“This again. You lot are fixated! How do you know it’s Riston? Is it the facial hair? Can’t a man take pride in himself without being accused of spellcraft and kidnap?” said Eric.
“I’m bordering on guesswork, but it’s the only thing I have to go on.”
“Ugh. I hate guesses.”
“As do I,” said Cynthia. “A guess is as good as a lie.”
“So the insects take the people to their nest. What can we do about it?” said Eric.
“We set a trap. We know the insects hunt for people traveling in small groups across the wasteland. Then they attack. Let’s use someone as bait. Wait for the insects to attack…and then capture one of them. After that, we make it lead us back to its nest.”
Gulliver peeled away some apple skin and chewed it. “Two problems there,” he said, between chomps. “When the insects attack, you can’t fight back. You’ll just create more of them.”
“I have a plan for that…I hope.”
“Fine. Secondly, who is stupid enough to act as bait?”
“As it happens, I know some very, very stupid people.”
Gulliver eyed me. “I’m not sure whether to get offended or not.”
“I don’t mean you, you stupid git.”
CHAPTER 13
Gulliver was right about the problems. That was why he was so useful to have around. Give him the most perfect plan, and he’d needle and prod until he could tell you what was so idiotic about it.
If we were going to capture an insect, we needed a way to separate one of them from the rest, without trying to attack them and making more of them. I thought I had a way.
It was the middle of the night now, and some of the group needed to sleep. Gulliver was out the second he closed his eyes. Wylie slept like a puppy. He had such an innocent nature that it came easily to him.
Others didn’t find it so effortless. Tomlin, now that his anger about the vines had faded, seemed consumed with fears. I couldn’t blame him; he was away from the dungeon, away from his vines, and we were being hunted. Kobolds are nothing if not creatures of habit. Take them away from what they know, and they start to worry.
Shadow was also reluctant to sleep. I didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want to have another nightmare, or whether it was the idea of having one in front of us all.
Either way, those who could sleep, slept. Those who couldn’t sleep were gathered around Eric, as he told them all some of his best barbarian stories. Most of them involved Eric defeating a beast, getting a sack full of gold, and being given the pick of the village women. Never mind that when I met him, he was a penniless barbarian who spent all his gold on coconut conditioner for his hair.
While the others slept or listened to stories, I talked with Cynthia.
“This will be quick,” I told her. “And then I’ll let you sleep.”
Cynthia sniffed. “Don’t worry. Ash Whiskers and I just took some essence of headroot. We won’t be sleeping for a good while.”
Essence of headroot? I’d heard of that back in the academy. It was mentioned in our Hero Psychology class. The module was Heroic Motivations.
A major heroic motivation for raiding a dungeon was to get loot. Sitting under that motivation were branches of sub-motivations, a big one being addiction. That was where headroot came in.
Headroot was an herb that heroes took to stay awake in dungeon raids that lasted longer than a night. They understandably didn’t want to sleep in the dungeons they were crawling through. The problem was headroot could lead to addiction, which led to them raiding purely to get gold to buy more root. Headroot started as a tool but then became their master.
Essence of headroot explained something I had been wondering about.
Cynthia’s smell. The one I’d picked up on earlier. Too subtle for anyone else to notice, but it was there, and now I knew the reason for it.
“Maybe lay off the root when it comes to Maginhart,” I said. “He doesn’t need it.”
“A young apprentice keeps long hours, Beno. Practical work all day. Theory in the evening. And that’s studying just one discipline. I am teaching tinkering, alchemy, and artificery. There aren’t enough hours in the day for Ash Whiskers to learn what he needs to.”
“I’m not happy with him using the root.”
“What are you, his father?”
Ugh. Father.
The thought that I could be responsible for another life like that. I doubted I had children when I was a human, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have any when I was a core.
“Headroot isn’t safe,” I said.
“You, a core, are telling me, an alchemist, what is and isn’t safe?”
“I don’t need to set myself on fire to tell you that flames are dangerous.”
“I took Ash Whiskers on as an apprentice as a favor to you, Beno. I told you at the time that I would brook no questions. No interference. There’s a reason I have had so few apprentices over the years. It’s because they’re a pain in the arse, and so are their parents.”
“I told you, I’m not Maginhart’s father. That’s a really, incredibly weird thing to say, so please stop.”
“He’s close to passing his apprenticeship. When he does so, where he goes next is his choice. I’ll step back and let him decide. Until then, Beno, I am his master. If you want me to end his apprenticeship early, then just interfere again. I’ll take that as a signal that you do not want me to teach him anymore.”
Maginhart would be devasted if that happened. I knew how much all this meant to him.
At the same time, I was losing control.
Of Maginhart. The dungeon. Gary. Everything.
But maybe Cynthia was right. She knew what she was doing. I had to take a step back. Focus on other things.
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t refer to me as his father. Not even if you’re making some kind of weird comparison.”
“What is a father, if not he who creates someone?”
