Roark took a final hack at the rog, finishing him off, then lunged pie’ firmo at the armored claw. He slashed and swung at it, but his rapier did little more than score the chitin.
With an inky puff of smoke, Zyra stepped out of the shadows directly behind SquirrelGirl80 and lodged a gleaming dagger in the olm’s kidney. The olm spun. Her hands dropped and scrambled for a cloudy glass mace with odd fingers peeling off in every direction from the head, but Zyra raked her free palm across the olm’s face, opening several lines of black blood and poisoning the olm. Her stick-death needles at work. The hooded Reaver moved like smoke in a strong wind, ducking under a swing of the mace, then launching three quick strikes with the dagger right into the olm’s gut and ribs. The olm screamed, clutching at her wounds as blood dribbled from her lips.
As if in response to its caster’s pain, the enormous claw changed directions suddenly, using Kaz’s flailing body as a club. On instinct, Roark thrust out his left hand and conjured up his new Jotnar Spell, Infernal Shield. Unlike the carefully written spells located within his grimoire, this ability required no writing at all, and was tied directly to his Infernali Magick. A filigreed bar—this one filled with odd purple liquid—appeared in the corner of his vision, while a shimmering shield of violet energy erupted to life before him.
Kaz slammed into the conjured shield like a battering ram, and though the mystic energy absorbed the damage, the sheer force of the blow sent Roark flying across the room like a cornhusk doll. He slammed into Griff’s table, his head bouncing off the corner. Agony radiated from the impact point in angry white waves.
[You have been temporarily dazed! Dexterity decreased by 75% for 11 seconds!]
Roark rolled forward onto his hands and knees. Luckily, he’d somehow managed to maintain his grip on the rapier. Now if he could just get to his feet.
Another scream drew his attention. The claw was retreating into the rift once more with Kaz still in its grip. Kaz was howling, a single long note, terrified eyes fixed on the black-and-red void while he pounded frantically at the chitinous appendage with his hooked swords.
Roark staggered onto unsteady legs and lurched toward the claw, rapier at the ready. Beneath his feet, the floor seemed to lean and list like a ship on the Great Sea. Damn. And he still had eight seconds before the daze wore off. Kaz would be long through the rift by then. Sent off for respawn, which would be costly since Kaz was so close to unlocking his Elite Thursr evolution. For a second Roark considered tapping one of his first-level fireball spells, but that would defeat the point of this little demonstration—the assembled Trolls needed to see the value of weapons training in action.
Jade fabric whirled past Roark, followed closely by midnight blue skin wrapped in black leathers, knocking him off course. He had to grab the stone wall to stay upright.
Roark lifted his head just in time to see Zyra sink her dagger into the olm’s neck. The toxic green bar over SquirrelGirl80’s head flashed out a warning, then emptied. The olm collapsed in a heap on the floor. Eyes glassy, chest unmoving, blood seeping from her neck.
The black rift vanished, slicing the claw off cleanly just behind the colossal pincer. Kaz dropped to the flagstones with a thud, then rolled to his feet, spinning this way and that, searching for any other threats. The black plumage on his antlered headdress danced and bobbed.
For several moments, the only sound in the great hall was the rough wheezing of three Trolls trying to catch their breath.
Then an ascending chime echoed through the room as Zyra leveled up.
“She beat that level 11 Voidcraft Mage all alone!” a Changeling croaked. “She trained with him”—the potbellied creature thrust a dirt-caked claw at Griff—“then she defeated the hero on her own!”
A roar went up from the rest of the Trolls, all shouting at once as they rushed Griff’s misaligned table, begging to be trained next.
The Reaver’s hood swiveled in Roark’s direction. He shrugged. He was just happy her level had convinced them to give Griff a chance.
Kaz limped over to the pair of them, guzzling a Modest Healing Potion. Seeing the wisdom in this, Roark found one of the sickly-sweet magenta concoctions in his Inventory and did the same. A line of text appeared as he drank: Brought to you by Mountain Dew Code Red! Thanks for drinking! Such odd spells, this world had. Mountain Dew Code Red must’ve been some sort of local deity or perhaps a potent magical herb, which might explain its miraculous ability to heal. He dismissed the wording with a flick of his wrist. Warmth and vitality surged through his body; the dazed feeling bled away, and the ground stopped pitching and rolling beneath his feet as red returned to his filigreed Health vial.
