by Hugo Huesca
Hours later, while sitting comfortably on an embroidered silk cushion inside Kistog’s tent, Ed could almost forget that he was riding atop a damned giant centipede.
Almost.
The tent itself was a work of art. It was fashioned out of a warm red and gold fabric with one wooden column sustaining the arches of the ceiling. The carpet hid the chitin of the cinderpede from view, and if it weren’t for the constant, rhythmic movement of its legs, it would’ve been like riding a luxury train car. His minions rode under conditions only slightly less luxurious—the tents were smaller and more cramped, and lacked the incense and all the silver cutlery Kistog had lying around. Still, Ed couldn’t help but feel vulnerable without Kes, Alder, Klek, and Lavy covering his back.
Kistog himself lay placidly under a stream of cushions in much the same way his master had been when Ed met the Regent of Xovia. The naga flicked his snake tail and used the edge with surprising dexterity to throw a couple more incense sticks to the brazier burning over a golden tray close to him.
“We’ve been waiting for your arrival ever since our dutiful associate informed us you’d grace us with your presence,” he half-purred at Ed. The naga was dressed in an ample green tunic embroidered in smoky floral patterns, and his chiseled arms were covered in golden brands that marked him as the property of Korghiran herself. He moved and talked with a snobbish affectation, and it was clear he took great pains to avoid prolonging the “sss” in his speech—and he almost succeeded.
Ed gave Jarlen a dubious look. The vampire was half-asleep from her feast on ogre blood, with a very satisfied expression on her face. “The Lady of Secrets indeed. Korghiran could’ve sent an invitation instead of going through all this trouble, you know.”
Jarlen chuckled and licked one finger marred with crusted blood. “Lord Wraith, you’re the only Dungeon Lord I’ve ever met that dislikes gifts.”
“Nothing is ever free,” Ed told her. Although, he had to admit she had a point.
Jarlen had been a servant of Korghiran long before she’d ever become a minion of Jiraz the Elder. Apparently, it was a given that most of a Dungeon Lord’s “elite” demonic minions came from their relationship with one Regent or another. Technically, vampires and naga weren’t demons, but Korghiran was in the business of collecting skilled individuals with juicy bits of knowledge. Having lived as long as she had, Jarlen fit the bill perfectly.
When she’d heard about Ed’s vision with the Regent, the vampire had understood her master’s wishes and nudged Ed’s path to converge with the Regent’s. Since Korghiran had no current ill intentions toward the Dungeon Lord, Jarlen’s minionship pact had allowed her to act as she had. Yes, technically, Ed had nothing to complain about. In reality, though…
The Mantle’s pacts can be gamed too, he thought. He’d always acted on the assumption that pacts were air-tight. Jarlen had easily danced across its limits. Who knew what other ways there were to exploit the rules?
Ed had been avoiding other Dungeon Lords for far too long. There were tricks that he didn’t know, and for a while there, he’d come to believe he was the only one around who dared to push Objectivity’s buttons a bit. From the looks of it, the Demon Regents of the Netherworld had been at it for thousands of years.
“In this case,” Kistog said, easing his way back into the conversation, “it’s as close as it gets. Regent Korghiran has put this cinderpede at your disposal for traveling to the Citadel at your leisure. Her name is Ilma. You’ll find that she’s not only a regal way to move around, but also a fine way of avoiding the… nuisances of travel by foot. The Netherworld can be a dangerous place even for the mightiest Dungeon Lord, if caught unaware.”
“So I hear,” Ed said. “And in the meantime, I guess you’ll make me an offer too good to pass up, right?” He glanced outside the small window of the tent.
The never-ending storm swirled across the vast red sky, and the fractured landscape crested in the distance. He saw the first hint of vegetation then, a huge mushroom-shaped tree growing right at the edge of an obsidian slope, with roots reaching down to the emptiness below. Thanks to Ilma’s height, Ed could see that the tree’s crown was rich with gray puffball. The tubers apparently grew inside the tree, with only their gray tops visible, but the violet smoke flowing upward was unmistakable. Tiny red and brown figures buzzed angrily around the puffball farm, wielding farming instruments.
