Dungeon Lord: Abominable Creatures (The Wraith's Haunt Book 3)

by Hugo Huesca

  “As you wish,” she said simply. “It all began fifteen years ago, around 834 in the Old Calendar, during the reign of King Varen the Fair in Heiliges and Count Bastavar in the Free City of Yhin. 834 was a good year. Plenty of easy prey with potent blood to increase your essence. I served under Dungeon Lord Jiraz the Old. Back then, the most recent Jiraz was but an apprentice learning to create drones and carve holes in caves.” Her eyes glazed over as if remembering a particularly nice trip to the beach. “Archlord Everbleed hid in his tower, behaving as if the times of the ancient Lordship hadn’t died with the fall of Sephar. Saint Claire and Tillman, meanwhile, plugged their ears and pretended their coffers hadn’t dried up decades ago bankrolling the fight against Bastavar and his revolution—which was not a good time at all to be a vampire, let me tell you… There was always a risk you’d wake up and find that your mortal thralls had listened to too much propaganda during the daylight hours and now you had a stake through your heart and your butler was building a pyre around you… But I digress. Year 834. Old Jiraz fought the marauding armies of the Militant Church all around the Western Lotian frontier, while the Arpadel dynasty brought the fighting to Heiligian shores, and the Dungeon Twins—Heines and Vaines—roamed like a tornado past the black shores of Vros, leaving devastation in their wake. It was experience points and essence all around. You wouldn’t believe how much fun I had. The rivers were awash with blood, and mud, and bodies, and Necromancers could go for a stroll and stumble into a pile of bones as tall as their head, ready for raising. Such a great time to be undead.”

  Ed’s mind raced as Jarlen spoke, trying to assemble important facts that she was merely throwing around in passing. As an afterthought, he summoned a drone by a corner and ordered him to transmute pen and parchment to take notes for later. There was a timeline to follow here, but history class had been one of his weaknesses back on Earth, and Jarlen wasn’t making it easy—she was so old that she digressed constantly and changed decades in the middle of important points. He attempted to ground her words. First, there’d been the ancient Lordship, which had lasted an indeterminate amount of time and had ended with Sephar’s Bane, which had caused the Inquisition to reform into its current, bloodthirsty form. Long after that, a revolution had ravaged Lotia, and Bastavar had kicked the last Archlord into a tower somewhere. Lotia had split into free city-states, and then Heiliges invaded, and the Dungeon Lords invaded them back, but by the sounds of it, war between both countries was the normal state of affairs. Lavy and Alder had been about ten years old, Kes had been a soldier in the Cardinal Command, and Klek hadn’t been born yet. Ed himself had been in High School, an angry orphan living with his relatives and deciding between joining the military for the benefits or drowning in debt to study computer science.

  “No one paid much attention to the first Hero,” Jarlen went on. “The Militant Church sent it against Lady Golsa, who destroyed it with little effort and thought nothing of it. There wasn’t much to tell. After all, every spellcaster and their mother were trying to develop new tools to kill their enemies at a distance. I prefer up close and personal, myself. But then a second Hero came knocking at Golsa’s doors, and a new one after that, and then they came in groups, and then people began paying attention. Minions of different Dungeon Lords talk among themselves, see—mostly to keep an eye on working conditions, and experience points earned per year, and salaries and things like that. Eventually, everyone in the Netherworld knew about Golsa’s situation.

  “It was a joking matter, at first. Golsa destroyed the Heroes over and over again, and the Militant Church spent more gold building them than she did fighting them. Heroes were little more than expensive golems, and every Aureus wasted on them was an Aureus that wasn’t going to sponsor real adventurers or Inquisitors. Golsa outfitted her Throne Rooms and Main Halls with the destroyed constructs and showed it to her friends at parties, bragging about how she’d defeated each specific instance, not unlike a kaftar big-game hunter. She made everyone jealous. But not for long. Each iteration of the Heroes had some new improvement, and in hindsight, the Militant Church chose their first target perfectly. Golsa lacked Vaine’s military genius, or the Arpadels’ bravery, or Euric’s insane Charm build. Golsa began losing ground more and more with each battle. The Heroes now carried an assortment of runes and could activate them by themselves, which no golem before them could have done, and they wielded enchanted weapons and armor designed for sentient hands—on top of layers upon layers of enchantments on their own bodies. Golsa lost minions in droves, some to the Heroes, but most because they saw the writing on the wall, ended their pacts, and snuck off to the nearest Netherworld Portal to find some new Dungeon Lord. Allies of Golsa aided her at first, but the Heroes never stopped coming, and eventually she ran out of good will. She lost her outposts first, then her resource dungeons, then her inner dungeons, and then she took refuge in the Netherworld. I think the old crone is still hiding there.”

