by Hugo Huesca
Examiner Harmon mirrored Bartheny’s smile and added, “And this is a final lesson for you. We humored your plan to spy on Wraith, Inquisitor, that doesn’t mean the minotaur is our only source of intelligence on the comings and goings of the Dark. If Wraith thinks he’s duping us as he duped you, he’s in for a mean awakening. The Inquisition is not arriving into the Endeavor on his terms.”
“What?” Gallio almost stopped dead on his tracks. “What are you talking about? We cannot just summon a strike team into the Netherworld without Mohnuran’s help.”
“We have a second informant in the Endeavor,” Bartheny revealed, her words dripping poisonous joy inappropriate for her position. “The Inquisition is not as easily manipulated as you seem to think. We go into Tillman’s Factory to bring Alita’s judgment into Hell itself. The Dark won’t recover from this blow in decades, if ever.”
Gallio’s confidence had left him. A second informant? It made sense, now that they mentioned it. Lord Wright wasn’t the only Dungeon Lord in the world. He was merely the only one in Starevos.
Could it be that the Examiners were right? Was he obsessed with Edward Wright because of his own failure? He bit his lip. Everyone else was just so sure of themselves. Sometimes it seemed as if he were the only one riddled with doubts and fears.
“Finally, it seems you understand your place,” Harmon said. “And just in time. Our chat is over, Inquisitor. Report to the barracks straight away. You shall be confined to your quarters for the rest of the month. Solitude shall give time for our lesson to take hold, I think.”
“This is a mistake,” Gallio said. “Something is wrong here.” Are they blind? How can they not see it? he thought. “At least send me with whatever team you’ll bring. I can help. What I can do—”
“What you can or cannot do,” Bartheny cut in, “won’t matter a bit after we’ve maimed the Lordship. You should be glad, Inquisitor. Soon enough, the Examiners shall rid the world of your mistake.”
Gallio was halfway back to the barracks outside the Palace when it started to rain. He trudged on, ignoring the cold as it turned the steel of his armor into a constant bite that stole the warmth from his body.
A white carriage caught up to him and matched his stride. It was smaller than average, and it was led by ponies. The wooden door opened to reveal the red face of the third of the Examiners.
“Get in!” Hatter exclaimed over the noise of the rain.
Inside was warm and bright, magically so, probably the result of a spell. Examiner Hatter, of gnomish blood, was a powerful spellcaster, although you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at him. He was wide and short, like a pumpkin, and reeked of stale beer. Oftentimes Gallio thought Hatter was the only sane member of the Inquisition in the whole Starevos.
“Are you feeling alright?” Gallio asked. “You look ashen.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just a headache. I take it your meeting with the Examiners didn’t go as you hoped,” Hatter said, his tone commiserating.
“It went as you expected, though,” Gallio said, as the color returned to his cheeks. “But I had to try, anyway.”
“Always the hero,” Hatter said. “Even when defeat is assured.” He got out a tin flask from seemingly out of nowhere, uncorked it, and took a big swig. He offered Gallio some, which he declined. “A damn shame. It’s Galemoorian wine. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to summon it here.”
“Is there a way you can smuggle me into the Endeavor?” Gallio asked. “You are an Advanced spellcaster, are you not?” He would easily believe it if Hatter had one or two Heroic castings in his arsenal, even.
Hatter massaged the side of his head. “I could, and you would probably die for it, alone with no support. Then I would lose my position as Examiner, and Harmon and Bartheny would be free to run amok unchallenged. Would that be worth it, Gallio? To die uselessly in the name of your revenge?”
“Wright cannot go unchallenged.”
“Do you genuinely think he has a chance at taking the Factory? We’ve been fighting Aramis Vaines and the other competitors for decades. The question pains me, but I must ask anyway—are you sure your anger against Wraith is not clouding your mind?”
“Harmon and Bartheny said the same thing,” Gallio said sourly. “I’m not sure myself. But a year ago, everyone knew there was no way he could take Constantina and defeat the Heroes, and yet here we are.”
