Another Day, Another Dungeon

by Greg Costikyan

  "Boy, we sure showed them," said one Boar to another. Morglop snorted.

  "We've lost the element of surprise," said Wentworth, surveying the room through his monocle.

  "Yes," said Morglop. Bashing down doors with axes was not the way to sneak up on someone.

  Morglop went to the door on the far wall, the one that led to Veronee's work chamber. He tested the knob. The door was locked. He waved to Garni. "Another door," he said.

  "Right," said the dwarf, hefting his axe.

  "Hell vith this!" yelled Kraki. He hurtled toward the door, shoulder first, sword in his trailing hand. Morglop stepped out of the barbarian's way. Kraki impacted the door. It burst off its hinges and slammed onto the floor of the room beyond.

  Kraki fell to hands and knees on top of the door. He looked up. Seven zombies were about to kill him. He raised his sword and parried desperately.

  The others scrambled toward the door. No one was in position; Kraki had acted too abruptly.

  Wentworth turned a dangerous color of red. "After him!" he screamed at Morglop.

  "I can't," said the cyclops. He hovered by the door, trying to wedge his way through, but the zombies kept Kraki hemmed in against the opening. Several wizards gathered behind Morglop, wondering whether to chance a spell. The doorway gave them a narrow line of sight into the room beyond, but Kraki was dodging wildly as he struggled with the zombies. A spell might as easily hit him as an enemy.

  The barbarian was already wounded in two places. He was a superb swordsman, but seven opponents were more than he could handle.

  "Do something!" shrieked Wentworth.

  "Care to be more specific?" snorted Morglop.

  A beam of black light shot through the door, inches from Morglop's eye. He reared back in surprise.

  The beam struck one of the waiting wizards. The man's face wrinkled and his hair turned white. He clutched his chest, stumbled, and fell prone. Morglop stared past the zombies. A severed human head hung behind them, floating in midair. Blood dripped from its neck. Its eyes focussed on the cyclops. A black beam shot. . . .

  Morglop darted to the side. The black beam struck the door frame; the wood instantly rotted and turned to dust.

  "Everyone out of doorway," Morglop shouted. The order was unnecessary. Everyone was already scrambling away from the opening and to the sides of the room.

  Kraki, no fool, backed through the door, parrying wildly. "Morglop!" he yelled. "Vhen they follow, fight from side of door." Then, he ducked out of the head's line of sight, ready for the first zombie to come through the door.

  But they didn't come.

  Kraki sneaked a peek. The head stayed in the workroom. The zombies were completely motionless. Veronee's order had been very explicit: "Kill anything that comes through that door." Only one thing had come through the door, and Kraki had left again. Patiently, they waited for something else to kill.

  Father Thwaite was crouching over the wizard that the black beam had struck. "What's wrong with him?" Morglop asked.

  "He's dead," said Thwaite.

  "Dead?" echoed Wentworth. "How did he die?" Thwaite looked at the alchemist. "Of old age."

  Wentworth raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. After all, they were dealing with necromancy.

  "We're pinned down," said Sidney.

  "That," said Wentworth, polishing his monocle, "is about the size o€ it." "How about a fireball?" asked a young Boar in a chain mail byrnie. Morglop rolled his eye.

  "These cellars are too small," Jasper answered testily. "A fireball would fry us to cinders."

  "Oh," said the Boar.

  They sat or stood in silence for a moment. "Now what?" asked Wentworth.

  "Why dontcha give up while da givin' is good?" suggested Garfok. "Before da baroness gets here."

  "Shut up," Sidney said, poking the orc with her blade.

  "Gosh," said an elf maiden finally. She wore a green cap with a point that flopped over one eye, green leggings, and curly-toed shoes. She had a bow over her back. There were little cozies over her arrow points. "I can get that mean monster!"

  Everyone stared at her. Elves, thought Jasper. He knew it was uncivilized of him to harbor prejudice for an allied species, but he hated elves. They were so damned . . . cute.

  "You can, eh?" Wentworth said.

  "Sure, mister!" she said brightly. She knelt against the wall, right by the edge of the door, and nocked her bow. While the others watched, she pulled the bowstring back to her ear, leaned into the door opening, and let fly. She leaned back out of the doorway.

  A black beam shot through the door and splashed harmlessly against the far wall.

