Dungeon Masters

by Mike Wild

  “Ralph, what’re you doing over there?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing. Just carry on, my dear. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Trix shrugged, and did so. Ten minutes later, the way into the passage was clear. The three of them stepped over the threshold. The light from the nursery was sufficient to illuminate some of the passage in front of them, and it was testimony to the accuracy of Shen’s map. Trix swivelled the mirror on her crossbow so he could, hopefully, get a look.

  “Shen, we’re in. Are you getting this?”

  There was a whistle. “Loud and clear, Trix. The wormglass works fine.”

  “I’m sorry—the what?”

  “Wormglass. As in wormhole. Well, we couldn’t carry on calling it ‘magic mirror’, could we?”

  “Fair point.”

  “Possibly the fairest of them all.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  They moved inward. Cautiously. This was, after all, where the minotaur had come from. But all seemed quiet. As the light from the nursery began to fade, Trix flicked open her Zippo and moved to a couple of sconces on the wall. The dried-out torches took a while to ignite but then came alive with a whuff, illuminating moss- and lichen-covered walls. They illuminated something else, too—they could now see they’d reached the steps leading down.

  Trix stood at their top. The light from the torches touched only the first ten steps or so, and below that the shadows thickened into darkness that became as black as pitch. Her grip tightened on her crossbow. Anything could be down there. Yuri must have been thinking the same because he’d adopted his best he-man pose, bobbing slightly left to right, gripping his sword in battle stance, while Ralph … well, actually, Ralph was rubbing his palms together in gleeful anticipation. Trix shook her head. He was a strange old man.

  She took out a flare, tossed it down to light their descent, but it bounced unexpectedly far, proving little use at all. Ralph coughed, muttered a few unknown words, and conjured a ball of light which danced and moved about them. Trix gave him a stare, and he winked.

  They started down. Trix kept the ‘wormglass’ pointing forward so that Shen could share, and he tracked them as they went. His countdown came in every minute or so.

  “Relative depth sixty metres … relative depth eighty metres … a hundred and ten metres …”

  “Level 3?”

  “Two-thirds of the way there.”

  “Got it. I see some kind of arched landing below.”

  “Okaaay … there should be two passages off it. The one to the left looks to be a dimensional dead ender; the right opens onto 3 at … the Skeletal Court.”

  “Behind the bone throne?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Dammit! I bloody knew there was something there.”

  The stairs continued down, as Shen’s map had indicated, and far deeper than they could have hoped. As Shen continued his count—five hundred metres deep, eight hundred metres—they passed level 4, then 5, though to these there was no entrance. Yuri paused at this point to noisily and copiously relieve himself against the stairwell wall, and though as it trickled down the steps past them, Trix and Ralph tried their best to ignore it, they couldn’t help but think it strange that the first thing to encounter whatever lay below would be a stream of Russian piss. Ralph’s theory was that they were on some kind of master stairwell designed to eliminate travel across levels if the need was to navigate a number of them at a time. Yuri appeared to nod in agreement, which spurred Ralph to expound on other theories, including that some steps might jump levels, in much the same manner as The Faze. Trix smiled as he went on, because she’d seen the Russian grow bored with their unexpected trudge and lack of things to kill after his comfort break and knew he had since slipped on his Walkman headphones. The tinny sound of Queen’s “A Kind of Magic” could be heard faintly. It was kind of his dungeon theme song.

  At any rate, the stairs ended at level 6. As did their progress. The reason for this was that they had come to a passage leading nowhere. Or, rather, leading somewhere—two somewheres, in fact—but in both cases the somewhere was blocked. To their left was a huge and overgrown stone slab of a door, sealed and at first glance as impassable as a plug, and to their right the roof of the passage had fallen in, blocking it completely. Yuri examined the rubble.

  “This is recent,” he determined. “I’d say no more than two, three months. And there is precision here. It looks like it was brought down purposefully.”

  Trix and Ralph looked at each other. Coincidence?

  “Looks as if it’s the door, then.”

