by Hugo Huesca
Dungeon Lord
Abominable Creatures
Hugo Huesca
Hugo Huesca © 2018
Cover design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design.
Www.bookflydesign.com
Contents
Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Edward Wright
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Hugo Huesca
Prologue
The Lotian faced some of the most dangerous assassins the ancient kingdom of Akathun had ever birthed. They didn’t like him. It was clear by the way their fingers twitched near the sheaths of their daggers they feared him. And fear could be more dangerous than hatred.
He knew full well that showing even the slightest hint of hesitation could end up with his throat slit and his body dumped unceremoniously into Undercity’s canals. It’d resurface on some beach outside the city, bloated and half-eaten.
No one would miss him. His master, after all, did not tolerate failure.
The Lotian smiled and said, “Grand Master Gezved, you look awfully tense. There’s no need to worry. You’ve my assurance, I’m here tonight as a friend.”
The Akathunians reeled at the implicit threat: the suggestion that a lone man was dangerous enough to make the Grand Master of the Unseen Brotherhood be afraid despite being surrounded by a dozen of his best assassins. The Akathunians had ten thousand experience points pooled together in that room, and not a single one of them would help if they earned the wrath of the Lotian’s master.
One of Gezved’s brutes scowled and made a surreptitious sleight of hand when he thought the Lotian wasn’t looking. From his sleeve, he produced a tiny metal cylinder that held a sharp steel wire Akathunians used to skillfully cut throats and sever limbs.
Without looking at the man, Master Gezved gestured for him to stand down. The Lotian’s smile gained an inch.
“We’re aware of your traditions, Malikar. ‘He comes at night, bearing gifts…’ No, I don’t think Lotians either know or care about loyalty or friendship,” Gezved said. “Since your arrival in Constantina, you’ve brought with you nothing but doom. Look at what Nicolai’s revolutionaries brought on us after their demise. Weren’t you their sponsor? The Inquisition roams the streets, forcing my men to hide in the shadows, and my splendid Brotherhood is relegated to doing business in the lowest slums just to stay away from the gaze of the griffins patrolling the skies. No, Lotian. I should have your throat cut and be rid of you!”
Ah. The honorable assassin. The Lotian fought off an almost overwhelming impulse to smirk with disdain. It was pathetic how people like Gezved believed pretending to care about unspoken rules, about honor and loyalty, would somehow redeem them from the terrible deeds they performed every day. Just ask the slaves the Akathunians kept in cages, languishing over their own dung, how they felt about Gezved’s honor.
Then again, the Lotian wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to deliver a message.
“You honor me, Grand Master, by comparing my humble self to that of the Boatman himself,” he said. “But I am a mere mortal, stranded in this Murmur-forsaken country of Starevos with little to show for it. I have precious few friends in this city, and, like it or not, the Unseen Brotherhood could find a very profitable friendship if we were to sit down and talk without all this… uncivilized mistrust.”
The tension in the room felt like a rope pulled to its limit, close to snapping. They were at the highest point of the Charcoal Tower, the Unseen Brotherhood’s infamous headquarters. The room itself was shaped like a wedge, with ample open windows letting in the cool sea air, while the vaporous silky curtains flowed sensually behind the Akathunians, who were dressed in their black, tight tunics with open necks that revealed skin covered in tattoos.
There was nothing behind the Lotian but the closed door from where he’d come and the pair of windows to his sides. The floor was bare, revealing the silver engravings that formed a concentric magical circle with a powerful anti-magic field in place. It was a smart detail. The Akathunians excelled at physical confrontations—at ending fights before they even started. With an anti-magic effect in place, they robbed any possible attacker of their best advantage over the assassins.
“So many words, yet so little meaning. You love the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Malikar?” the Grand Master asked. “Speak your piece and let us be done with this farce. After that, I’ll decide what to do with you.”
“How kind of you. Though it turns out, I’ve a gift for you with me,” the Lotian said. “Nothing as trifling as a trinket, Grand Master. Something that a man with such a high Spirit rank may find more valuable. Indeed, I bring you the gift of prophecy.”
A stunned silence spread through the Akathunians ranks like a plague. Then, after an instant, the laughter started. The Lotian let them have their moment, smiling himself, as if he were in on the joke.
“Prophecy!” Gezved exclaimed, smirking and looking over his shoulder at his subordinates. “Women’s games, nothing more! A way to pass the time in the hot nights of Akathun while waiting for our return. Malikar, it’s not the way of men to pierce the veil of time. Ours is the present. You may keep your prophecies, they’re of no value to us.”
