Dungeon Lord: Abominable Creatures (The Wraith's Haunt Book 3)
Page 57
“Both achieved at a great cost of life, which, as I’ve heard, almost included yours,” Theodore said heatedly. “To unite Starevos, you’ll need the support of the commoners and the noble-born. The small folk will fear you, and the nobility will never accept you—there’s no precedent for a Dungeon Lord’s ascension—”
At this moment, all the candles in the room were snuffed, and a chill traveled across the backs of all presents. Alfred had been around enough to know what this meant—the Dungeon Lord’s pet vampire had arrived. Around him, people reached for their silver amulets and their divine symbols. Theodore drew an elegant dagger infused with blessed silver. Mist poured from a window and coalesced into the laughing shape of a girl of about eleven years of age. She’d grown since the last time Alfred had seen her, if such a feat was possible for the undead.
“Precedent!” Jarlen snarled, advancing slowly toward Theodore with elegant movements like those of a cat stalking her prey. A veil covered her face to spare Lord Wright’s guest the sight of her dead features. “How adorable. I was alive when the men you call ancestors were crying for their mothers and soiling their diapers. That’s your precedent, mortal. Those who came before me, though… ah, they spoke of an age where what Lord Wraith proposes was the rule and not the exception. A time when the ancient Lords stood as kings among vast lands and whose armies of minions brought ruin and devastation to their enemies as rivers of blood drowned entire cities!” The Nightshade now turned to face the entire congregation, her voice rising in a terrible crescendo until it was as the wail of a banshee. “Have you heard the news the wind brings from distant places? The engines of war turn once more, and the ancient traditions are once again venerated! Forgotten evils stir in their tombs, the stars align across the vast night, and the portents speak of blood and fire, yet you dare attend this portentous meeting and speak to me about precedent?” She turned suddenly and swatted Theodore’s dagger away. “Tell me, mortal, when the army that doomed your father marches upon your country once again, who would you rather have fighting by your side when it's time to protect your woman and your children? The men and women who faltered and ran when the Inquisition came knocking?” She pointed at the people huddled behind Theodore. “Or would you rather have us—the meanest, cruelest, most abominable creatures this side of the Netherworld?”
The shaking Theodore held the gaze of the vampire, and then he stumbled away. Jarlen hissed and walked past the congregation until she stood behind Lord Wraith. And in the end, despite the terror the vampire inspired in the living, most gazes fell on the Dungeon Lord himself. After all, he was the one who such creatures answered to. And Alfred found that, in the heavy darkness that had fallen upon the room, the only light visible was the otherworldly fire of the Dungeon Lord’s eyes, giving his face the appearance of a ghostly skull, an image enhanced by the black skeletal hand that caressed his chin in a careless gesture.
Perhaps, thought Grand Master Alfred, some rumors are indeed true.
Theodore stood, his mustache trembling with unbridled rage. He marched as to leave the room, then stopped halfway, balled his hands into fists, and went back to the stack of papers in front of his seat. Dungeon Lord Wright watched as, all across the table, others did the same.
By the end of the night, Undercity was his.
Epilogue
Grand Master Gezved slid like a shadow across the dusty corridors of the Akathunian safehouse, his ears still ringing with the loss reports his men sent him all across the city. The slave dens had been raided by kaftar and those spider-and-batblin abominations, hunting Akathunians like a princeling chases after game. If that wasn’t enough humiliation, the vampire kept killing his warriors, and the Netherworldly Diviners blocked his Guild’s attempts at requesting help from the motherland.
Now that he was away from the prying eyes of his men—always on the lookout for signs of weakness—he allowed himself to rest his back against a wall and massage his temples.
Not long ago, the Assassins Guild would have simply killed Lord Wright for the trouble he brought. But that had been before the Heroes’ rampage through the Charcoal Tower that had culled Gezved’s forces. It was as if the Guild had suffered a terrible wound that night, and Wright’s minions kept picking at the scab, forcing it to remain open and fester.