  The drone scribbled as fast as it could, its pointed tongue protruding from its lips. Alder looked at its writings, shook his head, and took the parchment and pen away from it, then began writing himself, scratching and amending at the same time he followed Jarlen’s tale.

  “So, they didn’t kill Golsa?” Lavy asked. She massaged her chin. “My mentor, Warlock Chasan, mentioned her once or twice—he was one of the minions that left her when things grew dire. He always wondered what wound up happening to her.”

  “I’m glad to help put that mystery to rest,” Jarlen told her, giving a fake smile. “After Golsa, the Militant Church sent Heroes against other Dungeon Lords, and her tale was repeated over and over again. It didn’t matter how smart, or strong, or rich a Lord was, the damn constructs just kept coming. Most Lords simply escaped into the Netherworld like Golsa had done, but eventually the Heroes developed a spell that could neutralize a nearby Portal. Thank Murmur, the spell still has a low success rate, but luck doesn’t last forever.” She drew an imaginary line in the air with a long yellow nail. “When the first Dungeon Lord fell, hunted inside his own dungeon like a rabbit, things got out of control. A new version of the Heroes appeared, with capabilities far beyond the previous iterations’. This new Hero needs no runes to cast spells. Even worse, they are able to grow in power, much like a living being can gain experience points. Many Dungeon Lords met their demise while trying to distract the Heroes by creating disposable dungeons to keep them occupied, only to have the Heroes grow into unstoppable killing engines. I believe this was the fate of the last of the Arpadels.”

  Ed gave Lavy a concerned gaze. His friend’s expression was distant. “Yes, it was,” she told the vampire. “Glad to put that mystery to rest.”

  Jarlen nodded, unaware or uncaring of the Witch’s turmoil.

  “Enough with the history lesson,” Kes said. “How do you put them down?”

  “Like you would any other golem, I guess,” Jarlen said with a shrug. “You can inflict overwhelming damage that renders them useless, or bypass their magical defenses and melt their inner workings. Anti-magic circles leave them unable to cast spells, and powerful magical afflictions—like fear, blindness, and silences—can affect them much like any living creature, but not for long. Thing is, they’re much more resilient than any mortal. And even if you deal with them, a new Heroic batch will come, and there are less minions this time around, so even if you win…” She drew a downward spiral with her hand to underline her words.

  “All spells can be countered,” Lavy said, raising an eyebrow. “How come no one has captured a Hero, cut it open, and figured out how it works?”

  “Do you think no one else has thought of that, little Witch?” Jarlen snapped at her. “Of course we’ve tried. The damn things either teleport away or explode when they’re beaten! By Murmur, they off themselves even if you freeze one with ice magic! Some Dungeon Lords dug into Golsa’s ruins and found some of her early captured Heroes—they didn’t explode back then. They were just golems, nothing special about those, except th
at they had expensive remote-controlling enchantments installed. No. The newer versions are something else, but we cannot force rubble to share its secrets!” Jarlen bared her fangs in frustration.

  Ed ignored the vampire’s outburst. Something in her description had set his imagination off, and now he could barely pay any attention to her. She’d said something before, something about him, the first time they’d met, but her exact words had eluded him. He felt as if he were standing next to one huge realization, like a detective that passes next to the unrevealed killer and tenses up, his instincts picking something up but not yet knowing.

  “You told us that they could grow,” he told the vampire. “Do you know how?”

