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

by Hugo Huesca

  “Actually,” Ed said, grinning like a Ranger watching a rabbit nibble on the bait of his trap, “I’d be happy to give her offer priority. But there are a couple things another Regent may offer that could—” What would Alder say in my place? “—persuade me to evaluate their offer.”

  He was absolutely sure that he and Kistog had entered some kind of Charm contest. Ed hoped that his 14 ranks would be enough. The naga had 14 as well, though, given that he was the Netherworld’s equivalent of a recruiter.

  “Is that so? And what would those things be?” Kistog asked slowly.

  Ed took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “I want to free my dungeon from the danger of Heroic invasion once and for all, and I need access to all the resources I can get. Gear, spells, manpower, even disposable monsters to throw around. I’m doing a bit of research as well, on the whereabouts of a Dungeon Lady named Golsa. If she’s still alive, she and I are due for a long chat. Finally, I’d like to know if Korghiran has heard of a person from a world called Earth having been summoned to fight for the Light… probably not long before the first Heroes started showing up.”

  “Only a year as a Dungeon Lord and already making a ruckuss,” Kistog muttered, more to himself than to Ed. “I wonder how long it’ll be before you bite off more than you can chew, Lord Wraith.” He waved his hand at Jarlen, who had bent forward in a way that was at the same time both perfectly innocent and utterly threatening. “Never mind that. Regent Korghiran has allowed you to pretty much roam freely around the Citadel. You’ll have access to our vendors and sspecialists, although ssecuring their loyalties is up to you. She’s even willing to grant you a line of credit, as long as you use it wisely. On the second and third demands… that’s a bit more difficult. I’ve never heard about Earth before, but nevertheless, I’m only the Lady’s servant. I’ll mention it to her. But I can already predict that she’ll demand a bit more of a reason to trust you with her secrets on the matter of Lady Golsa. Perhaps the Lady of Secrets knows about Lady Golsa’s fate. Perhapss she’ll need to cash in a few favors. It’ll be much easier if she’s in the right mood, if you catch my meaning.”

  “I do,” Ed said. It was the Faction quest-line all over again. To get the information he wanted, he’d have to increase his standing with Korghiran’s faction. Perhaps he ought to get it over with and make it into an official quest for the Haunt.

  At least we’re making progress, he told himself. Not bad for our first foray into the Netherworld. He had only had to informally ally himself with one of Kharon’s siblings and, perhaps, earn the animosity of who knew how many others, including potentially the Boatman himself.

  And he knew very well that Kistog hadn’t shared all of Korghiran’s plans. By now, he’d had enough dealings with the Dark to know it never revealed its true intentions until it was too late. But it was nice to have a Regent from the Netherworld try to manipulate him into doing her bidding instead of having to deal with the envoy of Murmur himself. It was a refreshing change of pace, and since he had absolutely no intentions of playing by Korghiran’s rules at all, he decided he couldn’t hold it against her, either.

  “I’ll consider your offer, and in the meantime, I accept your master’s gifts in the name of the Haunt.” Ed stood up, his armor clinking as he did, and Jarlen hurried to follow suit.

  Kistog’s triumphant smile faltered. “Where are you going, Lord Wraith? We haven’t arrived at the Citadel yet. Pleassse, sit down. Let’s celebrate the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  “We’re not friends, naga. My friends are back there,” he said, pointing back over his shoulder, “and I mean to join them. Thanks for the tea.”

  He was almost to the tent’s door when he heard the shuffling of the rugs as the naga slithered his way. “Wait, Lord Wraith,” Kistog called. “Just one last thing. My master told me to give you this. Sshe said you’d know why.”

  The naga handed him a sturdy card with a metallic edge and a familiar scene playing out on its face, with three men working at the keyboards of a Control Room. “The Shadow Tarot is going to be missing a card if I keep this,” Ed pointed out.

  “It wouldn’t be an Artifact of Power if it couldn’t replace a losst card,” was all Kistog said.

  Ed glanced at the card again, and all it implied. A part of him wanted to throw it back in Kistog’s face and have Jarlen make good on Ed’s defenestration threat. But it was as if the three men in the image were looking straight at him. Smiling, hopeful, confident. Ed sighed and pocketed the card as he left.

