by Hugo Huesca
Ed straightened his back. Two rows of Haga’Anashi took position next to him, every kaftar carrying a banner with the Haunt’s Lasershark. The Dungeon Lord waved at his friends one last time, trying to project an air of confidence, and then he led his column to join the others.
The Endeavor had begun.
A crowd formed at the end of the camp after the columns had gone by. Every Dungeon Lord joined with their allies, leaving an arrow-shot of distance between the four factions.
Everyone stared down the empty wasteland as swaths of red dust danced and swirled in chaotic patterns.
“So… is the Nightmare Factory invisible?” Mohnuran whispered, somewhere behind Ed.
“Quiet,” Jarlen hissed. “The Archlord is about to speak.”
Being honest, Ed was as confused as Mohnuran. There were no signs of the Standard Factory anywhere. Perhaps it was past the dunes in the horizon? If that was so, they were in for at least a day’s march.
A lone figure, taller and wider than Rolim, went past the columns, scaly black wings moving clumsily past a sea of banners. Everyone turned to watch as he passed. Archlord Everbleed, I presume, Ed thought. He had heard a bit about the man, mostly from Jarlen and Lavy. He had led the Dungeon Lords during Lotia’s glory days, before Count Bastavar’s rebellion. He would be remembered, however, for being Archlord during the decay of the Lordship. He spent his days in exile in Korghiran’s palace in the Xovia Citadel.
The Devil Knight he inhabited was a giant even among its own species. Ancient, too. Its horns were chipped and its obsidian muscles were riddled with bright scars. From what Ed had heard, the Devil Knights were the most powerful type of fiend, although few remained, and even fewer the Dungeon Lords with the power to summon one.
There was one in Lord Molmeda’s column. Smaller than an ogre, but broader, to an almost comical result, with fiery crimson skin and curved horns. Ed tried not to think too much about that. Like Klek had said… Molmeda was Vaines’ problem.
Hopefully.
He stole a glance the other way, at Vaines’ column. Argent Planeshifter—Ryan—was there, of course. His armor was elegant and very expensive, with rows of encrusted gems, possibly enchanted. He even wore a silver circlet. A pang of pity took Ed by surprise. He couldn’t deny that Ryan had made his own bed. However, from Ryan’s point of view, he was living the dream. Chosen by important people, gods, even, to do great things. What could possibly go wrong? Everything worked out for the hero at the end, no matter how dire things looked.
You poor fuck, Ed thought. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Lady Vaines met Ed’s gaze. Even in the distance the Dungeon Lord could distinguish her confident grin. Lord Virion, on the column next to hers, stared daggers at Ed. There was killing intent in those narrowed eyes. Ed decided to keep an eye on that one as well.
What the hell did I do to you? he wondered. Perhaps something he’d said at dinner?
Xorander and Steros’ columns were nearby. They were Ed’s supposed allies, the three of them fighting under Korghiran’s flag. He was unsure how far would that alliance go, but for starters, it was best to face eight as three than ten as one.
Dolmanak’s Dungeon Lords were out of view, past Vorgothas’ columns. Sanguine and Redwood stood on their columns at opposite sides, Sanguine obviously trying to make eye-contact with Ed. He pointedly ignored him—Sanguine was a target of opportunity at most. However, if Vaines and Vandran sandwiched him, things could get hairy.
Ed considered his starting position. Between Vaines and Sanguine, he was at risk of being ganged-up on or getting caught in the crossfire. A hazardous start. He’d need to be careful.
Lord Everbleed reached the end of the columns and spread his wings, as if about to take flight. A faint breeze buffeted Ed’s cheeks. The patterns of the red dust changed, gained speed.
