Dead Must Die: The Realms: Master of the Dungeon - Book One

by C. M. Carney

  Dead Must Die

  A Short Novella of the Realms

  by

  C.M. Carney

  Dead Must Die – A Short Novella of The Realms by C.M. Carney

  www.cmcarneywrites.com

  © 2018 C.M. Carney

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: chris@cmcarneywrites.com

  Dedication

  To my sister, Melissa Luedke.

  Just so you have to read a dorky book.

  Love Ya Sis!

  1

  Simon stared at the Barrow King’s throne for several long minutes as the conflicting feelings of anger and pride battled within him. It was a chair made from fused bones, which seemed perfect for an undead sorcerer whose real body had died millennia ago, but Simon wasn’t sure it was him. Of course these days he wasn’t sure what ‘him’ was.

  Was he the eons dead boy who’d been tortured and murdered? Was he the eternal spirit in the shape of that boy who’d been an enslaved butler to the Barrow King? Was he the newly minted master of the Barrow? Was he all of those things? None of them?

  He would have frowned if he’d had lips or muscles or any flesh at all. But he did not. Simon was undead, and all he had for a body was a cruddy old skull with several missing teeth. Some part of him that wasn’t him dredged up the term redneck. The word was foreign, otherworldly, and he wasn’t sure how he understood the word or why it made him feel so bad about himself.

  Simon turned towards the nearest dread knight. The spectral energies and mists of his body turned with him and he raised a skeletal hand that had not, until that moment, existed and pointed at his undead minion.

  “You, come here,” Simon said appalled to hear a slight pubescent crack in his voice. He had no teenage male body, so why did he have teenage male problems? Some sort of residual body image, perhaps? Simon thought.

  The dread knight shambled up to Simon. A part of him knew he should be afraid as the undead beastie came closer, but he was not. He was the master of this dungeon, and the dread knights were his servants. The undead warrior came close, but instead of stopping a polite distance from Simon, the ghoul kept coming until it stood a mere inch from Simon’s face. No respect for personal space, apparently, Simon thought.

  Simon took a step back and the dread knight took a corresponding step forward. He repeated the exercise several times, each with the same result. Finally, Simon grew annoyed and held his hand against his dimwitted servant’s chest, arresting his advance.

  “Stop. Okay, new rule for all of you,” Simon said as he looked at the two other dread knights. “Keep a distance of at least three feet from me at all times unless I say otherwise. Understand?”

  A chorus of “Nnnnggggggs” filled the room and the dread knight that was all up in his business backed up to exactly three feet.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Simon said. He advanced on the dread knight near him and the undead creature took a step back. Simon took another step, and the creature did the same. “You, stop and stand still,” Simon said in irritation. Are these damn idiots going to take everything so literally?

  Simon reached up and to his relief, the dread knight stayed put as Simon gripped the creature’s least rotten tooth. With a gentle side-to-side motion, Simon worked the tooth until it came free with a dry tearing sound. He looked at it a moment, cursing the vanity that made him even consider this idea, then shrugged and crammed the tooth into one of the gaps in his own skull. There was a small tug as the tooth slurped up and into the jawbone. Huh, gross. Wasn’t expecting that to work.

  A few minutes later he’d commandeered enough teeth to have a full smile. He had one of the dread knights hold up the shiniest shield it could find and got a decent enough look at his new smile. It wouldn’t appear in any pearly white toothpaste TV commercials, but at least he had a full set. Toothpaste? TV? Commercials? What the hell is wrong with me? A part of his brain understood these words, but he did not know why. After a moment, typical teenager apathy took hold, and he shrugged, returning his attention to his new teeth.

  “Not too shabby,” Simon said, irritated that he still heard a slight high-pitched crack in his voice. “Okay, what now?” He looked around. Several corpses, bits of broken bone, rusted pieces of metal and other unidentifiable detritus littered the floor. Simon tried to scowl but found that it was impossible to make a facial expression when one had no face. This further ruined his mood and with an irritated wave of his hand he ordered his minions to clean up the place.

  He watched their herky-jerky motions for a time, but soon boredom took over and he plopped himself onto the throne of fused bone with a grumpy sigh. Hmmm, how can I sigh without lungs? he thought, but the question had barely formed when a presence surged into his mind as if another consciousness had eased into his own. It startled him so much that he fell off the throne, his skull clattering and his misty body dissipating.

  With a grunt of annoyance, Simon willed his skull aloft and reformed his ethereal form. His head sat askew, and he formed a pair of hands to move it back into place. Then he glowered at the throne. “What the hell was that?” he yelled and his voice echoed around the chamber. None of the dread knights or corpses they piled up against the wall answered.

  He sat back down on the throne as hesitantly and gingerly as a man with a bad case of hemorrhoids. For a moment Simon felt nothing, but then the presence returned. It was a slight pressure that slowly built in intensity. Simon wanted to flee but forced himself to remain still. This time the presence eased itself into his mind as if understanding the error it had made the first time. A chill moved through him, like an intense case of goosebumps and then a voice spoke.

  You are not he, the voice said.