  20

  Chapter Twenty

  Netherworld

  A stream of imps flew well above Ed’s head, over the high stone rooftops and the sharp walls of Xovia Citadel and into the spiral bee-hive that was the Regent’s Palace, which rose well past any other building in its surroundings and almost challenged the skyscrapers on Earth.

  “Alright, everyone, we’re here,” Ed told his minions, who fanned out in a half-circle in front of him and forced the crowd to part in their wake. A couple minotaurs gave them angry glances—which Kes returned a hundredfold—but no one dared mess with a Dungeon Lord and his minions, which was a welcome change of pace, and more so because some of the Netherworld’s inhabitants seemed like the kind of beings you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley at the end of the night. Or a well-lit alley in the middle of the night. Or a perfectly open street in the middle of the day. “Let’s make the best of it.”

  “What’s the plan, Lord Ed?” Klek asked. He and his Spider Riders surrounded the couple of small coffers full of Vyfaras that Ed had brought from the Haunt. Hopefully, with Korghiran’s line of credit backing them up, they wouldn’t need to spend much from their own funds.

  The Citadel itself spit in the face of anything resembling reasonable laws of physics. It rose above the fractured landscape beneath it, growing around the Palace like bulbs extending from a sturdy plant stem. The Citadel walls were more like a partial cocoon protecting it from aerial incursion, with massive orange runes enveloping the city in an invisible aura meant to stop most magical means of invasion, as well as divination.

  To reach the Market Bulbs sector, Ed’s group had had to climb through the bottom of Korghiran’s palace first—which seemed to mostly consist of gigantic staircases—and then through the main bridge. It was a small miracle he had lost no one along the way.

  “We’ve figured out quite a bit regarding the Heroes in the last few months,” Ed said. “We’ve seen them in action, watched how the Inquisition uses them, and learned their history. I think it’s time we investigate how they work. Closely. I mean for us to capture one.”

  That simple statement earned him a couple of incredulous stares. “You do remember that they explode in your face if you try to imprison them, right?” Lavy whispered to him.

  “That’s why it’s so important,” Ed explained. “No one has done it because the Inquisition has gone to great pains to make their capture impossible. But we know things that no Ivalian native does.”

  “You mean, that the Heroes’ creator came from your world,” Alder said. “At least, that’s what you think.”

  Ed’s eyes flicked left and right, past the crowd of inhuman inhabitants and sellers. He and his minions stood in the middle of the street of one of the Citadel’s Market Bulbs. The thick bridge that connected it to the bottom of Korghiran’s palace grew like a stone tongue out in the horizon. Several lesser bridges connected the bulb with its neighbors, and the shade of its wall covered the street in a partial twilight only broken by the fragile light coming from hundreds of paper lamps eerily floating several feet above the ground, following some kind of mystical current flowing all through the city, giving the impression that the sky was enveloped by dancing red stars.

  “It’s true,” Ed said. He could almost feel the weight of the Shadow Tarot’s card hidden inside his pocket. “And until he or she shows up, there are a few things I want to try. And I’m going to need everyone’s help.”

  The stares
turned into excited whispering. “What do you need us to do, Lord Ed?” Klek asked.

  Ed grinned. “Well, to start, we are going to build an enticing fake dungeon—one that the Inquisition won’t be able to resist sending its Heroes against.” He paced in front of his minions as he pointed at each different group. “Jarlen, you know people here, don’t you? I want you to recruit me some minions. Find me the worst of the worst. People that no one will miss, but those who are dumb enough to take a dangerous mission.”

  “You want disposable minions,” Jarlen said, sounding bored. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Kaga,” Ed went on. “You and your Monster Hunters will find the biggest, meanest monsters we can keep under control. No need to set up breeding camps for each type, but if the price’s good, remember that we’re on Korghiran’s tab, so don’t worry about running up the numbers.”

  “We’ll find creatures that put the fear of the Haunt into the heart of our enemies,” Kaga said with a salute.

