“Nice place, this,” he remarked, taking a long look around.
“If you like this, you’re going to love Level Three,” their hooded guide said, leading them through a crumbling doorway at the back of the room.
“Things going that well under Azibek’s reign, then?”
Beside Roark, Kaz gasped and flinched at the mention of the Jotnar Exarch’s name. The Reaver’s step faltered, but only for a fraction of a second.
“Careful how you let that big mouth run, Griefer,” she said. “There are some down here who might mistake your criticizing the Dungeon Lord for sedition. Never takes long for talk like that to make its way back to the boss.”
Roark glanced sidelong at the hood. “Carried by people like his runner?”
A thoughtful quiet crept over her. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said after a beat, “I like having my limbs torn off by rabid Goliath Bats as much as the next Troll, but it’s not me I’m talking about. You can’t throw a knife down here without hitting someone stealthing in the shadows.”
They passed into another huge open room, this one filled with iron cages on spits over open pits of lava, many containing burnt corpses. The molten rock bubbled and hissed. All along the far wall were heavy wooden doors, their dark planks rotting and hinges rusty. The Reaver passed the first three and opened the fourth, ducking inside without waiting to see if Roark and Kaz would follow.
They found themselves in another throne room, this one lit by troughs of flowing lava that lined each wall, and decorated with more delightful offerings from the tormented nightmares of bloodthirsty torturers. Three huge Brute Thursrs and one skeletal Elite Reaver stood guard over the chamber, each one pierced and studded with sharp bits of rusty metal. At the far end, an overmuscled Thursr Behemoth—easily twice the size of Ugoraz the Cruel—overflowed a throne made of human, olm, elf, rog, and Troll skulls, his body a pincushion of rusty spikes.
The Behemoth growled as they passed, but the hooded Reaver tipped him a cheerful wave and continued on her way.
Roark’s Health had sunk back down below three-quarters, but he waited until he and Kaz had ducked into the spiraling stone stairwell off to the side of the skull throne before downing another potion. The last thing he needed was to show weakness in a place like this.
In the close quarters of the staircase, Roark picked up the sound of Macaroni’s footsteps once again. The beast had kept pace with them throughout the wide vaulted ceilings of the last floor.
Finally, as they reached the bottom of the steps, Roark’s filigreed vial flashed again and returned to red. The poison counter had finally run out. He topped off his Health with one more magenta concoction, then followed the Reaver into a dark stone corridor, Kaz close on his heels.
“I wouldn’t,” the Reaver said, her voice heavy with threat. “Dungeon Lord’s business.”
Before Roark could ask what she meant, a low grumbling came from a gloomy corner. He could just barely make out the shape of another Reaver hunched down as if preparing to attack, then it vanished. Black mist wafted across their path from its direction.
Through the gloom, Roark caught their guide messing with the leather wrappings on her hands again. He thought he saw a flat blade disappear into them.
“Nicely spotted,” he told her with an approving nod.
A few seconds passed before she responded, and Roark thought it was likely she’d been deciding whether he was being sarcastic. He had that effect on people sometimes. The quick ones, mostly, as they tended to be the most cagy.
“Used to be my spot,” she said, shrugging one barely armored shoulder. “You can usually take down a hero or two in the bottleneck before the rest of their party realizes what’s happening. Three, if you’re as fast as me.”
In spite of having been poisoned and pickpocketed by the hooded wench just two floors ago, Roark found himself grinning at her boasting.
“Are you as fast on your back as you are on your feet?” he asked, trying to strike a nerve. “Is that why Azibek chose you as his messenger?”
“I suspect it had more to do with my willingness to kill with little or no provocation,” the Reaver responded easily. “Especially those smaller than me.”
Roark chuckled. She might be working for the despot oppressing this place, but he could appreciate a good contratempo when he heard one.
