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

by Hugo Huesca

  Jarlen’s tight lips drew into a cruel smile. “Tell me more,” she said.

  Broom Street was a Witch’s dream come true. It was a long, sinuous road parallel to Grimmoire Boulevard, its buildings cramped against each other like twisted trees fighting for sunlight. Shoddy rooftops loomed over Lavy and her retinue as they explored the mysterious shops that lined the paved limestone road.

  Half the locales in Broom Street lacked a name or any identifying sign—they were little more than huts with glass displays showing totems, dried animal parts, pelts, skulls of endangered monsters, and brass cages for golden snakes and rats with far too many pairs of eyes. The owners were dirty men or women from distant Heiligian hills with no name, or shaggy clansmen from the swamps that surrounded the mountains in the Lotian countryside. They were strange fellows with undecipherable customs, just as eager to bless you or curse you if you looked at them the wrong way—or any way at all.

  The other half of the street was where true danger lay: Fancy storefronts with glass doors lined with bronze, names like Eradium’s Bazaar, Botanica Magica, or Cures and Curses hanging from elaborate signs next to their displays. An untrained apprentice could easily think that Eradium’s Bazaar was the safest store to shop for her master’s new tunic, instead of that suspicious muddy hut with an old gnome hag who kept scowling in the apprentice’s direction and spitting on the ground. The apprentice would spend a small fortune on an ermine tunic lined with cendal, enchanted with flight, only to discover when her master wore it that the tunic was actually a transmuted cursewing—a kind of bloodsucking, flying, sheet-like monster native of Raaga. The cursewing would wrap around the very surprised master and take off, thus teaching the apprentice a valuable lesson in reading the fine print of an item’s description.

  If the apprentice went back to Broom Street, she’d discover that Eradium’s Bazaar had disappeared overnight, leaving behind an entirely different—but just as threateningly unthreatening—shop.

  In short, Lavy found that Broom Street was the best place in the world to buy the sort of spectacular spells needed to do any kind of decent research.

  A lesser Witch may have gone mad with the power of having a near-unlimited credit line backed by the Regent of Xovia, but Lavina Odessa Trevil of the Haunt was a consummated professional, with a will of steel and an iron-clad restraint that made her the perfect woman for the job. The last few hours, she’d resisted the allure of the cursed artifacts and exotic garments from distant lands and focused exclusively on the mission at hand.

  Of course, to buy the spells and magical items that Ed wanted and that she needed for her Laboratory, she first needed to earn the respect of the shopkeepers—if they mistook her for an apprentice they may attempt to con her. So she had had to buy a beautiful scarlet cloak lined with miniver, as well as a golden brocade vest with a skulls-and-flowers pattern. Obviously she couldn’t strut around wearing dirty shoes with her new clothes, so she was forced to buy a new set of ivory satin shoes with a rhinestone buckle and lace trim.

  Since she wasn’t a credulous apprentice, she hired a pair of ogre thugs to shake the shopkeepers around a bit to make sure nothing in her new wardrobe was actually a cinderpede in disguise. This proved wise—the first set of shoes turned out to be cursed, and would’ve forced her to dance until passing out had she worn them. After her ogres finished presenting a formal complaint in Lavy’s name, the shopkeeper’s assistant had offered the Witch plenty of apologies and discounts while the shopkeeper was carried off to the nearest Priest.

  The discounts were so good that it would’ve been a disservice to the Haunt to let them go, so Lavy had been obligated to buy half the inventory. By the time she left the store, she had so many bags that the ogres couldn’t carry them all, so once again she was in the distasteful position of having to rent a carriage. It was self-evident, though, that moving by carriage in a crowded street was very hard without a pair of lackeys to part the crowd for you, so Lavy was forced to call upon Korghiran’s credit once more, sure that she was acting strictly in the Haunt’s best interest.

  “Out of the way!” exclaimed her golden-haired lackeys as they cartwheeled and danced across the middle of the street, the pair of undead horses that pulled Lavy’s carriage only a few steps behind. “Make way for the beautiful and talented Lavina the Witch! Out of the way!”

