He must have been an officer, because they listened to him.
“Onwards. Watch the ground. Argyle, I thought you said it was safe?”
“This isn’t the same tunnel we took last time. I thought it was, but…”
“I thought there was only one way through?”
“Something is different.”
“Do we go back, or…”
“The duke’s orders were clear. Pull yourselves together.”
They pushed on, the remaining forty-two of them. They followed winding passageways and cramped shafts, their attitudes considerably more apprehensive than before. But though they were being more careful, this was still a dungeon, and they weren’t trained for it. Being careful isn’t enough, as any hero would have told them. A person also needs to know what to look for when they’re in a dungeon.
Click.
One soldier stood on a pressure plate. A hatch opened in the ceiling, and a stone boulder dropped out, crushing him and three others into a flat pulp of bones and flesh.
Creak.
Another soldier blundered onto weakened floor timbers that disguised a spike pit. His cries echoed through the dungeon as he, and five others, fell to their doom, only becoming quiet when they were impaled on the spikes below.
By the time they navigated my trap-laden tunnels and reached the loot chamber, the twelve remaining soldiers were a wreck. Trembling, some with swords drawn, others holding the edges of their armor like babies gripping blankets.
Waiting in the center of the loot chamber were the poor, defenseless Yondersunians that the soldiers were there to find.
The poor, defenseless Yondersunians who were actually kobolds in disguise.
“Go ahead,” I told them, using my core voice. “Have your fun.”
“Yip Yip!” cried Rusty, casting his disguise aside and waving his new shaman staff. He set a totem on the ground, and flames lashed out from it and scorched the soldiers. Brecht began beating on his tambourine, casting out notes of fear. The kobolds, dressed in townsfolk clothing, brandished their weapons and whooped and hollered and charged at the already-terrified, depleted, soldiers.
At the same time as the duke’s soldiers succumbed to my traps below ground, I divided my core thoughts and focused on the wasteland.
Reginal and Galatee and their warriors arrived on the surface just as my dungeon creatures and I did. Leaving nothing to chance, I had brought most of my creatures to the wasteland surface.
With me were all my new and old beetles, my kobolds, my elemental jellies, Kainhelm and Razensen, and even Tomlin. And, of course, my new melded monster.
Up on the surface we found that the fog was gone, no doubt because the weathermage had finished rendering his service after helping the duke get to Yondersun without him being seen. The thrifty mage had probably sucked the remaining mist back into one of his boxes, ready to sell to some other town who needed fog for whatever reason.
The duke was waiting for us in the middle of Jahn’s Row. His cavalry’s horses had made a stinking mess on the once-clean street, and the door of every house and every shop had been kicked open.
The worst sight was the duke and his men. I realized then that we had underestimated him and his resources.
The duke’s force wasn’t depleted after being split into three. Far from it. With him were two hundred soldiers, all sporting armor with the duke’s sigil painted on their chest. Each of them armed and ready.
“Ah,” said the Duke. “A few more of you than I expected. Still, at least I have drawn you out.”
“You were waiting for us,” said Reginal.
“You are the leader of this town?”
“Chief.”
“Co-chief,” said Galatee.
“I knew you were crafty, once I learned that the lightning strike that turned me away was no natural phenomenon. When you learn that an opponent is crafty, it is wise to expect tricks at every turn.”
“You sent your own people underground to be sacrificed?”
“I sacrificed some of my force to draw you out. Not the worst cost, for a return on my investment like this town. Besides, soldiers aren’t my only weapons.”
A series of booming thuds made the lodges of Jahn’s Row tremble. It made roofs shake, it made a copper weathervane spin around and around. The duke’s men seemed visibly nervous, as much as they tried to keep their dignity.
Soon, a figure emerged from the far end of the street. A beast bigger than a house, with bulging muscles barely hidden under its thick fur. Two great horns on its head caught the sunlight and reflected it out, and its three slit-like eyes glowed flame-orange.
