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

by Hugo Huesca

  Ed’s spiders had learned to keep a low profile thanks to his and Laurel’s constant drilling. The spiderlings led the charge, spreading throughout the entire battlefield and locating every potential enemy combatant, as well as their weapon stashes and spellcasters. Then the spider warriors dealt with the weakest enemies first—those sleeping, or in the bathroom, or alone.

  All over the mansion, Inquisitors and Militant soldiers fell to paralyzing venom. In this, the resistance that Inquisitors had worked against them, because the spiders had to use high doses to take them out of commission fast enough to stop them from yelling out. About one in four paralyzed Inquisitors died when their hearts gave out, and a few more would pass away from complications before the night was over. Ed knew this, and although he wasn’t happy about it, it was harder and harder to feel empathy for the Inquisition with the fires of Undercity marring the night sky behind him.

  Come on, Ed thought, clenching his jaw. The anticipation was killing him. For better or worse, he couldn’t stand back while his minions did all the dirty work. But he needed to wait for the spiderlings to find the man with the description Ed had given them—someone somewhere in the mansion working with computer equipment. Describing that to the spiders had been a challenge, and he wasn’t sure of the spiderlings’ capacity to understand the command, but the only other option was to search the entire mansion.

  A lone spider warrior skittered past a tree root and reached Ed and Gloriosa. Someone matching Ed’s description was working by himself somewhere on the third floor.

  About five seconds after hearing the good news, someone yelled out, hard. Lights spread out through the mansion from the windowsills, both magical and natural. The sounds of battle spread and grew like a small fire turning into an inferno.

  It was incredible how quickly a good plan could go to hell. A fireball blazed out into the sky. Another one hit its mark, raising a cloud of smoke and debris. Someone cast a thunderbolt that reverberated across Ed’s bones even in the distance—the Inquisition had a powerful spellcaster in tow.

  “We better hurry,” Gloriosa told Ed.

  She didn’t need to tell him twice. He hopped up again and together they climbed upward to the third floor, keeping away from the windows. As they passed the second floor, Ed saw frantic movement as Inquisitors, kaftar, and horned spider clashed.

  “I’m too big to fit here,” Gloriosa warned Ed as they reached the third floor’s exterior passageway. “But I can have my guard escort you.”

  “Have them protect the stairs and the exits,” Ed told her, hopping out onto the black-and-white floorboard. “I’ll need privacy.” He could feel his mouth drying and his body tremble with nervous energy. Holy bolts flew from the first floor and broke a nearby window. Ed ducked by instinct, but the shot had been a misfire—so far, no one knew he was there.

  He jogged through the passageway, glad that his enchanted cloak muted the clanking of his armor as well as his footsteps. A small spiderling waited for him on the middle of the door of the room he was looking for.

  Okay, Ed thought, reaching for the knob. Here goes nothing.

  The Summoned Hero was older than he had expected. The man sat with his back facing Ed, bent over a desk with a metallic device that, for a second, Ed didn’t recognize. It was a bulky box folded in half with a crystal screen on one end and a keyboard on the other—the same description he’d given to the spiderlings. An old laptop. It looked out of place in Ivalis, standing out in the worst way possible.

  Like it didn’t belong.

  Outside, on the first floor, a spellcaster had created a magical circle in the middle of the main garden and was somehow holding it against Gloriosa’s spiders, who kept pressing the attack. He defended with a never-ending flurry of area-denial spells and runes. One way or the other, if this bloodbath was to be stopped, Ed had to hurry.

  He stepped forward, hands trembling and mouth dry. “Do not be afraid. My name is Edward Wright. Like you, I was summoned here from Earth. I don’t know what they’ve told you about me, but you must believe me—they’re lying. But I can explain. It’s time for you and I to have a talk,” he said.

  He watched as the man squared his shoulders, set his hands on the desk, and slowly stood up. He turned to face the Dungeon Lord. He had a trimmed white beard and a long sharp nose, and looked like a private doctor more than a medic, except that his right arm was bent at an awkward angle, as if to offer Ed a handshake. He was holding some kind of black wand in his hand. Something so alien, so foreign to the world of Ivalis that the laptop vanished from Ed’s mind as his eyes widened in recognition.