  Trix moved to examine it. Brushing aside some straggly growth, she saw it was carved with a complex relief of interlocking horns. Trix traced the relief with her palm, then thumped the side of her fist against the slab. The flatness of impact told her it was as thick as it was broad. There was no visible means of opening it. But then, as with most obstacles on the levels, there never was. The levels liked to make you work for the simplest things.

  With professionals’ eyes, they set about searching the passage, and Ralph discovered a mechanism beneath a cluster of dead vine. A half dodecahedron shape, also made of stone, each of its faces was carved with sections of horn as on the relief. Ralph placed a hand on it, applied pressure, and with a grating sound, it moved. As other faces revealed themselves, Ralph realised it wasn’t a half dodecahedron but a full one, gimballing in the wall. A combination lock, then. And quite a complex one.

  “Can you crack it?” Trix asked.

  “Of course. But first I’ll need to make a thorough study of the relief itself.”

  Trix smiled. “What you mean is, you’d enjoy making a thorough study of the relief. But I’m sorry, old man, we don’t have time for that. Here, let me try.”

  Ralph stepped aside, and Trix leaned in, placing her ear close to, and both hands on, the dodecahedron, in the manner of a safecracker. As she manoeuvred its faces, she ignored completely the carvings and relied instead on their grating sounds, the resistance they offered to her touch, their very feel. The instincts she’d gained from picking a thousand locks on a thousand chests served her well, and after about a minute, along the passage, the slab retracted a foot or so with a bass rumble and fall of stone dust. The sound of weights shifting in the wall suggested that, any second, it would start to rise. But before it had the chance, there was another sound. A pounding of heavy hooves—more than one set—from what was presumably a passage on the slab’s other side. The slab shook, took on a hairline crack, as first one something, then another something, crashed into it. For a moment all was quiet, other than for a fevered grunting that was all too familiar to Trix. Then the slab shook again, once, twice, three times. The sound of these impacts was different from the others, not flesh this time but solid weights, likely minotaur war hammers.

  Boom … boom … boom.

  “Get ready,” Trix sighed, with a sense of deja vu. “Company’s coming.”

  VIII

  Revelations

  Boom. Boom. Boom, boom, bloody boom. If they carried on like this, there’d be nothing left of the slab to open. Typical minotaur stupidity. “Jesus Christ,” Trix moaned. She shouted through the stone. “Will you wait a fucking minute!”

  “Language, Patricia.”

  “Well … I’ve had a bellyful of these bastards.”

  “I take it, English,” Yuri queried, “this is why we have not turned to run?”

  “Would if I could. But run where, exactly, Yuri?”

  “Good point. I have a feeling this could get very messy.”

  Trix knew it. But at least she wasn’t alone this time. Okay, they were still only three of the recommended four combatants—well, since there were at least two minotaurs that actually made it a recommended eight—but Yuri fought like three men, she reckoned she was a good one and a half to three-quarters, and with Ralph’s scrolls added into the equation, their chances lay probably somewhere just under evens.

 
Probably.

  The slab at last started rumbling upwards, slowly revealing the enemy beyond. Both Trix and Yuri adopted battle stance, she having stowed her crossbow in favour of her quarterstaff, while he had swapped his great sword for a pair of sharp and vicious-looking axes, better he thought to wear the minotaurs down. They both looked at Ralph, fully expecting him to be reading from some scroll of thunderblast or, at the very least, bugger you, but instead he was crouching on the ground, rummaging through his backpack. He looked up casually and waved a finger at their weapons. “Those won’t be needed,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Look and learn, Patricia. Look and learn.”

  The old man stood just as the slab slammed home and the minotaurs stormed through. In each hand he held a sawed-off minotaur’s horn—a left and a right—each complete with bits of skull bone and fur. Trix knew now what he’d been up to back in the nursery but remained in the dark as to the why he’d been up to it. What the hell was he going to do—poke the minotaurs in the eye? She shook her head in bewilderment and turned to face them with Yuri alone.

  Except she didn’t need to.