  The elf maid nocked another arrow, leaned into the doorway again, and let fly again. She hesitated, then stood up, square in the middle of the doorway.

  Nothing happened to her.

  She stuck her tongue out at the zombies, then turned to Jasper. "See?" she said brightly. "Told ya."

  Warily, Jasper flitted into the doorway. Beyond the still-motionless zombies, the severed head swivelled and bobbed wildly, one arrow protruding from each eye.

  "Good work," Jasper said grudgingly. The elf maiden giggled. Morglop stepped into the doorway. The zombies stood in a rough semicircle about the opening. They were as motionless as the corpses they were. The cyclops stepped through the door.

  Instantly, the corpses raised their weapons and closed on him. He stepped back over the lintel.

  The corpses halted as instantly as they had moved. "Strange," said Morglop. "Why don't they attack?"

  Father Thwaite peered through the doorway. "Zombies have no volition," he said. "They merely follow orders. They were probably ordered to attack anything that comes through the door. You're on the other side of the door."

  "Good," said Morglop. "So why not throw rocks at them until they die?"

  "That would work," said Father Thwaite. "But this may be somewhat quicker." He pulled out a flask of brandy, hesitated, took a hefty swig, then began to chant. Within moments, a blue glow had imbued the flask. He took an aspergillum from his robe, poured the brandy into it, and, standing on tiptoes, leaned through the door to sprinkle brandy on the zombies.

  With the first sprinkle of brandy, one zombie fell to its knees. With a second, it fell lifeless to the stone floor. Soon, the zombies were nothing but sprawled corpses.

  The group drifted into the workroom. The statue wasn't here. The severed head kept on bumping into Kraki blindly. He brushed it away. "Up stairway?" he suggested.

  Morglop peered up the spiral stair. He shrugged. "Wentworth," he said, "let's get organized."

  Timaeus sniffed suspiciously at a mushroom and put it aside.

  He peered down the spiral stairs. It filled the shaft, meaning he had no way of knowing what was down there. He lit his pipe (bang!), and settled back on a sack of potatoes to wait for the foe.

  Sounds of combat floated up the stairs. Timaeus frowned and listened closely. After a while, the noise stopped.

  Some minutes later, a footstep clanged on the metal stairway. Timaeus couldn't see who his foe was, but someone was coming up the stairs. He cleared his throat and said a Word.

  A ball of flames appeared in his right hand. He tossed it negligently down the stairway.

  It bounced down along the spiral. There was an explosion.

  Flames gushed back up the shaft, enveloping Timaeus.

  His greatcoat began to burn. "Shoddy workmanship," he muttered, batting at it with his hands. He got the fire out. His clothing smoking, he peered down the stairway.

  "That should hold them," he said, and sucked on his pipe contentedly. A small ball of flame rolled under Morglop's feet and into the room. He wondered what it was.

  Garni knew. Instantly, he dived over the stairway bannister, putting the metal of the stair between himself and the fireball.

  Sidney dived under a worktable.

  Morglop noticed their reactions and dived for the floor himself. Like most of the Boars, he was an instant too late.<
br />
  The small ball of flames became a big ball of flames. There was a loud noise.

  After a while, the smoke cleared enough for Garni to see the room. Several of the Boars were down, Wentworth among them. Jasper flitted about the room, but he moved more slowly than usual.

  "Cleric!" Garni said weakly.

  Father Thwaite was ministering to someone else. He paused long enough to look at Garni, and say, "Use your healing draught." Wentworth awoke to find Sidney holding a flask to his lips. He sputtered, then drank deeply. "Necromancy," said Sidney bitterly. "You said there was necromancy. You never said anything about fire magic." Wentworth sat up and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "Didn't sense any," he said. He pulled out his dragon's tooth and threw it into the air. It hung motionless for a moment, then turned black and pointed at the severed head, still floating aimlessly around the room, arrows poking from its eyes.

  "Yes, yes, I know that already," snapped Wentworth, rising gingerly to his feet.

  The tooth swivelled, hesitated, then pointed to a zombie corpse. "Right," said Wentworth, disgusted. "I know about that too. And the other zombies," he said with irritation, as the tooth began to point to another.

  The tooth pointed directly at him and turned yellow. "Yes, I know I'm an alchemist, thank you very much," muttered Wentworth. "Fire magic. All right? How about fire magic?"