  “Oh, most minions have seen it in action, even if they don’t live long enough to tell the tale. Of course, I’m the exception. When a modern Hero destroys a Throne Room, something interesting happens. Don’t worry, Lord Wraith, I fear you’ll know what I’m talking about very soon. The entire dungeon melts as if made of a Nightshade’s mist. Afterward, the Hero becomes much stronger, as do their weapons and armor. It seems as if they feed on the dungeon, somehow, although I don’t know how that is possible, and if any remaining Dungeon Lord knows the procedure, they’ve kept it to themselves.” She smoothed a crease in her black dress and turned to Ed. “You now know about as much as I do, Lord Wraith. To end my story, Jiraz the Young killed Jiraz the Old and came to Starevos, following the rumors of an otherworldly Dungeon Lord, a weapon designed by Murmur as an answer to the Inquisition’s constructs. I believe Jiraz half-hoped, half-feared, that you would be an artificial creature not unlike the Heroes. I don’t know how he would’ve felt about the truth. If you allow me to be honest, I don’t see any powers or skills you may have that will allow you to succeed where every other Lord has failed.”

  I really wish I had one, Ed thought. In many of his favorite games, the player character had a power that set them well beyond the level of their enemies, allowing them to tear through unending hordes of mooks. Life, though, didn’t work that way. Ed already had powers that set him well apart from the rest of humanity—those of an “ordinary” Dungeon Lord. Those powers hadn’t been enough in the past. Ed’s duty was to protect those under his care, and then when raw magical power wasn’t enough, he’d have to fill the gaps with ingenuity and determination.

  And right then, he remembered Jarlen’s words. The otherworldly Dungeon Lord. A move taken straight from the Light’s playbook. Associations flared in his mind like fireworks, one after the other. The Heroes self-destructing when defeated, the mechanism to feed on a dungeon. Golems controlled from afar. His suspicions grew upon realization after realization and became certainty.

  He gave Jarlen a slanted grin. “Back where I come from, knowledge is power, and you’ve already told me something that I don’t think many Dungeon Lords know.”

  “Yes? And what’s that?” Jarlen asked, tilting her head like a predator sniffing the air for signs of danger.

  “The Militant Church didn’t create the Heroes,” Ed said. “Someone from my world did.” Next to him, Alder inhaled sharply, and his pen scratched a line on the parchment. “Thanks, Jarlen. You’ve given us much to think about. I’d say that’s enough for one night. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about your fate.”

  Later that night, Ed and his friends sat in the War Room, their faces heavy with sleep. Amphiris’ leg cast long shadows across the table, which was strewn with untouched snacks.

  “Are you sure?” Kes asked Ed, while he glanced at Alder’s notes.

  “Almost,” Ed said. “It only makes sense. The way she spoke about it, Alita has been summoning people from other worlds before Murmur brought me to Ivalis.” He looked at Alder for confirmation, but the Bard shrugged apologetically.

  “The Militant Church doesn’t tell Elaitra all their plans,” Alder explained. “Even if they did, I wasn’t far enough in my training to be worth the trust of such a secret. There are mentions of strange adventurers brought from distant lands to serve the Light in the war against the ancient Lordship, but those records are ancient, Ed, and ‘distant land’ may have simply meant another continent, like Plekth.”

  Ed nodded. “What about you, Lavy? Did Kael or Heines ever mention anything about their grandfathers fighting strangers?”

  “Their grandfathers?” Lavy chuckled softly. “I think both Alder and that vampire bitch failed to explain the expanse of time we’re talking about when we speak of ‘ye olden days,’ Ed. Simply put, the creation of the first Dungeon Lord is Year 0 in the Old Calendar.”

  “Oh,” Ed said. “What year are we in, again?”

  “850.”

  Ed thought of his timeline. I’m going to need more parchment, he realized in dismay. “I see,” he said. “But there are other details that point at someone from Earth being behind the Heroes.” He scratched his hair, trying once again to speak of terms like data security protocols and digital rights management, that had no easy counterpart in a world where magic had kept an industrial revolution from happening. Then Ed realized that maybe there was a counterpart after all. “Okay, tell me, what happens when a Wizard wants to sell a new spell? There has to be a way to stop someone from buying the spellbook, then copying it for free and spreading it around, right?”

