by Dante King
He’d go on to hear that same sound every night before he slept, of that he was sure.
Exhaustion must finally have won because the next thing Ralph heard was a melee of rough voices muttering around him. His eyes sprang open, and he was on his feet in a second, ready to fight, the stone-headed mace gripped tightly in both hands.
Half hidden in the shadows of the rolling dunes and patchy grass, a group of armed warriors halted. Their faces were hidden, but there were nine of them all moving in Ralph’s direction. Curses flooded through his mind, and then, when one of them called out, he gritted his teeth and prepared to fight for his life.
“Where did you find that mace, boy?” a voice called out.
“Why? What does it matter to you?” Ralph demanded, suddenly irked. It was clear they would try to rob him, so he planned on giving the impression he was more trouble than it was worth.
The group stepped closer, and he realized they weren’t some rag-tag pack of half-orcs looking for easy plunder. Studded leather armor, curved blades, and gold earrings glittered in the half-light. These were Sand Pirates, the kind who filled his mother’s stories.
Ralph’s Infernal Essence curled, thrashing at his insides. After absorbing so much of it, he could feel it now in the bodies of the pirates. They were adventurers like the half-orc Scalpers had been. Like he was.
“Because,” said the rasping voice, “It looks awfully similar to one my mate Gavin used to wield. Strange.”
Ralph’s fingers tightened around the mace. “Must be your imagination. I won it fair and square.”
The speaker was an old man, a hard life scored and etched into every line of his face. He almost looked like Alaxon would have done, if the false priest had spent more time killing monsters and less time luring young men with false prophecies. The thought slithered through Ralph’s mind like an insidious force, and suddenly he was furious.
Hatred—at his own weakness, and at Alaxon’s lies and false promises—was boiling in every fraction of his body.
The Sand Pirates surrounded him now in a loose semi-circle. He recognized two half-orcs, but the others looked human. It was difficult to tell under the scarves that kept the dust of their travels from their faces, but their bearing seemed familiar enough to hint at their origins. They seemed disinterested, unmotivated, and as the old man stepped forward, Ralph let a foot slide back into a fighting stance.
He couldn’t kill all of them, but if they wanted his life, they’d be sure to taste the dying wrath of Ralph Kraus the Adventurer.
“You bested Gavin?” the older man rasped.
“No. I found this in a dungeon.”
“A dungeon?” a tall, thin man questioned. “What, here?”
“Shut it, Varrik,” the old man snarled, and the other fell silent.
The old man was clearly the leader, then. Ralph fixed his eyes on him, feeling the hatred boil even hotter. He wanted to rend, tear and destroy, not stand there and banter with this derelict of a man. As his eyes flickered over the others and took in the measure of them, something occurred to him; of course, why hadn’t he realized sooner?
They were better equipped, smarter, and undoubtedly more experienced than the other band of half-breeds with whom he’d faced Zagorath. With them by his side, he was sure he could conquer the dungeon. The sudden realization and the plan’s emergence brought a bright smile to Ralph’s face, his anger calming under the weight of ambition. Hope blossomed in his chest, and his hunger for power reignited like a latent ember transformed into roaring furnace when the wind consumed it.
“So, Gavin is dead,” the old man muttered. “Sounds like his old woman’s message was true—there is a dungeon back in the realm. Old Gavin never was the patient type. What can you tell us about this Zagorath, boy?”
“I’ll only tell you if you promise to return there with me,” Ralph said.
“Ha. I don’t make promises to young whelps like you and let me tell you something: I don’t reckon you even entered this dungeon. I still bet my life you stole that mace from Gavin. It would explain how he got killed by an infant dungeon; without his mace, he would’ve been easy pickings. This all makes me think you’re responsible for his death.”
“Look. I don’t know this Gavin. Like I told you, I grabbed this weapon from the dungeon.”
“You’re barely even old enough to sire children, let alone fight against a dungeon. You think I’m to believe you succeeded where Gavin failed?”