“Nazenfyord!” roared a voice from behind me.
Razensen thundered past me, stopping just short of the duke and his men. Behind them was a fellow bogan, taller than Razensen yet slimmer, and giving off a much crueler, sneering aura than his brother.
“Good to see you again, big brother,” said Nazenfyord. “I see you are taking in the sights of Xynnar, too. It’s hot here, isn’t it? Give me a nice sheet of ice and a sea to float on. Ah, to be home.”
“That’s why you ran here, no doubt. To see the sights. And not because I would have torn out your guts and sent you screaming back to the ice! Blizzard and snow, you really are a coward. That was your downfall, Nazenfyord. A coward always expects cowardice of others, and so you thought I would not follow you here.”
“In truth, I thought I’d wounded you enough that you wouldn’t be capable of tracking me. When I learned that you were here, brother, I thought about going home, back to the snow. It would have been easy to give you the slip. But then I decided to stay for a while so that I might get the chance to watch the wasteland claim you. I have adapted to this place, but you…you don’t have the heart.”
“You talk about heart, and yet you serve this wretch?”
“The duke? It is sensible to make friends. I will need them when I return home to lead our people.”
“I will send you to the ice!”
“Oh, Razensen. Always full of bluster. You couldn’t even protect our parents when I slit their throats.”
“Bastard!”
Razensen’s eyes turned from yellow to orange and finally to red. He lost control of himself, charging forward to get to his brother. The duke’s men parted, leaping to the side to avoid being crushed underfoot.
Soon, the two hulking beasts met each other and embraced, but this was an embrace of murderous fury. They began grappling, throwing punches, biting each other, and tearing away bloody chunks of fur.
Nazenfyord caught Razensen with a sickening blow to the stomach. While his brother gulped for breath he grabbed him by the arm, roared, and then flung him into a nearby sword shop. The wooden walls caved under his weight, burying him in splintered timber.
“No!” cried a voice. It was Core Jahn, who was being carried in the arms of Warrane, one of the Yondersunians. “My lodges! Please be careful!”
“I don’t think they’re going to listen to you, Jahn. Anyway, you should have stayed underground with the others,” I said. I turned to face my creatures behind me. “Dungeon mates…it’s time.”
My monsters rushed forward. Thirty fire beetles, their blackened husks buzzing with the hero essence I had fed them and giving off multi-colored streams of light. Kobolds raised swords and pickaxes and charged toward the soldiers. Shadow and her pups scampered onward, howling like wolves. Kainhelm raised his skeletal arms in the air.
“A pox on your ancestors!” he shouted.
Reginal and Galatee’s Yondersunian soldiers joined their dungeon allies, and the twin armies met the duke’s men in the ridiculously crowded street. The ring of steel on steel was deafening, and the effect of dozens of boots and feet kicking up dust was that a new mist arose, one that got into men and kobold’s eyes and made them cough, splutter, and gag.
Razensen rose from his timber tomb and gave his brother an uppercut that sent the bogan crashing into another house, flattening it.
&n
bsp; Nazenfyord struggled to his feet, grunting and holding his hand against a bloodied patch on his right hip.
“You always did have fists like blocks of ice. Remember when we used to spar?”
“I remember trying to make you strong. Acting as a brother should.”
“More fool you,” said Nazenfyord.
He rushed at his brother, feigned a punch but then barreled head-first into his stomach.
With bogan fighting bogan and with soldiers fighting Yondersunians and kobolds in the middle of the street, there was already enough chaos. I added to this by sending forth Varanius, my new boss monster.
He rattled toward the soldiers, stopping just ahead of them. The duke’s men, no doubt wondering if their take-home gold was worth the situation they’d found themselves in, looked at the walking skeleton with mixtures of freight, awe, and pure hate.
They watched as Varanius stepped aside, creating copies of his bone guy self. And then again. Again. Again.
Soon, eighteen skeletal warriors formed a line in front of the duke’s men. They held no weapons, they wore no armor.