  The tooth swung about, as if uncertain. Then, it darted to the stairwell and pointed straight up.

  "There!" said Wentworth triumphantly. "See?"

  Sidney stared at him as if he were mad. "Gosh, Mr. Wizard," she said, lapsing into elvish tones. "I'm so impressed. There's a fire mage up there, I bet! Thanks for warning us, Mr. Wizard, sir."

  Wentworth turned crimson. He opened the ivory box in which the dragon tooth's was normally stored, walked over, held the box open around the tooth, and snapped it shut.

  "That," Morglop said to the Boar in the chain mail byrnie, "is why you don't use fireballs."

  Kraki conferred with Morglop. Jasper flew over to join them. "How ve get up stairs?" Kraki asked.

  Morglop studied the staircase. "Run?" he suggested.

  This sounded like suicide, even to Kraki. He shrugged. "Hokay," he said.

  "Wait a sec, will you, lads?" said Jasper. "Why don't I run a recce, eh?" "Vhat?" said Kraki. Without waiting for an answer, Jasper began to fly up the staircase in a tight green helix.

  "He means, he'll go and take a look," explained Morglop.

  As he flew up the stairs, Jasper mustered his concentration. He whispered Words, readying a spell. He was hoping to take his foe by surprise. He shot out of the stairwell and into another earthen chamber, this one lit by a single torch. A man in a greatcoat sat on a sack of potatoes, his mouth open in surprise. Smoke curled over his head.

  Jasper shouted the final Word of his spell. Green light enveloped his foe. Jasper plunged deep into his enemy's mind, seizing control of the man's body. . . .

  Timaeus slumped over onto the potato sack. His eyes were glazed. His pipe hit a mushroom. He drooled onto the burlap.

  Jasper flitted around the fire mage, studying him. Why in heaven was Timaeus here? And why had he thrown that fireball?

  Gingerly, Jasper began to feel through Timaeus's mind. To his surprise,

  Jasper found a compulsion, a desire to help a woman in distress. . . . The spell was crude, short term, easy to break. A magician of some other branch of the art must have imposed it on Timaeus. Jasper released the fire mage. "I say, d'Asperge, old boy," he said. "What's all this about, then, eh.

  Timaeus blinked and sat up groggily. "J . . . de Mobray?" he said unbelievingly.

  "Spot on."

  Timaeus reached for his pipe. It wasn't in its accustomed pocket. He noticed it on the mushroom and reached for it. "What happened?" he said. "I remember a green light . . . then I blacked out."

  "I'm the green light, of course," said Jasper. "What the devil do you mean by fireballing me?"

  Timaeus stared at the point of green light. "Fireballing you?" he said in some confusion.

  "And," said Jasper, "your friends Sidney Stollitt, Nick Pratchitt, Garni, that Kraki fellow . . ."

  Timaeus puffed fiercely on his pipe. "Forces of evil," he muttered disgustedly. "'Farewell, dearest Tim!"' He scowled.

  "Beg pardon?" said Jasper.

  Timaeus's ears were an interesting pink. "Er . . . is everybody all right?" he asked.

  Jasper sighed. "No fatalities, I believe," he said. "Thank Dion," said Timaeus.

  They had found the parlor. The injured were draped in couches and chairs. Father Thwaite had found Veronee's modest cellar, and several were sipping sherry.

  Wentworth stood in the center of the room looking harried. "No statue?" he said unbelievingly. "None at all? Not even a bust? A lawn ornament? A toy soldier, for Cuthbert's sake?"

  "We've been all over the joint," said Sidney. "The baroness doesn't have Stantius. Or if she does, it isn't here."

  Wentworth turned to Kraki. "Nothing?" he said despairingly. "Nothing," said Kraki.

  "Unh uh," said the elf maiden. "Zilch," said Garni.

  There was silence for a moment.

  Wentworth gave a little hop of frustration. He hurled his monocle to the floor. It cracked. He turned to Jasper. "This was your idea," he yelled.

  "Me?" said Jasper in an injured tone. "Me? Hmm, ah, well. That is to say. It was my idea, wasn't it?"

  "No point in recriminations," said Sidney tiredly. "The question is: now what?"

  "Vhere is orcs?" said Kraki.

  Sidney sat up straight. "Oh, hell," she said. "I haven't seen them since the fireball."

  Drizhnakh, Garfok, and Spug hustled down the catacomb.