“You know, I almost didn’t survive that,” Zyra told them under her breath, though no one would know it, looking at her. Unlike Roark and Kaz, her life bar was completely full, thanks to the level she’d gained from the combat. “I used up the last of my poison on that lizard wench.”
“Am I imagining things,” Roark asked, “or are these heroes getting stronger?”
Kaz shook his wide head. “It is not Roark’s imagination. Levels so high never used to come to the citadel in the past.”
“Not unless they were coming back up from the lower—” Zyra cut off suddenly, and she leaned forward. “Is that a …”
Roark craned his neck, trying to follow the line of sight from the direction of her hood. She was no longer looking toward the dispatched heroes, but instead was staring at the door that led back toward the throne room. He strained his eyes, but all he could see was a long distortion about the size and shape of one Elite Salamander flowing over the stone ceiling toward the doorway.
“Mac, no!” Zyra shouted. “It’s a Hellbender!”
With a gurgling growl, Macaroni appeared, hurling himself at the doorway. He crashed into something there, then dropped.
They hit the stone floor with two wet, meaty thuds. Mac thrashed and rolled, grappling with some creature still invisible to Roark’s eyes. Mac struck like a Black Ridge pit viper, his fangs conjuring a splash of purple-blue blood, seemingly from thin air. Mac rolled again, offering a throaty growl as he gained his feet and scampered back. There was the tinkling, clinking sound like a sea of broken glass shifting, then a blast of brilliant amethyst energy arced toward the Elite Salamander. Mac gave a snarling bark—half pain, half anger—as the amethyst blast melted away his right front leg. Flesh and muscle dissolved until only a stump of gleaming white bone was left.
What in all the bloody hells is going on here? Roark thought.
He pulled out his Initiate’s Spell Book and pen, hastily scrawling a Rebound Spell in his only level 3 spell slot.
[55% of all damage done to target rebounds to the opponent for the next 30 seconds.]
The damnable arbitrary rules that governed Hearthworld wouldn’t allow him to give the spell more power. Ripping the page from his book, Roark cast the spell on Mac.
This time, when the glasslike clinking came and the amethyst blast hit Mac, the majority of the arcane power bounced backward. With a startled croak, a huge brown salamander appeared, as tall as a pony and wide as an apple cart. The creature looked like a bigger, beefier version of Mac, though there were a few significant differences. The creature had formidable black spikes protruding along its back, and its tail ended in a spiked ball, which could likely be used as a mace. Four deadly talons, perfect for rending flesh and meat, protruded from each foot. Over its head floated thin white letters:
[Hellbender]
The creature let out an angry hiss, then opened its mouth wide, that strange tinkling sound building once more as a spectral purple glow appeared deep in its throat. The creature whipped its head forward, unleashing another attack, which screamed toward Mac. The terrible power ripped through another quarter of Mac’s filigreed Health vial, but thankfully the Rebound spell was still in place. Purple light shot back, slamming into the Hellbender’s face, its right eye dissolving under the ricochet of its own attack.
A puff of smoke erupted from the shadows at the Hellbender’s back, and Zyra slashed at the creature’s fat belly with her dagger. The Hellbender whipped its globular head around, hissing and snapping at the Reaver, but she had already disappeared back into the shadows.
It was all the distraction Mac needed. Using his remaining three legs, the Elite Salamander launched himself at the Hellbender’s back and sank his Venomous Fangs into the creature’s neck. The Hellbender thrashed and bucked, finally whipping its thick tail about. The spiked ball slapped Mac in the side of the head with the crack of breaking bone. Mac’s Health bar—already down below seventy-five percent—dropped another fifth, but the Elite Salamander only dug in deeper with his fangs. He was a murderous, bloodthirsty little bastard, and it made Roark fiercely proud to have Mac as one of his Greater Vassals.
The Hellbender reared back, spun, and tore off down the stone corridor, dragging Mac with him.
