by Hugo Huesca
Alder stepped up next to Ed right as he was about to order everyone to move out. “Remember, people! Tonight, you represent the Haunt. Your victory is its victory as your defeat would be its shame. Fight bravely, oh warriors! Our Dungeon Lord will be right in the thick of battle with us, so make sure that when he turns your way, all he sees is a proud minion of the Haunt. And if you find yourself giving in to fear, just think of all the experience points we’re sure to rake in!” He drew his sword and hefted it upward, as if to stab the sky. To Ed’s surprise, the kaftar and Kes imitated the gesture. Lavy and the batblins watched on, looking as confused as he felt.
“Nice speech,” Ed whispered at Alder. “Where did it come from?”
The Bard sighed with satisfaction. “The Canticle of Dawn, by Melchiades. ‘Numerios the Pure addresses his troops’ closing verse, paraphrased, abridged.” He chuckled to himself as he walked away.
Kes had everyone take their places in the marching formation. Dungeon commanders were at the center, with the kaftars as rearguard. Spider-riders were in the front, flanked by Laurel’s spider warriors, with spiderling scouts already tracking the Inquisitors’ camp.
As Ed hurried to his spot in the middle of the formation, next to Kes and Lavy, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Heorghe hurried out of the dungeon’s entrance. A group of four Forge batblins chased after him, carrying together some kind of wooden display.
“One moment!” Heorghe called as he reached Ed’s group. Sweat drenched his forehead. “Sorry for the delay, was too sleepy earlier to realize you may want this.” His assistants caught up to him, and he gestured at Ed to approach as he flicked the brass latch of the display and pushed the top open to reveal its contents. “Finished it last week, I did. Brett wanted to make a big show of giving it to you, but I figured you’d appreciate it more right now.”
Several plate armor parts rested on a violet pillow. A shiver ran through Ed’s spine. He’d almost forgotten all about it. The last time he’d seen that steel, it had been a charred mess taken from the remains of Nicolai while Ed’s drones fanned the flames. Heorghe, perhaps acting out a Starevosi Blacksmith’s own ancient traditions, had transformed the steel of Ed’s fallen enemy into an armor fitting of a Dungeon Lord.
The result went beyond Ed’s expectations. The breastplate was one large piece of metal etched with Gothic patterns that combined flowery geometric shapes with open-mawed skulls and thorny roots. The etchings were silver and glinted under the light of the torches, but the rest of the armor was black as night, with waves of softer darks undulating across its surface, as if invisible flames engulfed the armor. Ed found it both beautiful and cruel. A gift and a warning.
“There wasn’t enough salvageable steel left to make a full plate set,” Heorghe explained over Ed’s shoulder as he took in the details of the rest of the armor. “But we can add those extra pieces later.”
The helmet was a singular, visor-less piece with an opening shaped like a “Y” that left the eyes, nose, and mouth exposed. Its lines were sharp and angular, resembling the threatening frown of some imposing giant. One gauntlet had spiderweb etching across its surface, and the hand had been shaped as a vaguely spider-like head, with steel points at the knuckles resembling fangs. The other was ridged, bent, and interconnected, taking the shape of one big skeletal arm and hand. The greaves matched the gauntlets.
“This is incredible,” Ed whispered. “You outdid yourself, Heorghe.”
“That I did, that I did. But I cannot take all the credit. Most of those etchings aren’t mine, your drones added them as soon as I finished the breastplate—but don’t worry, I looked and there ain’t a single obscenity… that I could find. I had no idea they could work metal, to be honest, so it took me by surprise.”
“Neither did I,” Ed said. He brushed the artwork with his hand. Even his inexpert fingers could sense the quality of Heorghe’s craftsmanship. “Is it enchanted?”
“Not yet, but it can be. You’ll need to hire an expert, though, because that’s beyond my talent-tree. In the meantime, your pledge of armor works, right?”
Ed grabbed the helmet with both hands and lifted it, feeling its weight. Almost absently, he summoned a group of drones to help him don the armor. “Thank you, Heorghe. I’m in your debt,” he said as the drones grabbed the armor and eased Ed into it.