“People of the Dark!” Everbleed bellowed, loud and clear, his inhuman lungs lending potency and clarity to his voice. “It is the year 851 of the Old Calendar, time for the great Endeavor to start anew! For eight hundred years has the Lordship thrived, and thrive again it shall, for the Dark arrives as surely as the night after the sun runs from the moons. The weak believe that our age is over, unable to withstand the tests of Murmur, they think that their downfall is our people’s downfall. The strong, however, know that pain and tribulation is a chance to grow stronger still while the weak perish! Can you feel the winds of change?” As if summoned by his magic, the dust grew frantic now. Ed squinted and covered his forehead with his steel-clad hand. “The accursed Militant Church of Heiliges has grown corrupt and complacent through fifteen years of their Heroic summons waging war in their stead. And meanwhile, the Lordship bid its time—we withstood the tide, and now we shall ride it, if we are worthy! Dungeon Lords of the Endeavor, you represent today the Dark itself. The Standard Factory is your great opportunity. Those strong enough to convert chance into power deserve victory, and those unable to ride the tide of fate deserve oblivion.” He lifted one huge black fist to the sky. Behind Ed, someone cursed in surprise. A shadow, like a dark cloud, had appeared in the red, otherworldly sky, and it was growing by every second, as the wind became a gale. “And above all, remember!” Everbleed exclaimed, then lowered his hand and pointed an accusing finger at the columns. “If anyone starts throwing fireballs at their enemies before entering the Factory again, we will kill you, no matter how important you think you are.”
“I think he’s speaking to you,” Mohnuran said, behind Ed.
Jarlen shushed him again, then added in a whisper, “The very first Endeavors ended right as they started. All Dungeon Lords are cut from the same cloth.”
“We shall see about that,” Ed said. But he pocketed his eldritch fireball rune.
The shadow in the clouds became a monstrous creature, and the gale became a giant’s whip as eight pairs of colossal wings pushed impossible amounts of air across the wasteland. Along with Ed, humans and fiends hunched over, and batblins and smaller critters clawed to the ground. The pressure in his ears grew painful, and the smell of ancient necromancy overwhelmed his nose. He could taste power as it overflowed the wasteland, copper and static and something else—oily, refined, polluted.
A living dragon, he thought at first, but then the creature came into view and he realized the truth, and suddenly he understood why the Lordship only tried to conquer the Factory once a year—that was the only time they could reach it.
Pillars of reinforced stone grew above a ribcage like a castle, bridges of steel and iron crossed the space between bones as distant and deep as a maw. The colossal skull had sharp, yellowed fangs that could’ve torn asunder the reinforced walls of any ancient dungeon, and the skeletal tail could’ve crushed the sea’s mightiest galleon and tossed it like a children’s toy.
And the Standard Factory grew atop the undead dragon like the shell of a turtle or the turret of a war elephant, pillars of smoke and industry flowing from a dozen towers, and the fires of a hundred furnaces bellowed on the creature’s belly, which was a vault of steel and stone fastened to its spine by steel and magic beyond even the rank of Heroic.
Legendary magic, Ed thought. The kind that no mortal could handle in this age, that was what sustained the Standard Factory. That was what made it irreplaceable. An Artifact. This had been Lotia’s tool against the Militant Church, long ago, before the greed and infighting of the Dark took it away. Until now.
Ed took in the fires, the smoke, the metal claws meant to devour raw materials, the legs and arms belonging to what must’ve undoubtedly been the apex predator of Primordial Ivalis.
A few seconds ago, he had intended to conquer the Standard Factory to save the Haunt. But standing like a flea against such majesty, now he understood why others were willing to kill and die for it.
The things he could do with that Artifact!
He wanted the Factory. Maybe enough to kill those willing to die for it.
The Standard Factory landed, and the wasteland trembled. The
unsuspecting fell on their faces. Ed managed to remain on his feet. He saw the steel claws go down, watched them tear chunks of rock as big as small houses and feed them into the open maw of the undead dragon’s steel belly. He realized that the metal “belly” was actually the raw material vaults of the Factory. He saw tiny stairs, meant for human hands, leading into its depths. Those stairs were awfully close to the stone hills that fed the Factory…
“People of the Dark!” Everbleed said, through the constant crash of thunder of rock being torn apart. “The Endeavor begins!”
The Haga’Anashi’s rows turned to face one another, and they crossed spears above Ed’s head, creating a roof of steel. The Dungeon Lord ran, and eleven other Dungeon Lords raced alongside him.