Roark dashed after them, inscribing another spell in one of his level 2 slots.
[The target’s strength is increased by 30% for thirty seconds.]
When the spell hit him, Mac swelled, nearly doubling in size. He was nowhere near as large as the Hellbender, but the added strength allowed him to batter the larger creature with his head and tail. It cried out and stumbled under Mac’s weight. Mac didn’t relent for a moment, ripping off blubbery chunks of brown meat and leaving deep furrows in its skin with his claws.
Movement down the corridor caught Roark’s eye. A lanky [Reaver Shaman] appeared, waving a gnarled oak staff at him. The staff was covered with complex sigils, burning with unholy emerald light. The air crackled as a javelin of ice dancing with electrical sparks spiraled toward Roark’s chest.
Before he even had time to dodge, a massive shoulder crashed into Roark’s side, tackling him to the floor. Kaz. The lightning ice spike shattered on the wall. As Roark struggled to disentangle himself from Kaz, Zyra streaked past them after the cackling Shaman.
But apparently the Shaman could do the same shadow-jump trick Zyra could, and at twice the speed. It flashed down the corridor, dancing in and out of the shadows thrown by the flickering torchlight, pulling out of Zyra’s reach with every puff of smoke. The pair of Reavers disappeared around the corner, headed toward the throne room, and presumably toward the stairs leading to the lower levels of the Dungeon.
When Roark finally managed to extricate himself from Kaz, he found Macaroni standing over the bloodied pulpy remains of the Hellbender. The Elite Salamander had shrunk back down to his normal fat-padded self and was busy limping around the much larger creature’s corpse on three legs, nuzzling its side with his head as if he were trying to slip underneath it.
Curious, Roark bent down and checked the Hellbender’s Inventory. The only thing inside was a lumpy piece of vibrant burgundy meat the size of a bull’s liver.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Hellbender Heart
╠═╦╬╧╪
Roark took the organ and stood. The heart was disturbingly hot and soggy in his hand.
Mac chirped up at Roark expectantly, still shuffling around with only one front paw.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Zyra said, coming back around the corridor.
“Did Zyra get her?” Kaz asked.
“No, she Gloom Dodged me between floors. She could be anywhere by now.” The hooded Reaver stopped at Roark’s side, fiddling with her hand wrappings, putting away her palmful of poisoned needles in frustration. “A Shaman and a Hellbender. You never see them above the fourth floor. Not in all my time in the Dungeon.”
Mac chirped again, louder. More insistently. The lump of ghastly meat didn’t seem to have any properties or uses—at least none that Roark could find—so he tossed Mac the Hellbender Heart. The Elite Salamander caught the chunk of meat in midair and shook it down his gullet.
“So was she here to assess my politics as Floor Boss in the hopes of joining us,” Roark sneered, “or was she sent to spy for our dear Dungeon Lord, Azibek?”
“Spy? Doubtful,” Zyra replied grimly. “My money’s on an assassin sent to kill you before you gained any further evolutions.”
Roark scratched at the back of his neck, razor-sharp claws running through his shaggy black hair. If this was how Azibek wanted to play it, then alliances with the lower levels of the citadel couldn’t wait.
“I think it’s time we pay a visit to our downstairs neighbors,” he said.
NINE:
Wurgfozz the Sadistic
Before descending, Roark took a moment to loot the corpses of the dead heroes and distribute his Stat points. After careful consideration he added four points to Intelligence, another four to Dexterity, then split the last two between Strength and Constitution. He carefully examined his Character page, noticing that both his Greater and Lesser World Stone Authority had increased along with his level. Considering just how valuable Kaz, Zyra, and Mac had been so far, the notion of finding another Greater Vassal was exciting, though Roark would have to choose carefully.
Satisfied, Roark accepted the changes and closed out of his grimoire.
With that done, Roark gathered his honor guard—Kaz, Zyra, and Macaroni—and headed through the door in the throne room and down the winding stairs to meet with the second-floor Overseer. As they reached the bottom of the steps, Mac left Roark’s side to climb up the wall, his colors shifting until he disappeared into the shadowy stone. The Elite Stone Salamander would be hidden in the vaulted ceiling overhead, ready to rain down vengeance on any who might dare attack the three of them.