Kistog calmly reached for a silver tray with tea utensils and poured out two cups of a steaming, unknown brew. He made no motion to serve Jarlen anything, and she didn’t give signs of caring. Ed ignored the cup the naga set in front of him, but Kistog drank from his own without a care. “It seemss I was misinformed, Lord Wraith. Have you had experience with the Demon Regents after all? You appear to be familiar with their ways.”
“A relative of Korghiran, maybe,” Ed said, thinking of Kharon. “I’m not sure.” He sighed, and then squared his shoulders. “Enough with the cryptic one-liners, Kistog. If we keep this up we’ll reach the Citadel before saying what we want to say. What does she want? Your master, I mean.”
Kistog’s cup clinked against the china dish as he set it down with a practiced, fluid motion. “Why, what all Regents want with promising Dungeon Lords. She’d like to offer you a quest, and the chance to be rewarded handsomely if you succeed.” He smiled in a way that befit his sixteen ranks in Charm, but the gesture was marred by the naga’s bifurcated tongue flicking the air in a fraction of a second.
“No offense, but I’ve my hands full with Quests at the moment,” Ed said. “Some days, it looks like I get them faster than I can finish them.”
“That’s the sign of a Dungeon Lord on the rise. But don’t worry, this is not a quest that you need to fulfill right now. Indeed, the next Endeavor won’t begin until next year.”
“Endeavor?”
Kistog and Jarlen exchanged knowing glances. Jarlen winked at the naga. “Truly, this must be the first time you’ve entered the Netherworld if you haven’t yet heard about Evangeline Tillman’s inheritance, Lord Wraith,” Kistog said. “Allow me to explain. Saint Claire and Tillman was one of the Netherworld’s most famous corporations, a joint venture between the famous Dungeon Lord Saint Claire and the renowned Witch Evangeline Tillman. Together, they created a juggernaut of industry that pushed the boundary of sscientific and magical research. Banking, sspellcraft, weaponry, creature design, even farming and etiquette training. Saint Claire and Tillman put it all together and packaged it neatly together for the young, enterprising Dungeon Lord. This was the corporation’s claim to fame. For almost a hundred years, Saint Claire and Tillman single-handedly fueled the Lotian war-engine againsst Heiliges, and since they’re exclusively located in the Netherworld, there was nothing the Militant Church could do about it.”
Jarlen sighed with nostalgia. “The good old days. I remember them as if it had all happened yesterday. A newly Mantled Dungeon Lord could simply pact with a Regent, ask for a small loan, and have Saint Claire and Tillman set him up with everything he needed. Spells, designs, weapons, monsters—all but experience points. He’d only need to point at a neighboring city and start the pillaging.” She shook her head, lost in her memories.
“I won’t bore you with the history lesson,” Kistog said. “Today, Saint Claire and Tillman is gone. Evangeline and Lord Saint Claire are long dead, and the fabled Board of Advisers is long dismantled. The Standard Factory is but a phantom operation, maintained only by golems and self-sustained security systems blindly following the last instructions they got decades ago, powered on by ever-dwindling magical reserves. Inside the Factory’s grounds are hidden treasures beyond measure, but that’s irrelevant. The Factory itself is the prize, Lord Wraith, and in the handsss of a smart Dungeon Lord, its value soars beyond the treasury of Heiliges and Lotia added together. The Standard Factory contains all the magical systems used by Saint Claire and Tillman to equip Dungeon Lords. The asssembly lines, the monster customization facilities, the enchanted weaponry stock,
even their altered crops are sstored there. Imagine what a ssingle Dungeon Lord could do with it. He’d become as powerful as a Regent, almost, with the reach and influence of a King. Think of the possibilities!” The naga’s black tongue slithered up and down in excitement.
Ed raised an eyebrow. “All that sounds very nice. What does it have to do with me? I’m not sure how the Netherworld deals with inheritance, but where I come from, fortune is either given to the closest descendants of the owners or the assets are claimed by the government. I’m pretty sure a random Dungeon Lord can’t just step inside the Factory and claim it for himself. Otherwise, someone like Alaric Everbleed would’ve done it already. Or one of the Regents, for that matter.”