  A revolver, he thought, as the Summoned Hero pulled back the hammer with his thumb.

  “No,” the old man said. “I’ve nothing to talk with you about. And I’ve never heard of Earth before. I was born in Heiliges.” There was a crack like thunder and fire flowered out of the gun’s barrel in Ed’s direction.

  The flames licked the Galleon’s Folly structure with almost tender caresses, as its silhouette shone against the distant black shore like a star. Tonight, the shores of Undercity were full with stars like that one.

  Berrick rubbed his long, thin hands with nervousness as bile rose through his throat. He could feel the lick of the flame on his face, despite the distance. Faint screams came through the smoke and were cut short, over and over. He couldn’t breathe through the tightness in his throat.

  This shouldn’t be happening, the shoemaker thought as he ran through the narrow secondary streets of the harbor, trying to reach what, he hoped, was the safety of the slums. They wouldn’t let me out here to die. I served them as best I could. I’m useful!

  But the Heroes roaming the streets didn’t seem to recognize him, nor care. They cut down anyone close enough to them and leveled any building that stood in their way. A few unorganized groups of resistance clashed against them in plazas and gardens—Akathunians assassins working in tandem with their old enemies, the Thieves Guild; a necromancer cabal allying with a rebel faction of the Watch; whores hurrying families into the secret basements they used to hide from the law.

  Berrick didn’t have many friends to help him hide. That was the sad reality of the informant’s life. No one cared that he had only been doing his job, and that there was no opposing the Inquisition when it came for you.

  He knelt behind a wet stack of trash, plugging his nose to protect it from the smell, and watched as the few remaining ships in the harbor disappeared further and further into the horizon. Smart men. The sailors had cut anchors as soon as they saw the way the wind was blowing, probably saving their lives in the process. A team of Heroes had sunk a few clumsy merchant ships too big or too undisciplined to react as fast as they could’ve, and now their remains littered the waters, cargo floating among dead men. Both would wash ashore come the morning.

  Blue lightning flashed behind him, followed by a boom that raised all the hairs of Berrick’s back. He saw the silhouette of four men walking rigidly behind a fountain of the park behind him. He realized with growing panic that he was facing the wrong way. He jumped over the trash, slipped and fell, cut his hand on something sharp, and hobbled away into a sidestreet as fast as he could.

  Did they see me? He hoped against hope that they hadn’t.

  He never saw nor felt the ice bolt that pierced his skull from behind and nailed him to a nearby wall, legs twitching long after he was dead, blood trickling down into the cobblestone, mixing pink into a stream of rainwater, pouring down the sidewalk’s drain.

  The sounds of the battle raging outside came into Gallio’s prison cell crystal clear, to the point that he could almost distinguish the individual skirmishes. Judging by all the cackling and excited war-cries, the attackers were kaftar. Probably the Haga’Anashi, come to pay the Inquisition back for what they’d done to the warriors’ people.

  Gallio sat in the middle of his cell, back straight and shoulders relaxed. It unnerved him how calm he was, even when his own people were fighting—and dying—
only a few feet away from him.

  Perhaps he’d always known the Haga’Anashi would come. It was like a kid launching his favorite marble into a pile and watching as all the marbles went rolling in all directions.

  This was what the Inquisition did. They followed the tenets, they acted, they did the duty the Light expected of them. But when those duties involved inflicting pain and misery onto others, and when those others were left with no way out, it was no surprise that sometimes they struck back against the Inquisition.

  It was a basic mercenary stratagem to always leave an opening for your opponent to retreat. A man fighting to the death will fight all the more fiercely than one who knows he can turn tail and run.

  The Inquisition had left both the Haga’Anashi and Edward Wright nowhere to run. And now…

  The marbles were rolling.

  Metal struck metal right past the jail door. There was a flash of light and a “Holy bolt!” scream, and then the door opened to reveal six Haga’Anashi warriors, one of them decked in chain-mail, all wielding long, serrated spears, with curved scimitars hanging by their waists.

