’s you.”

  “I must be imagining it then.”

  “No, I mean it’s you, as in they hate you.”

  “Thanks, Gull.”

  “Excuse me,” said Gulliver, talking to a teenage lad wandering by with a sleeping lamb tucked under his arm. “Any idea why people around here are so rude to my friend?”

  The lad, his nose bright red, sniffed. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nostrils. “On account of Namantep,” he said.

  “What’s a Namantep?”

  “It’s a,” sniff, “Who, not a what. She was a core. S’posed to protect the town, my master told me. Only, she went insane and destroyed half the buildings, killed hundreds of people.”

  “Ah. That might explain why I’m not popular.”

  The lad pointed at the statue. Sniff. “Sir Dullbright was the one who stopped her. Shattered her in half, he did. He’s a hero! Er…no offense.”

  The statue took on an unwholesome air now that I knew the man was a hero. His sword and shield should have been a giveaway, but I’d thought that he might just be a soldier. Some heroes are soldiers, to be sure, but not all soldiers are heroes.

  I floated a foot away from the statue of Sir Dullbright, feeling repulsed by it. “What’s with his stupid name anyway? Dullbright? Completely idiotic. Like being called Sir Fastslow. Sir Bluntsharp.”

  “Come on, don’t take offense to this, Beno,” said Gulliver, and then addressed the lad. “Why are cores allowed here at all, if they caused so much damage?”

  I spoke before the lad had a chance to. “Because towns and cities might have some self-governance, but they can’t overrule the law of the land. Xynnar was founded on equality, or so they say.”

  “So they say,” agreed Gulliver.

  Sniff. “Not for want of trying,” said the lad.

  He jerked his thumb. Way across from us, beyond the plaza and emerging from the biggest, most extravagant house at the top of the town slope, emerged a man so rotund that he looked like a pumpkin ready to roll down the hill.

  Sniff. “That’s Sir Dullbright. He’s the governor, and he’s been trying to get equality laws repealed for decades. Not just for cores, neither. Goblins, kobolds, imps, gnomes. Everything.”

  “A lovely guy. I’m surprised he’s still alive; you don’t often get statues of living people commissioned.”

  “Sir Dullbright decommissioned it ‘imself. Increased taxes to pay for it. Said it was good for the town, since it would boost morale.”

  “He’s let himself go a little,” said
Gulliver. “An example of a phenomenon I have seen time and time again. Success is good for the purse, bad for the gut.”

  Sniff. “Gotta go now, Mr. Core. An’ let me jus’ say; I don’t take no stock in Dullbright’s crap. So long now!”

  The lad was away before I could say anything, weaving through the plaza and soon lost among the crowd, the only sign of his existence the bleating of his newly-awoken lamb.

  “Let’s continue our tour,” said Gulliver. “How about the Pickled Frog and the Bearded Lady next?”

  “I don’t want to meet any of your exes,” I said. “And no more drinking. We didn’t just come here to see the mage; there’s something else.”

  Hogsfeate’s mercenary bulletin board was far away from the town plaza, separated from where the shoppers and traders and everyone else congregated. There was good reason for that, given the people such a board attracted.

  Gathered around it now were mercenaries, men at arms, women-at-arms. Rogues, barely-disguised thieves, barbarians, journeymen. Some wore armor of dazzling metal or exquisitely made leather, the lack of scratches indicating little use. Sons of nobles, no doubt, who had grown bored of the easy rich life and fancied taking a beating from a monster before scuttling off home and bragging to their rich friends.

  Some wore combat leathers that had seen not just better days but better decades, serving not only as protection but as a walking advertisement for their wearer’s battle experience. Others, lacking both money and experience, had fashioned ridiculous armor from straw stuffed into a burlap sack and stitched shut. That was the thing about being a mercenary; there was no monetary hurdle to climb in order to get started. A poor man could rise as a mercenary with the right amount of skill and luck. Unfortunately, a poor man would have to start with homemade armor and weapons, and for these sorts of people, luck was curiously absent.

  “Slim feckin’ pickings,” said one. “I swear, they take all the good jobs and give ‘em to the heroes guild and then they leave us with the crap. I feel like a glorified rat catcher sometimes.”

  “Tell me about it. I haven’t bought a new girdle in months. Haven’t been able to buy a beer since my birthday last year. They talk about the glory of questing work. Ha! I’m living hand to bloody mouth, I am.”