  Safe from the jealous glances of the rabble in the road, Lavy relaxed in her comfortable seat as the carriage made way through Broom Street. She was surrounded by piles of parchment and rows upon rows of boxes filled only with the most necessary pieces of magical gear.

  She glanced out the window. “I like that store,” she told Jakesh—her naga shopping assistant. “What do you know about it?”

  The storefront that Lavy was pointing at was of grim black wood, with an ebony sign proclaiming in silver lettering, “Welcome to Clarence Coldren’s Wondrous Runes and Relics Shop.” It had no display, and the interior was hidden from view by a black curtain hanging behind the glass door.

  Jakesh frowned and adjusted his brass spectacles. “Clarence Coldren? I’ve never heard of that name. How strange, I could’ve sworn this storefront was empty in the morning.” The naga’s tail shifted nervously.

  “Excellent,” said Lavy. She rapped on the wooden panel in front of her with her ivory cane. “Driver, you may wait for us here.”

  At a signal from the driver, the lackeys hurried to open the door for Lavy, then threw a rug on the street before helping her down, so she wouldn’t have to sully her new shoes. In doing this, she was merely protecting the assets of the Haunt.

  She waited on the street, surrounded by her servants, for her ogres to catch up with her on foot. As she waited, half a dozen halflings with shaved heads and dressed in ragged togas headed her way. Lavy’s lackeys stopped them before coming too close.

  “Excuse us, madam,” a halfling told her, “we’re looking for our master. He… ah, gets into all sorts of trouble when he drinks, and hasn’t shown up in days—”

  At that moment, the ogres arrived. “No talking with Master Lavina,” one of the brutes said, and the two of them ushered the halflings away.

  Lavy shrugged and went inside Wondrous Runes and Relics. The walls were surrounded with rows of packages and assorted items that reached the ceiling, with tables full of trinkets and gadgets, and magical braziers that wavered with a non-existent breeze. A bald man with an oversized head and three azure eyes walked out from behind the counter and headed toward the Witch. His skin had a vaporous texture to it, as if he somehow was in two places at once.

  “Ah, welcome, welcome to my humble store! I am Clarence Coldren, at your service!” He shuffled toward Lavy, his head bobbling with every step. “What can I do for you, my fair lady? Allow old Coldren to fulfill the true desire of your heart! Perhaps you desire to level your beauty like warriors upgrade their battle talents?” With one hand, he rummaged through the nearest pile of trinkets and pulled one of them out, seemingly at random. It was a simple silver-leaf circlet. “Behold! With the circlet of Princess Parastar, you can become the very likeness of an eternal elven maid! It can be yours at the fair price of ten Vyfaras…” He waggled the circlet at Lavy.

  The Witch grinned, took the circlet, and handed it over to Jakesh.

  The naga examined it with a critical eye, then shook his head. “This circlet would’ve enchanted your ears to grow pointy and set you under a compulsion to think you’re eternally young every time you wear it.”

  “What?” Clarence Coldren smiled nervously. “Where did you get that idea…?” He stepped back as Lavy’s ogres strolled his way, patting their batons against their huge hands.

  “I’ll take it,” Lavy said. “Toss it with the others, Jakesh.”

  “An excellent choice!” Coldren said, keeping a careful eye on the ogres.

  The naga grimaced. “But, Madame Lavina, that’s a cursed item! You cannot possibly think to use it—”

  “Of course not,” Lavy said. “Ha, a circl
et to make me more beautiful?” She scoffed at the idea. “Why, that’s like spitting into a river to make its waters wetter.”

  “Then… what use could you have for it?” Jakesh asked.

  “Simple. When I return to my Laboratory, I shall take it apart and discover its inner workings. What better way to learn curses than to study cursed items themselves? It’s much cheaper than searching for expensive scrolls, in any case—and I’ll train my skills in the process,” Lavy explained. Then, she grinned and turned to face the shopkeeper. “But since the circlet is cursed, I’ll give you only one Vyfara, Master Coldren. Is that alright with you?”