Fury boiled, white-hot and more insistent than ever, but Ralph forced himself to calm down and then untied his jerkin, letting it fall to the ground at his feet. With his eyes still intently watching the twisted old pirate, he used his free hand to tug off his tunic. He turned, just enough for one of them to see his tattoo swirling with Infernal Essence and etched into the flesh of his back.
“Believe me now?” Ralph challenged.
“Well, he’s not lying,” another said, and they all shifted, almost visibly relaxing.
“Is it true?” a half-orc asked. “The dungeon on the peak of Shadow Crag?”
Ralph nodded. “On my life, I swear it is.”
“Your life means nothing at all to me, boy,” the pirate leader snarled. “Save yourself the trouble of swearing by it.”
“Kerril.” Zarrick stepped forward and spoke quietly to the old man, taking him briefly aside. “If he’s right, then we owe it to ourselves to search out this Zagorath. Our sigils are growing weaker by the day. If we don’t find fresh essence soon, our weapons will be useless.”
The old man shoved at his lieutenant, and then spun back, prodding Ralph’s chest with a gnarled hand forged via decades of combat. “You lie!”
“I’ll prove it,” Ralph said, a grim smile crossing his face. “Single combat?”
“You dare?” Kerril’s wind-beaten lips curved upward, and a desire for blood sparked in his eyes.
“Oh, I dare. You’re ancient, old man. And if what your friend there just told me is correct, then every one of your little band wants to see Zagorath for themselves.”
Infernal Essence flooded Ralph with murderous rage and invincible confidence. He wasn’t as strong without the Dark Reaper, but he was still fast. The mace was far heavier a weapon than he was accustomed to, but his muscles had almost doubled in size in a mere week thanks to the powers gained from farming monsters.
“If I win,” Ralph continued, “I’ll take your place among this band and lead them into Zagorath. If you win, you can take this mace from my cold, dead fingers.”
The pirates shifted, sudden excitement flooding through them. They looked to their leader, who just laughed at that and stepped back. He unclasped his cloak, letting it fall to the ground, then he tore his shirt over his head. His chest was thin, leathery, and scarred from years of battle.
“You really think it’ll be that easy?” he cackled. “Well then, boy, it’ll be my pleasure to bury you in these sands. How many do you think I’ve slain?”
“I really don’t care. Why do you think numbers matter? You won’t prevail against me.”
The old man—Kerril—gestured, and one of his men gave him a pair of two-handed swords. Rather than select one of the serrated weapons, Kerril took one in each hand. The blades were old and scratched but they shone with fresh oil. The warlord’s muscles bulged with the effort of wielding two-handed swords in single hands, but he seemed well-practiced as he rotated them. The blades whistled as they spun through the air, and his fellow pirates grinned in expectation.
He stepped forward, and Ralph stepped equally forward to meet him. The others, respecting the ancient tradition, circled them as they drew their own weapons. He’d only ever heard of this in tales at his mother’s bedside, but if he turned to flee, they’d cut him down like a wild beast.
Then, without warning, Kerril raced a few steps ahead, a black blade arcing down to end the fight before it even began. Ralph narrowly managed to parry it and then saw a second blade hissing downward, looking to take advantage of the
opening created. Ralph swung to the right as the serrated edge bit and chewed into his face. He barely felt the pain, though, and charged into his opponent, closing the distance with a firm stride.
He pivoted the mace over the edge of Kerril’s weapon, the other man now being forced to back off. The pirate’s second sword slid over his first, looking to scissor Ralph’s precious mace from his grasp and tear it away. Kerril wanted to score an easy kill, but Ralph ripped his weapon free and then swung it. Kerril leaped almost five strides into the air, dodging the weapon before landing deftly on his feet.
The pirate came again, and this time, his blades whirled around for a double-edged killing blow. Ralph used every ounce of his newfound speed to keep the serrated black blades at bay. His opponent had become a whirling dervish of death with an endless supply of energy. Unless Ralph could score a hit, this battle would end swiftly, and not in his favor.