22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Standard Factory
Ed wasn’t even halfway to the Factory when trouble began. From the corner of his eye, he could see the other Dungeon Lords rushing alongside him, slightly past arrow reach. He saw clearly how Lord Virion, Vaines’ second, broke away from the Ember’s columns and closed in on Ed’s group, followed by his three minions—a slow abnatir, a cloaked Cleric, and a Ranger carrying a longbow.
Lord Steros caught up with Ed. “That one’s meaning violence,” the young swordsman told Ed, not even winded by the flat-out dash for the Factory.
“What the hell did we do to him?” Ed wondered aloud. He glanced over his shoulder. Mohnuran was close, followed by Jarlen, and Rolim way behind—whatever Lavy’s creation was, it wasn’t fast.
Steros had brought a similar team as Virion—two casters and one ranged user. To the other side, Lady Xorander had someone under a black cloak that was most certainly a Rogue, then Maser, and a mercenary wearing exotic linen garments and carrying two serrated scimitars at each hip. Ed tried to think about all of them as a single unit, their capabilities and their limitations.
On the side of Ed opposite incoming Lord Virion, Sanguine and the Flesh teams were also closing in on Ed’s team, although not as frantically as Virion.
If we keep going, we’ll get squashed between them, Ed thought. He was sure Sanguine was a vulture, looking to strike if there was a chance to do so at little risk to himself. Virion, on the other hand, was Vaines’, and there was no predicting his intentions… although from his furious scowl, they weren’t friendly.
Could Ed’s group outrace the others? At this speed, they would reach the Factory’s underbelly in a couple minutes. Vaines was in the lead, of course, followed by Molmeda. Even if Ed managed to leave Virion behind, he and Sanguine would arrive right after, and now there was the risk that Molmeda or Vaines would join the party as well.
As he pondered this, Mohnuran caught up with him and Steros—minotaurs were much faster than what their bulk implied. “Aren’t we supposed to be under truce until we reach the Factory? Because those dung-for-brains don’t act like they want to parley.”
“What are you, an Inquisitor?” Steros asked. “Those are Dungeon Lords. If you want someone to play by the rules, go to Heiliges. Virion will attack as soon as we’re too far away for Everbleed to do anything about it.”
“You people make me miss the bandits,” Mohnuran grumbled.
Will Virion and Sanguine pass us by if we stop? Ed thought. Starting after everyone else may be a clever move—let them fight among each other. However, Virion was a henchman, and so was Sanguine—to Molmeda. Chances were, if they could take the entirety of Korghiran’s chosen, they would trade their advantage for it.
Ed realized he was thinking like some noble hero—waiting until the enemy came to him, playing by the rules and hoping to win in the end despite the unfairness of the situation. He almost laughed aloud.
“Steros, take Xorander and reach that manhole over there,” Ed said, pointing at a section of the Factory’s underbelly under a thin jagged rock, far enough from Vaines and Molmeda to not be easy pickings as they went in. “Dig in and hold it as long as you can. If you get a chance to do some damage, take it.”
“Where are you going?” Steros asked as Ed gestured to his minions to follow and broke away from the formation.
“To call someone’s bluff!” Ed answered, grinning savagely, fine sweat damping his forehead.
He ran at a slant angle toward Sanguine’s group. At first, Sanguine’s long pale face looked bewildered as he maintained his course. Then he realized Ed was coming to him and hesitated.
A few facts: Ed’s group consisted of two undead, which never tired, and a minotaur with a huge Endurance rank. Sanguine’s group was mostly spellcasters—two miragefiends and a human that had been in Vaines’ mansion. Molmeda and Redwood had better physical ranks and were farther ahead—they hadn’t taken a detour. If they wanted to help Sanguine, they would need to sacrifice their advantage. Perhaps Redwood might, but would Molmeda want to give Vaines time to prepare an ambush for him inside the Factory? Would he want to go alone?
Sanguine reached his conclusion almost as Ed entered fireball range. The Lord of House Vandran decided he didn’t want to fight, after all, and dashed straight for the Factory.
That’s what I thought, Ed told himself. Behind them, Virion had chased after them at first. Had he kept going, it would’ve ended up in his death—because now Ed turned away from Sanguine and headed in the opposite direction, toward Steros. Virion saw this, realized that he was about to get flanked and overwhelmed in three-to-one odds, and pulled back.