  There was blood marring the floor outside and the walls and the wooden railing. As the kaftar strolled inside, the young Inquisitor who had beaten Gallio up slid down the wall and onto the floor, glassy eyes staring at nothing, hands still clenching his neck, trying futilely to hold shut the terrible wound, like a gaping smile.

  The kaftar ignored Gallio at first as they searched the room while their leader waited. His men soon came back and announced something in their own particular language. The leader seemed disappointed, but he hid it well.

  “You must be Kagelshire. The captives you’re looking for are dead,” Gallio told him. “It happened last night, during the interrogation. Or so I was told.” He pointed a finger in the general direction of the interrogation cells. “The bodies may still be there, if you care to look.”

  For an instant, Kagelshire did nothing but stare down at Gallio, then made an almost imperceptible gesture. Two kaftar saluted him and rushed outside, weapons at the ready, following Gallio’s directions.

  “For what’s worth, I regret it had to come to this,” Gallio said.

  Something like a black shadow crossed the old kaftar’s eyes. He marched forward and was soon face to face with the Inquisitor. “I’ve heard of you,” Kagelshire said. “You’re Burrova’s old Sheriff. Your old friends aren’t so happy to have you, eh?” He cackled bleakly. “I believe Dungeon Lord Wraith would’ve rather we take you prisoner, but he’s forgotten that I’m not bound by pact to him, and I’m not in the mood for mercy.”

  Kagelshire stepped back and headed out. As he left, he told his remaining four kaftar two words in their own language. Gallio could guess the meaning clear enough.

  One kaftar closed the door, and the four of them regarded the Inquisitor wearily. One of them exchanged brief, heated words with another, who frowned and shushed him. Another shook his head. Gallio watched it all in silence.

  The third one drew his scimitar and approached the cell. “My name is Abuya. In the name of our Chieftain and our clan, I offer my apologies. For the Haga’Anashi, it’s a great dishonor to kill an unarmed prisoner. But Chieftain Kagelshire’s judgment is clouded today. One of the men your Inquisition murdered was his late sister’s only son.” The kaftar shook his head sadly, and pointed his scimitar at Gallio. “I’d like to release you, offer you a weapon, and fight you honorably, man to man. But I have my duty to my clan, and my people’s honor comes before my own.” There was true pain in the warrior’s eyes.

  “Trust me, Abuya. I understand that better than anyone. I hold no grudges against you,” Gallio said, clutching the metal bars.

  The kaftar stiffened, then bowed. “Thank you, Inquisitor. You have my word this will be quick.” He readied himself to strike.

  For an instant, Gallio wanted to let it happen. But Abuya’s words had rang true. “Likewise, my friend,” he whispered. And then, diving forward against the bars, he summoned Alita’s blessing with all the strength left in his body, because his honor wasn’t as important as his duty to the Light.

  “SUNWAVE!”

  The kaftar, the cells, and the Inquisitor all disappeared under the roaring white light.

  The explosion rattled Karmich’s teeth and the wave of heat singed his eyebrows. He watched through the bars of the second-floor railing as a pair of charred ogre bodies smashed through a brick wall, destroying a priceless bust and a bookcase in the process, then rolled on the floor until they came to a stop on the middle of the Ball Room. A tattered tapestry fluttered through the air and landed atop the broken ogre body, like a funeral veil.

  The Ball Room was littered with the bodies of the defenders and the devastation the Heroes left in their wake. Karmich knew that scenes like these were happening all over the Guildhouse as the defenders rallied to protect the Thieves Guild headquarters. He wasn’t willing to add to the bodies that littered the floors, so when the inhuman shadows of the Heroic team that had done the ogres in stepped through the rubble, he turned tail and ran farther upstairs, toward the third floor.