At the end of the winding corridor, they stepped out into a poorly lit nave, its pillars stretching up into a cathedral ceiling painted with chipped and fading scenes that appeared divine or profane depending on which way the pale blue witch lights wandering between the rotting and burnt wooden pews below hit them. The silence was like a heavy blanket, and even the muffled sound of their feet on the stone floors seemed to profane it. Shadows skulked around the room—hulking Thursr Behemoths and gaunt Dread Reavers in dark leather armor. Sitting in the chancel at the head of the nave was an armored Thursr Knight on a wide scorched wood throne. The wide rack of stag horns on her helm turned to follow them as they passed through to the carved door below.
There was no staircase to be found. Instead, they navigated claustrophobic dirt tunnels interspersed with glowing Infernal shrines, each one splattered with blood and several adorned with entrails. The ceilings were so low that Kaz had to stoop to follow, and even then the plumage on his antlered headdress whispered along with dirt above. Green bioluminescent fungi lined the walls, giving off just enough light to avoid the occasional pit trap and ambush set up at blind corners. Sullen Dread Reavers and hungry-looking Elemental Thursrs glowered at them from shadowy alcoves, but the hooded Reaver’s presence seemed to be holding the would-be attackers at bay.
Or rather, her connection to the Jotnar Exarch who presided over this citadel did.
Like an infectious disease, the silence of the nave seemed to have seeped into their bodies. None of them said a word until they came to the final shrine at a wide intersection, where a dark-robed Reaver Shaman was presiding over a living sacrifice. The sacrificial Troll, a lowl-level Thursr, had been covered in phosphorescent Infernal runes and nailed to the floor with jagged stone spikes. He screamed and thrashed, trying to break free as the Shaman opened a nearby cage, releasing a Ravenous Hellbender—what looked to be Macaroni’s much larger, much uglier cousin—on him.
Roark grimaced as he tried to block out the wet sounds of tearing flesh and smacking lips. Beside him, Kaz’s eyes were the size of dinner plates and his blue skin had gone ashy gray beneath the dusting of white fur. Roark grabbed Kaz’s arm and turned the softhearted Thursr away from the gruesome scene, pushing him after their hooded guide.
But a deep rumbling growl followed by a gurgling bark caught Roark’s ear before they were out of the intersection. He turned back to find the Hellbender and Macaroni snarling at one another over the dying sacrifice. Macaroni had a hand hanging out of his mouth.
“Come on,” Roark snapped at the Stone Salamander. “Let’s go.”
Macaroni slurped down the hand, then stalked around the Hellbender, growling the whole time. When Roark was certain the little monster wasn’t going to go back for seconds, he headed in the direction he’d watched the female Reaver take. She was waiting for them at the mouth of the tunnel.
They stepped out of the cramped passages and into a seemingly endless underground cavern. A burbling river rolled lazily past their feet, reflecting ropes of bioluminescent blue algae that hung from the cavernous ceiling hundreds of feet overhead. Roark couldn’t help but tilt back his head and stare up at the blinking strands of algae in wonder. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
“Are we still in the citadel?” he asked in a whisper.
“Sort of,” the Reaver said. She pointed in the direction of the river, toward a bright blue lake. “Go that way far enough, and you’ll come to the fifth-floor Overseer’s throne. But we’re headed this way.”
The Reaver turned the opposite direction and led the way across a hill and through a forest of tree-sized mushrooms. Each step stirred up the st
range, wet grass, making it shimmer violet and emit a tinkling musical tone. Here and there decrepit stone structures sat falling into ruin, forgotten in this underground oasis. The Reaver ignored them all. Afar off, Roark could see high-level Thursrs and Reavers loitering alone or stalking one another, but the three of them didn’t get close enough to attract any unwanted attention.
After a time, they came to a sloping walkway that looked as if it grew directly from the ground and started up it. At the top lay a foreboding Keep made of stone and bone, its walls slumping with age, but more like a hoary, battle-scarred old wolf on the prowl than a crumbling fortress losing the battle with time.
“Welcome to the Keep,” the Reaver said with a finality that could only have meant they were looking at the sixth and final level of the citadel.
