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

by Hugo Huesca

  Alfred sighed and hurried up the last set of stairs. The reason he was in such a pensive mood was because he was trying to distract himself from the statues that lined the halls of the Charcoal Tower—they had taught him far more about horned spider sexuality than he had had any desire to ever know.

  He arrived at the doors of the palatial seat where the Dungeon Lord held court. This was not the Seat of Undercity, of course. The real one was said to lie under the undead-infested catacombs, surrounded by dangers and secrets that the Dungeon Lord and his minions and only just begun to crack.

  The kaftar guards opened the doors for Alfred, and he stepped into a chamber just a floor below the Jamming Device. There was a magical circle drawn in silver lines across the floor, and the air was charged with anti-scrying spells and other enchantments. A richly carved table large enough for a feast filled the center of the room, with a curtain of water flowing down the wall behind the Dungeon Lord’s chair opposite the entrance and disappearing inside a delicate model of Undercity itself, a small part of the fountain water becoming the city’s canal.

  “Grand Master Alfred,” the Dungeon Lord greeted him cordially. “We were waiting for your arrival.” He gave a wide, sweeping gesture to include the men and women sitting at the table with him.

  There was a certain regal arrogance to the way Lord Edward Wright conducted himself, the kind present in men who had faced certain death and impossible odds and come up victorious. He was lean and spry with all the strength of youth still in his body, but his visage was grim and distant in a way that conveyed a degree of truth to certain rumors about his capacity to observe everything and everyone in his city at any time. His pupils shone with faint circles of eldritch green light—his Evil Eye deactivated less and less as time went by, and now it was rarely completely off. His black hair fell over the fur of his ebony cloak, and he wore a fitted crimson vest over a light, silky gray gambeson that was said to be made out of spiderweb. The silver rings on his charred black hand clinked together as he rapped distractedly on the table.

  Much was said in Undercity about the mysterious man that had expelled the Inquisition and—depending on who you asked—either saved the city or condemned it in the first place. Rumors were, the insects and tiny critters of the city spoke directly to him, whispering unearthed secrets and naming those who opposed his rule. He could change bodies like a noblewoman changed gowns, and could walk through walls and make the livestock of his enemies fall ill with warts at the point of a finger. It was said that at midnight, the top of the Charcoal Tower would glow blood red as the Dungeon Lord held court with demons from the Netherworld and djinns from Plekth, and that if you listened carefully, you could hear the mad laughter of his Witches as they conducted seance in the catacombs of the city.

  As a Thief, Alfred knew better than to heed most rumors. If he thought about it, Lord Wright looked… like he could use some sleep.

  “My apologies for the delay,” Alfred said. “A hell chicken snuck into the new Guildhouse last night and ate all our salted meat reserves. We managed to put it down, but it was… difficult.” The Thief shuddered at the memory.

  Lord Wright frowned. “Chief Kaga insists his Monster Hunters found all their nests already. I have no idea how they keep popping up.”

  “I swear the damn creatures are getting smarter and craftier the more we hunt them,” said Grand Master Balgid of the Mercers Guild. “At least they don’t know how to work door handles… yet.”

  Alfred took a look around the table. Everyone who was someone in Undercity had attended tonight’s summons. Next to Wright were his most of his closest minions, except for the Marshal, who was rumored to be off on a diplomatic mission to a distant land. Around Alfred were the leaders or elected representatives of most of the city’s associations, noble families, banks, guilds, trading companies, and leagues: the Mercers, the Brewers, the smugglers, even the pirates, the Watch, the church of Oynnes and the cult of Xethron the Many-Tentacled, the Necromancers, and a couple more. The Akathunian Assassins, though, were missing. They hadn’t shown their faces much since they’d tried to increase their standing with the Dungeon Lord by gifting him a cadre of batblin slaves. Wright apparently favored humans slaves, however, because he’d reacted by feeding the Akathunian slavers to his pet vampire. In any case, Alfred had avoided offering lavish gifts to the Dungeon Lord until he became more certain of his preferences.