  “A Vyfara!” Coldren exclaimed. “I wouldn’t break even with that amount!”

  Lavy shrugged. “Well, if you don’t take it, I’m afraid my associates here will certainly break something of yours. You did try to curse me, after all.”

  With a slow and deliberate movement, one of her ogres swiped the trinkets off one table. The noise of broken glass and crumpled wood drowned Coldren’s protests.

  The second ogre strolled to the rows by the back.

  “Fine!” Coldren exclaimed, his three eyes wide with fear. “A Vyfara is alright.”

  “Perfect,” Lavy said. She walked among the shelves with an appraising eye, with Jakesh and the shopkeeper hurrying to match her pace. “What else do you have for me?”

  Coldren bit his lip and reached for one shelf, this time without his previous cockiness. “Well… I have this batblin paw. It grants the user three wishes—”

  “Throw it in the pile. That’s another Vyfara for you,” Lavy said. Her grin grew several inches wider at the shopkeeper’s expression. “What else do you have for me?”

  Broom Street was a Witch’s dream come true.

  Ed watched while the line in front of his table grew as people all across the Citadel heard that the Haunt was on the lookout for new minions.

  The Dungeon Lord sipped his drink and relaxed as Alder, who had the highest Charm of the bunch, handled the interviews.

  “My patron grants me experience points according to how many innocent souls I sacrifice to them,” said the elven Warlock currently facing Kes, Alder, and Ed. “If I’m to work with you, I need to take into account the amount of experience points I am to earn. Tell me, how many innocent prisoners do you capture in any given year, and how many of those would I be allocated for blood sacrifices?”

  Alder turned to Ed, who was making a slashing motion with his hand across his neck. The Bard turned to the Warlock and smiled politely. “Thanks for passing by. We’ll call you if anything comes up.”

  After the Warlock came the leader of a roving band of werewolves. He wanted money and prey to hunt, which could be arranged, but the hairy man bowed out when he heard where the Haunt was located. “Undercity’s a damn honey trap,” he said gruffly. “The Heiligian Navy won’t let anyone escape by sea, and the Inquisitors of Galtia will hunt anyone down that tries to escape the other way around. Sorry, Dungeon Lord, it’s too risky. I would make for a lousy mercenary if I chose to fight a campaign with poor exit strategies.”

  Kes sighed as the werewolves left.

  A pair of naga Clerics walked out when they realized Ed wasn’t willing to install a blood fountain in their quarters so they could perform their rituals.

  “Does the Dark really make their Clerics use blood fountains for their rituals?” Ed asked, fighting the urge to pull at his hair in frustration.

  “Actually,” Alder said, “I think that was an excuse. According to my empathy talent, the Clerics had mentally checked out when we told them how much we could pay them.”

  Kes frowned. “Don’t we have Korghiran’s credit?”

  “Only for a couple days,” Ed said. “Salaries are on our tab, and we can’t strain the cash flow from the brewing business—if we invest too much on minions that are only useful for fighting we won’t be able to expand our business. It’s the old Real-Time-Strategy conundrum. We have to choose between early-game aggression or a strong late-game economy.”

  “You lost me,” Alder admitted.

  “I mean, we need to keep our expenses in check so we can hire a merchant ship in the future and sell our booze all over Starevos.” On the street outside, a pair of assholes kept screaming at the crowd to get out of the way of a black carriage pulled by undead horses.

  Alder, who seemingly was incapable of listening to business talk for more than a second, turned distractedly to the carriage past the window. “Someday we’ll have that kind of money.”

  “I don’t know,” Kes said. “Even if we did, what kind of asshole drives a carriage through a crowded street?”

  Ed’s plan was to hire minions that had specialties other than killing people, so that the Haunt wouldn’t go broke trying to bankroll an army it couldn’t sustain. Sadly, that weeded out a good chunk out of the current prospects.

  Still, Alder hired a group of artisan trap-makers led by a gnome inventor that had been exiled from his community because of his profound lack of respect for basic safety protocols. Half of his shiny blue hair was missing, burnt off by an explosion a long time ago. He was willing to work on the cheap, as long as he could remain in Xovia, which was alright with Ed.