It was only when one of them raised a hand, swept their arm, and telekinetically sent a big chunk of timber flying straight into a soldier’s face, that they understood they were dealing with an enemy who didn’t need weapons.
“That’s the poltergeist part of him, I take it,” said Gulliver, joining me.
“I couldn’t create anything as hideous as I’d hoped,” I said. “But at least this is something they’ve never fought before.”
The sight of another piece of timber flying through the air and hitting one soldier’s skull was enough to shake the others from their stupor. They charged forward, sword and spears ready.
Jahn’s Row, once a peaceful trading street, filled with the sounds of battle. Screams of pain, the clangs of swords, the rush of flames from fire beetles’ antennae.
Gary wrapped his leech legs around one soldier’s face, tearing into his skin with his hundreds of leech teeth.
“Ah! I’d forgotten how splendid this feels!” he said.
Rusty set up totem after totem until his mana was spent, each shard of bone imbued with magic and sending out blasts of flame. “Yip yip!” he chanted, dancing side to side as his totems fired.
Varanius used his poltergeist powers to bombard the soldiers with projectiles, forcing them to choose between raising their shields to protect their heads or being able to swing their weapons.
The duke’s men fell. First a handful of them. Then dozens.
My dungeon mates fell in turn. Swords crunched through beetle husks. A spearman thrust his weapon into Gary’s abdomen, spearing him like a kebab, pinning him against a lodge front.
“Wylie!” I said. “Protect Gary. Don’t pull the spear out yet, we don’t want him to bleed out.”
“Yes, Dark Lord!”
While the chaos roared on, Razensen and Nazenfyord fought each other, smashing one another into houses, picking up giant pieces of timber that would once have been part of roof frames and clubbing each other senseless, their red eyes burning with a never-ending red fury. Anyone who strayed close, be they soldier, beetles, or otherwise, were crushed underfoot.
When the sounds of battle finally began to fade, Jahn’s Row was covered in bodies.
From what I could tell, the Duke’s men had taken the worst hit. The duke fought on, but his men were dropping. Just fourteen of them remained.
“Finish it, by the gods!” cried Reginal. He raised his sword and then charged toward the duke.
Reginal took just three steps, before clutching his chest and falling to the ground.
“Darling!” cried Galatee, racing over to him.
I stared on, confused. The duke didn’t employ bowmen. There were no soldiers near Reginal. What had happened?
“It’s his heart!” shouted Galatee.
Duke Smit snatched at a beetle scurrying by him, brought it to his face, and then bit into it and began to drink from it.
“What in the name of all hells…” said Gulliver.
A similar sentence formed in my mind as I watched, too surprised for words.
The duke tossed the withered beetle husk aside and reached for another one, killing it and drinking the blood from its veins. He did this five times, until his stomach bulged.
He waved his hands over three of his dead soldiers. A red mist left his fingers, seeping into his soldiers’ noses, mouth, and eyes.
His once-dead men rose to their feet. Not as some kind of undead creatures, but fully restored to life and without any sign of their old wounds. Their uniforms were clean, completely untouched by the battle as if they had never taken part in it, with none of the blood or dust that had stained them just moments earlier. It was as if someone had turned back time for them, and only them.
I understood now. I realized what Duke Smit was.
“He’s an epochian,” I said.
“Never thought I’d see one,” said Gulliver, reaching for a book and quill from his inner coat pocket.
“He drains time from the living and can use it to bring his men back,” I said. “The bastard will raise his whole damn army!”
The duke reached for another beetle, grabbing it by the abdomen and draining it dry.
“And apparently he doesn’t get full very easily,” said Gulliver.
I looked around to see how many of my dungeon mates were still alive. Not enough. Not enough at all.
The surviving Yondersun soldiers looked at their chiefs, confused. Faced with the epochian duke, and without Reginal to command them, they were lost.
“Galatee!” I said. “You’re needed here.”