  Grand Master Brewer, a man with a red, button-like nose, coughed politely. “Your Execrableness, every man of decency is here, as well as our less… savory guests.” Brewer gave Alfred a nasty sideways glance. “Perhaps you may now shed some light on the reason behind our meeting. Why are we here?”

  Most of the merchants and noble houses weren’t friends with the Thieves Guild, for rather self-explanatory reasons. Except the Mercers, of course. Alfred had once bought a cashmere jacket from them. Once. To this day, he still wondered who the real professional Thieves were. “It certainly can’t be because of your charming personality,” Alfred told the Brewer. “When was the last time you took a bath, Hynek?”

  Hynek’s nose reddened a bit more, and he gestured as if to stand.

  “Gentlemen,” Lord Wright said, raising his voice just enough to be heard past the scraping of the chair. “Behave. Don’t make me use the trapdoor.”

  A few laughed. Grand Master Hynek seemed dubious for a second, as if he was considering calling the bluff. Then he sat back down and ignored Alfred.

  Wright nodded. “Good.” Chronicler Alder handed him a long scroll that seemed decades old. “I summoned you here to talk about the future. But also to hear your answer about the offer I made you a week ago. That should have been more than enough time for you to read the Terms and Conditions of minionship. I’m sure you have found that they’re quite reasonable.”

  Father Philip, the leader of the cult of the Many-Tentacled, shook a slithery appendage in Ed’s direction. “What’s not reasonable is the amount of pages in those terms, Lord Wright. My church lacks the funds to hire a clerk to make sense of them for us.”

  Alfred could see that most of the people around the table seemed suddenly uncomfortable. Accepting minionship to a Dungeon Lord was a greater commitment than, say, paying taxes and tribute to a Heiligian conqueror. The Thief suspected that more than a few nobles and well-to-do merchants would’ve liked nothing more than to tell Wright to take his Terms and stuff them.

  Of course, they couldn’t insult the Dungeon Lord whose Jamming Towers protected Undercity and its surroundings from the Militant Church. Alfred wasn’t a Diviner, but he was sure many of his peers were wondering just how true the rumors were regarding Lord Wright’s overwatch of the city. The fact that some people at that very table hadn’t yet tried to depose the Dungeon Lord spoke volumes about their unwillingness to meet in secret to conspire against him.

  And there was also the vampire to consider. No one wanted to end up like the Akathunians, hunted like rats in their own city, wondering if the movement in the corner was a cockroach, or actually Wright’s spy.

  “Your Terms are most charitable, your Badness,” Grand Master Brewer said, putting all his Charm ranks to use. “But given the… volatile situation of the city, I’m sure you understand we need more time before jumping to such an important—”

  “Eighteen months,” Wright said, speaking over him.

  The Brewer began stammering, then shut up for a second. “Beg your pardon?” he managed, visibly confused.

  “That’s the window of time Heiliges needs to gather its armies and send them here to reinforce the Navy,” the Dungeon Lord said calmly. “In other words, in eighteen months’ time, Starevos will suffer a second invasion.”

  Whispers spread through the table. “A year and a half? That’s impossible!” a nobleman exclaimed. His name was Theodor. His father had fought against Heiliges during the war, which gave Theodor great standing among his noble peers—as long as no Inquisitors were nearby. “Heiliges has relied on Heroes to do its d
irty work for a generation—it can’t just summon a new invading army out of thin air! They need to train their infantry, gather the commoners, forge weapons and armor, gather provisions, and deal with their noblemen… we’re talking three years at least!”

  Chronicler Alder raised a hand. “People! Our best Diviners and tacticians both confirmed it. When an entire country hates your guts and wants to travel half the world for a chance to kill you, they’ll make it happen.”

  Alfred turned to the Necromancer seated next to him. “I hear Plekth has a rather nice weather. And their new Adventurers Guild is hiring. Maybe it's time for a change of locale, eh? See the world?”

  “Most adventurers aren’t on friendly terms with Necromancers,” the pale man said.

  “Well, I can put in a good word for you,” Alfred said with a wink.

  Around them, people were losing their nerve. Alfred understood why. They were like rats in a bucket that was slowly filling with water. They couldn’t abandon the city—the Inquisition still controlled the rest of Starevos, and the sea was under the dominion of the Heiligian Navy. That left only the Wetlands to the south, but that was as sure a death for a merchant.