“Ah, you misunderstand me again,” the Lotian said, placing a hand on his chest to show his remorse. “My mistake, Grand Master. The warning I bring is not magical in nature—indeed, it’s true that not even the most powerful Diviner can predict the future. If they were to try, Objectivity would erase them without fail. No. Only the Shadow Tarot can create images of what may be, and the Lady of Secrets won’t part with her favorite Artifact. But even she knows far less than she thinks. My personal knowledge allows me to make predictions, based not on magic but from logic alone. This is how I can say I bring a prophecy. Because I know something the Unseen Brotherhood does not.”
The smiles disappeared, much to the Lotian’s pleasure.
“My patience runs thin, Lotian,” said the Grand Master.
The Lotian nodded as if he were in a heated debate and his opponent had just made a decent point. “Have you looked from on high while a city burns to the ground with all its inhabitants trapped inside? At night, with the golden fire reaching up to the sky, it’s truly a glorious view fit only for the gods themselves,” the Lotian said. “There’s a new player in town. Someone who is shaking up the balance of power in the city. They’re the real reason the Inquisition has set up shop in Mullecias Heights. I know that the Thieves Guild likes to pret
end that we’re dealing with an ordinary smuggler, but the Brotherhood are more realistic, are you not? We’ve all seen the signs that a Dungeon Lord has infiltrated Constantina, and he cares little for the old ways.”
At that, Gezved frowned. “What do you care about upholding the old ways? You’re an agent of chaos. Your mere presence risks everything we’ve worked for since our arrival to this continent.”
“Chaos invoked with a purpose is the tool a man of destiny may use to build a new world order, Grand Master. But if wielded by inexperienced hands whose only purpose is to enrich themselves and their own… then chaos becomes the true bringer of death,” said the Lotian. “Here’s my prophecy. Soon enough, Undercity shall burn. It may be too late to stop the pieces from falling off the board even if you were to kill the newcomer today. And when the fire comes and whatever is left of the Brotherhood stands over the ashes of your life’s work, perhaps you’ll be more eager to accept my master’s gifts.” The Lotian bent his knee. “That’s all I’ve to say to you. Until we meet again, Grand Master.”
The Akathunian’s lips parted and turned into a grimace of anger. “You come into my house uninvited, speaking nonsense that can only be interpreted as vague threats against my people, and then you pretend we’ll simply let you leave? I don’t care who—or what—is this creature you call master, no one defies my Brotherhood and lives!”
At that, his brutes charged at the Lotian, swift like the wind, their legs propelling them forward much faster than a normal human could move without talent-enhancement. Some bared their daggers at the Lotian like beasts showing their fangs before the kill, and he could see the glint of the razor-wire between the hands of the rest. A few men remained behind and pulled small crossbows from behind their backs.
The Lotian had been expecting all this. With one hand, he reached for one knife he kept on his jacket and threw it at the Grand Master, watching the blade draw an arc as it soared through the air, aimed straight at Gezved’s chest. The old man reacted a little too late—even advanced reflexes were useless if you activated them too slowly to do something—but one of his Assassins jumped into the knife’s path at the last second. The Akathunian grunted when the knife pierced his chest, then collapsed, warm blood soaking his black tunic.
The rest of the Akathunians paused in doubt for a mere instant, torn between their objective and their sacred duty to protect their Grand Master. For the Lotian, this second of hesitation marked the difference between life and death.
The window to his right was the nearest. He turned his back to the Akathunians, ducking under the path of the crossbow bolts, and sprinted toward it as fast as he could. It was wide open. Without stopping, and without bothering to give even one more taunt to the Brotherhood, he jumped through—
And he was out into the open, frozen in the middle of the air for a fraction of a second while his momentum fought with the forces of gravity, but lost.
He dropped like a rock, with a volley of bolts soaring after him. His cloak fluttered like black succubus wings, and the twin moons beckoned him, two Queens in a kingdom of darkness and stars. Behind him, the Charcoal Tower was a blur, and the buildings of the city below rose to meet him. Far in the distance, he could see the district of Mullecias Heights, their lavish white streets shining gold under the lamplight.
Constantina was beautiful, and it would bring the Lotian much pleasure to watch it burn.
But in the meantime, it was good that his fall had brought him far enough away from the Unseen Brotherhood’s anti-magic circle that he could cast a single, well-chosen spell.
“Levitate!” he exclaimed, canceling his meeting with the floor mere instants before it was too late to reschedule.
When the Akathunians reached the bottom of the tower and poured into the streets like angry shadows, the Lotian was nowhere to be found.