  It was a bit of a leap to think that Ivalis had an equivalent of a patent office, but Ed already knew that there were a few spells that everyone could learn, like ice bolt or fireball, and others that could only be obtained by studying the appropriate spellbook.

  Lavy rested her back against the wall. “You’re thinking of meta-magic,” she said. “Extremely advanced theory. Meta-mages are specialists that spend most of their lives studying the science of casting spells that modify other spells. When, say, Wizard Bob develops a fireball variant, he brings his spell-notes to a meta-mage, who will imbue the notes with a custom meta-spell. Thanks to this, Bob’s notes cannot be copied or reproduced without his permission, and cannot even be comprehended unless you bought the notes from Bob himself or an approved spell-shop. If you do buy Bob’s fireball, then you can understand the spell and cast it, but you cannot teach it to others—unless you buy more copies, of course.”

  Ed’s fingertips tingled with excitement, even the ones of his skeletal hands. At last, he’d found something where he held the undeniable home advantage, a situation where he wasn’t racing after the knowledge that everyone else in Ivalis already had. DRM was something he knew well—he’d earned the damn degree that proved it.

  “And you can dispel those meta-spells, can’t you?” he asked.

  “If you manage to get a hold of the same mage or one who’s more powerful,” Lavy said, “but it’s usually cheaper to just buy the spell-note. If you don’t have the money, there are seedy parts of the Netherworld that deals in unprotected notes that are cheaper. These spells are lesser-quality imitations of the original, but if you have a keen eye, you can sometimes find a spell that works just as well as the expensive version. My own crow familiar is one of those.”

  “This is all very interesting,” Kes said dryly. “But I fail to see what it has to do with the Heroes, Ed.”

  Ed nodded gratefully at Lavy before turning back to Kes. “See, we have the same meta-magic in my world. We call it DRM, but we use it for software… software is like a spell-note that isn’t magical, and works only as information. I know the Heroes’ creator came from Earth, because there people have also tried to add meta-magical protection to advanced military weapons.”

  “What, like enchanting a sword to prevent anyone from making a similar one?” Kes asked, raising an eyebrow. “How would you even enforce such a thing? The Cardinal Command has its secrets, like our flight formations, but it’s not like we could treat knowledge itself as a spell and add meta-magic to it. I don’t need to be a Witch to know Objectivity would eat anyone who tried.”

  “She’s right,” Lavy said.

  “Well, Earth has no Objectivity,” Ed pointed out. “There’s also no magic, so people
have to get creative.” He remembered his first meeting with Kharon, back when the Boatman had told him that Murmur had summoned Ed because people from Earth had a different perspective than the people from Ivalis. “A guy from Earth that wants to stop Dungeon Lords from capturing his Heroes and studying them won’t think about something as Ivalian as meta-magic. He’ll just enchant his designs to blow up if they fall into enemy hands. Problem solved.”

  He watched as understanding lit his friends’ faces. “Heroes are protected in the way a person from Earth would choose, instead of an Ivalian spellcaster,” Lavy said.

  “So, the Inquisition has their own Lord Ed?” Klek asked quietly.

  “I… guess that’s one way to put it,” Ed said. “More like, they have an Ed with fifteen plus years of a head start, with all the resources of the Militant Church at his disposal, and who probably was in the military before being summoned.”

  “Wetlands, we’re fucked,” Lavy said, suddenly having gone pale. “This explains so much…”

  “Trust me, it could’ve been worse,” Ed told her, and he meant it. “We should be glad the Light was so… naïve when they summoned him. They probably used a spell that looked for a powerful war-mage, and it got them the closest thing, a military software developer. Had they known what to look for…” Ed shuddered. If the Light had summoned a biologist, or a nuclear physicist… a bio-engineered plague or a fucking nuke were bad enough on Earth, but if they were mixed with magic… the consequences could be cataclysmic. He wondered if Objectivity could save Ivalis from becoming a molten, radioactive ball.

  Hell, the Dark was very lucky that this mysterious developer had only sent Heroes after it. Ed himself had already come up with several ideas about mixing magic with basic programming principles. With fifteen years and a country’s resources at his disposal…

  How come the Light hasn’t steamrolled Murmur already? Ed thought. There was something there that didn’t make sense.