“You know a lot about mages.”
“Who do you suppose the duke turned to in order to spread his anti-mage propaganda in the first place?”
“You?” I said.
Gulliver laughed. “Way before my time. It was the scribes’ guild. All scribes are taught the story as apprentices so that we can appreciate the power of words. One well-aimed, well-funded propaganda campaign, and the reputation of mages has never recovered. Which is a shame, because for the most part they’re a good lot and always pay when it’s their turn for a round of drinks.”
“Even so, they’re still people. There’s always something lurking behind the face of it. Better to be safe than end up as core dust, I always say. I’ll build a chamber for Namantep. Keep it locked, keep it guarded, and keep it far away from the rest of the dungeon. Then, as long as I don’t accidentally summon a core forger to the dungeon or complete the ritual of reawakening by mistake, there’s no chance of an upset.”
“Very good. Are you ready to make a move on Cael? We’ve already given him a few days of recovery time.”
“We have a portal stone Hardere made using Cael’s blood, so it should lead us to him. Razensen needs a day or two to recover from his wounds, and then he’ll be ready.”
“Is he enough?” said Gull.
“On his own, in his normal state? No. He’s strong, but he’s not made of steel. But you saw what happened when he was mad enough and his eyes turned blood red. One blink later, nine men were pulped.”
“What’s your plan? Send him through the portal and then prod his arse with a hot poker?”
“Something like that, but I won’t be sending him alone. That would never work. We need to maneuver Cael into a trap.”
“Supposing he’s ready and waiting for you? What then?”
“A dungeon core never pursues a hero outside of the dungeon. It just doesn’t happen, it goes against our natures. It’d be like seeing a shark leave the sea to chase a swimmer onto the beach. Cael will never expect it.”
“Sharks don’t do well in the open air, Beno.”
“True, but sometimes sharks have to take a risk.”
“We’ve rather burned out this shark talk, haven’t we?”
I couldn’t have said that the remembrance chamber made me feel sad, but it certainly changed my mood. It was like stepping out of the dungeon and straight into a ray of sunlight; it couldn’t hurt me, but that didn’t mean I liked it.
The mana lamps in this chamber glowed faintly, sending out solemn traces of light. There were twelve of them on the north-pointing wall. A dozen lamps, each one lit in memory of creatures who had fallen in service to the dungeon. There was no single monster assigned with keeping them lit, and instead, everyone took turns in refilling the oil. Even Gulliver played his part. The first thing he did whenever he visited the dungeon was to stroll to the remembrance chamber.
It was illuminating, seeing the lamps. Not just in the light that they gave off, but what they symbolized. Seeing them like that, a visual reminder of the creatures who I had sent to their deaths in service to the dungeon, was important because it kept me grounded. Plenty of cores were happy to send wave after wave of kobolds, fire beetles, and other beasts straight to their deaths. When they died, they simply waited for their essence to regenerate, and then made more.
That was no way to run a dungeon. I knew the rumors that spread about me. That I lacked a core’s cold-bloodedness. Pah. They could say what they liked. I bet that if you added up all my victories, I had killed more heroes while losing fewer of my dungeon mates. I wasn’t going to change just because looking out for your creatures wasn’t ‘the done thing.’
“Good afternoon, Dark Magnificence,” said a voice.
It was Brecht, the kobold bard, walking in with his tambourine slung around his back. He was followed by Rusty, my shaman, and then Shadow, my kobold scout. Four dogs accompanied her, two on either side. Her ever-present protectors, whom she’d brought into the dungeon as puppies and had raised to be lovable creatures who could also tear a chunk out of a hero’s arse if needed.
Three of her dogs sat patiently beside her, while the fourth, the smallest one with scraggy fur and a streak of fire-red running down his spine, stayed standing.
“Sit, Arcas,” said Shadow.
Arcas, who like his brothers and sisters was named after places in Xynnar that Shadow wanted to visit, nudged her for affection.
“No. Not until you sit. Come on, we’ve been through this.”