The Akathunian was of the mind that Wright had orchestrated the whole thing. The attack on the Charcoal Tower, the Heroic rampage, then Wright’s convenient Tower popping out in the Akathunians’ headquarters. Even his sudden alliance with two Heroes—if you believed the rumors—could be explained by an elaborate ruse that had been set up to destroy the Assassins Guild in one fell swoop.
But why? Had it been jealousy? Perhaps Lord Wright simply didn’t like the competition. Perhaps he had some darker designs in mind.
Whatever the answer, he had to be stopped.
Gezved was not used to being hunted. Hiding like a common animal diminished him. His proud heritage demanded retribution.
Something inside his study clanked. The old Assassin clutched at the silver stake hanging by his neck, then relaxed his shoulders.
“Very well,” he told the shadow sitting comfortably on the windowsill between the fluttering drapes. “Let us talk, Malikar.”
The Lotian smiled. “I’m glad you’ve finally seen reason, Grand Master. Such a shame that it took the near-complete annihilation of your Guild.”
“You and your master,” Gezved said wearily, feeling like he was forging a pact not unlike the one Wright offered his minions, albeit without any of the benefits, “what do you want from us?”
“At last!” the Lotian exclaimed. “The right question. Was that so hard?” He raised his hands as he dropped down to the floor and strolled toward the Akathunian. “Peace, Master Gezved. We want peace. And all we ask from you in exchange…” the Lotian caressed Gezved’s cheek with one cold hand half-closed, and the Akathunian saw the skin of the Lotian’s face crawl as if a lurking creature stirred underneath, “…is your complete obedience.”
Gezved stepped away from the man, cold fear spreading through his limbs. The Lotian laughed, and opened his hand to reveal a small, brown, worm-like creature wriggling on his palm.
In some deep, dark chamber at the heart of the Citadel, three figures straight out of the Bardic annals had one of their secret reunions. There were few among the Netherworld that possessed such knowledge of past, current, and future events as the three of them put together. They, who had once been active participants of history in the making, were now but lurking observers, watching from afar, and waiting—perhaps—for the day when they might rise once again.
Regent Korghiran, the Lady of Secrets, loved her little cabals. Today, though, she barely participated in the intrigues of the other two—most of her attention belonged to the Shadow Tarot whose cards were spread across the table in front of her with seemingly no rhyme nor reason. Her expression was and troubled.
Dungeon Lady Golsa, on the other hand, was ever the merrier. Her mood always seemed to brighten when the Endeavor approached—it was as if the prospect of Dungeon Lord blood being spilled enticed her. “Ah, my dear Regent, you oughtn’t waste your time on daydreams. In truth, the Tarot has spoiled you. It barely shows anything of notice lately, only those boring black screens.”
“Perhaps you’re right, beloved,” Korghiran said. Few would dare speak to the Regent with such familiarity as Golsa. Then again, none among Korghiran’s mortals had lived in her domains as long as Golsa had. In truth, she’d come to see the geriatric Dungeon Lady as a sort of pet—like those small dogs yipping as they ran around the skirts of mortal Queens. “Although Lord Everbleed is as distracted with my little pastime as I am.”
The two turned to the gigantic mass of muscle, horns, and black armor that was the third member of their cabal. Tonight, Archlord Everbleed inhabited the body of the Higher Devil Knight—the faithful servant of the Archlords, a creature so powerful it could snap a minotaur in two with a flick of its wrist.
“Forgive me, Lady Golsa,” the Knight spoke with a booming voice, his eyes shining with a mystical black fire. “I am but an old man, with many fears and tribulations. If you will, distract me for a while.” With a single fingernail, he sifted through some Tarot cards. “Tell me, what do you think of this year Endeavor’s attendance?”
Korghiran smiled. Everbleed had brought up Golsa’s favorite matter to get her to lay off their back. Now Golsa could speak at her heart’s desire, and they could try to make sense of the mess that the Tarot showed. Korghiran had had her suspicions for a long time—as did Everbleed. None of them were good. Tonight they’d be forced to voice them. A perspective that neither looked forward to.