That made me think of the academy forgers. The people whose job was to resurrect a dead soul and fuse it into a core. If they were lucky, it resulted in a charismatic, clever, modest being like me.
Did that mean the forgers were my fathers? Just because they had certain skills and used them to perform a service? Nope. A father was a lot more than the guy who created something.
“This is making me uneasy. Let’s just agree to disagree.”
“Fine. What did you need?” she said.
“I have a job for you. We know that we can’t attack the insects, right? So what’s the opposite of attacking?”
“Getting attacked?”
“No… well, yes, technically. But that’s not what I had in mind. We can try to repel them.”
Cynthia fixed me a cunning stare. I almost wished she’d kept her goggles on. There was way too much wiliness in her ratbrid eyes. I didn’t know if that was a ratbrid thing, or just her. If she wasn’t on my side, I’d be worried.
“So you want to use someone as bait to attract the insects, but you also want to repel them? Ever heard the phrase, having your pie and cooking it?”
“Okay, maybe not repel. That’s the wrong word. Do you think you could come up with something that could subdue the insects without damaging them?”
“Ash Whiskers and I could experiment. Come up with a few things that might work. I always bring supplies with me,” she said, patting the satchel next to her. “But without an insect to test them on, it would be trial and error. I hate working on guesses. I hate it more than I hate people who order complicated cocktails in the tavern that take ages to make and hold up everyone else. Guessing is the antithesis of alchemy.”
“I thought the point of alchemy was to try new things?”
“No, Beno. It’s to make a hypothesis then test it. Not just start burning and mixing and hoping for the best. But given the circumstances, I’ll try. A problem occurs to me, though. Even if we subdue and capture an insect, how would we make it lead us to its nest?”
“That’s the thing. If they attack as a pack, I want to subdue all but one of them. I’m banking on the fact that if one insect sees the rest fall, it’ll go back to the nest for help.”
“At which point, you’ll follow it.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Cynthia.”
“Let me ask you something,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“Everyone is wondering the same thing. Who are you going to use as bait?”
This was my favorite part of the plan.
“Heroes,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“I have a mimic in Hogsfeate. You’ve heard of them, right?”
“Hogsfeate? Of course. I go there for supplies.”
“Mimics, I mean.”
“I am a lady of the world, Beno. I’ve seen more than you, I’d hypothesize.”
She wasn’t wrong there.
Since my resurrection, I’d been to the academy. Then to my first dungeon. After that, I’d come to the wasteland. That was all of the giant world of Xynnar that I’d seen. Any places I’d gone to when I was a man didn’t count since I couldn’t remember them. I didn’t see how it could count as traveling unless you remembered a place.
“Fine. So you know about mimics. Well, I have a mimic named Morphant. Right now, he’s taking the guise of a guy named Pvat, who is-”
“Head of the heroes’ guild,” said Cynthia. “Yes, I know him. As I said, I have to go to Hogsfeate from time to time. He’s an absolute prat.”
“They don’t call him Pvat the Prat for nothing.”
“Do they call him that?”
“It’s a name I made for him,” I said. “I was hoping it’d catch on.”
“I’ll certainly help spread it for you.”
“Thanks! But here’s the thing. Pvat is dead now - an absolute tragedy - and I have a mimic pretending to be him.”
Cynthia flashed me a grin. “You have a mimic acting as head of the heroes’ guild. Which makes you, a dungeon core, in charge of the heroes’ guild.”
“A core in charge of a bunch of heroes. And they don’t suspect a thing. Ingenious, right?”
“Mildly clever, yes. Let’s not go overboard.”
“I’ll have Morphant issue orders, as Pvat,” I said. “We’ll send a bunch of heroes into the wasteland. Send them out with a cart, get them to act like defenseless traders. If they journey far enough into the wasteland, they’re sure to get attacked by the insects.”
CHAPTER 14
Riston
Riston had just finished communicating with his master. Although it was exhausting, he found that talking using his mind was much cleaner than saying words. Words could be overheard. The sounds that made words could carry in the wrong direction, to the wrong set of ears. Then that person could replicate them. Say them again to another person, then another and another…
Yes, psyche-talk was much cleaner.
But…it left him feeling so tired that he could have rested his head on a dragon’s arse and he’d be asleep before the count of ten.
He needed a nice, long sleep. Only the gods knew how long it had been since he had one of those.
Since sleep wasn’t possible with so many plates to keep spinning, he would have loved a pinch of headroot essence. But no. There was still more psyche-talk to have, and only with a clear head could he accomplish that. Headroot essence interfered. Messed with the strength of his powers.
He walked around his lodge, checking that every window was locked and covered with blinds. He gave one last look at the mana-torches casting a cozy glow on Jahn’s Row outside his lodge. It was being patrolled by five guards, on his orders. All seemed well. Satisfied, he covered the last window.
Now he was ready. He brought to mind the spell’s requirements. It was funny, but even decades later, he still heard his old master’s voice when he recalled spells. Riston was no longer the nervous boy mage learning his craft, but his master still ordered him around, even if in an imaginary way. He missed the old git.
