by Hugo Huesca
“Go ahead. I won’t stab you unless I really need to, but I can’t promise anyone else won’t.”
“Good enough,” the barkeep said, sighing with satisfaction as he sat down next to Ed. “Man, these old bones really needed a rest. The stiffness gets worse when it rains, you know? Sometimes I fear I’m going to lie down and then I won’t be able to stand up again.”
Ed cracked a smile. “Come on. You are not that old.”
“True, but age is relative. Ask a wolf and he’ll say you’re downright ancient. You’ll live for many of his pack’s generations, after all.” He turned to Ed and gave a friendly nod. “Name’s Max, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Max. I’m Ed.”
“Lord Ed,” Max pointed out. “Word is, your kind gets twitchy if you forget to address them by the proper honorific.” He pointed at Ed’s dented cup, which had rolled to a stop next to the iron railing of the Highway. “Maybe that’s what that poor wine did to earn such treatment—it forgot to call you Lord.”
“Eh. It was more juice than wine, it seems like.” Ed waved his hand as if trying to dismiss Max’ train of thought. “Let’s give the titles a rest for tonight, though. After all, it’s Spriveska. Gods and spirits are wandering around, although I haven’t seen one yet. Seems silly to worry about my rank with such visitors around.”
“A humble Dungeon Lord,” Max said. “That’s one thing I hadn’t yet seen in all my travels.” The barkeep gave Ed a glance-over. “But I think I can see the problem. You’re in dire need of getting drunk under a table, and something is getting in the way.”
“An insightful barkeep,” Ed said. “I suppose that’s a skill that comes with the profession.”
“Here, lend me your hand,” Max said, extending his, “let’s see if I can put my insight to good use. Right hand. Come on, I won’t bite.”
Ed raised an eyebrow, unsure of Max’ intentions. Slowly, he shrugged and did as the man requested.
“See? That’s the problem right here,” Max said. With a small flourish, he took a small ring off Ed’s finger.
“Where did that come from?” Ed asked. He hadn’t realized he was wearing that until Max took it. The ring looked like any normal copper trinket, but Ed could swear he saw the faint glow of magic as he looked through the hole at Max’ smile.
At once, the unmistakable feeling of having drunk too much wine came rushing into Ed, making him dizzy and warming his hands and feet. He brushed off a strand of black hair and tried not to slide down the wall.
“You had contracted a small curse. Nothing unusual, given the number of unprotected people you came into contact with today.” Max kept the ring in the pocket of his vest.
For a few minutes, Ed and Max sat in silence, while the Dungeon Lord enjoyed the blankness brought by the drink. The effects didn’t last long, though. He could feel his talents, old and new, metabolize the poison out of his system, clearing his blood and then his mind. He rested the back of his head against the cold wall and clicked his tongue. Great, now I can’t even get drunk. He hadn’t imagined that would be part of the price of power.
Max tapped his dirty fingernails on the floor, spat, then turned to Ed. “Here’s another barkeep insight, if you’ll allow. No man tries to get drunk at his own damn party unless he’s running away from something.” He pointed at his own forehead. “Does something in here haunt the Lord of the Haunt?”
Ed’s first reaction was to tell the barkeep to mind his own business. However, he stopped his tongue from lashing out at the last second. He closed his mouth. What’s the danger? Max has nothing to do with the Endeavor. And there was the way Max listened, earnestly, as if it was a skill in itself that he had mastered.
But where to start?
“The beginning is as good a start as any,” Max suggested.
“Right. Well. Let’s see.” Ed took a deep breath. “All my life, before Ivalis that is, I thought—or hoped, more like—that I had potential. If only the world would give me a chance, if only I could find the right quest, I was sure there was fight in me. My life was spent in a haze, like a game’s cutscene, waiting for shit to get real. As if the real gameplay would come later. But it never did. There were only crappy job after crappy job, and an apartment whose rent I could barely afford. The right quest never came. And I guess that made me angry. That anger—” he stabbed a finger at his chest “—lingers. It gives me strength. When Ivalis happened, after Kharon’s deal, I was eager to prove myself. And shit, prove myself I did. I’ve never stopped. And yet. The anger lingers.”