“Most excellent, Lord Alaric,” Golsa said, clapping her hands. “So many powerful contenders! It makes me hopeful for the future of the Lordship. People from whom I hadn’t heard in years are coming out of their hiding places to measure themselves against newly invested Dungeon Lords with luck and youthful passion on their side. Can you imagine the bloodbath? Ah, so exciting!” She gave a toothless grin. “Lady Vaines will win, of course. But I wonder if the rumors are true and the Boatman will bring his own Summoned Dungeon Lord to represent him.”
Korghiran found one particularly worrisome card and handed it to Everbleed without a word. Like many cards, it showed that black screen so prevalent of late, but unlike most, this showed a possible future where the owner won. Everbleed met her gaze. The Devil Knight’s visage lacked the facial flexibility to display most emotions that weren’t murderous anger or angry murderousness, but Korghiran knew the Archlord well enough to realize he was as worried as she.
“Baseless rumors,” the Regent told Golsa distractedly. “My brother has no business in the Netherworld. His role is to serve Murmur’s will across the planes.” Besides, the only Summoned Dungeon Lord that Korghiran knew about was Wright, and he was hers.
“Maybe,” Golsa said. “Maybe not. In any case, that dreadful Berserker shall be a huge annoyance, but Vaines has more combat experience than anyone else. She takes the win, that’s my prediction.”
“What about one of those young Lords?” asked Everbleed. “Maybe the one whose Towers are giving the Heiligians such trouble. Everyone in the Citadel is talking about that.”
Golsa waved dismissively. “It was bound to happen that someone would come up with a way to counter the Heroes. The Wraith lacks the expertise, the allies, and the power to hold on to his invention. Someone else shall come soon and take it from him… or the Inquisition will figure out a way to bypass the Towers and then they’ll break him.”
“If I didn’t know you so well, beloved, I’d think you’re a bit jealous that some young upstart won where you failed,” Korghiran pointed out.
“Bah!” Golsa shook her head. “Not at all. Each generation has its own challenges to overcome. I won mine, dear Regent. The first iteration of Heroes were broken by my hands, and as long as my rule lasted, it was great. My time passed as is the way of mortals. The new Heroes are someone else’s challenge, and that’s alright with me,” she said in a tone that indicated she wasn’t entirely alright.
Korghiran had to smile. Sometimes, Golsa could be more than she let on.
“You know,” Golsa went on. “I once had such a strange dream. In it, a man from another world had built the Heroes himself, instead of the Inquisition randomly coming up with them like it happened in the real world. This Summoned Hero and I were terrible enemies, and we faced each other in uncountable battles, his creations against my minions, and in this lethal rivalry, we were both extolled by the other’s hatred. Facing him, in my dream, I was forced to be my best self. Terrible and brilliant as I’ve never been before or since. And there was this unspoken understanding between the two of us, that when the day of our final confrontation came, we’d be joined—in a way—when the loser’s experience points were absorbed by the winner, and then our opposed ideals would finally find a common ground.” The old woman bit her lip and shook her head, prey of a sudden, deep nostalgia. “But that fated confrontation never came. The man vanished before the dream was over. It was as if, since then, I am but a shadow of what I could have been. Not long after having that dream, the new iteration of Heroes replaced the old, and the rest is history. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? It was only just a fantasy…” Golsa trailed off, her gaze distant. For some unfathomable reason, she was crying. Maybe she had finally gone senile.
The Lady of Secrets turned to the Dungeon Lady. The silly daydreams of the old crone had gotten the Demon’s attention. A man only remembered in a dream.
When Objectivity erased a person from history, it wasn’t a complete erasure—otherwise no one would know it had happened at all in the first place. One of the places where Objectivity’s interference could be revealed was in the Shadow Tarot. Another was in the dreams of those closest to the erased. And none were as close to a man of destiny as its forsworn enemy…
Could it be?