Jarlen smiled lazily. “If it were only so simple.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Kistog said. “Lord Wraith, all of Saint Claire and Tillman’s descendants, those singled out in the wills, at least, died under surprising yet totally natural circumstances. These things happen all the time, you see. Terrible, terrible luck.” Ed’s eyebrow rose another inch, which Kistog seemingly took as a clue to explain further. “One was terribly depresssed. He grabbed a crosssbow and shot himself twice in the back of the head. We do not understand how he managed to reload the second time, but it was truly a testament to his commitment. Another one mistook a vitality potion for a deadly acid that had been, due to a terrible miscommunication, labeled the exact same as the potion. Another one accidentally ran a dozen times straight into the knife of an Akathunian ambassador—”
“I get it,” Ed said. “No living descendants. Why won’t the Regents claim it?”
“Evangeline and Saint Claire were a… peculiar pair,” Kistog said. “A bit paranoid, in their later years, one could say. They believed some Regents were jealous of their amassed wealth, so they built the Standard Factory in the heart of Raaga—a hotly contessted territory with no Regent. If any Regent were to claim the Factory for himself, he’d start a war that the Netherworld cannot afford, given the trying times we live in. Furthermore, all the other Regents would ally against him and surely end him, since no Regent is strong enough to fight all others at once.”
“Not that they haven’t tried to sneak their way inside many times,” Jarlen pointed out. “They forge their alliances and go to their secret meetings, but the nature of a demon always betrays them. They simply cannot work together for anything important without backstabbing one another.”
Kistog looked away, nervously. “That’s your opinion, Jarlen, not mine.” He rubbed the bands on his arms. “Lord Wraith, the only way the Regents can access the secrets of Saint Claire and Tillman without setting the Netherworld aflame is to follow the rules. That is, to respect the wishes of Evangeline Tillman, as stated in the last point of her will.” He took a deep breath and quoted, “ ’In the event that all my living descendants would succumb to untimely deaths under mysterious circumstances, all my properties and holdings are to go to the first Dungeon Lord to come in possession of the Standard Factory’s bill of ownership, which is located in my office’s desk. Good luck.’ ”
Ed blinked. “Really? But that only makes Dungeon Lords kill one another instead of Regents,” he said.
“That was the point, I think,” Kistog said. “Tillman was a famous ssponsor of the Lordship, but she was an idealist. She dreamt of a world where Dungeon Lords and Regents could set their differences aside and work together for the common good of the Dark and what really matters—the extermination of the Light and all its followers. A nice ssentiment, but also impossible. Like Jarlen here has said… nature has a way of asserting itself.”
Ed shook his head in disbelief. He’d been in the Netherworld for only a couple hours and was already overwhelmed with the sheer… moral dissonance that their inhabitants spouted with no visible self-awareness. It’s as if they’re trying to be as evil as possible on purpose, he mused. He wished Alder was here. The Bard always acted as if his head was in the clouds, but his insight into human nature went beyond Ed’s. Perhaps he could make sense of this mummer’s farce.
Although, and he hated to admit it to his very core, the idea of the Standard Factory had him tempted. At the very least, he was willing to hear the rest of what Kistog had to say.
“Go on,” he told the naga.
“The Endeavor is Tillman’s postmortem attempt at achieving her dream. A yearly contest to which all Dungeon Lordss may attend. They and a small selection of minions enter the grounds of the Standard Factory and try to reach Tillman’s office. We suppose her plan was to force Dungeon Lords to work together and reach an arrangement and share the Factory among themselves. So far, everyone has either retreated, or succumbed to the Factory’s defenses, or been backstabbed by their peers. Word on the street is, we need a winner. We cannot afford to lose Dungeon Lords to one another as well as the Heroes. It’s unsustainable. So Regent Korghiran has magnanimously taken matters into her own hands and help a worthy Dungeon Lord win the contest. One pure of heart, brave, with no ties to the Netherworld to corrupt him, so he may achieve Tillman’s dream—”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Ed said quietly.
Kistog’s tongue flickered in disbelief. “I beg your pardon, Lord Wraith?”
“Do you think I’m a dreamy farm-boy who wants to avenge his father? You were doing so well until you tried to take me for an idiot,” Ed said. Next to him, Jarlen looked as if she were barely containing a fit of laughter. “Tell me what Korghiran really wants.”