Max nodded. “Go on. I hear you.”
“A few months ago, I met someone from before. In my other life, he was a sort of small tyrant. A Mid-Boss in the mediocre quest that had been my life so far, an enemy to vanquish. And then, after all this time, I saw him again, and he was no enemy. No Boss. Just an angry child whose insecurities had been manipulated by a god so he wouldn’t realize he was a pawn in some… pitiful, meaningless, revenge scheme. The angry child never had a fucking chance, and yet here he is, thinking he’s some sort of Chosen One.” Ed chuckled. “I guess you see where I’m going with this.”
“Gods can be a pain in the ass, can’t they?” Max said. “So. You see your reflection in that former enemy of yours.”
“Everyone in the Haunt believes I’m someone extraordinary,” Ed said quietly. “They need me to be, because their lives are in my hands. If I fail at any point, they’re fucking gone.” He snapped his fingers. “So I stand tall and tell them everything is going to be okay because they need that from me. So far, I’ve managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. But it’s always a close call. It always takes me pushing myself further and further. One day, though, I’m going to meet someone who is simply beyond me.” Despite having healed, the pain in his chest from Vaines’ kick still lingered, like one of Lavy’s spirits. “Someone who all my tricks and last-ditch efforts won’t work on, because they are the real deal. And then, before the end, I shall have to face the truth. I’m but a man whose anger tricked him into thinking he had potential to change the world, and because of that presumption, everyone I care about is going to die.”
He grimaced, tired all of a sudden, as if the way Max listened in almost complete silence had been a magic unto itself, allowing Ed to reach deep, to the black corners of his mind where he had shoved his fears and doubts so they wouldn’t distract him as he tried to keep his Haunt from falling apart.
Barkeep Max scratched his beard and spat again, then was silent for a while, long enough that Ed thought the conversation was over. Just as he was about to get up to leave, the man stirred. “You’ve spoken from the heart. It is only proper to repay honesty with honesty, so I shall tell you the truth—I came all the way to the Haunt in this night of Spriveska with the hope of asking you one single question.”
“Well, ask it.”
“Why the batblins?”
“What?”
“Why the batblins?” he repeated. “Why let them live?”
Ed turned to the party, then back to Max. He pursed his lips in confusion. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about—”
“Kharon brought you to my forest for a reason, Edward Wright. Batblins are common critters. Ask Vaines, ask Everbleed, ask Sephar himself, they’ll say the same thing. Batblins are useless minions except, maybe, as arrow-fodder. They cannot fight worth a damn, they’re rowdy, dirty, stupid. You appeared where you did because the Boatman hoped you would kill the batblins, take their experience points, and secure the loyalty of your first two minions. An easy start. Instead, you forgave the batblins and earned the friendship of the Hexwoman and the Skald the hard way. And in doing so, gained something else.”
The man’s voice had changed in a small way that Ed found hard to describe. Perhaps Alder would’ve had the right words. Ed could merely think that it was as if Max’ lungs were like hot coals, and his throat was full with the smoke. “For a long time, you’ve raged against the gods, Light and Dark, trying to set yourse
lf free from the chains that bind your fate. You are a fool, Edward Wright. The gods are great and man is small. The great plans of the immortals cannot be thwarted… except, maybe, in small ways. You are a fool because in the very day of your arrival in Ivalis you achieved without realizing it the very same thing you still strive for.” Now Ed could swear a trail of smoke had come out of the barkeep’s mouth, but it only happened once. “Klek, son of Virp, was meant to die that day. Yet now he lives. A small change. Inconsequential in the deep schemes of the Dark and the Light. I doubt Kharon has even noticed, and he wouldn’t care if he had. But to the batblins, this tiny change is everything. Until the day he dies—and the line of his life extends far beyond yours, Dungeon Lord—Klek, son of Virp, shall speak your name to his people, but it will be his virtues they see attached to it, not your failures. A small change. But there are ancient ways, forgotten traditions older than the Dark, older than Objectivity, and for them, small changes are everything. So I ask again, son of Wright, for the third time. Why let the batblins live?”