  “And go with Jarlen when you’ve got a bit of free time,” Ed said. “I haven’t forgotten about my promise. I owe you a martial artist mentor, and it’s about time we square that debt. Take one gold chest with you, and if you happen to meet someone that grabs your interest, feel free to bribe him into coming back with us.”

  The Monster Hunters cackled excitedly as Yumiya grabbed a coffer.

  “Next. Lavy.” Ed stepped in front of the Witch. “Go on a spell shopping spree. Be responsible, though.”

  “Oh, yes. Finally.” The glint in Lavy’s eyes was the same as those of a kid whose parents told him there’d be Christmas every week that year.

  “Come back with a Diviner, though,” he advised her. “As well as someone who knows how to work enchantments into traps. I’ve got a couple ideas for your dish design and our Scrambling Towers. It’s pretty important.”

  “Got it. Spend our fortune on spellbooks, hire a Diviner and an Enchanter.” She rubbed her hands. “Can I leave already?”

  Ed nodded, then continued on, stopping in front of Klek. “Klek, you and your Spider Riders will find us some trap-makers. The Thieves Guild’s already helping us with normal trap-making, so we want to get someone that specializes in magical traps. I don’t know how to explain the kind of trap I’m looking for, so here’s my best description. It has many small, interchangeable parts that the creator can swap in and out. The idea is to get the trap-maker to teach us how to integrate magical traps into the normal workings of the Haunt, if that makes any sense.”

  Klek scratched his hairy chin. “We won’t fail you, Lord Ed.”

  “Batblins are excellent at laying traps. Good choice using us for this important mission, Lord Wraith,” Tulip said.

  Ed nodded, then headed for Kes and Alder, who were waiting patiently for him. “The three of us will head into the nearest inn and crunch some numbers. Kes will deal with strategy, Alder will tackle psychology, and then the three of us will put it together. Also, I could use a drink,” he admitted. “Actually, everyone’s free to join us when you’re done with your tasks. Drinks are on the Regent.”

  That earned him a few complicit laughs and a bout of clapping from Yumiya. Ed took a deep breath. Behind his helmet, sweat turned his hair slick and glued it to his forehead. The Netherworld was boiling hot. “Okay, everyone. Let’s get to it!”

  His minions spread through the bazaar, mixing with the local demonic population.

  As soon as she found herself alone, the first thing Jarlen did was to head straight for the Citadel’s prisons and kill a man.

  She bribed the guards to look the other way and disable the magical defenses for ten minutes while she misted her way through the door slit of a prisoner’s cell. The prisoner had once been a favored minstrel in Korghiran’s court, but had fallen out of favor when caught stealing a silver chandelier inside his jacket.

  Despite the weeks of imprisonment, the minstrel still looked somewhat healthy under the layer of grime and dried shit. It wasn’t kindness on the guards’ part—on the contrary. A man lasted longer under torture if they kept his Endurance up.

  So she was doing him a favor, actually. But the minstrel didn’t bother thanking her—he was too busy screeching in terror in a puddle of his own urine. At least he didn’t try to pray to Alita as the vampire fell upon him and tore his throat out with her fangs. She giggled and danced as the blood sprayed across her face like rain, and she drank straight from the torn jugular like an open faucet. She wasn’t even that thirsty, but a healthy human’s blood tasted like sweet nectar compared to that greasy ogre mess.

  Later, she’d have to burn her dress and buy a new one, but it had been worth it. She memorized the guards’ faces, because she knew she’d have to make quite a few visits to the Netherworld in the following years, and she had no intention of surviving on animal blood like Lord Wraith intended her to.

  It’s probably some kind of test, she told herself, although with little conviction. Some Dungeon Lords were very… peculiar. They made up the strangest tests for their minions, expecting nonsensical answers. Depending on the Dungeon Lord, failing their tests could have lethal consequences. It wasn’t fair, but that didn’t bother Jarlen. She had enough experience dealing with Dungeon Lords to make sure that another minion would take the test first. After that, it would be easy to figure out what kind of response the Dungeon Lord wanted.

  So far, Dungeon Lord Wraith hadn’t abused the minionship pact to punish a faltering minion, but it was only a matter of time. And one way or the other, Jarlen would figure him out.