Still no sign of obedience from Arcas.
Shadow addressed the other dogs. “No treats for any of you until Arcas sits.”
To my surprise, one of the other dogs stood up and used his snout to gently nudge Arcas to the ground. Shadow laughed, and she tussled Arcas’s head, and the other dogs nudged her for affection until soon she was lost amidst a sea of fur and wagging tails.
Soon, almost every creature in the dungeon joined me, filling the chamber with beetle squeaks, kobold chatter, the warbling conversion of my elemental jellies, the polite yet cheerful babble of Gary.
Even Kainhelm, a narkleer who gave off toxic death energy that harmed everyone around him, was here. He had spread red paste over his body, a solution I had bought from Cynthia so that Kainhelm could take part in meetings without his mere presence killing half the dungeon.
“Everyone’s here,” I said, facing the sea of beasts, critters, creatures. “Good. We’re here to pay tribute to a loyal dungeon servant. Once again, my friends, a member of our dungeon has fallen in battle. It is that inevitable curse of mortality that we will all be remembered in here someday, and today, it is Dolos. Who would like to tell us a story about Dolos?”
There were no takers. Not that I expected hands to shoot in the air, but it was a problem because part of this whole exercise was to make sure our dead dungeon mates were remembered.
The issue here was that Dolos was…well…a little boring. In his true self, that was. His talents lay as a mimic, in taking on the appearance of others. In his own form, he was just a translucent blob with little to say.
“Come on,” I said. “Someone must have something nice. A story, anecdote, anything. Anyone? This is strange. It seems as though the ground has suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. Come on, people! One of you must have a little tidbit about our friend.”
“Dolos once transformed into a hero we’d killed and then chased Tomlin around the loot room,” said Tarius.
This brought a few titters from everyone except Tomlin, who shook his head.
“Dolos mimic riddle door once,” said Wylie. “And block Wylie in his sleep chamber and keep asking him riddles and say that answer always wrong! Made Wylie late for mining duties!”
Tomlin laughed first and loudest, and the mirth spread until even Shadow, normally regarding herself above such things, let out a giggle. She immediately closed her mouth like a drawbridge.
“A pox on it!” said Kainhelm, his red paste glistening in the soft mana light. “He would entertain me sometimes, the dear little poxer. Slither into my part of the dungeon – which the rest of you barely do, mark me – and would transform into each of you and give the most entertaining impressions.”
“I didn’t know he did that,” I said.
“You don’t know the poxing impressions he did of you, either, core,” said Kainhelm, provoking laughter from everyone else.
“It seems I didn’t know our mimic friend as well as I thought,” I said. “Kainhelm, would you like to have the honors of committing him to the dungeon?”
“A pox on…” began Kainhelm, then stopped. “Me, core?”
I had been looking for all kinds of ways to integrate the narkleer into our dungeon. Given that I hadn’t created him but instead had recruited him, he hadn’t bonded as well with my lair as everyone else, and I often worried that he felt left out.
“Yes, you,” I said.
Kainhelm stepped into the remembrance chamber fully, his gangly legs takin
g great strides, his cape of skin flapping from his back. He held up a glass jar full of ash.
“A plague on the ancestors of any who dare take the life of any in our dungeon!”
He poured Dolos’ ashes into a hole that would take them deep into the heart dungeon. I felt strange as I watched the jar empty. I knew that Dolos’ remains would become one with the dungeon dirt and mud now, that he would become a part of this very structure, a place that would remain here long after we had all gone.
Watching it, though, made me think about something else. I realized that I wasn’t as good a dungeon master as I’d thought. I fancied myself as being progressive, as knowing my dungeon mates better than any other core, but was that true? I’d never known that Dolos had such a personality.
Shadow got to her feet now. Her loyal dogs formed a circle around her, as they always did.
“We need to talk, Beno,” she said.
I didn’t like the tone of her voice. It had an unmistakable edge that meant Shadow was going to say something I didn’t like. In public, I would never have insisted on them using one of my titles. But in front of the whole dungeon, I couldn’t let this disrespect slip.