  “Ahhhh!” Simon squealed, and he nearly fell off the throne again. “What? Who?” he sputtered.

  You are not he, the voice repeated.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Simon said rather more loudly than he meant to.

  The lich… Ouzeriuo, the voice said.

  “No, I am not Ouzeriuo. I hate that guy.”

  Hate?

  Simon tried to explain the meaning of the word but could not come up with a satisfactory definition. But his mind seethed around the concept and he knew the presence understood.

  Hate. Yes. Also hate Ouzeriuo.

  “Yeah that guy was a douche,” Simon said, wondering how he knew what the foreign sounding word meant.

  Douche?

  “Never mind,” Simon said and then grumbled when he realized that he was speaking aloud to a voice in his head. Who are you?

  I… am the Barrow, the voice said in a manner that made Simon wonder if it had never described itself with the pronoun.

  The Barrow? I don’t understand.

  It is… difficult to explain, the voice said, and Simon sensed the presence struggling to find the right words. I am the sentience that animates this dungeon. Without my presence, it would simply be passageways of rock and haven to monster and beast. Without me, it would be a place of pointless life and wasted death.

  So, you’re telling me you’re some kinda spirit who possesses the Barrow? Simon said.

  No, I am the Barrow. I am a symbiotic life form. I have no physical form of my own. This makes my ability to alter things in the physical world… complicated. I am meant to join with a physical being, a host, a dungeon master.

  And you want me to be this dungeon master?

  Yes, together we would be greater than we are alone. Together
we can make the Barrow great again.

  That was when something occurred to him and panic rushed up inside of him like bile.

  You merged with Ouzeriuo.

  No, he was unwilling to share, to grow. He wished only to dominate. He loved only power and was driven by fear. I fought against him, worked to foil his plans, but he was powerful and I grew ever weaker. It is a shame he refused to bond.

  Simon scowled or tried to. That whole no flesh thing again. You’re telling me that if he’d been willing you would have bonded with him?

  Of course. He was very powerful. Together we could have made…

  Made the Barrow great again, yeah I get it. Anger burned inside him. But he was evil.

  Evil and good are mortal concepts. They do not concern me.

  What? Simon sputtered. Well, they should.

  I am sorry, they do not. However, if it makes you … feel better … my purpose and concerns will change as the bonding grows. What is you, will become me and what I am will become you.

  So, I will make you nicer?

  Perhaps. The nature of the bonding is hard to predict.

  Simon thought on it for a moment. Was this any different from what Ouzeriuo had done to him?

  So let me get this straight, you want to merge with me, infect me, make the two of us one?

  Yes, the Barrow said with a sense of purpose and finality.

  What’s in it for me? Simon asked.

  Your mind, your very being will be expanded. You will feel what I feel, know what I know. You will have the potential of everlasting life. You could help shape the Realms in ways you cannot conceive of.

  That sounds pretty great, Simon had to admit.

  It is, but be warned, the bonding will make us one. What affects me will affect you, and what affects you will affect me.

  Is the bonding permanent?

  Yes, until you die. Then I will lose some of what I was, but after a time I would bond with another.

  I thought you said I’d have everlasting life! Simon grumbled in alarm.

  I said the potential for everlasting life, but the Realms are a dangerous place and there are a hundred ways for you to die.

  Thanks for that happy bit of news, Simon muttered. He felt like a teenager dumped at the prom watching his date making out with the quarterback. He cocked his head to the side as he wondered what the prom was, or for that matter a quarterback.

  At least you are not a ‘douche’. That should help your survival chances.

  Thanks. Simon pondered the idea for many long minutes, wishing that Gryph had been here to advise him. Simon understood very little about being a dungeon master, but he knew as the conqueror of the Barrow, Gryph held some kind of dominion over it. While Simon would be the dungeon master, Gryph was kinda his boss.

  Can I make this kind of decision without him?

  But then, in typical teenage fashion, Simon realized his own wisdom and intelligence far surpassed all others and made his decision. What the hell, let’s do this thing.

  The thing is done, the voice of the Barrow said in his mind.

  Simon’s body moved and his mind expanded. He was everywhere in the Barrow and nowhere. He felt the wyrmynn huddled and afraid. He slowed momentarily over the cast-off soul stuff that comprised the massive black ooze until the psychic pain emanating from the hive-like mind pushed him away.

  Next, they spun through the muggy cave the dark dryad and her fungus minions called home. Simon hovered over her presence a bit longer than was polite, but she intrigued him.

  You like her, The Barrow said.

  “What?” Simon exclaimed, eyes snapping open. “No man, just checking out any potential threats,” Simon said aloud.

  If you say so.

  “Uncool, dude,” Simon said, but let it go and closed his eyes, diving again into the Barrow’s perception.

  He flowed over the empty enclave in the Gray Haven where a company of thieves had once lived. Gryph had made Simon let the men go even though some of their pals had tried to kill him. “Judge a man by his actions, not those of others,” Gryph had told him. Simon understood the idea but thought Gryph had been too nice.

  I agree, said the Barrow. I could have fed on them.