Hatter pondered this. “There is a reason Alita chose you as her champion, Gallio. Maybe you are right, and I should have more faith in you. The young Inquisitors certainly do. However.” He paused. “Go to the Endeavor alone and you will die. Your kingdom still has a need of you, Inquisitor. You’re not yet allowed to quench your flame.”
“So what am I supposed to do,” Gallio said, clenching a frustrated fist. “Just sit and wait while others go into what is essentially a suicide mission?”
“That’s one option,” Hatter said. “The other… A year ago, I told you there was something wrong with the Inquisition. We’ve been biding our time, keeping Harmon and Bartheny in check as much as stalling Wraith’s advances. During the Endeavor, both sides shall be distracted, their gazes locked on the Netherworld. That’s the perfect time to make a move.” He bit his lip. “Travel to Heiliges, Inquisitor, out of the Examiners’ reach.”
A cold rush that had nothing to do with the rain traveled down Gallio’s spine. “Back to Heiliges? Hatter, what are you talking about?”
“A suspicion,” Hatter told him. “Nothing more. Circumstantial evidence, at best. The actions of Harmon and Bartheny are too ambiguous, and yet, I cannot help but wonder… Could it be that the Militant Church lost Alita’s grace because it has strayed from her Light?”
“That talk is treason,” Gallio whispered.
“If the Examiners have turned corrupt,” Hatter went on, “even the king may be in peril. Lord Wraith is not the only danger that besieges the kingdom. Perhaps the Dungeon Lord is not the reason you hold the power of the sunwave. Perhaps that reason is to protect us from ourselves.”
20
Chapter Twenty
Interlude: Everbleed
The great expanse of the Netherworld stretched as far as the eye could see, a crimson sky without a sun, perennial twilight overlooking a scorched landscape, desert and ruin all the same, through which impossible rocky formations rose high like pustules on the carcass of a rotting giant.
A sea of red dust swirled furiously on the windless waste, whipping the backs of the men, women, and fiends under the scant protection of the colorful forest of tents that had sprouted throughout the last couple days as the participants of the Endeavor arrived, along with their entourage, as well as Dungeon Lords merely there to watch and speculate—those brought their entourage too.
Mentioning the tents gave the gathering no justice. A small city had sprouted out of nowhere in this hellish wasteland, their inhabitants unlike those of any city in Ivalis or the Netherworld. A sea of flags sprang along every street and improvised avenue, each of them representing a different fiendish faction, Regent, Lotian House, or Dungeon Lord.
It seemed as if everyone of any importance was here, and they all brought their servants and minions in a display of lavish power. Assassins, fiends, Warlocks, Necromancers, and of course, Dungeon Lords. The High Clerics of the four Regents arrived last of all, each on a different edge of the field, as far away from each other as possible. Drones and slaves traversed the improvised streets formed by the tents, and long-time rivals met on those very same streets, their old enmities still lingering.
It was hard to believe, judging by the thousands of citizens of this unholy city, by the myriad Dark powers they wielded, that the Light not only stood against them, but had them on the brink of extinction.
But those who had lived long enough remembered a time when a gathering such as this one would’ve brought ten times its number. They would’ve known of times when Devil Knights were common sights as High Minions of most Dungeon Lords, when the ancie
nt Oldbloods and their obsidian-armored armies of undead were more than a folktale to scare children to stay in their rooms at night. A time when the forges of Saint Claire and Tillman worked day and night to arm an entire country, and the engines of war pumped steel and eldritch magic to seed distant shores with bodies torn asunder.
Archlord Alaric Everbleed was one of those few—fewer every year!—that had lived long enough to see the decline of the Lordship. The former great ruler of Lotia watched the city from his private tent, situated on the rise of a dune that gave him a vantage point along the entire field. Here and there, steels flashed, Assassins tried their luck as they slipped into unsecured tents, and explosions and smoke rose as angry minions maneuvered against their Lord’s enemies.
Never a move against those that participated in the Endeavor, though. That would mean incurring the wrath of the Regents.