  Few of the Guildhouse’s defenders were Thieves. A Thief’s job was to run and hide at the first sign of mortal danger, which was the reason Grand Master Bavus had outsourced the headquarter’s security to martial professionals. It was mostly guarded by ogres smuggled into Undercity from the Netherworld, commanded by mercenaries and former Starevosi war veterans, but also enough traps and trained monsters scattered through the mass of the complex that it required any Thief apprentice to have a few years of training before daring the dangers of the Guildhouse—which was, in fact, the final exam into official membership.

  With time, Karmich had grown to know every foot of the House better than he knew his own face. He knew which rugs hid a collapsible floor, what statues would summon the attack dogs if touched, which corners were the best for a quick fuck with a maid or a fellow Thief with an itch to scratch.

  Each room he passed in his mad dash had dear memories attached to them. There was the table where Pris and he had planned their infamous Naked Heist; that was the broom closet where he’d hid from Alfred the Sly after Alfred found out Karmich had been cheating him out at cards for a year; and that was the carpet where Katalyn Locksmith had knocked him out cold the first—and last—time he had tried to get handsy with her.

  All those dear moments, and as he left them behind, it was as if they faded into blankness. There was only the fear beating against his temples following his crazed heartbeat.

  The wooden floor trembled like a stirring snake, and Karmich was thrown toward a wall headfirst. He used his improved dodge by reflex and dodged the incoming wall at the last second—an egregious abuse of Objectivity that could get him erased one day if he took it too far.

  Karmich rounded a corner while the screams of the dying came from below. A distant part of his terrified mind wondered how many of his friends and family had made it out. He wished from the bottom of his heart that no one he particularly cared about had decided to stay and fight.

  It all had happened so fast, though… First, the Guild had issued a red alert, messaging every Thief inside the city to drop everything and head to the House at once. At the time, Karmich had been in the middle of disabling the alarms of a rich merchant’s house on the other side of town. As he headed for the House, all over the city he could see the signs that something was terribly wrong: Crowds piled in front of the barred city gates, with Inquisitorial teams keeping them away, ignoring the pleas and crying. Columns of smoke came from the slums and the pier, the Watch nowhere to be seen, as a few Dark cultists came out of their hiding holes in the catacombs and ran through the city half-naked in their black tunics, carrying as many secret spellbooks and scrolls as they could hold in their spindly arms.

  Karmich had passed the first Heroic team on its way to the House, but at the time, he hadn’t even dared consider they shared the same destination.

  After arriving at the
Guildhouse, he and an ever-growing crowd of green-caped Thieves had met with Grand Master Bavus himself in the Great Hall. Standing on top of the stairs, Bavus had faced the Thieves and laid out the situation for them. The Inquisition was coming for them. They weren’t sure of the reason—had a few guesses, though, which didn’t matter at the moment. They had prepared for this eventuality. This wasn’t unexpected. The Guild knew what to do. They’d empty the coffers, evacuate into the slums and their safe houses spread through the city, and go dark until Bavus—or the highest-level surviving member—could come up with a follow-up plan.

  Which would’ve been all fine and dandy if a Heroic Rogue hadn’t jumped out of the shadows, dropping his invisibility as he did so, and gutted Bavus through the minotaur’s enchanted armor right then and there.

  Then someone had dropped a fireball, and after that, Karmich only remembered people running and fighting, and the chaos, and now here he was.

  He rounded a corner and saw movement out of the corner of his eye, coming from the Guild Museum. He risked a quick peak. Pris was there, throwing glass displays to the ground and grabbing as many priceless Guild trophies as she could stick in the pockets of her armor and belt.

  A wave of relief flooded through Karmich’s body. She was alive. Also, she was an idiot. “Pris!” he called, rushing after her.

  She turned and almost threw a knife his way, recognized him at the last second, and stopped. “Karmich! You dumb oaf, I almost—”

  Karmich hugged her. “I’m so glad you’re one of the cowards,” he said.

  Pris blinked. “Same,” she said as Karmich stepped away.

  “We need to get out of here,” he told her. “No time to lose looting the room. The Heroes may arrive any second now.”

  Pris turned and threw another glass display at the floor, shattering it. “They’re dying in droves against our traps.” Another explosion punctuated her words as she bent down and picked up an emerald necklace.