by Hugo Huesca
Ed and Alder got to the Lotian summer palace in an elegant black carriage dragged by two skeletal horses. The carriage and the horses belonged to Lavy. She had refused to explain how—or why—she had it, making Ed wonder if all the scheming going on in the Haunt may be truly getting out of hand.
The road out of the Portal was carefully guarded by minions in shiny armor and long steel spears, paved with white stone slabs, and lit by orange magical torches at each side. Lotia was cold, although less so than Starevos in winter. It was also dry, which made it easier to withstand the cold. The road took them into a forest that was more like a huge garden, domesticated and trimmed to resemble a maze. There were bushes and shrubbery hedged into animal shapes, and marble human statues were posed as if hunting them. This place, Jarlen had explained, belonged to one of Vaines’ distant family members, and she had “borrowed” it as a neutral ground for the party, because not even a pact of safety would make any sane Dungeon Lord set a foot inside the dungeon of another—nor would any sane rival invite a dozen of them in.
They weren’t alone on the road, and were often passed by other carriages, painted in all colors and with the blazons of their noble houses engraved on the side. Ed saw beautiful black stallions pulling on the cars, as well as other exotic creatures—most of which he didn’t recognize. He saw a smaller variant of the Haunt’s hell chickens, though they were fatter, didn’t have claws, and had rainbow feathers instead of obsidian black.
Inside the carriage, Ed rubbed his hands together through the smooth fabric of his white gloves. He had to admit he was nervous. This would be his first time to meet with another Dungeon Lord in the flesh. Despite his efforts to remain distant from the brutal Lotian nobility, this part felt like attending Thanksgiving with a loud-mouthed estranged family.
“Alright,” he said aloud, mostly to distract himself. “Remember what Lavy and Jarlen told us, Alder. We can learn much about a Dungeon Lord by their association with a Regent. Vorgothas is the Lord of Flesh. His magic excels at illusions and transmutation, and his devout followers hold pleasure above anything else. Some of them are suave gentlemen, and others are sadistic assholes that bring pain for the hell of it.” Ed narrowed his eyes. Lord Sanguine Vandran, the man who had infiltrated Undercity, was aligned with Vorgothas. “Regent Dolmanak of Bones is the patron of Necromancers and Witches. He is the enemy of Vorgothas, and his followers see life as a weakness to leave behind.”
“Lavy would love that one, right?” Alder asked. With the help of Pris of the Thieves Guild, the Bard’s disguise certainly looked foolproof. He could’ve been Lavy’s brother. His face was powdered to give him just the right shade of haunted pale, his black wig was long and oily, and his lips had been painted black, the way some rich Lotians did.
“Not really,” Ed said. “I don’t think even Jarlen likes him. Dolmanak has few followers because he thinks of ambition, happiness, and even friendship, as terrible habits that weaken the mind. Only in undeath is the soul truly free to achieve its full potential.” Half of the intelligent undead worshiped him like a god, and his liches were the most powerful undead spellcasters in all of Ivalis.
“Then there’s Tal Zamor,” Ed went on. “Regent of Embers. Vaines is aligned with him, probably because she’s as violent as he is—according to Lavy, at least.” Jarlen had described Vaines as more like a national hero. “Tal Zamor was a war-loving asshole who got his ass handed to him by the other three because his followers kept killing theirs for the experience points.”
“You’re being too rough on him. He’s also a patron of the arts, a passionate soul that enjoys beauty and the little pleasures in life, like a cup of wine or standing over the bodies of his enemies. You would make for a nice fit for Tal Zamor, and perhaps even I would as well,” Alder said. He was biased, though, because Tal Zamor had a famously soft spot for Bards, given that they tended to hang around battlefields—at a distance—and give glorified retellings of the carnage afterward.
Ed let it go. “Finally, there’s Korghiran. We know her best. Since she’s the master of intrigue and spies, this party is kind of what she does. Our allies are aligned with her, but it would be foolish to trust them. Everyone has the same goal; to reach the office of Evangeline Tillman before anyone else and claim the property deed for themselves.” He tightened his skeletal hand—hidden by his glove—into a fist. The only hope Starevos and the Haunt had of surviving Heiliges’ invasion was for him to find that deed first.