She ignored me, cradling Reginal’s head in her lap and talking to him, completely lost to anything around her.
“Gulliver, you need to take charge of Reginal’s men,” I said.
“Me? I’m a bloody scribe!”
“You’ve been in wars.”
“So? I once ran across a field, but that doesn’t make me a horse!”
“You’re right. Damn it!”
I looked at the crowd of Yondersun soldiers, searching for a familiar face.
Ah.
“Warrane!” I shouted.
A young, three-eyed, green-skinned man marched over to me, his armor covered in blood. “This one needs orders.”
“You’re going to give the orders now, Warrane. I need you to take charge of Reginal’s soldiers. Kill the duke, or we’ll end up outnumbered again and all this will have been for nothing.”
Giving similar orders to my own dungeon mates, I could only watch as the Yondersunians and my creatures charged at the duke. They were met by a line of newly-risen soldiers.
He hadn’t just healed them. As an epochian, he had completely reversed the last hour or so of their lives. They would be completely refreshed and unhurt, with no battle fatigue whatsoever. Whereas my creatures were wounded. The Yondersunians were wounded. To a man, to a kobold, we were ready to drop.
The armies met each other now, fighting on top of a layer of corpses from both sides.
Behind them, Nazenfyord charged at a slowed, injured Razensen, pointing a piece of jagged roof frame at him and running him through the left shoulder with it. The great bogan cried out, falling onto his back with a crash.
“You were stronger than our father, at least!” roared Nazenfyord, his fur coated in blood. “But still much too weak.”
“No! Pox you! Curse you!” cried Kainhelm, seeing his best friend fall.
The duke ducked to avoid a shard of glass telepathically flung at his head. He charged at the line of melded-monster bone guys and lopped the head off one, then another, and then a third. On this last attempt he struck the real bone guy, destroying their chain and killing my melded monster.
The two armies whittled each other’s numbers down, inflicting wound upon wound, creating corpse after corpse, until finally, all the soldiers were dead.
My surviving creatures, fatigued beyond belief, coul
dn’t help but collapse to the ground.
Only the duke and Nazenfyord remained. The weathermage was nowhere to be seen.
Nazenfyord faced us, his eyes still glowing blood red, his bogan berserker rage not satiated even after defeating Razensen.
Even if the Yondersunians and my dungeon creatures hadn’t suffered too many casualties, they were too tired to fight. They couldn’t hope to kill a bogan in a berserker rage.
After all of this, the duke would still win, and what could I do about it?
The bogan charged at us.
A beast rose from the nearby destroyed lodge. Razensen, holding the end of the giant piece of wood that had gone clean through his shoulder, charged at his brother.
The sharp end of the wood pierced Nazenfyord’s neck. His slit eyes pulsated and then lost color.
“For our parents, I send you to the ice!”
Razensen grunted, wedging the wood even deeper into his brother’s neck until the great beast crashed to the ground.
Nazenfyord was dead. The soldiers were dead.
Only the duke remained now.
CHAPTER 24
It would have been hard for most people to think straight when they looked upon a street filled with corpses. It even felt strange to me to see the aftermath of such slaughter. Now that the fighting was done, the absence of battle noise was more unsettling than the sound itself, in a way. It was too quiet. Quiet enough that I could hear Yondersun soldiers retching, wounded beetles scuttling, townsfolk crying out for someone to heal their injuries.
We’d beaten overwhelming odds, but was it worth the price? Looking at the mass slaughter, I wasn’t sure. Practically speaking, there were so many bodies that I’d have to expand my alchemy chamber and perhaps even create a dedicated corpse dissolution squad. I’d have to be quick, though, because I wasn’t the only one nearby who had a use for the dead.
The sound of squawking drew my attention to the sinister presence of the carrion birds waiting on the edge of town, eyeing up all the dead flesh on offer.
“Plenty in my profession write about the thrill of battle and the glory thereafter,” said Gulliver. “They don’t write about the smell of blood and crap.”
Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series) Page 106