Perhaps it was something in the way Max spoke. Perhaps it was simply because he had a huge Charm attribute, although Ed couldn’t see a smidgen of his character sheet. In any case, the Dungeon Lord believed that it was crucial, maybe life or death, that the only thing that left his lips was the absolute truth.
So speak the truth he did, even if it wasn’t as impressive as what a Bard could’ve come up with. “I was scared, and so were they. We fought, but then we found a way to break it off. I was glad to. Maybe a true Dungeon Lord wouldn’t have been scared. But I was. And I don’t know. I hit one in the head and it felt like hitting a kid. It just didn’t feel right. That’s all.”
“I see. A small reason. Fitting.” Max grinned. “Gods truly are a pain in the ass, are they not? They come and take, take, take. In the ancient times, before mortals knew them as gods, they prayed so the gods would remain in their divine seats, so mankind would have a chance to go about their business in peace.” Groaning, the man stood up, his joints cracking as he did. “Gods have meddled in your business for a long while. It is only fair once in a while one lends you a hand. Objectivity likes its balance, after all. Consider it a blessing. In the grand scheme of things, the batblins do not matter, and because of this, they are my favorite. You’ve done me a service.”
Ed gave the man an inquisitive look, as if he saw him for the first time. “Who are you?”
“Will you accept my blessing, Edward Wright?” He extended a hand, but then raised a single finger. “But first, a warning. In the old days, a blessing was a terrible thing. Even when trying to help the gods could not avoid their nature. Many heroes accepted the blessing and later regretted it. Do not make this decision lightly.”
The Dungeon Lord’s hand froze midway. Around both men, it was as if reality itself had acquired the golden quality of a dream. The light of the torches was dim, distant. The music, at some point, had stopped. It was as if they were alone in the world, as if time itself held its breath. Eldritch green eyes and molten gold eyes locked gazes.
“Who are you?” Ed asked again.
Something old stirred in Max’ eyes. Something downright ancient, like burnished gold buried for generations. “You already know. Mine are the freshets of dawning spring, the creeping thyme, and the untamed ginger. Mine is the starving wolf in white winter, a drop of crimson blood on broken bark, and the stiff corpse under a bank of snow. My left hand brings blight, and the right harvest. I am the crunching bite and the jackdaw’s song. I am the forest.”
For a brief instant, Ed thought the man’s leather-skin was framed by glimmering golden scales. Then the Dungeon Lord blinked. Max was but a man beaten down by the sun, tired eyes and unkempt beard.
“You are Hogbus,” Ed said, standing up, face to face with the ancient being. He extended his right hand. “An unaligned god. I shall take that blessing.”
Max’ grasp was like a vice. His skin was impossibly hot to the touch, as if the furnace in his lungs kept his bones white-hot under the surface. “Once have you stolen life from death’s gates and torn victory from the jaws of defeat. May you escape twice more, and no further, for denying death has consequences, and worst among those is life. You shall live long enough to see your every triumph turn to ash, Lord of the Haunt. Build it, and it shall crumble. Grasp it, and it shall slip from your fingers. Love it, and it shall leave you. Only when your black heart is returned to the halls of its maker, shall you find a chance to bring the seed of lasting life to your Haunted Kingdom. When the time comes, may your gamble strike true, Edward Wright. And in the meantime, may you find the will to endure what is to come. This is the forest’s blessing. Thus, you are blessed.”
The surge of heat traveled down Ed’s arm like an electric current, reaching up his shoulder and into his heart in the blink of an eye. Stars exploded in his field of vision, and he stumbled backwards until his back struck the wall of his Highway. Then, bit by bit, the heat dissipated. Ed grunted and pressured his temple to hold the incipient headache that was building up. He looked around, but he was alone with his thoughts.
“What an asshole,” he muttered. Then, louder, as he turned around, looking for Barkeep Max on the empty tunnel, “You call that a blessing? Fucking Wetlands, that was a curse if I’ve ever heard one!”
However, once he managed to gather his bearings and focus his vision, he saw a small prompt through his Evil Eye:
Congratulations! You have unlocked a new talent option: Hogbus’ Stubborn Resilience - (50 experience): After sustaining damage, this talent allows the user to bolster his Endurance with up to half of the user’s Spirit ranks, as long as he passes a Spirit contest with difficulty depending on the amount of damage received.