In this, he was exactly like all the other Dungeon Lords.
Outside, Vaines’ summer palace appeared past a bend in the green maze. It was ostentatious and gaudy, painted in a vibrant crimson, with pearl-colored columns, alabaster statues, intricate brass balconies, and huge glass windows. It was surrounded by an open garden set with tables, a pool, several fireplaces, and open lofts full of pillows and bedsheets.
The palace was a statement in itself against the austere Heiligian castles that served as fortresses as well as centers of government and refuges in times of war. The statement was, “You may think us evil, but you cannot deny we have better taste than you.”
A pair of exuberant valets—a succubus and an incubus—dressed in skimpy silk tunics received the Dungeon Lords as they exited their carriages. The valets were flanked by a pair of gigantic ogre bodyguards dressed in larger versions of the same tunics. They dwarfed the Haunt’s own ogres in size and meanness and had no weapons other than a band of thick iron knuckles on each fist.
Music flowed out of the palace like a cascade, faint at first and then gaining in strength. From the windows, Ed saw dancing figures flashing through in complicated, flowery steps. When the invitation said it would be a dinner party, Ed had expected a small event. This was another thing entirely, and he could feel his nerves increase. He was as out of his element, as if he were stranded in the middle of the ocean while wearing heavy armor.
Alder clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Galemoor’s ballrooms do it better,” he said. “At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never been to one.”
Ed took a deep breath as his carriage passed a silver fountain of a Lotian war hero and stopped at the end of the small line of other carriages. “Alright, let’s get this over with. We go in, behave, make no trouble, and are out after dessert.”
HOURS LATER
Alder dragged the body covered by his cape through the green maze, and the boots of the unconscious man brushing against the grass made a sound like a snake in pursuit.
A ways off, the clash of the blades between Ed and Vaines was so violent it reached Alder loud and clear above the jeers and savage encouragement from the other Dungeon Lords. Last Alder had seen of Ed, he was barely holding on against the brutal onslaught of Vaines’ sword.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Alder gasped, trying to go as fast as possible. Sweat dampened his back and his heart raced in his chest. “Where are you, Shrukew?” He glanced at the starry sky, which had no sign of the carrion avian.
He could hear other sounds, or maybe it was his imagination running wild with fear. The footsteps of Vaines’ guards in hot pursuit, maybe someone raising the alarm back in the palace. He tried not to imagine what the Lotian Dungeon Lords would do to Ed and him—if Vaines didn’t get them first.
“Ed, you need to get out of there!” he whispered, desperate, as he glanced between the sky and the garden where the fight was taking place. Maybe if he sent another message—
The sound of clashing steel stopped all of a sudden, and Alder’s heart froze in his chest as he tried to drag meaning out of the silence.
A flaming ball of fire surged straight up from the garden and exploded in the air, breaking the nearest windows. Its light was for an instant like a second sun. Alder stood in terrified awe as the light died away. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled.
HOURS EARLIER
“Honorable Lordship, please stand for the arrival of fearsome Lord Godfrey Crane, ruler of the hidden dungeons of the Granton Abyss, and the honorable Madam Patr
icia Crane,” the valet announced as Lord Crane and his wife strolled confidently down the stairs of the Main Hall. Just outside the door, Ed watched as the pale men and women in the hall stood for the old Lord Crane as he pompously walked down the stairs, his walking stick tapping rhythmically against the pearl floorboards.
The other valet, the incubus, turned to Ed and smiled with a row of shiny teeth. “Please, my Lord, if you will,” he said, gesturing inside.
Ed felt naked and vulnerable without his armor, and his hand kept reaching for the handle of the missing sword at his waist. He straightened his back and forced himself to relax. Don’t let them think you’re afraid of them, he told himself as he stepped into the entrance hall.
The Main Hall had a huge mahogany table at its center, made out of several smaller tables set against one other. About two dozen purple eyes of different shades glanced his way with varying degrees of interest. Some of them had the same constant faint green glow that overuse of the Evil Eye had given Ed. The fire in a stone chimney crackled at one end of the hall and the other led to a wide glass panel, then to an inner garden.