  Fed?

  Yes, that is how I sustain my existence. I lure adventures and monsters in and then feed on them.

  Ewww, that is …

  Efficient.

  If you say so.

  I am hungry.

  A pulse of hunger hit Simon. The sensation was so strong, it nearly drove Simon mad, but then he found his courage. I triumphed over that dick knocker Ouzeriuo. I will not lose myself to a damn hole in the ground. A moment of panic pulsed through Simon. Sorry, no offense.

  None taken.

  You are more than hungry; you are starving.

  Yes, the Barrow said and a status window appeared in their shared vision.

  The Barrow - Sentient Dungeon

  Host: Simon

  Current Tier: 1

  True Tier: 8

  Status: Starving

  Health: 1,030/86,890

  The Barrow is one of the most ancient sentient dungeons on all Korynn, but years of neglect have left it starving. To return to its former glory, it needs to feed.

  Current Level Essence Points: 3.

  Explain what I am seeing, Simon asked.

  When I feed I absorb the level essence of the creatures. A level 10 warrior will give me 10 Level Essence Points and 100 health. To survive, I need to consume Level Essence Points equal to my True Tier each day. Currently, I require eight per day.

  What happens if you don’t have enough Level Essence Points? Simon asked, noting that the Barrow only had three.

  Then I cannibalize myself at the cost of 10 health per missing Level Essence Point per day. Every 10,000 points of health earns a new Tier. If I drop below a Tier threshold, then I lose the ability to create higher level monsters and loot, thus making it more difficult to lure quality prey.

  You eat yourself?

  If I must.

  What happens if you run out of health?

  I will go dormant, and an outside force would need to sacrifice 1000 Level Essence Points to awaken me once more. That is why there are so many dormant dungeons across Korynn.

  What happens to me if you go dormant?

  You will die.

  Panic took Simon, and he looked around at the scattered bodies, both the recently alive, like Dirge and his pals, and the desiccated corpses of the twice dead dread knights. Why didn’t you eat them?

  I needed to form a bond to absorb them.

  And Ouzeriuo would not bond with you.

  No, he would not. As you said he was a … douche.

  Now that we’ve bonded, can you absorb them?

  Yes, I am in the process now.

  As Simon watched, the corpses started to melt, and after a few minutes, they had turned into puddles of viscous goo which were then absorbed directly through the stone floor of the Barrow. Gross, it’s like watching someone chew with their mouth open.

  He also sensed the Barrow’s reserve of Level Essence Points rise to 168 and its health to 2,710. A flush of well-being flowed through the Barrow and into Simon.

  Feel better? He asked the sentient dungeon that was now not only his home but also a part of him.

  Yes. I am not whole, but I am better.

  Well, good then. Simon let himself expand into this new world that was him and was not him. Let’s find us some tasty grub. I hear wyrmynn tastes like chicken.

  2

  Erram was one of those idyllic hamlets whose wondrous mountains, lakes and forests drew artists from around Korynn. These artists would then waste their lives and their talents painting the same scene over and over for tourists. Everyone wanted to live there until they did and then they could not wait to leave.

  Its populace was mostly of human ancestry, but a vibrant gnomish community and an enclave of hill dwarves also called the town home. The town was also a popular summer de
stination for the nobles of the Eldarian Dominion, their hangers-on, the hangers-on of the hangers-on and those of nefarious intent who preyed on all the above.

  On any given summer day a varied cast of characters walked the main thoroughfares and skulked through the back alleys of Erram. It was in this town on a fine midweek morning, when no clouds marred the sky, that Bahldreck, a seventh son of a little respected, yet very wealthy, noble family preached the good word.

  “And the High God did sayeth that the dead must die and the living shall stay alive, and no true servant of the High God shall consort with the dead, even if by accident while one was very drunk on elderberry wine. He commandeth thee to not let the dead live and to never speak of their goings-on,” Bahldreck droned.

  It was his soporific tone, which rivaled even the best sleeping potions, that made Bahldreck’s sermons so popular with the town’s insomniacs. A group of these unfortunate souls currently slumbered in the grass in front of him, their low snores the only response Bahldreck ever got to his long-winded and rambling exhortations against the undead.

  Nobody in Erram knew why the living dead rankled the paunchy noble so thoroughly. Sure, nobody liked zombies or skeletons and a rogue revenant could cause havoc if left unchecked, but Bahldreck hated the undead with a passion that most noble-born sons showed only for drink, women and the crushing of serf rebellions.

  None of these things interested Bahldreck who spent every evening, rain or shine, preaching from atop the overturned turnip cart that doubled as his pulpit. He read nightly from his gold-embossed copy of The Testament of the High God. Many a thief coveted the beautiful book if only with eyes intent on pilfering the book’s gold and not for the words of wisdom it contained. It was the most valuable item in Bahldreck’s possession, or so he, and nearly everyone else, believed.

  “There, do you see it?” came a deep voice from a dapper gentleman named Verreth. He stood with his companions in the shadows of a broad-leafed tree watching Bahldreck the way a spider watches a fly.