“Ah, just stay alive out there,” the Blacksmith said with a proud little smile. “I’ll go back to sleep, so you all make sure to be back when I wake up.”
Glad to try, Ed thought.
“Finally,” said Lavy as the drones hurried to tighten the straps of Ed’s greaves while he slipped back into his cape and worked the leather fasteners. “It was about time you donned a proper Dungeon Lord outfit.”
Like Lavy, most of his retinue stared at the new armor. Ed could hear the whispers. What were they saying? Perhaps he looked ridiculous in the damn thing. Alita’s tits, he was a programmer, not some kind of feudal warlord.
Is that still true, though? He caught Kes’ gaze. The avian had a pensive frown on her face. When she realized Ed was looking her way, she turned away and whispered something to herself. “Seems like Lord Wraith found his armor. They grow so fast, eh, Ria?” it sounded like she said. Ed couldn’t make sense of it.
“What’s so important about proper attire?” Alder asked Lavy.
“Well, we couldn’t have him running around wearing the same rags as a common Thief,” Lavy said petulantly. “Might give people the wrong idea.”
“The wrong idea?” Alder lifted an eyebrow. He was wearing those exact Thief rags. So was she, at that—no use for pretty dresses out in the middle of a battle.
“Oh, yes,” Lavy said, ignoring Alder’s tone. “It could’ve made people think that Dungeon Lord Edward Wright was only a mere mortal—a human who dies just as easily as any other.”
“But I do die as easily as any other,” Ed pointed out.
“That’s why it is the wrong idea,” Lavy said. “There’s no need for them to know that.”
Ed barked a laugh, set his hood over his head, and turned on his Evil Eye. “You know what? You may be right,” he told the Witch. The eldritch light bathed the armor and made the flames ebb and flow, creating the illusion that he was some nightmarish monster lurking in the dark.
When the Haunt’s forces left to intercept the Inquisitors, a Dungeon Lord that looked the part led them.
8
Chapter Eight
Black Magic Incoming
Gallio woke in the candle firelight of his tent to the overbearing suspicion that something dreadful was headed his way.
For an instant, he lingered between nightmare and wakefulness, unsure of which was which, as if his cramped travel tent that smelled of garlic and old incense were too good to be true—as if the only possible reality had to be those dark tunnels of his dream, expanding forever, carrying unending hordes of red-eyed creatures with oily carapaces and razor-sharp teeth toward the unsuspecting village of Burrova. Gallio still thought he could hear the lingering ring of the Dungeon Lord’s laughter as his creatures burst forth from the skulls of Ioan and Vasil and Kes and Alvedhra. His skin shivered with the phantom pain of fangs piercing him all around, and his body shook as he struggled against a dozen inhuman arms holding him down while the Dungeon Lord skittered to a stop in front of him and extended his dozen arms to allow a sea of insects to slither out of his body and crawl their way toward Gallio and inside him, where they began to feed—
His hand fumbled around until he found the small brass flask next to his bedroll. He took deep breaths and emptied his mind until the memory of the nightmare faded until all that remained was the beating of his heart and the chirping of insects outside. Then he took a long drink of his tea, allowing the milky liquid to sweep down his throat. According to the priest that made it for him, the concoction was supposed to keep the nightmares at bay, but for the effect it had—or lack of it—Gallio suspected that the priest was pocketing his quarter-Aureuses
instead. Gallio furrowed his brow. Deception among the members of the Militant Church carried a heavy penalty, but it wasn’t as if Gallio could report the priest or punish him in any way. After all, he couldn’t explain his dreams to the Inquisition without telling them of the battle of Burrova, of the mindbrood, and of Ioan and the Dungeon Lord Edward Wright.
The penalty for hiding a mindbrood’s existence from the Inquisition was harsher and more thorough than deception, but that wasn’t what worried Gallio. Even if the mindbrood was long dead, even if all danger had been extinguished as Burrova burned, the Inquisition would still drown the entire region in flames to protect the rest of the world from the slightest risk of infection. Brutal, without a doubt. Also, without a doubt in his mind, the right thing to do. Sephar’s Bane had almost destroyed civilization. Any measure was justified, no matter how cruel, as long as it ensured that the Bane would never come again.