“Korghiran,” Everbleed called, breaking her out of her revelry. The Lady of Secrets dismissed her train of thought as a silly idea. Why, Golsa the Gossip, this old pet of hers, a Summoned Hero’s nemesis? The idea was contemptible. Sometimes dreams were only dreams. “Can the Shadow Tarot show the possible futures of a dead man?”
For an instant, Korghiran thought Everbleed meant the person in Golsa’s dream. Then she realized he was handing out the card back to her. “Never,” she said. “The dead have no future.”
“And yet the owner of that card has been dead for decades,” Everbleed said quietly.
Like that, Everbleed and Korghiran faced the truth neither wanted to confront. “What does that tell us?” she asked the Archlord.
“Wait a second,” said Golsa, blinking and becoming good, old Gossip Golsa again. “A dead man’s future? Who are you talking about?”
Both ignored her. “I did not want to believe it,” Everbleed admitted. “But it’s harder every day to keep ignoring the facts. My men have found evidence—nothing more than suspicions and conjectures, really—of a hidden hand guiding mortal affairs toward chaos and war to an unknown purpose. Something that goes beyond the means of a normal Dungeon Lord—in fact, it’s said that Dungeon Lords are being as manipulated as kings and generals alike.”
“I have found the same,” Korghiran told him. “It has his mark all over it.”
Korghiran gazed at the black expanse displayed in the card. For an instant, she’d thought the darkness had crawled. As if the black screen wasn’t a malfunction of the Tarot at all, but a real possible future where the world was consumed by untold millions of crawling, hungering creatures, bloating the sky, devouring all life.
A heavy silence fell across the chamber. Korghiran thought it fitting. If it was the time for the old traditions to return, it was also the time for the ancient monsters to walk the earth once more.
“It’s time to consider the nightmare scenario. That he fooled us since the beginning,” Everbleed said. “That somehow, somewhere… Dungeon Lord Sephar is alive.”
Edward Wright
Species: Human
Total Exp: 750
Unused Exp: 245
Claims: Lordship, Undercity’s Ruler.
Attributes
Brawn: 13
Agility: 11
Endurance: 14
Mind: 13
Spirit: 16 (+1 Dungeon Lord mantle)=17
Charm: 13 (+1 Dungeon Lord mantle)=14
Skills
Athletics: Basic (IX) - The owner has trained his body to perform continuous physical activity with
out penalties to their Endurance. For a while.
-Basic ranks allows them to realize mild energy-consuming tasks (non-combat) such as running or swimming without tiring. Unlocks stamina related talents.
Melee: Basic (IX) - Measures the user’s progress in physical combat. It opens up melee-related talents as well as advanced martial skill specializations.
Dungeon Engineering: Improved (IX) - This skill represents the user’s knowledge of magical constructs pertaining to dungeoncraft. As it improves, it opens new rooms and traps, as well as adds to the Dungeon Lord Mantle capacity of storing the user’s own blueprints.
Combat Casting: Basic (VIII) - Pertains to the speed and efficiency of spells casted during combat or life-threatening situations.
-Basic status allows the caster to use spells every 20 seconds - 1 second per extra rank. The caster must say their names aloud and perform the appropriate hand gestures.
Leadership: Improved (VI) - Reflects the owner’s capacity of inspiring and managing his troops and minions. For a Dungeon Lord, improving this skill adds to the bonus he and his minions receive.
Talents
Evil Eye - Allows the Dungeon Lord to see the Objectivity of any creature or item. If the target of his gaze possesses a strong Spirit (or related Attribute or Skill) they may hide their information if the Lord’s own Spirit is not strong enough.
Veil Piercing Evil Eye - The Dungeon Lord’s Evil Eye is upgraded with a constant effect. The Evil Eye can now detect invisibility and similar forms of concealment and has an advantage at piercing illusions and magical misdirection. Veil Piercing cannot affect Legendary-ranked magic or higher.