The Dark Lord Bert 2

by Chris Fox

  White’s eyes narrowed even further, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t need a grudge to hate a goblin.” Crushstuff gave a snort, then slammed his massive axe into a passing cabbage cart, which shattered into an explosion of wood and produce. “He’s the dark lord, right? He’ll get the same as this cart.”

  “My cabbages!” The poor cart owner stared down at the wreckage in horror, then sized up the ogre. He turned on his heel and sprinted off into the city.

  Kit was annoyed by the casual cruelty. Brakestuff had been lawful good and would never do something like that. She had to wonder what this new character’s alignment was. Neutral evil, maybe? Either way she didn’t much like the behavior.

  “Come on,” White said, starting for the bridge that led into town. “Let’s stop by the magic item shop and see if there are any upgrades before we head into the tomb.”

  Kit fell into line behind him, though she didn’t answer. She already had a feeling this adventure would quickly become another quest for world domination, and saw herself at odds with White yet again. That begged the immediate question…what would the rest of the group do?

  In the past she’d have been a lone dissenting voice, but more and more Nutpuncher supported her. Perhaps she had a chance. If she could convince Crushstuff…perhaps she could usurp the group from White. Perhaps they could…actually finish an adventure the way they were intended to.

  They threaded their way through Bobertown’s wide cobblestone streets, which couldn’t be more different than when she’d last come. The undead guards were still there, but their armor had been painted a sunny yellow, complete with a smiley face on the chests.

  Little potted flower plants now lined the street, and there wasn’t a sign of litter anywhere. Particularly noteworthy given how many people flooded the city streets. Carts rumbled past foot traffic, all thronging their way to and from the merchant district.

  People looked…well, if not precisely happy, at least not downtrodden. And did anyone ever look happy going about their mindless daily tasks? She could think of someone who did. Bert. He’d hum to himself when he set up a tent, or fixed his cart. She admired that about him.

  “There it is.” White plunged through the crowd, which parted before him, the people bedazzled by his scarlet trope.

  The dark elf burst through the shop’s familiar oaken door, into a blessedly cool room that smelled of leather and oil, with a hint of parchment. She loved that aroma. The walls were covered with arms and armor primarily, with the occasional cloak or belt sprinkled in.

  The very same gnome shopkeeper who’d helped them the last time stood behind the counter, eyeing them appraisingly from under his bushy white eyebrows.

  “You’ve got starting gold. I can smell it.” He hopped onto the counter and grinned up at them. “You’re a fresh adventuring party, aren’t you? High level too. What are you, seventh level?”

  “Ninth,” White supplied imperiously. “And we are indeed flush with starting gold. The question is…do you have anything worth our time?”

  The gnome’s eyes narrowed, and all friendliness vanished. “You know how this works, fungus eater. You want something rare? Ask for it and I’ll make a check to see if I’ve got it in the back. We can’t haggle if I don’t know what you want.”

  White’s eyes narrowed, and a condescending smile bloomed. He raised a delicate finger and pointed at the gnome, and then intoned a single word, a word that every powerful mage knew to fear. “Die.”

  A bolt of crackling black energy streaked from his outstretched finger, and slammed into the gnome’s chest. The shopkeeper’s eyes bulged for a moment, and then he keeled over, spasming once, then going limp.

  “Rise,” White ordered, raising his hand slowly into the air over the corpse.

  The gnome’s quite clearly dead body rose slowly to its feet, the rheumy eyes focusing on their new master. Kit stifled the urge to intervene, despite being horrified by the act. What could she do? There was no undoing that spell.

  Instead, she glanced at Nutpuncher to see how the gnome was reacting. His features were twisted with disgust, and his attention was on the gnome. That boded well. He didn’t condone White’s cruelty any more than she did.

  “Now then,” White purred, grinning at his new creation. “You will not sell any magic items unless it is to me, or to an agent I have appointed. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, your douche-ness.” The gnome gave a low respectful bow.

  “You will address me as Lord.”