  She stopped by her favorite seamstress, a fat gorgon that used her hair tendrils to speed up her work. When Jarlen left the store, she was wearing a dress fashioned in a style that had been all the rage in the Netherworld only a few decades ago—a fitted black piece with a high neckline, long open sleeves, a laced corset, and a multi-layered skirt decorated with multiple bows. Had she been back in her normal form, that of a beautiful corpse in her mid-thirties, she would’ve gone with something more modern, perhaps black leather and brass tracks, but in the meantime she knew that the classics never really went out of style.

  She also got a black umbrella to protect her skin. Technically, since the Netherworld lacked real sunlight and was bound by perpetual twilight, she was in no risk of burning to a crisp if she stayed out too long, but the brightness bothered her eyes and, if she wasn’t careful, could mess with the internal magic that protected her body from decay, as well as give her face an ugly green tint that would be a bitch to regenerate.

  Now it was time for business. The first official stop of the day was to pay a visit to the local Dark temple. It was a black mass that occupied an entire bulb of the Citadel, its walls filled with ample open windows and murder-holes so the winged inhabitants of the Netherworld could happily come and go. The eerie chanting from the slaves reached her ears long before she entered the temple.

  After wandering around the torture chambers—which were purely recreational—and through the garden of skulls, she caught sight of a priest she’d had dealings with in the past. The once supple and strong naga was now old and brittle, his shiny green scales turned milky white from time and the strenuous life as a Dark priest.

  He didn’t recognize her in her diminished form, but she quickly refreshed his memory by whispering a few choice words in his ear while he preached to a group of would-be-Warlocks about the virtues of the Dark. The priest immediately shut up and glanced at her with wild, fearful eyes.

  “Yes, darling. It’s me,” Jarlen said, laughing at the naga’s bewilderment. “How about you tell your students to piss off and come have a chat by the skull garden?”

  The old priest began to pretend he didn’t remember the favor he owed her, but Jarlen made sure to mention, several times, her position as a minion of a Dungeon Lord with the Regent’s favor, and soon enough the priest was all pleasant smiles and empathetic nods as she gave him a long list of demons and assorted Dark entities sh
e’d need to populate Lord Wraith’s new dungeon.

  “The imps and the junkers shouldn’t be a problem,” the naga told her, wringing his hands nervously. “Sadly, I can’t help you with the rest of the list. No, really, Jarlen, I’m serious. Even if the temple could summon a Devil Knight to fight for you, the truth is, Dungeon Lord Edward Wright has performed no act of Dark piety at all since his investiture. Despite Murmur’s good will, Wright hasn’t sacrificed a single prisoner and hasn’t paid tribute to the Dark, nor has he contacted our temples or priests. By Murmur, the most he’s done is erect a single unholy altar in our name, and not once has he prayed there—or even made a demand for more power. How are we supposed to help him out when he refuses to play by the rules?”

  Jarlen rolled her eyes. “I’m sure Lord Wraith has his reasons. Are you really going to give up so soon, Qaail? What a shame. Almost as shameful as your reputation will be if what we did back in Efir reached the Archpriest’s ears.”

  The priest’s eyes widened in fear. “Please, Jarlen, understand! Even if I were to draw the magical circle, light the black candles, and sign the incantations, anything stronger than a junker would refuse to help you. Worse, the Devil Knight would probably kill all of you just for bothering him! If you really need the Dark’s help, have your master perform the rites, and then we can talk. But before that point, my hands are tied,” he said.

  “Very well. I’ll let this stand. This time,” Jarlen said. She made a mental note to bring the matter up with Lord Wraith once the time was right. “But I still need something bigger than a junker for our grand finale. Come on, Qaail. There must be something you can do to help.”

  The old priest sighed and rubbed his arms. “Maybe there is something,” he mumbled. “You didn’t hear this from me, but remember the Corpse Architect that disappeared after the shameful zombie accident a few years ago? Word in the temple is, he’s back in the Citadel. Perhaps you should have a word with him. I think he has refused to work with any Dungeon Lord since the… accident, but if you’re persuading enough, who knows?”