  After the trap-makers they ran into some trouble, because the remaining minions demanded higher wages when they heard that they’d be headed to Undercity. Like the werewolves, most people knew it was too risky to have a couple Portals be all that kept them safe in case shit hit the fan.

  “We cannot pay that at the moment,” Alder told a golden succubus dressed in a white tunic. “But you could marry me, and then you’d have half my stuff—okay, see you around, then!” He waved at her as she flew out in a huff. “She’s totally into me,” he told Kes.

  “Our budget is a bit tight, but think of the experience—” he attempted, but the Akathunian Poisoner—also an accomplished chef—left without letting him finish.

  Little by little, the line of prospects thinned.

  “—sure, work will be hard and possibly lethal, but think of the sense of pride and accomplishment you’ll get—”

  Outside, a group of bald halflings were handing out pamphlets with the drawing of a missing person on them, but everyone continued walking, not paying any them any mind.

  “Think about your future work offers!” Alder exclaimed, more than a little desperate. Hours later, there was only one prospect left—a floating blue pufferfish who sounded young, although Ed didn’t know enough about floating pufferfish biology to make a guess at his age.

  “I do! All the time,” the pufferfish said nervously. “Master Alder, Lord Wright, I really need the job. No Dungeon Lords are willing to hire an untested Diviner because of the risk of angering Objectivity, but the Xovian School of Advanced Divination won’t teach someone without five years of field experience.”

  “Risk of angering Objectivity?” Alder muttered, giving the pufferfish a worried sideways glance. “No one told me about that.”

  “There’s nothing to be concerned about,” the pufferfish hurried to say. “I’m very careful, I swear! In any case, I specialize in enchantments—making crystal balls, for example. Scrying is what’s truly dangerous!”

  Ed, Kes, and Alder exchanged a knowing glance. They could use a Diviner who specialized in enchanting to help Lavy with her dish research. The Dungeon Lord massaged his chin. There had to be a way to convince the pufferfish to work with lousy pay and in constant mortal danger…

  “I don’t know,” Ed said, as inspiration struck. “You look quite young, and the Haunt gets a lot of applicants.”

  Kes raised an eyebrow, but Alder caught on and played along. “There are at least a dozen Diviners who would like to work for us,” he told the pufferfish. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. There were a dozen diviners who would like to work for the Haunt—if the Haunt could pay them more, and if they didn’t have to travel to Starevos.

  “But… I’ll work harder than anyone else!” the pufferfish said desperately. />
  Ed felt a pang of guilt for toying with the Diviner’s feelings, but he had to play with the hand he’d been dealt. “Look,” he said. “Understand that if we hire you—and I’m not saying we will—we won’t be able to pay you as much as a full-fledged minion, since you haven’t completed your training.”

  The pufferfish nodded with enthusiasm. “I understand! My Xovian School degree will make up for that… once I get it.”

  Only if the student loans don’t drown you first, kid, Ed thought, shivering at the memories. He decided that if the pufferfish handled himself well enough, he’d get a raise as soon as the Haunt could afford it.

  “Screw it,” the Dungeon Lord said, turning to Alder. “Let’s give the kid a chance.”

  Alder smiled. “You’re hired.”

  There are features of a city that were ever-present, regardless if the city was a corrupt port under Heiligian occupation or a Citadel from what could be argued was the Ivalian version of Hell itself.

  Taverns were one such fixture.

  This tavern was one of the seediest places in the Citadel. The Innocent Slime Girl’s Pub was populated by exiled minotaurs with no home in Ivalis and no options other than coming to the Netherworld to survive, nagas that had been rejected for the priesthood or Korghiran’s service, and assorted humanoids not fit for taking the minionship.

  It was also currently occupied by a group of kaftar Monster Hunters. One of them, Yumiya, was standing next to the door with a carefully maintained disinterested air. She regarded Jarlen’s approach with a raised eyebrow and a hint of a snarl.

  “Vampire,” the kaftar said. “Get your business done elsewhere. We’re busy here.”