“Dark Lord, you mean,” I said.
“We need to talk, Dark Lord.”
“Then you can visit my core chamber later today.”
“It isn’t just for me,” she said. “We all wanted to talk to you.”
“Is this correct, everyone? Have I suddenly become popular?” I said, looking around.
Tomlin gave a cowardly nod. Wylie shuffled on the spot. “Need to talk, Dark Lord,” he said. Jellies wobbled in agreement, Beetles squeaked, Kainhelm tipped his head.
“Some of the others wanted to bring this up but were too scared,” said Shadow. “Your temper isn’t always as cool as you like to think, with the very greatest of respects, my Evil Eminence. Others were in favor of dropping the subject and trusting in you. But I-”
“You decided that whatever this is about, you do not have complete trust in me. Alright, Shadow. What is it?”
“Like Gulliver’s prose, I’ll be blunt,” she said.
Gulliver, silent and merely recoding events until now, sprung forward from the wall. “Hey! A quite unnecessary, and untrue, claim.”
“Some of us are concerned about dungeon affairs lately,” continued Shadow. “Several defeats in a row. Dungeon mates lost and not replaced. Or if you have replaced them, it is with inferiors.”
“Most creatures start as level 1 in their respective classes, Shadow. I can’t alter that. It takes time and hero slaughter to build skills.”
“That is our point, oh greatest Dark Lord. Not many heroes are being killed lately. We should be reveling in hero blood. We should have stores full of the weapons and armor we claim from their corpses. Instead, we find ourselves meeting in this chamber to remember yet another of our lost friends.”
“This sounds a little like you are losing faith in me.”
“Those are your words, Dark Lord.”
“I am merely attaching meaning to ones you used. A meaning that you didn’t dare say aloud, despite promising bluntness. Does everyone else feel this way? That I’m losing my hero-killing touch? That our dungeon isn’t as murderous as it used to be? That I, Core Beno, have lost my slaughtering prowess?”
Tomlin sucked in his cheeks. Wylie looked at the ground.
“A pox on it!” said Kainhelm. “I’ll say it, if you’re all too scared. Yes, core. That is what we believe.”
Shadow gave Kainhelm an appreciative glance. I made a mental note of that; while I wanted my dungeon mates to get along, I had to be careful about two of the more trouble-raising ones getting too friendly.
“Tomlin thinks Shadow is wrong,” said Tomlin.
Shadow huffed. “What a surprise.”
“Shadow doesn’t give Dark Lord credit. Doesn’t take into account that heroes are tough.”
“You’re just upset that I ended things with us,” said Shadow.
Tomlin’s wolfish cheeks blushed. “Tomlin was going to end it. Shadow just said words quicker.”
“You would join me under my furs at night if I merely blinked at you.”
“Enough!” I said, my voice booming, the volume shocking Peach the jelly and making his body wobble. “If you have concerns like this, do you really think it is appropriate to air them in the memorial chamber after we have just committed Dolos to the dungeon for the final time? To speak of them in front of the whole damned dungeon? One of you should have come to me privately.”
Wylie gave me a timid look. “Dark Lord will not always talk. Says he is busy.”
“I always have time for you all.”
Gary, at the back of the room near Gulliver, lifted a leech leg. “Actually, my dear core, young Wylie has a point. Meaning no disrespect, you are not always as generous with your time as one might hope. Only last week, I approached you asking to pick your brains about certain battle tactics, if you recall. And what did you say?”
Damn it, I remembered the conversation.
“I told you to scuttle off somewhere for a while and let me work.”
“Not exactly polite, my dear chap.”
“No,” I agreed, “That wasn’t. In fairness, it was mere hours after Cael had given us a beating.”
Shadow gave a smile, the kind that folks only give when they know a fly just blundered into their spidery trap. “Which brings us onto the main point, most diabolical dungeon king. The beatings we have been getting again and again.”