“How exciting,” said Lady Golsa, sitting next to Everbleed, a parasol protecting her skin from the dust as she slumped on her favorite summer chair, which looked as much a relic as she herself was. “Everyone’s nerves are raw. Can you feel it, dear Everbleed, the tension in the air? A huge bloodletting is about to happen, I just know it!”
“Dear Golsa, every Endeavor ends with blood spilled,” Everbleed told her.
They made for one hell of a sight, these two exiled Dungeon Lords. Gossip Golsa that had once been feared and respected until the Heroes destroyed her legacy and, quite possibly, her sanity. And Broken Everbleed, whose maimed body had turned into a Dungeon Jewel long ago, forcing him into perpetually possessing his own minions in order to experience the world outside Korghiran’s vaults where his Jewel resided after the fall of his last dungeon. The minion he inhabited today was the black Devil Knight that had served and protected the Archlords since times immemorial. The massive span of his wings and a bulk that made an ogre look like a puppet made even voluminous Golsa look like a child next to him.
A hell of a sight indeed. Golsa reached for a cookie and took a sip from her teacup. “Today’s special, though. I can tell,” she said, tapping the side of her nose knowingly. Truth be told, Lady Golsa may have had a few glasses of wine too many. “Perhaps a Dungeon Lord may finally get lucky.”
“Perhaps,” Everbleed said, not really paying attention. “One way or the other, the Factory returns to Lotia’s hold.” He gazed in the distance and found the banners of the Regents’ Twelve. Vaines’ hydra with the three hurricanes underneath, Vandran’s blue peacock with its feathers spread under a field of roses, even Wraith’s… gray aquatic thing, hovering past a purple and pink landscape. “The time is almost upon us.”
“They’ll expect a speech,” Golsa said through a mouthful of cookie.
The has-been ruler of Lotia felt a nudge of dread stirring on his Devil Knight’s chest. Was there a banner missing? He counted again. Molmeda’s banner was there. Helens as well. Tenebris too. Regents’ Twelve. If he had been anyone else, Everbleed would’ve shrugged. Perhaps the Devil Knight’s unease was because he wished to compete, as well.
Not this time, old friend. Not this time or any other, for that matter. Let the new generations do their thing. The Dark knew he and Count Bastavar had done enough to screw things up already.
However, the dread was still there, biding his time. He gave Golsa a side-glance. Lady Golsa’s Evil Eye had been famous, once. A talent build that allowed her to see the present, a form of scrying that, when mixed with instinct and wit, almost turned into precognition. Gossip Golsa had neither instinct nor wit. Yet sometimes, flashes of what she once had been surged through her eyes.
Golsa had said a bloodbath was coming.
“So be it,” the Archlord said, standing up and flexing his black wings. As long as the Factory comes back to us.
21
Chapter Twenty-One
The Wasteland
The air in the Haunt’s open tent was heavy with tension and activity.
One of Lavy’s spellcasters maintained a barrier against the elements to keep the dust away from the expensive magical equipment that Diviner Pholk and his team were busy setting up, while a team of Kaga’s best Monster Hunters gave dirty glances at anyone who dared come too near the pavilion. In a corner, Lavy worked on some last-minute adjustments on Rolim’s stitches to account for the Netherworldly conditions, and Alder kept a curious eye on every important person—and fiend—in attendance.
Klek, Tulip, and their Spider Riders patrolled the area just in case some “friendly” fights sprouting here and there like wildfires came their way. Jarlen was busy giving her Lucky Five vampires some last-minute instructions—she had brought a coffin that they were supposed to protect with their lives, because that was the one she would respawn into if she was destroyed during the Endeavor—without a nearby Portal into her coffin in the Haunt, she risked final death otherwise.
Even Dungeon Boss and secret Inquisitorial spy Mohnuran was busy double-checking the equipment he was supposed to bring in a backpack to summon reinforcements from the Haunt. If the minotaur suspected anything about Ed’s double-crossing him, he gave no signs of it, although at one point Lavy had had to drag Alder away, because the Bard kept winking every time someone mentioned Mohnuran’s deal in all of this.