1
Chapter One
Fall of the Rebellion
A black sea of chitin surrounded the grassy hill. Fangs were piercing flesh, waves were crashing against one another, a conflagration of clicking mandibles filled the air with white noise. Ichor soaked the grass, pooling into the terrain, dyeing the silver strands of spiderweb that covered the landscape blue. Beyond and around the fighting mass of spiderlings, spider warriors clashed together, trying to run the other through with their horns while doing their best to avoid being speared in turn. Right behind the lines of clashing warriors, the princesses of both sides ordered their troops around the battlefield, trying to outmaneuver the enemy or goad them into making a mistake. In the distance, the figures of three Spider Queens lumbered behind the fight with the protection of their royal guard, looking for the right opportunity to join the fray.
Dungeon Lord Edward Wright, Master of the Haunt, stepped away from his forces and into the thick of the front-lines. At once, enemy spider warriors rushed him, hissing, fangs dripping poison through their clacking mandibles. Ed swung his spear and drew a long arc in front of them, forcing them to stop to avoid their front legs being cut through.
From the corner of his eye, Ed saw a horned spider jump at him, legs bent forward and her horn aimed right at his neck. He had been expecting it, as he knew the combat style of spider warriors well. Almost without thinking, he activated his improved reflexes talent and had the world slow down around him. The spider’s path through the air became a placid lunge.
Ed planted both feet in the ground, hefted his lance with both hands above his head, and ran her through mid-air, driving the spear’s tip through the connection between her torso and abdomen, causing blue goo and guts to fly everywhere. Ed gritted his teeth at the added weight. He pushed his knees upward and forced the dying spider skyward, almost as if he were hefting a bleeding flag into the sky. He turned around and used his back to bring the spider crashing down against one of her sisters, who had jumped just an instant after her. The impact rattled Ed’s bones and strained his joints, but it was overshadowed by the grim satisfaction he felt at seeing both spiders crumple as if made from wet paper, their legs twitching as they rolled on the grass.
The effect of improved reflexes ended, leaving him with a barely noticeable strain on his body. The vitality potion he drank before the battle was still in effect, which meant he could take a couple risks with his talents.
At once, the rest of the horned spiders closed in, their mandibles and horns jabbing and thrusting toward him. Ed wore a breastplate and thick leather armor underneath, courtesy of Undercity’s Thieves Guild. Thanks to his pledge of armor, he deflected the few spider’s attacks that managed to reach him as if they had been pulled away by an invisible force.
And for each bite and horn thrust, Ed struck at them thrice as fiercely, gritting his teeth as particles of blue goo sprayed across his face. His spear was slick with blood, threatening his hold. His cloak was heavy with mud and gore, and it muffled all sounds coming from him, turning him into a silent killer in the middle of the chaotic battlefield.
Three horned spiders came to reinforce the group of five he was dealing with. Before they reached their allies, Ed speared one of the first group straight through her eye, steel breaking chitin with a terrible crunch. The other four rushed at him and he jumped away, trying to pull his spear free, but his grip slipped at the last instant.
A sharp spider leg left a long scratch on his chest-plate as he activated his reflexes again and jumped back, leaving his spear and reaching for his sword.
Alone, Ed was more than a match for these seven horned spiders. Still, he was only a mortal. If they overwhelmed him with their numbers…
But, of course, he had numbers of his own. That was the whole point of being a Dungeon Lord. As the spiders rushed him before he had a chance to draw his steel, magical purple crows flew past Ed, crackling as they did.
The crows smashed into the spider’s faces, aiming at their eyes, and exploded into a shower of sparks and scorched exoskeletons. In an instant, eyes popped and hair caught fire. The spiders screamed in agony and scrambled. Ed drew
his sword and dove through the confusion, hacking and slashing his way across the melee in an almost blind rage. More reinforcements flooded in, but now his own horned spiders fought alongside him, strands of web flying over his head in all directions as copies of himself appeared in different spots of the battle, drawing the attention of the rebels away from the real Dungeon Lord.
Ed grinned as one of his copies only a couple steps away was webbed and speared through by the horns of three horned spiders. They hissed in triumph and then in confusion as the illusion dissipated into uncountable raindrops. Their confusion didn’t last long, though, because the real Ed jumped in and hacked the horn off the nearest spider.
He was about to deal the critter a killing blow when a tough, elvish-looking woman reached his side. She had powerful legs and muscles taut like steel chords.
“Cleave!” Marshal Kes bellowed, and her sword drew an impossibly accurate arc through the grouped-up horned spiders, striking each of them with equal force before moving on to the next. In a single instant, she had killed almost as many horned spiders as Ed had in the last several minutes of the fight.
“Hey!” he called, frowning. “I was dealing with those.”
The former-mercenary-turned-minion snorted. “You’re covered in sweat, Ed. Time for a breather.” The Haunt’s spiders streamed past them and forced the rebels away.