“Your Evilness! I assure you, everything I said is the utmost truth!” Kistog was the very image of an affronted snake-man. His tail tensed with hurt pride, as if the very idea that Ed thought him dishonest wounded him to the core.
Ed could feel the anger bubbling through his veins. He could stand someone lying to him. But if there was something that made him lose his temper in a second, it was people treating him like an idiot. “Either you tell me what she really wants, or you can walk the rest of the way on foot to explain to her why you failed to recruit me.”
His words hung in the air like a sword for a second. Kistog rose slightly from the cushions, his mouth partially open to reveal a pair of fangs dripping oily poison. “Would you threaten to throw me out of my own cinderpede, Lord Wraith?”
At this point in his life, Ed had been threatened by creatures so powerful and terrifying that the sight of the angry naga was like seeing a child throwing a tantrum. He leaned back on the cushions to relieve the weight of his armor and spread his arms without a care in the world. “It’s my cinderpede, Kistog. And no, I wouldn’t throw you out of Ilma. My vampire would,” he said.
The naga’s brow contorted with fury. He opened his mouth, then closed it and stared blankly at Jarlen, who was smiling broadly from ear to ear.
“Sorry, Kissy,” she said. “Minion duty. No hard feelings, right, dear?”
Ed could almost see the gears turning in Kistog’s mind. The naga sat down.
“Smart Kissy,” Jarlen said.
“The truth?” Kistog said sourly. “Every Regent wantsss a piece of the pie. Since that bitch Tillman left no way for the Regents to claim the Factory without starting a war, they have lowered themselves to working through Dungeon Lords. Every single man and woman with a Mantle beating inside their chest that steps into the Netherworld gets an offer. Regent Korghiran got a small group of Dungeon Lords to work together, and by that I mean they hopefully won’t attack each other as soon as they meet. She wants you in her side. The rule is, the team reaches Tillman’s office and then they sort out who gets what. The Regent doesn’t care about the specifics so long as one of her team gets the bill of ownership.”
Now that’s better. With the cards over the table, Ed could tell that Korghiran’s offer was even more dangerous than it looked at first glance. If every other Regent was pulling their weight and forcing the Dungeon Lords under their influence to work together, allying with one Regent over another could earn the anger of other Dungeon Lords well before the Endeavor began.
I�
��ve somehow stumbled head first into a Faction quest-line, Ed thought, scratching his chin.
In an RPG, a Faction quest-line made you choose between different opposing groups to advance the story. Completing Quests for one group increased your status and standing in that faction, but increasing it too much usually angered the other factions and made you lose out on their Quests and rewards. Ed wasn’t a fan of those type of Quests because he hated going in blindly, knowing that no matter what he did, he’d miss out on content and items. Ivalis Online lacked that kind of game mechanic—it was a good old murder-fest, simple and to the point. Obviously, real life wasn’t as charming.
“Thanks for being clear,” Ed told the naga. “There’s only one more thing. Why would Korghiran bother? I assume she wants a bite out of Saint Claire and Tillman’s property.”
Kistog grimaced and twirled a lock of greenish hair. “It would be of little use to you,” he said. “The Lady Regent wants Tillman’s spellbooks, logs, and patents. The knowledge locked away in the Standard Factory’s vaults interest her greatly. The Factory itself is of no use to her.” He frowned and raised a warning finger at Ed. “And don’t try to cheat her. You’ll find that Regent Korghiran can be quite reasonable, but she’s also happy to kill a Dungeon Lord that stands in the way of her curiosity.”
“Noted,” Ed said. It was as fair a deal as he could expect. The naga had vastly understated the value of Tillman’s intellectual property—probably on purpose—but Ed’s many jobs before coming to Ivalis had taught him that information was much more valuable than plain old hardware. It was very possible that Tillman’s intellectual property was worth many times more than the Standard Factory.
And yet.
“I’ll consider it,” Ed told Kistog. “But not today. Like I told you before, my hands are full.”
“Of course, of course, Lord Wraith.” Now the naga relaxed his shoulders and smiled. “Regent Korghiran understands that you’ll need time to deal with your business in Ivalis. She only asks that you give her preference when you’re approached by other Regents—”