Thus Ed and his minions reached the skirts of the Standard Factory without spilling a drop of blood—for the moment. The message sent to the other Dungeon Lords had been clear. The Haunt is here to hunt, not to be someone’s easy pickings.
Everbleed had flown back to his tent and watched the start of the Endeavor from Golsa’s crystal ball. All over the encampment, Illusionists and Diviners worked together to create huge floating screens of mist and illusion to show the first maneuvers of the Endeavor.
“That one’s quick on his feet,” Golsa said when Lord Wraith countered Virion and Vandran’s attempt at taking Wraith out of the fight before it began. The public watching the screens cheered and booed according to their allegiances—or who had they bet on.
“Reckless,” Everbleed said. “He should have sent Lord Steros or minions alone to handle Vandran.” On the screen, Steros and Xorander had reached the maintenance chutes of the landed Standard Factory, and were helping Wright’s minions along, while he stood guard at the rear. “A commander who leads from the front shall earn many songs for his bravery, but he won’t live to see old age.”
“Ah, don’t be so gloomy, Everbleed,” Golsa reprimanded him. “Sit back and enjoy the show. Have a cookie.”
The image in the crystal ball rose away from Regent Korghiran’s chosen. Vaines and Molmeda were already inside the Factory. Wraith and the others boarded at the same time as the Flesh Lords. Those of Dolmanak’s were last, to no one’s surprise—Necromancers weren’t famous for their athleticism.
This is no show, Everbleed thought. This is life or death… but not to me, though.
He grabbed a cookie between two long fingernails.
The maintenance tunnel was hot and dry, cramped enough that Rolim had to crawl like some possessed giant from a movie. A constant breeze came out of the darkness ahead and out of the chute. Ed and the others ventured forward, Maser and the rest of Xorander’s team leading the way—the Factory would be trapped, so Rogues were in high demand.
“I suppose we don’t have a map?” Ed asked.
“The layout changes every time,” Steros said. “It’s as if the Standard Factory had a spirit of its own.”
“You mean, the spirit of the huge fucking dragon it’s hitching a ride atop,” Mohnuran said. He held his axe at the ready, back against a sealed iron door, laden with rust, listening for movement.
“Perhaps, or perhaps not,” Steros said, not giving the minion much attention. “Careful with your spellcasting, everyone. It’s called the Nightmare Factory for a reason. There are living cr
eatures lurking here, and some of the worst of them are attracted to magic.” He shrugged. “Or so the survivors say.”
Xorander, hanging back while her minions did the dirty work, smirked. “Careful now, are we, dear Steros? And here I thought you two brave Dungeon Lords would charge at the others by your lonesome. Lord Wright here almost did so, a few moments ago.”
“And because of that we’re still unbloodied,” Ed said. “We can be reckless once we know what we’re up against.” He bit his lip. He really wanted a map. Perhaps he ought to have brought Pholk instead of Jarlen, he could’ve tried to scry ahead… if the Factory wasn’t shielded against that, which it probably was. “In the meantime, Rogues take point, followed by us. Spellcasters in the middle, Rolim and Mohnuran at the back. Jarlen, you’re with the Rogues, unlike them, you can take a hit.”
“Fantastic,” said the Nightshade, bowing sarcastically. “I’m glad to serve as a meat-shield for other Lords’ meat-shields.”
The corridor was badly lit by magical torches that looked downright ancient. Their light flickered and lacked the range and intensity of the Haunt’s. It was the first obvious sign of what Ed could only describe as technological advancement in Ivalis. This corridor and everything in the factory could be about a hundred years old, although Jarlen wasn’t sure of the exact date of Saint Claire & Tillman’s founding.
As they delved through the iron tunnel which smelled of disturbed dust, stagnant magic, and faint coarse chemicals, Ed heard something like a boulder being crushed by a massive fist in the distance to their right, over-and-over again, mechanical-like. He hazarded a guess—the noise came from raw materials being processed.
Was the Factory truly self-sufficient? How many landings did it make every year, out of reach of the Regents? He doubted something like it could survive outside the Netherworld for long, like the ice giant had suffocated outside its frozen habitat.