Borderline insurrection. Lack of faith in my abilities. Complaints aired in front of the whole dungeon. It was enough to make me want to unleash a rolling boulder trap on them all.
The worst part was that they were right. They had said nothing that I hadn’t worried about before. The difference here was how worse it felt when it was someone else saying it, and not me.
I had lost the confidence of my dungeon mates. For a core, that is not a good place to be.
I knew that if we exited the remembrance chamber now and left things as they were, the stigma would float around the dungeon for weeks, hanging in the air like the toxin from one of my gas traps.
The only way to mitigate the damage was to say something to get morale up right now, and then work on everything else later.
So, what to say? What magic words could I use?
“When a blacksmith is forging a sword,” I said, “do you know what he does? He puts the metal against the heat. He leaves it there for as long as it can stand. It may look like he’s weakening it, that he might destroy the metal, but he isn’t. He’s getting it ready, making it pliable so that he can hammer it into something so much better.”
“And you are the blacksmith?” said Shadow.
It was complete nonsense, of course. This example didn’t apply to the dungeon at all, and I wasn’t even sure of my blacksmithing knowledge. “I am. And you are the hammer. Or perhaps our battles with heroes are the hammer, and you are the metal.”
“Maybe we are hot coals,” said Tomlin.
“You’re more like the blacksmith’s apron, if you ask me,” said Gulliver.
“Gull…” I warned.
He nodded at me. “Your dark lord, is quite right, of course. This place is like a forge and Beno is the smith.”
“Words!” cried Shadow. Two of her dogs tilted their heads gave howls, copying her. “Words that sound just right enough that they might actually mean something. No, Beno. We need answers.”
I’ll give you answers, I thought. Answers made of lava. Or acid. Or fire. Anything that melts kobold flesh…
But I couldn’t do anything bad to Shadow. Showing brutal discipline would shut the rest of them up, but it would destroy the bonds we’d built. It would mean completely changing my dungeon philosophy. A short term solution that created long term problems. I would be trying to get rid of a fly from my house by swinging a warhammer around my living room, smashing everything in sight.
I needed something else.
Yes, I needed another analogy.
“A soldier, you see, must sometimes…” I began.
And then I stopped.
I felt a dull throb in my core. Using my core senses, I checked every room in the dungeon.
“Heroes,” I said.
“That’s the point, Beno. Heroes are-”
“Enough!” I said, loud enough to shut her up. I carried on, “There are heroes in the dungeon.”
A party of five loot-seekers had entered the first chamber in my dungeon. Not a bunch of rookies, by the looks of them. I always say that you can tell a hero’s skill – or their luck – by their age, since you never saw an old hero who didn’t know what he was doing. The average sword swinger joined the heroes’ guild at 18, and most didn’t live beyond their twenties.
This group looked to be aged in their late thirties. Still young enough to be physically fit, but with the wisdom age brings. Relative to a hero’s terms, obviously. They aren’t geniuses, after all.
I snapped out of my core vision and faced my dungeon mates.
“We have five heroes.”
“Is it Cael Pickering?” asked Tarius. He was standing beside Wylie, wearing his union shirt and resting his pickaxe on his shoulder.
“A pox on him!” thundered Kainhelm.
“It isn’t Cael.”
Tarius breathed out in relief. This annoyed me for a moment. We were a damned dungeon, for demons’ sake. We shouldn’t have been relieved that one specific hero hadn’t come.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized Tarius’ relief was a good sign. A bit of light respite would do the trick here. A victory could be just what I needed to shut Shadow up for a while and boost dungeon morale.
“Do you want me in the first chamber, dear core?” asked Gary. “I’m still not at my best, but I fancy I could hobble up there.”
“Fight!” “Death!” “Kill!” cried my fire beetles, already back to fighting condition.
“I admire your enthusiasm,” I told them, “But no, I don’t want Gary to go to the first chamber, and I don’t want you there either, beetles.”
“Then what?” asked Shadow. “Let them waltz into our loot room, like the last five times?”
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