The torchlit stairway opened onto a sprawling torture chamber. Cages hung from the ceiling, many of them dripping with fresh gore. Others contained grinning skeletons from distinctly nonhuman creatures. Roark guessed most of them to be Troll. Breaking cradles, blackthorn beds, stretching racks, and grime-covered stocks were scattered around the room, interspersed with blood-soaked tables. In the far corner stood a raging furnace next to a cartful of dismembered body parts waiting to be burned.
Low-level Thursrs wandered the room while Reavers stalked the shadows like hungry wolves. Several of the Trolls on the second floor were Lesser Vassals of Roark’s who had migrated down after their first evolution. Unlike his last visit, when Roark had received a host of hateful, distrustful glowers from the inhabitants, these familiar faces gave him smiles and friendly waves.
Several hallways jutted from this room, but Zyra led them straight to a heavy metal portcullis on the far side of the space.
They stepped out into another huge room with an open floor plan. Here pits of lava were the norm; suspended above the pits were rectangular iron-lattice cages—coffins, really—on spits, many still containing the remains of burnt corpses. Below each cage, molten rock bubbled and hissed, sending up plumes of white smoke. A quartet of heavy wooden doors studded with brass rivets lined the far wall. Zyra led the way to the final one, grabbing the rusty handle and leaning her full weight into the dark rotting planks until it creaked open.
From there, they made their way down a twisting passage festooned with flickering torches, rusty chains, and blood-caked meat hooks. This hallway was a new addition since he’d last been through.
As they pushed farther into the second floor, the familiar faces disappeared, replaced by the wary, distrustful glares Roark recalled. He went on high guard, noticing the Reavers clinging to inky pools of shadow and the telltale signs of traps—a trip line here, a spiked plunger there. Neat. Effective. Deadly.
Eventually, they made it to the throne room proper, which was lit by troughs of flowing lava along each wall and filled with even more devices of torment. Blistering heat rolled off the troughs, and the scent of slag and blood hung heavy in the air. An Elite Reaver and three colossal Brute Thursrs patrolled the chamber, each one studded with sharp bits of rusty metal and staring Roark, Kaz, and Zyra down.
Roark felt a touch of anxiety tingling along his nerves as he remembered his first formal meeting with the former first-floor Overs
eer, Ugoraz the Vile, in excruciating detail. Roark had been beaten within an inch of his life and rudely thrown out on his ear. An unpleasant experience, to say the least.
This will be different, he reassured himself. He was an Overseer now, and a Jotnar to boot. Calling on the noble bearing he’d learned in childhood, Roark straightened to his full seven and a half feet and strutted into the chamber as if it already belonged to him. The wooden clacking sounds of Kaz’s armor followed him, along with a whisper of fabric that was Zyra.
As they crossed the floor, the throne room guards surrounded them in a loose circle. Roark glanced overhead at the gloomy, shadow-darkened ceiling, hoping Mac was up there somewhere. The orange glow from the lava troughs didn’t penetrate that far, so there was no way to know for sure until trouble broke out.
At the head of the room, on a throne of human, olm, elf, rog, and Troll skulls, sat a musclebound Level 18 Thursr Behemoth, his name spelled out in white letters floating on an aura of bloody red.
[Wurgfozz the Sadistic]
Wurgfozz was easily twice the size of the Brute Thursrs stalking his chamber, so wide that he overflowed his throne. Like his honor guard, the Behemoth’s enormous body was pincushioned with rusty spikes, the largest shoved through his crooked blue nose.
“Well, well, well,” the Behemoth purred in a voice oddly high-pitched for his size, “if it isn’t the new first-floor boss.” He leaned forward in his massive throne, beady eyes fixed unwaveringly on Roark. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Even standing to his full seven and a half feet, Roark had to crane his neck to look up at the towering Behemoth.
“A Reaver Shaman and a Hellbender came through here not long ago, didn’t they?” he asked.
“Ah yes, nasty little things bound for the first floor.” The Behemoth nodded, twisting the spike impaled through one large nipple thoughtfully. “Obviously they found you well.”
Civil War Page 6