  “Can you stop them?” someone asked the Dungeon Lord. Alfred caught a glimpse of a smile dance across Wright’s face.

  Lavina, Head Witch of the Haunt, laughed in the face of the woman that had asked the question. “First you try to wriggle out of minionship and now you’re asking us to save you? Again?”

  “But you must!” someone else exclaimed.

  Wright stood up, spreading the scroll he had been holding along the table. It was a map of Starevos. Alfred and the others stood as well, as to take a better look. The most important cities were marked on the map—Galtia, Basilia, Salda, Caranus, Mitena, Constantina, Raventa—along with trading routes, forts, rivers, mines, roads, mountain ranges, lakes, and so on. It was the sort of map a General may use to plan a campaign. “And I will,” the Dungeon Lord said. “But the Haunt can’t do it on its own.”

  He placed a finger over Constantina—it was the south-most holding of Starevos, which was how it originally got its nickname of Undercity—and traced a path to the northeast, past Raventa and Mitena and then farther beyond Galtia’s mountaintops until stopping at the capital itself.

  “As we speak, the Militant Church is leading a campaign based in Galtia to retake the lost territories around our city,” Lord Wright said. “The Haunt’s Towers deny access to their Heroes, so they must rely on Inquisitors and their Militant soldiers to destroy the Towers and allow the Heroes to move in. Meanwhile, we protect the Towers by creating dungeons around them, manned with mercenaries from the Netherworld hired with the taxes that the fine people in this room kindly share with us.” He spoke smoothly, as if he’d rehearsed this meeting beforehand. Chronicler Alder seemed proud of himself, judging from the way he relaxed in his seat. “Day by day, the Militant Church summons more forces and high-level Inquisitors into Galtia. We’ve managed to keep the advantage by connecting every dungeon to our railway network, so we can move our forces back if they face unsurmountable odds. Nothing in our arsenal, though, is going to be enough once the Militant army arrives. An invading force meant to challenge a kingdom will crush a city’s worth of resources like it was nothing.” He stared at the grim visages in the room.

  “Unless,” Witch Lavina pointed out.

  “Unless,” Lord Wright agreed, “we welcome them with an army of our own, and a kingdom’s resources at our back.” He tapped on Galtia’s position in the map. “The Militant Church is not attacking our dungeons in order to retake Undercity. That’s what the army is meant for. The Inquisitors scouring the countryside are trying to keep the Haunt from spreading throughout the whole country. Well, sadly for them, that’s exactly what I intend to do. Starevos has suffered under Heiligian rule for long enough, I say. With our combined might, we’ll make a stand against the Heiligian host. We’ll break them so they learn to never bother us again.”

  Silence spread through the room as, outside, Camcanna and its sister Ullira replaced the warm sunlight with their silvery blue glow.

  “That’s a mighty speech,” Alfred said cheerfully. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Lord Wright, but don’t you need an army of your own to take a city? Some of our brethren are doing quite well under Heiligian occupation. They’re sure to be rather… reticent to see the nobleness of your plan. They may need the kind of persuasion that a few thousand horned spiders and a kaftar clan won’t be enough to deliver.”

  Wright nodded. “Thank you, Master Alfred. You’re right. That’s the reason why I desire all of you to accept my offer of minionship. In the Netherworld lies an abandoned facility that’s capable of creating monsters, weapons, and spells for entire hosts of Dungeon Lords,” he said. “This colossal complex, built during the old days, before Bastavar and Everbleed, has the resources to raise an army of monsters for me to face the Inquisition.” An eldritch glint shone the pupils of his Evil Eye. “In the upcoming months, I’ll enter a contest against the other Dungeon Lords for possession of this facility. I intend to win this Endeavor, but in the meantime, I must leave Undercity in your hands. The only way I can trust you to protect this city without you betraying me and one another is if you join the ranks of the Haunt as my minions.”