So, how did the spell go?
Only in near darkness can you see the way.
Darkness, yes. But not full darkness. His lodge was pitch black now. He lit six candles and set them in a circle around him.
To mind-cast, you must have a physical link to your target.
Next, he placed the object within the circle. A shard of a nail that came from a claw.
Blood will make the link.
He cut his thumb and let the blood drip onto the floor.
Suddenly, there was a loud snap in his ears.
His vision faded.
The wind rushed at him, as though he was soaring through the air at a frantic pace. He felt heat. Saw the moon, the brightest one he’d ever seen.
Then he was underground. Everything was cold and dark.
Finally, he found himself in his target’s mindscape.
He saw colorful shapes. Giant beasts with three eyes that glowed red hot. He heard discordant music; a badly tuned lute competing with the erratic thudding of a tambourine. The shapes and sounds danced around, changing the scene quicker than he could keep up with.
Have I entered the wrong mind?
In a second, it came to him.
His target was dreaming. That was why this seemed such a strange place.
Good. Very good.
Dreams were like a shortcut to a person’s free will. Giving a psyche-mage access to dreams was like escorting a bank robber to a vault. Riston’s job just got easier. Maybe he’d get an hour or two of sleep after all.
He spoke quietly now. With an act of will, he let mana seep out of his physical presence that was still way back in his lodge. It took seconds for the mana to join him in the mindscape. He made the mana gather around his voice.
“Wake from your dream, but do not wake up fully.”
Gradually, the sounds and sights began to fade, until there was darkness.
The target was in a half state between sleeping and waking now. The perfect place to manipulate their will.
“Hello,” Riston said.
The word echoed in their mind. At first as a sound, and then as letters that spiraled around, getting smaller and smaller.
“Who…”
“Hush.”
He put all his mana into the command.
They fell silent.
He could sense their consciousness. Half-awake, half-asleep. Listening, yet silent.
Releasing even more of his mana, he said, “You belong to me now. I know you are with the core and his friends. He is not your master anymore.”
Silence. Good.
“You will kill them all. Do you understand? When you hear two bells, you will kill them all.”
Silence.
A less practiced mage might have taken that for failure, but Riston knew differently. Silence meant he’d dominated their mind completely and that they were his. A weapon ready for use.
Now, it was a matter of choosing the right time.
When he broke the psychic connection and found himself back in his own body, the candles had long gone out. Though the whole thing seemed like mere minutes to him, it had been longer. Much longer. For he had been in their dream, and time moved differently in dreams.
He took off his robe. When he was seen around town, appearances were important. The townsfolk expected a respectable chief, so that’s what he gave them.
But in his own lodge, he wanted comfort. So he put on his coziest trousers and his loosest shirt. In the kitchen, he boiled some water for tea. He used the rest of the water to splash his face and wash his armpits.
While the tea brewed, he lit another candle and settled into a chair and began reading Argon’s almanac. Such a dry book. But important for a mage like him. It was vital he broadened his mind. Learned new spells. Studied his craft.
But the longer he stared, the less focused words were. The less the sentences seemed to make sense. The more he thought th
at Argon was a bore and his Almanac was dryer than five-day-old crackers.
Oh, to hell with broadening. His mind could stay the width it was for now.
After everything he’d done so far, he just wanted a cup of nettle tea, a romance book, and a little Riston time. Was that too much to ask?
He tossed Argon’s Almanac across the room and reached for his copy of The Spellbard and the Naughty Sorceress.
He’d just taken a cup of tea. Turned a page.
A voice spoke in his mind.
“Is it done?”
It was an old voice. A faint one. A voice that hadn’t been used for a long time. And also a voice with little sense of humor, as Riston had already observed. You couldn’t pry a joke out of this shriveled old gasbag.
Oh well. Riston was an Awakener. It wasn’t his job to tell jokes. He had his duties, and it was just as well he stuck to them.
“Yes, it’s done,” he answered. “And a hello might be nice next time. You always psyche-talk at the worst possible times, do you know that?”
He regretted what he said. Not because he feared his master, but because talking back just made things worse.
Maybe if I answer his questions and get him out of my head quickly, I can have an hour or two of reading time before I’m needed again…
“Good, Awakener,” said the voice. “Tell me. Why do you not plant a trigger in all of his monsters? It would ensure his destruction much faster.”
“Oh, is it that easy?” said Riston.
Silence.
They had no sense of humor, and no time for sarcasm either. Even though all they had was time, they had no time for anything.
Trying to be empathetic, Riston supposed that if he’d woken up after centuries of slumber, he might be impatient, too. Maybe a little ratty.
“Using powerful magic like that,” said Riston, “Casting my mind across such a wide distance…it takes a ridiculous effort. And this one’s mind was better protected than I expected. Some kind of alchemic brew, no doubt.”
“I thought you were more powerful than this, Awakener.”
Awakener.
Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series) Page 122