  “Yes, Lord Craptacular.” The gnome spun around, dropped his trousers, and mooned White, with a bit of frank and beans directly beneath.

  “I hate you so much.” White’s eyes narrowed, but he spun on his heel and stalked from the magic item shop.

  Kit followed quietly, as did the others. Even Crushstuff looked surprised by White’s actions, though it could have been simple confusion due to the low intelligence score.

  The tomb awaited them on the hill above. Perhaps she could pretend they were a real adventuring party until they reached it.

  6

  The Thirsty Games

  Kit winced as the tomb’s front door shattered, cartwheeling into the first level as fragments exploded in all directions. “If we’re going to keep this place, wouldn’t it make sense not to blow it up?”

  She coughed from dust as she followed the others onto the first level.

  “I’ll pay for the damages out of my share.” Crushstuff stalked up to a pillar, and casually shattered it with his battle axe. The ceiling trembled, but didn’t fall. “Man, that is satisfying.”

  “I’d prefer minimal damage.” White waved a hand in front of his face to clear the cloud of dust. “Kit’s right, in this instance at least. Confine the destruction to the dark lord and his minions.”

  “Speaking of,” Nutpuncher chimed in that deep voice, “where are those minions? And where is my haste spell?”

  Kit followed the gnome’s gaze, which roamed the broad entryway. They’d been here before, and knew the tomb well. Not much had changed, except for the addition of flower pots with bright green tulips every few feet along the walls.

  Colorful banners had also been hung along the edge of the ceiling in a clear attempt to brighten the place up, though it did little to relieve the dreariness. She couldn’t help but smile when she pictured Bert’s tiny form atop a swaying ladder as he hung them.

  “Excellent point, Nutpuncher.” White strode further into the room. “Let us see what kind of defenses this new dark lord has prepared. Crushstuff…blow the horn.”

  “My pleasure.” The ogre slung his axe over his shoulder, and withdrew a massive white dragon horn. He raised it to his lips, and unleashed a deep blast that could be heard for miles.

  Dooo dooooooooo!

  Kit began chanting under her breath, knowing they’d need to be fully buffed to face whatever Bert had prepared. “Iniquitas celeritous!”

  A bright blue magical symbol pulsed on the ground beneath the party, bathing them all in potent energies. Time accelerated, as a shape emerged from the darkness.

  “Oh, leave off already,” Sir Patrick’s cultured voice echoed from the shadows as the familiar death knight strode into view at the far side of the chamber. “This isn’t that kind of dungeon….”

  Crushstuff was already lumbering toward the death knight, his battle axe held high over his head. Nutpuncher advanced cautiously behind him, his stance loose, ready to unleash a flurry of tiny punches.

  “NO,” White boomed, rushing to head the pair off. “He’s mine. I still owe him for—”

  “Owe me?” Sir Patrick placed his face in his palm, and gave a very put upon sigh. “I never betrayed you. I followed every one of your mad dictums. What could you possibly owe me for?”

  White narrowed his eyes, and raised a delicate finger, which he stabbed in Sir Patrick’s direction. “Simon Saysicus!”

  A wave of dark tendrils shot out and engulfed Sir Patrick, who stood placidly
, uttering another sigh as the tendrils wormed through his spectral body.

  “Now you belong to me, undead.” White advanced on the death knight, shoulders thrown back haughtily. “Take us to your master, so we can kill him.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Sir Patrick rested his hands on the hilt of his greatsword, planting NC-1701’s tip deep into the stone. “The dark lord is quite clever, you see. In order to reach him you must undergo a series of trials. These trials are non-lethal, but are designed to weed you out, one by one, until only a single survivor remains. We call them the Thirsty Games. I am here to arbitrate the games, and you controlling me means nothing. You cannot order me to let you deeper inside, as I cannot do that, and I have no idea what you’ll be facing, so you can’t order me to betray my lord.”

  Sir Patrick adopted a rather smug smile as he awaited White’s response. Kit smirked into her hand, but that smile faded when she considered Sir Patrick’s words.