He turned away a strike, ducked the second, then shot a kick at the old man’s gut, just like the move the troll of Zagorath had used. It caught the pirate off-guard, and he grunted, staggering backward. Ralph dodged back as a wicked blade missed his face by a hair’s breadth. Pressing on, Ralph thrust the mace’s head forward. The stone cracked against the pirate’s chest, but the momentum still wasn’t enough to crack bone. Kerril grimaced, and it seemed the attack had at least bruised him.
With a scream of rage, the pirate burst forward, his sword descending. Ralph twisted and shoved his leg up into a forceful kick that caught the pirate in the upper arm and spun him around. His other sword, always hovering, snarled toward Ralph’s neck. The mace found the blade, Ralph grunting and cussing as the impact spread the whole way down the length of his weapon to his hands. The reverberations must have shocked Kerril too, because he tensed up and let loose his grip on the sword’s handle.
The pirates followed them both, keeping the circle in close, watching for any signs of defeat. They cheered at the blood—but cheering for whom, Ralph couldn’t ascertain. It didn’t matter—all that mattered was the old man who stood between Ralph and revenge.
Kerril needed to die.
The bruise on the old man’s chest was quickly growing darker, and it seemed Ralph’s first estimation had been wrong; the bones might actually have been broken by the strike, and from the pirate leader’s heavy breathing, it was likely.
Kerril’s movements were desperate as he brought one of his swords crashing down, looking to split a skull asunder, but Ralph swung to the side and struck gold. The mace smashed into the pirate’s arm, its raw flesh pulverizing before the bone shattered into a dozen fractured pieces.
“You will die today!” Kerril screamed as his right arm hung loose and useless at his side. His fingers couldn’t even begin to grasp the sword and it clattered to the ground.
Despite his useless arm, he charged, the other sword hissing as it split the air. Ralph was forced to dive, rolling over onto his shoulder, and coming to his feet once more. Kerril pressed forward, his whole face curled back in a demented snarl while Ralph danced to avoid frenzied slashes. Seeing an opening, Ralph produced a powerful two-handed swing, and the center of the mace’s head cracked hard against the edge of Kerril’s jaw. Teeth exploded from the pirate’s mouth, and as the weapon continued, the rest of his skull erupted. Brain matter and skull fragments sprayed the onlooking pirates, and an eye burst forward from its socket and dangled there, teasing his cheek.
Kerrill launched backward and crashed to the ground, his huge sword dropping from his now totally lifeless grasp.
Ralph breathed a long and angry exhale and let the mace fall to his side. “So, the mace is mine,” Ralph snarled, staring deep into his enemy’s cloudy remaining eye. “And so is Zagorath.”
Essence drifted from the pirate leader’s corpse, none of the others moving to absorb it. They were silent as Ralph drank in the combination of Soul and Infernal Essence. His tattoo filled with power and his muscles throbbed with new energy. Something else entered him, a knowledge that filled his mind.
Battle tactics appeared, as well as the skills needed to lead a group of warriors. Ralph glanced at Kerril’s swords, the knowledge of how to wield them entering his mind immediately. Absorbing the soul essence of the pirate leader had granted him all of this.
Ralph looked over the rest of the Sand Pirates and considered what he might earn if he killed them, too; he toyed with mental calculations. The Sand Pirates recoiled as he realized that while they were fine repositories of battle knowledge and essence, he needed them alive. It would take numbers to conquer Zagorath.
Ralph spat on Kerrik’s corpse and straightened.
He’d never felt more alive, more invincible, in his life. He’d challenged the pirate leader and won. All that strength, rage, and grief had been the driving force.
Ralph Kraus, the Chosen One.
Alaxon had one thing right. He’d chosen correctly.
Zarrik stepped forward, pulling his scarf away from his mouth. “The gods have spoken.”
Ralph grinned with manic victory.