TWENTY-THREE:
Azibek the Cruel
Rather than take them in through the toothy maw of a portcullis, the Reaver gestured for Roark and Kaz to follow her around the side. Her hands flicked out with familiar ease, brushing over rocks, fingers probing for some unseen thing. After a brief moment, an audible click filled the air and a hidden door groaned open. Without a word, she ushered them into a dark, sloping passageway. At the end of the passage, she triggered another catch; a panel slid open, revealing a throne room dancing with firelight. Piles of gold and jewels littered the chamber, and a huge ornate chest stood in one corner, burning with eldritch power.
On the throne sat a colossal gray-skinned monster with stringy white hair. Roark had briefly seen this same creature before during his death and respawn. The Jotnar Exarch had been hewing down a party of heroes with that long-bladed Infernal scythe—the same rune-etched scythe currently resting across his lap.
“So we have a new Overseer,” Azibek the Cruel rumbled, his voice deep and yet whistling like the howl of a tornado just before it tears a home apart. The Exarch’s lightless black eyes swept over Roark and sized up Kaz. “A chip right off Ugoraz’s block—and a level before that dimwit managed to unseat Krotz.”
“N-n-n-no, not Kaz,” the terrified Thursr stammered. His entire body was trembling so hard that it made his headdress’s plumage dance like dead leaves in a stiff north wind. He pointed down at Roark with a claw-tipped finger. “Him.”
The room fell deathly quiet.
“A Changeling Overseer?” Azibek mused, his black eyes roving over Roark’s scrawny body. There was a brutal, uncanny intelligence there that made Roark’s skin crawl. “You defeated Ugoraz.”
It wasn’t spoken as a question, but Roark dipped his chin in acknowledgement. He felt as if the Exarch were looking directly into his mind and assessing the threat he posed. A level-six Changeling who hadn’t Evolved yet? Wouldn’t take much of a mental leap to figure out which path he was set on following.
After an infinity of scrutiny, the Exarch leaned back on his throne and cupped his leathery gray chin. “The Infernali valued ambition above all else and blessed those who possessed it mightily,” Azibek said. “But ambition was also their downfall. Have a care to keep yours in check, little Changeling, lest it treat you the same.”
Roark didn’t have to fake the undercurrent of fear as he forced a tense smile and said, “I know my place.”
A smile tugged at the corner of the Exarch’s lips at the evasive response. Roark had to make himself stand still and stare back into the endless black depths of Azibek’s eyes. This creature was no Marek Konig Ustar, but he was deadly dangerous all the same and possessed the same entitled air as the Tyrant King. This was a creature of power and rage. Looking into his gaze, it was easy to understand how Azibek had earned his moniker.
“All will go well for you if you do,” the Dungeon Lord said. Roark flinched as Azibek lifted the Infernal scythe from his lap, but the Exarch only used it to gesture at the crowd of high-level Trolls gathered around the room bedecked in various fine robes, leathers, or plate armor. “Behold, Changeling, the Troll High Court. Ugoku, Reaver Champion. Verisk, Reaver Shaman. Zul, Jotnar Soul-Cursed. Yarro, Thursr Knight. Lazjin, Thursr Elemental. Between them, there is Experience enough to bring this citadel and all of Hearthworld down around your ears.”
Roark bit his tongue before he asked them why they weren’t out bringing it down, then.
“And every one of them is willing to unleash their might on you the moment you step out of line,” Azibek continued, standing the scythe on end at his feet as he leveled his gaze at Roark once more. “Do we understand one another?”
Better than Roark would have liked. “Yes, Dungeon Lord.”
“Then let us move on to what will be expected of you. You’ve no doubt read through your floor and troop options?” The Exarch phrased it as a question, so Roark nodded confirmation. Azibek waved a hand tipped with talons the size of daggers. “Your predecessor didn’t care for reading, but luckily for him, he had an instinctual knowledge of the purpose dungeons like ours serve.
“Namely to grind down the adventurers a little bit at a time, leading them deeper and deeper into our citadel, tempting them forward until it is far too late to turn back. It is in service to this sacred calling that strict level caps are enforced on each floor. You yourself may remain on the first floor until you reach level thirteen—assuming you survive that long without being deposed—then you must migrate to the second floor and continue to grow or challenge the Overseer for control of the second floor.”