“Honorable Lordships, please stand for the arrival of Lord Edward Wright, the Starevosi Phantom, as well as his honorable adviser Redal of Devonshire,” intoned the valet.
At the mention of Starevos, curiosity turned into greed or raw hostility. Ed returned scowl for scowl and kept his gaze forward, refusing to show a hint of weakness. The Dungeon Lords could pounce upon fear like sharks smelling blood in the water. Sanguine Vandran’s boney face scowled at Ed near a corner of the table. Ed barely recognized the Dungeon Lord from the brief glance he had gotten in the catacombs with dungeon vision. As he walked toward the two empty seats the valet had pointed him toward, Ed made sure to take a good look at everyone at the table, both to start his information gathering and to distract himself.
First, he noted the display of luxury that surrounded the hall. The chandelier was gold and silver with aromatic candles. The servants lined the walls, immobile as if they were statues, wearing small red caps and holding silver trays with damp towels. Iron cages showed exotic animals as dinner entertainment—the stench of manure masked by a dizzying amount of incense. Ed saw a huge albino tiger, a creature that looked like a sleepy land octopus, and an angry mixture of a porcupine with a giant warthog. A pair of dancers performed a complicated routine, naked except by strategically placed ever-shifting illusions. One dwarven singer with a deep voice led a group of a dozen musician slaves, golden chains holding their ankles to both their seats and their instruments.
Ed made a note of all the exits. If shit hit the fan, the closest escape route was the entrance, but it was guarded by armed ogres and he only had the silver knife he had smuggled inside his shoe, as well as the two fireball runes in his jacket’s secret pocket. Perhaps his best bet would be to run into the maze, and then stall for time so Shrukew could come to save his butt, but if he had been in Vaines’ place, he would’ve added unseen security inside the maze—leaving an obvious escape route open, but using it as a deathtrap.
Focus, he chided himself. You’re here to socialize—there should be no reason to need an escape route. Vaines had offered all Dungeon Lords a truce with pact magic. If anyone wanted a piece of Ed, they would have to go through Vaines first, and all the security gathered in the palace.
Somehow it felt like a hollow assurance. Ed turned his attention to the Dungeon Lords.
Sanguine Vandran had a long, prominent forehead, sharp cheekbones powdered with bronze dust, thin black hair slicked back with shiny grease, and small, tight lips painted black. His clothes were expensive and showy in a distasteful way—tight in all the wrong places and puffed-up in others. He was also wearing black leather trousers, a huge cotton neck frill, and a pink silken half-cape hanging from a padded shoulder. The man and woman sitting next to him were dressed similarly, down to the bronze dust and the black lipstick. The woman could’ve been Lavy’s distant cousin, but her face lacked warmth, and her expression was as if she was perpetually smelling something sour. Perhaps Sanguine’s perfume. The man on the other side was tall and burly, with a trimmed beard, thick arms, and a beer gut barely contained by a tight crimson band. Their companions were beautiful men and women with undeniable succubi or elvish heritage, dressed in vaporous tunics that left little to the imagination.
Ed filed away those three Dungeon Lords as Vorgothas’ champions. Lords of Flesh, he called them. On the opposite end of the table sat Dolmanak’s three. There was no mistaking the Bone Lords. They all huddled next to each other as if for warmth, but didn’t talk among themselves. Their clothes were bare black tunics with no decor, they wore no make-up, and they had their emaciated heads shaved clean—even the eyebrows. Their companions were all Nightshade vampires, dead faces hidden by a veil, their backs perfectly still in a way only the dead could remain.
So Jarlen would’ve been welcome here after all, Ed thought idly.
If the two seats at the end of the table were Vaines’, that meant the nearest Dungeon Lord was a champion of Tal Zamor’ as well. This man was tall and strong, with long black hair collected in a ponytail. He had a scar running sideways all along his face and ending at the left side of his neck. Intricate geometric tattoos ran from his forearms and disappeared up his sleeve. He wore a simple black shirt with a wide-open neck.