What was a lone village when weighed against civilization’s survival?
But Burrova’s mindbrood had been a fluke, merely the fruit of a lone egg bought by Ioan’s treachery. The Ranger had planned to force the Inquisition to torch the region to justify a rebellion against Heiligian rule in Starevos. Gallio couldn’t murder the people he’d lived among and grown to love because of a lone man’s madness. That was his secret sin.
The Militant dogma warned against cultivating too much empathy, because the Militant Church’s sacred duty was to do the things that no one else dared to, no matter how necessary. Even if it meant fostering resentment among the common folk, the good of the majority was more important.
Gallio knew this. It had been drilled into the core of his soul since he’d first set foot on a Militant Temple, just one scrawny kid among thousands of new arrivals, all volunteered by their noble families vying for the honor of having their child pass the harsh trials that would welcome them into Heiliges’ finest. What would his House think of him tonight? Gallio had lost contact with them after his exile into Starevos. Even now that Alita had accepted him back into her ranks, he hadn’t sent even a single letter, and neither had they. Perhaps, because deep down, he knew that broken honor could be mended, but the scars never faded.
These dreams are Alita’s punishment for my weakness, Gallio surmised. He set the flask away from him with a frown of contempt. He often thought that his nightmares carried a kind of poetic justice. After all, Alita’s blessing upon her Inquisitors protected their minds from breaking under the horrors of carnage and tragedy, but Gallio hadn’t been an Inquisitor for most of the battle of Burrova, and thus, the things he’d seen there would always be with him when he closed his eyes. I’ll accept the Goddess’ punishment as it comes, without trying to ease my way out. He swore to himself he’d never touch the concoction again. In fact, he ought to pour it on the ground. It didn’t even work, anyway.
He reached for it, still frowning, but his hand stopped when his fingertips brushed the brass cylinder. Gallio sighed and left the flask there, knowing full well that he’d drink from it again the next night. This wasn’t the first time he’d danced this dance.
Disgusted with himself, he unzipped his tent and crawled out, letting the night cool the sweat soaking his shirt.
The camp was quiet, the light of the fire in the middle and the torches across its perimeter fighting to keep the absolute darkness of a night without a moon at bay.
The Inquisitors slept in individual tents separated from the non-combatants, set up in a line between the forest and the river bend that protected the campsite’s rear. The air was heavy with humidity, and clouds of insects rose from the otherwise quiet, murky waters of the river. Gallio glanced back, squinting through the torchlight, trying to peer into the dark outside.
Rivers could be dangerous in Starevos, where the hidden currents were the least of their secrets. Scaly beasts and other horrors lurked under the waters, invisible to all but the keenest eye, ready to jump out at an unsuspecting traveler and draw them under to their watery doom. Ioan and Alvedhra had always warned him and the villagers to avoid rivers after dark—it was only common sense. But the Inquisition had their own kind of common sense, and using a river bend to set up camp had tactical advantages that greatly offset the risks. For one, many powerful Dark creatures hated running water, including Oldbloods and Dungeon Lords, and that alone turned the brown waters into a blessing in disguise.
At the camp’s center, by the fire, stood one big tent—Master Enrich’s—overseeing the caravan carts, which were heavy with the loot taken from Jiraz’ vaults. Next to those were the horses, tired from the day’s intense pace toward Constantina, and past them was the stake circle that surrounded the improvised tents that safe-guarded the coffin containing the Inquisition’s prisoner. An Inquisitor guarded each cart. One Inquisitor glanced at Gallio with sleep-starved eyes. Gallio shrugged with sympathy, still remembering the times when guard duty would fall on him.