  “So these, ah, Thirsty Games,” she broke in, drawing Sir Patrick’s attention, and White’s irritated gaze. “Are you saying there can only be one survivor? Only one of us is going to make it down to the dark lord?”

  Sir Patrick delivered a truly wicked smile. “That is the general idea, yes. Lord Bert has devised a number of stratagems that will winnow down adventurers, and force you to turn on each other. In his imminently wise words, ‘Only good adventurers come inside. Bad adventurers will get stuck forever.’”

  “We shall see about that,” White growled as he stalked up to Sir Patrick. “Tell me about the next level. Presumably that is where these games begin, yes?”

  Sir Patrick’s eyes glittered mischievously as he answered. “The next level contains treasure. Enough to make a single person a god. But only a single person. Each of you will be deposited in a different part of a labyrinth, and you will have to navigate your way to the center, where a powerful prize awaits.”

  “What kind of powerful prize?” Nutpuncher interjected, his voice no longer deep now that he was under the effects of the haste spell.

  “A potion of super-heroism,” Sir Patrick explained as if he’d just offered them to the keys to the kingdom.

  The death knight seemed miffed when none of them were impressed.

  “A potion?” Crushstuff growled, looming over Sir Patrick. “What kind of bullshit reward is that?”

  “I think super-heroism is pretty cool,” Nutpuncher broke in, eyebrows knitting together in consternation. “Don’t those give you levels?”

  “Yes,” Kit broke in. “At ninth level it will raise whoever drinks it to twelfth level, and that includes all the spells and class abilities you’d normally gain.”

  “But,” Nutpuncher snarled, “it only lasts for 5d6 rounds. That’s like 30 seconds of combat, at best. So you’re a little cooler for one fight? That’s the prize?”

  “Did I mention,” Sir Patrick interjected, as innocent as a babe, “that the potion was blessed with a wish, and that wish makes the effects permanent?”

  It took about two seconds for Kit to figure out what that meant. The person who won these games would get three permanent levels, and be vastly more powerful than the rest of the party.

  She could not let that person be White.

  7

  White Has No Balls

  The tomb’s magic deposited Kit in near total darkness, though thankfully her elven eyes thrived in low light. She could easily make out the dark walls towering over her, until they met the ceiling high above.

  A labyrinth then. Dripping water sounded in the distance, and she spied a faint glow coming from what she presumed must be the center of the labyrinth.

  As an experienced gamer Kit was neither surprised nor unprepared. Since she was still using the well actually trope her intellect remained higher than usual, and she could effortlessly memorize this place.

  She considered shifting into fox form as that would offer greater mobility, but while foxes had decent night vision it was nothing like that of the elves. She leaned into a trot, and began hugging the left wall.

  Minutes passed quickly as she wound her way down one featureless wall after another. She was rather disappointed in Bert, until the maze spilled her into a vast coliseum. She’d reached the center. There were a dozen other entrances, but a quick glance suggested she was the first to arrive.

  The coliseum had been plucked from ancient Rome, with rows of descending stadium seats that were short enough to double as stairs. They stopped at a simple sandy arena, and in the center of that arena stood a pedestal.

  Atop that pedestal sat a glowing green-white bottle, blazing with magical power. Far more so than any potion should contain. The fabled super-heroism they’d been promised.

  “Okay, perhaps I was wrong. Well played, Bert.” She glanced around once more, but no one had emerged. Kit started down the coliseum steps, making for the potion as swiftly as her slender legs would allow.

  “Huaaahhhhh!” came a deep, familiar voice. Nutpuncher streaked into view from his hiding place between two steps, and in that moment she understood why he’d chosen gnome.

  Kit had no time to react, and the monk landed before her, then launched a flurry of blows at her crotch, and it hurt, damn it. She staggered backward and raised a knee to protect herself.