  "Har har," giggled Spug. "We sure showed dem dumb youmans, huh, guys?"

  "We was lucky," said Garfok petulantly. "Dey got smeared, and wasn't payin' too much attention. Dat's all."

  "Well, anyway," said Spug, "we gots free. Right guys? We is okay now." "You maroon," sneered Drizhnakh. "We is in da sewers of a city populated by hostile youmans, every one of dem scared shitless of orcs and as likely to gut you as say hello. We got no money, no chanst of gettin' any, and no place to go."

  Spug sucked on his tusks sadly. "Well," he said, "at least we is free." "Free to starve," muttered Garfok.

  "Unh uh," said Spug, cheering up. "Remember what da baroness said? Dere's plenny of sewage to drink an' rats to eat down here. Remember guys?"

  "Days right," said Garfok, a little happier. "It ain't so bad, Drizhnakh."

  "Oi," said Drizhnakh. Perhaps Garfok was right, he thought. Drizhnakh was rather partial to rat.

  XVIII

  A peasheful evening, Vic thought. He liked warm, summer storms. At least, he liked them when he had shelter. He stood, dry under the eaves of the Inn of the Villein Impaled, a bottle of wine in one hand. His pigeon nestled in the eaves, its head under one wing. Vic took a pull on his flask.

  The air smelled fresh, as it rarely did amid the flatulence of the city. The rain washed it clean. Puddles pooled on the cobblestone street.

  A lazhy evening, Vic thought. A day well done. He raised his bottle of wine to Roddy and took another swig. A day well done becaushe . . . becaushe . . . now what did I do today? Shomething important. I remember that. Shomething . . .

  Lightning flashed. The downpour redoubled. Vic studied the chaotic intersection of ripples in the fountain around Valiant's hooves. A carriage, two trotters in its harness, rumbled into the square. Vic peered at it with interest.

  Rupert brought the carriage to a halt. Lightning flashed, revealing the statue of Roderick. Rupert hiked up the collar of his cloak; a trickle of water escaped down his back.

  The baroness, snug within the carriage, twitched back a curtain and peered into the rain.

  "Now what?" whispered the lich.

  The baroness smiled. "Rupert," she called sweetly, "can I see you for a moment?"

  Cursing, the butler got down from his perch and stepped into a pudd
le. He muttered a brief oath, opened the carriage door, and climbed inside. "Yes, my lady?" he said, crouching in the carriage interior.

  "Amatagung!" said the baroness. The lich grabbed Rupert's arms.

  "Wait a minute," said Rupert.

  The baroness grinned and spoke another Word.

  "What about my back wages?" Rupert said desperately. "What would you do with them in hell?" whispered the lich.

  "Would it help to say I'm sorry about nabbing the silver?" said Rupert. The baroness drew her knife. "Chin up," whispered the lich.

  Rupert knew this was not intended as consolation. Doggedly, he wedged his chin into his collar.

  The lich stuck a bony finger under Rupert's chin and lifted.

  Straining, Rupert tried to keep his head down. The lich was too strong. Rupert realized he was a dead man. Defiantly, he lifted his head and stared proudly into Veronee's eyes.

  She sliced his throat open. Blood flowed.

  "I endeavor," mouthed Rupert's lips as the life departed his body, "to give satisfaction." Neither Veronee nor the lich noticed.

  Veronee drank deeply of Rupert's blood. Strength coursed through her limbs.

  "And it's so hard to find good servants these days," the lich whispered. Veronee ignored it. She opened the carriage door and stared at the statue. She'd have to wade through the fountain. Her boots would be ruined.

  The spell would not last long; she was burning Rupert's life energy at a considerable rate. But while the magic lasted, she ought to be able to lift a ton or two of athenor. She shrugged, stepped into the puddle, and waded toward the statue. The water was cold. She climbed up Roddy's pedestal and gripped the statue's knees.

  She lifted. She pulled. She strained.

  The statue wouldn't budge.

  She felt the force of her spell ebbing.

  This was inexplicable. She could heft an elephant as if it were a three-month babe. Why couldn't she lift the statue? Was there another magician about?

  The only other person in the square was an ancient codger, standing under the eaves of the Inn of the Villein Impaled with a bottle of wine in one hand. He held the bottle to his mouth, sucked back a swallow, and gave Veronee a toothless grin.