Gallio headed out the opposite direction, toward the line of trees and past the camp’s limits, where the three lookouts guarded the camp from any danger that might come from the forest. Cleric Zeki saluted him lazily as he passed and made no comment. The Cleric didn’t like Gallio much, and he barely bothered to hide it. The Cleric was immersed in the Inquisition’s politics, but was too old to climb its ladder, which over time had translated into a bitterness unseemly of a man of his powers. Still, Zeki took his duty as seriously as anyone else. His pair of hawk guardians flew in circles over the camp, two lone golden stars shining above. At the first sight of trouble, the magic hawks would warn the camp about any incoming evil far better than any alarm. Furthermore, Zeki’s divine circle of respite protected the area around the camp from black magic’s means of incursion. The glow of its runes bathed the Cleric in light.
The camp was as safe as it could be, not even counting the dozen Inquisitors ready to smite their way out of any trouble. And yet Gallio couldn’t shake that feeling of danger away. The effects of his nightmare still lingered.
He left Cleric Zeki and kept going until he reached the circle of respite’s outer limit, only a few paces away from the forest-line. There, a small fire crackled before a figure sitting on a log. She was covered in a heavy blanket, with a silver-infused longsword resting across her lap, and an ivory bow next to her, along with a quiver full with swan-feathered arrows.
“Up already? You still have a few hours left before your shift,” Alvedhra greeted him as he sat next to her and allowed the fire to seep into his bones.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he told her. “I don’t need much, anyway. You’ll understand when you’re my age.”
The former Ranger grinned. “Don’t start that dung with me. I’ve wood elf blood from my mother’s side. At your age, I’ll be just as fresh as I am today.” She flicked a strand of her cropped hair away from her heart-shaped face. Her ears were indeed slightly pointy, although that could mean nothing. Many Starevosi claimed to have elven blood somewhere on their family tree. Some believed that the few extra years of youth increased their marriage prospects. For others, it was mere vanity.
“If you say so,” Gallio told her, returning the grin. “Anything new in the front lines?”
“Not at all,” Alvedhra said sadly. “A few overgrown rats and a curious wolf pack that sniffed around before fucking off. Alita’s mercy, I almost wish bandits would try their luck on us. The Light knows I could use the extra points.” She focused and summoned her character sheet. “There are so many talents I need to rework my build…”
Gallio winced in sympathy. Alvedhra’s predicament was the reason most Inquisitors began their training from a very young age, as some divine talents turned normal ones redundant, wasting the experience invested in them.
It was extremely hard to alter one’s character sheet after buying a talent, but the Light could do things with its divine experience points that mere mortals couldn’t. One such thing was to buy special talents for their favored devotees, which was the reason all new Inquisitors gained the same startin
g package of smite and pledge of the faithful without paying for them—it was Alita herself who bought the talents, a trivial investment of experience for one such as her. Smite turned power attack obsolete—smite did its job much better, and with the added benefit of royally ruining the day of any Dark-aligned creature struck by it. Pledge of the faithful was a huge catch-all concentration of life-improvement talents like resist disease, resist poison, improved metabolism, enhanced endurance, along with a few others. Despite the advantages, divine talents had a few weaknesses. Unlike their physical counterparts, they were magical, and thus could be rendered inert by anti-magic fields. And, if the Inquisitor were to fall out of Alita’s grace, the goddess could simply take the talents away and regain the invested experience points—like Gallio himself knew very well.
Thus, while it was possible for an Inquisitor to become extremely powerful by increasing his stance in Alita’s eyes without ever spending a single point, it was also possible he could lose it all in one day, if he were to displease the goddess.
Not that any self-respecting Inquisitor should ever worry about that possibility. Those without sin had nothing to fear at all. Gallio realized he had a sour taste in his mouth. Keep going like this and you’ll end up as bitter as Zeki.
“Patience,” he advised the former Ranger. “You’ll gather enough experience points, in time. And you can always devote yourself further to Alita’s service and hope the goddess increases your powers herself. Then you’ll be stronger than the average Inquisitor—sadly not all your Ranger talents have a divine equivalent.”
Alvedhra clasped the arrowhead she kept on a string around her neck. “The problem is, I don’t have that kind of time. My revenge has to come now, or Enrich’s Heroes shall deliver it for me. And praying for Alita’s blessing seems plain wrong, you know? The matter between me and Kessih of Greene is personal. It would be selfish of me to involve the Light.”