  “Flatulent wind!” she growled, even as she raised her staff. The tip began to glow, and Nutpuncher was seized by a terrible gale that emanated from her staff. The living stench sent the tiny gnome sailing out over the arena floor, wobbling like a football.

  Nutpuncher rolled with the fall, and came to his feet near the pedestal clutching at his shoulder. “Thanks for the lift, Kit!” He turned and sprinted toward the potion.

  Unfortunately for Nutpuncher both Crushstuff and White had also arrived.

  The ogre charged down the steps with his gleaming axe gripped in both hands. His attention was fixed on Nutpuncher, so Kit turned to White. The penultimate wizard necromancer was bound to be the more dangerous of the two, and she had no idea what his class was even capable of.

  “Oh, how I’ve waited for this.” White grinned cruelly in her direction as the dark elf ambled down the coliseum steps. “This time there’s no one here to alter my character sheet at the last moment. This time we have a real wizard’s duel. Fitting, I think, that the winner will overcome those cretins and seize the potion. You are the only threat here. The only one close to my equal, though let’s be honest…not very close.”

  Kit only had a split second to decide what to do. The odds of her beating White were non-existent. He was likely to have absurd defenses, and those defenses would have been crafted specifically to neutralize her.

  “That’s the problem with the way you think, White. It’s all about you. But I’m not alone.” She returned White’s cruel smile, and began to cast a spell, “Quod dico facies!”

  A bolt of eldritch energy, dark and malevolent, shot from her finger. Not toward White, but toward Crushstuff. The spell slapped the ogre in the face, the dark magic seeping into his warty skin and disappearing within.

  “A dominate spell,” White snarled, clearly annoyed. “I should have foreseen that, and countered it.”

  “Stop White!” she roared, pointing at the smug dark elf.

  “Okay.” Crushstuff shrugged, then the ogre turned and charged out across the sand toward the dark elf. He was a good sixty feet away, which meant it would take a couple rounds to get there. That left White plenty of time to react, unfortunately.

  “Ah, Kit,” White lectured, his tone oozing that special brand of patronizing prick he’d so mastered. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. You are powerful, in a conventional sense, but I am so far beyond you.”

  The air around White rippled, and he disappeared just as Crushstuff brought his axe down in the space he’d occupied. The blade of the axe slammed into the stone, which sent rock shards spinning outwards in all directions.

  Crushstuff spun, the ogre’s expression comical. “Where did he go?”


  “Right here,” White called…his voice coming from the center of the arena.

  Kit spun to see the necromancer standing next to the pedestal. He gripped the potion in one hand, and casually removed the stopper.

  Nutpuncher came flying into view once more, and skidded across the sand in a streak of frizzy blue hair. His fists rocketed into White’s crotch over and over and over…to no apparent effect.

  “Ah, Nutpuncher, my little friend.” White reached down with his free hand and patted the gnome’s head. “You made a good effort, but you are outmatched, I’m afraid.”

  “Why can’t I hurt you?” Nutpuncher blinked up at the wizard-necromancer, and Kit was stunned into inaction as she waited for the answer, and her turn in the initiative order.

  “Two reasons,” White explained, magnanimously, as he blessed them with his knowledge. “First, I have an invisible shield that absorbs the first 100 hit points of damage I’d take each day. Second, after seeing how potent Crotchshot’s trope was I purchased the eunuch flaw.” His smile grew more predatory. “I have no balls, my young friend. I am completely immune to your cursed fists.”

  “You. Awful. Bastard. You thought of everything.” Nutpuncher sat down on the sand and began to cry. It was a blubbery, ugly sort of cry. “I don’t think I want to play any more.”

  “Did you expect any less?” White upended the contents of the potion, gulped it down, and gave a soft belch. “Buck up. There will be power enough for all once we conquer the realm.”

  Kit watched in horror as all that potent magic disappeared down White’s throat, and the worst thing to ever happen to gaming gained three full levels. Permanently.

  Any chance she’d have had against him had vanished along with the contents of that bottle.

  8

  Darby the Leprechaun