“Prepare yourself. At sunrise two days hence, we shall take Zagorath.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
As Abby’s musical moan peaked and fell off, a notification sprang into my consciousness.
Zagorath Gained New Abilities
Can now harvest Storm Essence
Can now craft with Storm Essence
Trap - Paralysis Ring (Storm)
I rolled off Abby while her electrifying essence blazed through my bloodstream and mixed with my own. She stared up at the night sky, a gorgeous picture of messy hair and naked curves glowing in the moonlight. The static energy in the air had faded, and as I pulled on my trousers, she finally sat up as her eyes found my form in the dark.
“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” she murmured, almost shyly.
“Neither. Thought you were going to fry me for a moment.”
She blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Before she could finish the sentence, I turned and kissed her. She relaxed into me and tried to pull me back down to her warm embrace, but I resisted.
“As much as I’d like to go another round, I have a dungeon to perfect,” I said as I kissed her a final time.
“Oh, of course. Priorities.”
I smiled at her and shrugged. “Adventurers won’t wait for me.”
“That’s true.”
My Vampiric Expertise had done its work, and I needed to return to my core.
Pulling back from Abby, I smiled at her. Once she learned I could use her own essence alongside my own, she’d immediately wonder if I’d just used her. She’d likely think I’d just taken her powers for my own benefit and that I’d leave her behind.
I decided to tell her, right here, right now.
“You should know something,” I said. “Remember how you said that Infernal cores disrupt the balance? Become far too powerful, spread, infect, and destroy?”
Abby looked into my eyes, tilting her head. “Yeah… why do you bring it up?”
“I can channel your essence now. After—”
“After you gave me the sunset of my life,” she cut in, a sly smile creeping over her face. “I’m not upset, Dom. You still made your oath before Lilith to protect me. And if I know anything about her —or you— you have no intention of breaking that oath.”
That same smile touched my lips, and I leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Get dressed before you recall your avatar. Don’t want you summoning your body naked in front of adventurers, right?”
Color flushed her face, and she lunged for her clothes before turning to me—but my elf was already dissolving. I kept that shit-eating grin on my face until my Tainted Elf vanished entirely into smoke and hissed toward the entrance of Zagorath. Already, my consciousness was possessing my dungeon, spreading comfortably to every corner, every carving, every inch of the black stone.
Bertha opened an eye at the touch of my mind. “I heard lightning,” she ch
uckled as she closed her eye. “Care to explain?”
“You know full well what was going on,” I snarked back from my jewel.
Reaching inside my shining fractals, I looked for Puck. I needed all hands on deck now. I summoned him at the cost of 400 Infernal Essence, and his winged form melted out of the ground beside Bertha. Her eyes didn’t open, but her jaw tightened in response.
“Master! You’ve brought me back.” The ecstatic squeal made me grin, despite myself.
“How was death?” Bertha asked him, her eyes sliding open.
“Incredibly unpleasant,” Puck howled, “but I live!”
He spun in violent circles before barrelling back up into the vents. The imp’s chaos disturbed my Hellbats, creating a frenzied screeching that echoed throughout Zagorath.
Abby’s jewel flickered at the return of her avatar, and her consciousness touched mine.
“What in Ciryli’s name was that?” her musical voice washed through my mind.
“That,” I replied, “was Puck. My other champion.”
“He’s loud,” Abby grumbled, and I couldn’t help but grin.
“Ralph might have cut and run, but I don’t think the kid was a dumbass. He’ll be back sooner or later, and he’ll bring more adventurers with him. We also have the Sand Pirates to worry about. Bertha, you still think they’re coming?”
“I’m certain,” the half-troll replied. “Ma and Jeff sent them a message. As soon as they heard of a dungeon core, they would have dropped everything and made for Shadow Crag.”
“How many days travel are they?”
“Three from their base in the Black Sands.”
“How did Jeff get them a message?” I asked from my gem. “He couldn’t have been gone more than a few hours.”