  Ralph raised the horns above his head, displaying them like trophies, and the minotaurs halted their hammers in mid swing. They grunted, their piggy eyes scrutinising the objects, and then they snuffled warily. Ralph took a measured step forward, and they, glancing at each other, a measured step back. Again, Ralph moved, and they retreated still farther, back into the newly opened passageway.

  “Bloody hell,” Trix said.

  Yuri sniffed. “You did not tell me he truly is a magician.”

  “These beasts have simple minds and a hierarchical nature,” Ralph explained. “Also, due to their size, they have no practical concept of defeat. Possession of the horns of one of their brethren is evidence of defeat, and that confuses them. The simplest inference for them to make is we must therefore be superior warriors. Trust me—they will not risk an attack as long as I hold these horns.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Quite sure. Follow me.”

  Ralph took another step, this time easing his way between the minotaurs. The beasts actually pressed back against the walls to let him pass. They didn’t seem quite so convinced by Trix and Yuri, however, and moved out slightly, forcing them to squeeze between. Fetid streams of hot air from the minotaurs’ nostrils blew in their faces, and they tried their best not to gag. Low, partly unconvinced growls followed them as they skipped a couple of steps and drew into line with Ralph.

  “One thing,” the old man advised. “Don’t look back. That will be construed as a sign of weakness.”

  “I think a sign of weakness already appeared in my pants.”

  “I do so hope not, Major. That is construed as another sign of weakness.”

  “Don’t know how they can tell, seeing as they’re already covered in shit.”

  “I agree they are not the most hygienic of creatures.”

  “Social, though,” Trix said.

  “How so?”

  “Take a gander up ahead.”

  Ralph and Yuri did. Some ten yards on, the passage opened out into a large, pillared chamber, and in it were more minotaurs. A lot more minotaurs, perhaps twenty-five or thirty. As they drew closer, they saw one that stood out amongst them. The natural alpha male of the species was half again the size of the others and had a more-than-usual spark of intelligence in its eyes.

  “Shit,” Yuri said. “It’s a King.”

  “Just keep calm,” Ralph advised. “We’ll take care to avoid that particular specimen.”

  “You know, in all my years down here,” Trix pondered, “there’s one question I’ve never had answered. Why the hell do they do that?”

  “What?”

  “Just stand around in groups, doing bugger all. I mean, there you are, happily crawling through the dungeon, when suddenly, wham—a room full of fucking minotaurs. What’s that about?”

  “I have never come across a room full of minotaurs, until now.”

  “I was using them as an example, Yuri. Goblins, spiders, kobolds, lizards, orcs, they all do it, haven’t you noticed? Sometimes in a mixed bunch. Just stand there, or squat there, or skitter there, until you walk into their midst, and then the bastards swarm you, and you’re lucky to get out alive. Why?”

  Yuri shrugged. “Maybe they like to gossip, like leetle old ladies.”

  “Or compare the size of their hammers, like sad little men.”

  Conversation ceased as they entered the larger area, Ralph still holding the horns aloft, Trix and Yuri following cautiously behind. It did feel strangely as if they were crashing some kind of private party, especially in the way the heads of all the minotaurs turned to stare at them as soon as they sensed their presence within. Like the others, their first instinct was to draw their weapons and attack, but then they too spotted the horns and backed off, snuffling warily. As she, Ralph, and Yuri began to move through their midst, Trix whispered into the wormglass. “Still with us, Shen?”

  “ABSOLU—”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Absolutely, Trix. The wormglass is working much better than we could have hoped. The singularity seems to boost mapping capabilities—provides a point of focus, if you like—allowing for much more definition than before.”

  “That’s great, Shen. But could we leave it ’til later?”

  “Sure. Why are we whispering?”

  “Class 9A’s.”

  “Christ, plural? There are two of them?”

  “Erm … no. Just find us a way out of this chamber, will you?”

  “Give me a second.”

  Trix found herself smiling at one of the minotaurs as Shen left her dangling on the line—she supposed it was just a natural reaction. The minotaur, in turn, looked down on her and rumbled softly, and as she passed she again felt twin streams of fetid air blowing in her face. It wasn’t as nauseating as before, but only because the whole place stank like an upturned chamber pot.