Azibek paused as if waiting for Roark to show that he understood so far, so Roark interjected a quick, “I see.”
“You’re allowed an honor guard while you’re Overseer,” Azibek continued. “On the first floor, this is no more than three creatures”—he thrust three enormous fingers into the air to emphasize the point—“each one of a level with you or lower. The rest of the creatures on your floor are welcome to migrate as soon as they reach level four, and all are required to do so at level seven. This tricks the players into a false confidence in their abilities, leading them ever downward, presenting them with new and more dangerous mobs—setting the trap.”
Roark allowed a scowl to cross his face, pretending to hurry to smooth it away.
The Exarch’s eyes narrowed at the expression, but a fanged smile stretched across his face.
“Yes, little Changeling?” Azibek asked, playing out just enough rope for Roark to hang himself. “You have an objection to the way of things, perhaps?”
“Doesn’t it seem a little strange to any of you that we set up our defenses specifically to attract murderous invaders to our citadel so they can butcher us over and over again?” Roark asked, looking away from Azibek for the first time and addressing the Troll High Court. “As if our sole purpose in life were to suffer and die repeatedly for the entertainment of foreign invaders? None of you feel as if you’ve been brainwashed into pouring out your blood for these raiders who have no right to our land or our possessions? None of you think that we should be the masters of our own domain, and they should fear to tread here?”
One by one the members of the High Court—so mighty when they were being held up as an example of what would happen if he stepped out of line—dropped their gazes or looked away. It was like that, then. They were no different than the Rebel Council back in Korvo, really. No, they were worse. They were the noble houses who flipped allegiances once it became clear that to fight against Marek’s invasion would be hard, exhausting, and require heavy sacrifice. They were the knights and mages who kowtowed to the Tyrant King, trying to appease him with their obedience because that easy road allowed them to keep living the lives of luxury they’d always enjoyed.
“No one?” Roark put on the most innocent face he was capable of and turned back to Azibek. “Never mind it, then. Me either.”
The Exarch chuckled, a sound like thunder rolling through the mountains.
“Accidents have a way of befalling those who can’t stop themselves from making waves, little Changeling,” Azibek said, his wicked grin baring fangs the size of Roark’s forearm. He glanced quickly to
ward the Reaver who’d escorted them down. “You won’t last long down here if you don’t watch that ambition.”
“I won’t take my eyes off it,” Roark promised.
Another eternity passed under the Exarch’s cold, searching glare. After a time, Roark began to fidget and squirm, feigning discomfort and trepidation. To Azibek, fear was an indestructible hold he couldn’t fathom any creature breaking free of, because cunning as he might be, if the roles were reversed, the Exarch would never be able to break free. As long as Azibek thought fear would keep Roark loyal, the Exarch had no reason to suspect Roark would disobey, much less set his sights on overthrowing him.
Finally, Roark pretended to break.
“These belong to you, Dungeon Lord,” Roark said begrudgingly, bringing out the gold and the Lash of the Waning Blood Moon he’d looted from the fallen First Floor Overseer. Even knowing the long-bladed scythe could separate his head from his body, Roark couldn’t bring himself to kneel to any tyrant, but he did lower his eyes to the floor as he piled the plunder at the feet of the Jotnar Exarch. “Taken from the stinking corpse of Ugoraz the Vile.”
“Under my reign, loyalty is always rewarded,” Azibek purred.
His enormous taloned hand nearly swallowed Roark’s scrawny Changeling torso. Roark risked a glance up at the Dungeon Lord.
“Roark the Griefer, I bestow upon you the Infernal Blessing of the Faithful Servant,” Azibek said, his malicious grin a clear indication that he knew how the epithet rankled Roark’s pride.
[Congratulations! Azibek the Cruel has given you the Infernal Blessing in return for paying the traditional homage to the rightful Lord of the Cruel Citadel with your spoils of war, also known as the Victor’s Tax. You have gained 500 Experience, and all spells inscribed in the next (8) hours are 50% more powerful!]
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