  “So it’s real,” Alfred whispered to himself, barely listening to the last part of the Dungeon Lord’s words. “Saint Claire and Tillman. The Factory of Nightmares. I thought it was only a legend to entertain children before bed.” He had been one such child, a long time ago.

  And this man here, not a gray hair in his head, talked about becoming the owner of such a legendary place as if it was already a done deed.

  Just what have we stumbled into? the Thief thought.

  At an unseen signal from Wright or his seconds-in-command, the doors opened and two rows of drones marched into the room, each of them carrying a stack of papers. They set a stack in front of every representative, and then headed back out again. One of them looked over its shoulder at Alfred and raised its tunic—mooning the Grand Master right before leaving.

  Alfred recognized the first page of the stack in front of him. It was a copy of Wright’s Terms and Conditions. There was a small needle right next to the black line where the signature went. Carefully, the Thief held the pin between his thumbs.

  The pirates’ representative stood up, his gray whiskers trembling with indignation. “We knew this would happen! Your ambitions know no limit, Dungeon Lord. You intend to become a King, but you have no claim! Only the Pirate Queen is the true heir to the throne of Starevos, and she shall not abide by this!”

  Lord Wright gave no sign of noticing—or being worried about—the way the pirate’s hand rested on his sword handle. “I’d like for your Queen to be my ally in this fight. We all have the same enemy. Let’s worry about royalty titles later. They’re rather overvalued.”

  “Will you have me killed after I leave this room?” the pirate asked.

  “Of course not. You’re here in this city as my guest,” Wright said.

  As the pirate representative marched out, Chronicler Alder called after him, “The Queen hasn’t answered my sonnets, by the way! Would you mind telling her to check her letters once in a while?” The blond sighed after the pirate was out of view. “Pirates, I swear. They’ve no manners. She’ll come around, though. You’ll see.”

  “Alder,” Lavina whispered, elbowing him in the ribs. “Not now!”

  Only Alfred noticed the exchange, however, because the others were too busy commiserating with each other. The Thief didn’t need to listen in to know what they were talking about. The odds they had of profiting from accepting the pact, the risks, the pirate’s importance for Undercity, Wright’s own chances at surviving the Endeavor… in short, boring stuff. Alfred had made his decision long before arriving at the tower.

  He made eye contact with the Dungeon Lord and with careful, deliberate motions, the Thief pinched his thumb with the nee
dle until a drop of blood came out. He pressed his thumb against the contract, leaving a red fingerprint above the black line. Then he slid the stack of papers toward Lord Wright. “They are quite reasonable conditions,” Alfred said.

  Wright grinned happily. “Ah, so you read them?” he asked.

  Alfred winced. “Well… there’s a lot of pages,” he said, watching as Wright’s grin lost its luster. “I did skim them, though. In any case, we are already pretty much de facto allies with the Haunt, so we may as well make it official.” And then he raised his voice to make sure the rest of the table would hear this part, “Also, the way I see it, we’ve really nothing to lose. If you manage to free Starevos, we’re left in a much better spot than we’re today. After all, we become a Guild backed directly by our new ruler. On the other hand if you get killed trying… then the pact is broken and we’re back to square one.”

  “Thank you for being so reasonable, Grand Master,” Wright said.

  After Alfred, the Necromancer was next to accept the pact. It was a great show of faith because the Necromancer’s terms greatly limited the sources of the bodies they could harvest to create their undead. “I figure there’ll be more than enough corpses to get around anyway,” was all the Necromancer said as he handed over the papers.

  The Mercers, the church of Oynnes, and the cult of the Many-Tentacled followed.

  Hours later, only the most respectable merchants and the nobility still had their doubts. “The pirate was right, you know,” Theodore told the Dungeon Lord. “A Dungeon Lord as King? The idea is preposterous! Your kind is famous for hiding underground, raiding villages, and sacrificing innocents to your demonic masters. There’s no way the people of Starevos will ever accept you. And without a claim? Impossible!”

  Wright smiled, apparently impervious to Theodore’s words. “Impossible, like the captured Hero the Haunt is studying right as we speak? Or impossible like expelling the Inquisition from a captured city and forcing their Heroes to stay away from us? Because people said both of those things were impossible, and yet here we are.”