  “Right we are,” Shen said. “Three exits, including your ingress point. One, however, appears to be blocked. You need to proceed twenty-five yards nor’-nor’-west.”

  “Right past the King,” Yuri hissed, having overheard.

  “I know that,” Trix hissed back, “but what choice do we have?”

  She tapped Ralph on the shoulder, pointed in the direction they needed to go. And knowing the King couldn’t be avoided, even the old man took in a deep breath. Not that it would have mattered either way. Because the King had been aware of their presence for a minute or so, now, and while it had yet made no move towards them, it was not exactly regarding them with the same deference as its lesser brethren. The last straw finally came when they were about halfway to the exit, the King having had enough of these curious usurpers on its territory, and with a low growl, it shoved aside the other minotaurs and stomped to loom over them.

  It wasn’t an attack, it was a challenge. The beast was drawn up to its full height, its chest thrust out, and from the triple-horned head that stared down with angry, veined eyes came a constant, questioning growl. To his credit, Ralph kept his horns upthrust towards its face, trying his best to maintain his composure, but he knew full well there was a fifty-fifty chance they’d be swatted from his grip any second. And if that happened, if the King roared, every minotaur in the chamber would be on them. And they’d be dead.

  The King’s head exploded.

  It was so unexpected that for a second neither the old man, nor Trix, nor Yuri could work out what the gore was that splattered them. They were still working it out when the King’s great, headless body dropped to its knees and collapsed with a thud to a ground. The only thing they knew was that as they stepped out of its way, other minotaur heads were exploding around them. Heads, chests, shoulders, wherever they looked the beasts were staggering, spinning, pluming blood. Then, over the creatures’ roars of pain, the explorers heard it—the distinctive bhruuut of automatic gunfire from the
direction they’d entered the chamber. Through the erupting, flailing forms of the minotaurs, they caught glimpses of human forms dressed so dark they were barely visible. Master team outfits. Garrison’s men.

  And they weren’t shooting at the minotaurs. It was just that the minotaurs were in the way.

  Trix waited—waited for their guns to start to jam, to breach, to explode in their faces; it was just a matter of time. But none did. The bullets kept coming, the minotaurs dropping. There was nothing unreliable, nothing unstable about these weapons; they were working perfectly despite being on the levels, they were absolutely lethal, and they just kept on firing. Even though Trix could no longer hear their bursts over the sounds of the minotaurs’ agonised roaring, the evidence was plain to see in the sudden sprays of blood and puffs of powdered bone. The poor bastards didn’t even get a chance to swing an axe or a hammer. It was a slaughter.

  Trix shot a horrified glance at Yuri.

  “God all-fucking-mighty, what are they packing!?”

  “I suggest we do not hang around to find out.”

  “No argument from me.”

  Trix grabbed a minotaur as the impact of bullets in its shoulder sent it into a spin, dug her fingers into its wounds to get a grip otherwise impossible on its shit-smeared and now-bloodied hide, and used its reeling bulk as a shield. Yuri grabbed one of his own, pulled Ralph in beside him, and together they began to work their way nearer the exit. The manoeuvre was only a stopgap, however—for one thing, the minotaurs would become impossibly deadweight as they died; for another, they were being chopped like liver as bullets continued to pump into them, rapidly losing their effectiveness as cover. Trix, Yuri, and Ralph made it perhaps five yards before they were forced to discard the shredded beasts and dodge behind pillars instead. Garrison’s men, meanwhile, started advancing across the chamber, cutting down anything that was left between them and their targets.

  Trix cried out, ducked as a minotaur on its last legs mistook her for the threat that was wiping out its clan. It gave one last roar of defiance and cleaved its axe into the pillar behind which she’d been hiding before making the dash to the next. The pillar buckled at the same time as did the minotaur itself, and Trix threw herself aside as part of the ceiling came down. She found herself grateful for the close call. The cloud from the falling debris obscured her and the others enough for them to make a weaving, if somewhat slippery, dash to the way out of what had become an abattoir.