That meant the two Dungeon Lords next to Ed and Alder’s seats were Korghiran’s. They seemed young and were busy gossiping, and they barely glanced his way. Ed’s first impression was that he would’ve rather had the Tal Zamor’ Dungeon Lords on his side for the Endeavor, or at least the burly one next to Sanguine. Those two seemed like the ones that had seen the most combat.
Then again, impressions can be deceiving, he thought.
Most Dungeon Lords kept to the clique formed by their Dark Patrons, but the companions were free to talk among themselves. Given that letting their minions roam free was the best way to garner information without having to socialize, the Dungeon Lords allowed it.
“Well, what now?” Alder asked, glancing around the table. “All this backtalk going on makes me feel like they’re chatting about us. Hopefully good things, right? Maybe about how well I chose our costumes.”
“Actually,” the Dungeon Lady next to Ed interjected, breaking away from her whispering with the other Dungeon Lord, “those suits are nice, but last time I saw one my grandfather wore it. I wouldn’t call them costumes aloud, though. It comes across as if you don’t belong here.”
“Perhaps we don’t,” Ed said. So far, despite the show of luxury and power the Lotians had displayed, the gathering reminded him more of a high school reunion than a meeting between the Dark’s finest.
Despite the legends and the Inquisition’s fearmongering, everyone here is only human, Ed thought. It makes them beatable. But also very dangerous.
The Dungeon Lady offered her hand his way. Ed caught it clumsily a second before it would’ve been rude to leave her hanging, pressed like Lavy had taught him, then let go. “I am Lady Cassara Xorander,” the Dungeon Lady said proudly. She wore lots of make-up, had her auburn hair in a complicated style, and her fitted dress made it clear she intended to compete with the Flesh Lords’ companions in the looks department. “The handsome man next to me is my companion, Maser of Devonshire. His Lordship to your right is Lord Luras of House Steros, who took the Mantle a year ago.”
“Edward Wright,” Ed told them. “My friend is A… ah, Redal of Devonshire. Pleased to meet you,” he forced himself to add.
“I am a Lotian,” Alder added helpfully, darkening his voice for absolutely no reason.
Lord Steros was a kid. If he were eighteen Ed would’ve barely believed it. As it was, fifteen was a safer bet. He looked confident, though, and his character sheet revealed a swordsmanship skill of Improved ranking. He had clearly been training from a young age and at this rate in a couple of years he’d be able to wipe the floor with Ed in a duel. However, he had barely more than 200 experience poin
ts, which he had used to buy spellcasting, power attack, spring attack, and a couple of minor life-improvement choices.
“I know who you are,” Steros told Ed, barely going through the motions of the handshake Ed offered. Ed could’ve sworn a shadow of jealousy had crossed the young man’s face when Xorander’s attention turned away from their chat.
Fantastic. Exactly what we need, Ed thought. Korghiran, what the hell were you thinking?
Xorander’s character sheet was better. She was a palatial courtier trying to disguise herself as a vapid gossip—her Mind ranked 15, but her Spirit was 10. Such a difference between mental stats usually meant a lack of common sense. Her talents were advanced spellcasting, to Ed’s delight, along with a few from the sneak talent tree, with some from the persuasion branch finishing the build. She had 500 points in total, which could mean combat experience under controlled conditions… or that she had sacrificed others on her way to power.
The older Dungeon Lords around the table had more points, on average. The Ember Dungeon Lord had a bit under 2000—so he had done his share of fighting. He was a force to be reckoned with. The next Dungeon Lord was the man of Bones next to Sanguine, with 1500. After that, the character sheets ranged from Steros’ 200 at the lowest up to about 1000.
Still… Ed had amassed around 800 points in only three years—or had it been four already? If he survived another decade, without a doubt he’d easily pass 2000 experience points. These people had been born in Ivalis, following Objectivity’s rules, farming experience and skills ever since they could walk. They should have points in the thousands at least. Jarlen had once told him that some legendary Dungeon Lords had reached tens of thousands, which was thought to be a mortal’s limit.