Ed found it a bleak sort of funny that among the frenzy of activity surrounding him—because of him—he was the only one with nothing better to do than carefully sharpen his sword, over and over again. His part in the prep was over. He had trained, and with the help of his friends, gathered information on his rivals, advanced the Haunt’s research, and kept the Inquisition at bay all throughout the Constantinian frontier.
It was time to find out if everyone’s efforts would pay off. Victory or death, and nothing in between.
He oiled his whetstone yet again with the special ointment Andreena had prepared for the task, and gave the edge another pass, although by now he was sure the sword was so sharp it could cut spoken words as they drifted through the air.
The repetitive movement helped with his nerves, almost a sort of mantra, like the ones the halfling monk that instructed Kaga and the Haga’Anashi made them repeat during hours of meditation. There was ritual hidden in every pass of the whetstone, a secret prayer to that unnamed, thirsty god that all warriors served. After every deep breath, Ed’s nerves sharpened as did the steel, fine-tuning his focus and clearing his mind of anything but the task at hand. Survival, then victory.
He was well-rested, bristling with energy, every fiber of his body full of expectant strength.
Never in his life had he been as strong as he was today. There was magic in his sinew and in his blood, and his heartbeat had the depth of a war drum. Never before had he felt so exultant on the eve of combat, so vulnerable. So human. The fear, the rage, and the pain would come later, he knew, but right now, in this very moment, he was alive.
The glare of the Evil Eye as reflected on the blade had a joyful shine to it. There was no denying it. He had been born for this shit.
A tug on his arm brought the Dungeon Lord out of his revelry. Prayer time was over. His cursewing familiar, still unnamed, gave his arm another nudge as it wrapped around it. Ed raised his eyes as Lavy approached.
“Everything is ready on our end, Ed,” she said. She handed him a brass necklace with a black jewel hanging from it. “Wear this, so we can scry straight on you. In case anything goes wrong, we may be able to help… as long as you don’t mind waiting a few minutes.”
It was an empty promise, Ed knew, meant to ease him. There was no way that his friends could reach the Factory’s insides and bypass their defenses in time to help him if anything went sour, short of a summoning circle—which was no option without an insider.
Still, he grabbed the necklace and wore it under his breastplate. “Just enjoy the fireworks, Lavy. We are about to conquer our own monster-making factory.”
She gave him a nervous look, quickly masked into a confident scowl. “Make sure my Rolim doesn’t get too scratched. Stitching him back togeth
er is a waste of time.”
Somewhere in the distance, a trumpet’s call pierced the chatter of the crowd. Everyone, from the mightiest High Cleric to the lowliest servant, went quiet. The time had come.
Ed stood and sheathed his sword, made sure the sheath was secured on his belt. With almost automatic motions, he checked the rest of his gear. Everything was in order.
“Show-time,” Ed said.
“Be careful,” Kes told him, as they grasped each other’s forearms tightly. “Dungeon Lords are treacherous. When in doubt, fireball first and ask questions later.”
Alder patted his shoulder. “Come back alive, Ed. No pressure, but if you don’t, we’ll all die horribly.”
“You got this,” Klek said, earnestly, as he pointed his spear at the marching columns of the other eleven Dungeon Lords as they headed for the end of the tent field. “They underestimate us because we are not as big, don’t have enough gold, or experience points. If you hide in a corner while they kill each other, you can teach a lesson to whoever remains.”
Behind Ed, his chosen minions gathered. Jarlen wore black armor, built to her size, made in the Netherworld for shape-shifter fiends and Nightshades. She was armed with a poisoned rapier with a silver edge.
Mohnuran’s weapon was a huge axe, enchanted to bypass magical buffs and defenses by sheer overwhelming Brawn. His armor was a mercenary set-up, thick iron plates and mail under a tabard with the Haunt’s colors.
Rolim was an ogre-sized figure at the end of the team, covered head-to-toe in a ragged cloak that, by its size alone, could qualify as canvas.