Energy Drain: None.
Ed fumed as he bought the talent with the last of his experience points. “Well,” he said darkly, studying his updated character sheet. “At least it’s better than nothing.”
18
Chapter Eighteen
Final Preparations
The six black-robbed figures stood like statues on the edges of the crimson summoning circle as the Dungeon Lord entered the room where the ritual would take place.
It was the edge of midnight on a moonless night, and the dim torches cast long shadows on the hooded men and women of the circle, which had the stillness of death. Ed felt as if he had missed a turn somewhere and had ended up in a mausoleum.
He distinguished Jarlen because she was shorter and slimmer than the others. “So, you ended up creating your Nightshades, after all,” he said.
“I figured tonight would be an appropriate time to make the introduction,” Jarlen said, bowing stiffly. “During our absence in the Endeavor, my progeny shall keep the Haunt’s holdings safe.”
Ed faced the rest of the Nightshades, who still hadn’t moved an inch. Not even their chests rose up to take a single breath. “Did you follow our deal?”
“In their former life, they were all enemy combatants or bandits,” Jarlen said. “They were already dead when I found them, and thanks to our Dark mercy, they have a new chance at serving a higher purpose.”
The Dungeon Lord came closer to the nearest vampire, until he saw through his black hood an ashen face, middle-aged, yet whose death and reanimation had covered in deep wrinkles. “You’ve met with a terrible fate,” he told the undead. “Even though you may not feel that way now, I doubt your former self would’ve agreed to this. For that, I apologize.”
“No need, my Lord,” rasped the vampire as his chest moved for the first time, if only to get him enough air to speak. “We are the Lucky Five, the best of the games of the grave. I was dead, and now I am something else.” He showed the Dungeon Lord his long, sharp claws. “I choose life eternal over blank oblivion. Master Jarlen brought me back, and for that, I serve her, and you through her.”
The five gazes of the vampires fell on Ed with undead intensity. Something like guilt stabbed his own chest, and he took a step back, away from the abomi
nations.
“Don’t you love them?” Jarlen said, her voice almost a purr. “They are so… passionate about undeath when they first awaken. As if their hearts still remember what it feels like to beat.”
“The ritual,” Ed told Jarlen dryly. “Is everything ready?”
The Nightshade nodded. “Cursewing summoning is not the hardest ritual I ever had to perform, even with the… special modifications that you required, my Lord Wraith. You should see what the ritual to summon a Devil Knight involves. Two months and six days of daily preparations, and a year before those to plan everything up.” She shook her head, amused. “Hard work. But good times.”
“Well, I don’t think we’ll ever get a Devil Knight in the Haunt, so good times are over,” Ed said. “Shall we begin?”
“We are not waiting for Master Lavina?” Jarlen asked.
“Demonology is not her specialty,” Ed said. Lavy had been the minion of two Dungeon Lords before Ed, and she had witnessed her fair share of fiendish Netherworldly rituals, many of which involved human sacrifice. She wasn’t a fan, exactly, and Ed didn’t wish to remind her of those times. So he had gone to Jarlen, who couldn’t care less.
“As you wish,” Jarlen said. “Step to the center of the circle, Lord Wraith.”
Jarlen’s vampires, the Lucky Five, as they called themselves, began chanting in unison, in the old language of the Netherworld, which many scholars considered the language of the Dark itself. It was an ugly thing, this language, with harsh words not designed for a mortal’s windpipe, and clashing consonants that threatened madness if paid too much attention. The vampires had probably spent a couple nights practicing these few lines.
Ed thought they sounded as if the lovechild of Cthulhu and Hitler had just smashed his toe against the bedpost.
Jarlen stepped forward, carrying a perfumed black wooden box engraved with unholy glyphs. Ed fought back the desire to roll his eyes—rituals required a modicum of adherence to form for them to work. “In the name of the Great Dark One, I come in the night, bearing gifts,” she intoned, opening the box. “Royal ointment, meant for the ultimate king.” She brought out a glass vial full of embalming fluid and set it on one of the three inner circles drawn between her and Ed, whose need to roll his eyes grew harder to ignore by the second.
