Tired of Death - Dungeon

by Neil Hartley

  “Hey! Wait up!” Gurg cried, tripping over a rock.

  Buggle fell on top of him, squashing him into a patch of dubious looking soil.

  “Get off me! We’re losing them,” Gurg complained.

  “Ah, forget it,” his fellow goblin said, sitting on a nearby stump. “They’re too far ahead. We’ll never catch up.”

  They looked forlornly on as the posse disappeared from view, charging after the outlaws with wild glee.

  “Come on,” said Buggle. “Let’s go back to the entrance and wait for them. Maybe the trolls left something we can steal.”

  Gurg brightened at this suggestion. “Good idea!”

  The two scurried back towards the entrance, just as a couple of other figures arrived.

  “You couldn’t keep up too?” asked Gurg, as they drew close.

  “Actually, we’re just passing through,” said the nearest one cheerfully.

  “Wait a minute!” Gurg put a finger to his lips. “I know you! You’re the zombie that ate our princess a while back. Hey! You’re the group we’re watching for!!”

  He started to shout, but a dull pain stopped him. Looking down he saw the tip of a black sword protruding from his stomach, intestines oozed from the wound it had caused, and dark blood dripped down his front. The sword hummed.

  A voice from behind him spoke. “Sorry about this, nothing personal you understand, but we can’t afford to have any witnesses.”

  The blade was removed, leaving a cold feeling in his insides. As the light started to fade, Gurg thought he heard the zombie speaking.

  “How was I supposed to know she was a princess?”

  ~ * ~

  “What’s that?” Sprat asked, squinting ahead.

  “Oh my! I never thought I would see that again,” said Cuthbert, awe in his voice.

  “What’s it daddy?” Sprat repeated. “It’s too bright. ‘M scared!”

  “It’s daylight son, real daylight.”

  The group marched steadily up the ever widening passage, until they stood, shielding their eyes, next to a small hummock in an area surrounded by trees.

  As Dreth entered the clearing his stolen robes began to smolder and smoke. When the sun hit them they disintegrated entirely, leaving him standing in a pile of ash. Darkblood‘s new sheath remained strapped about him, obviously it was not of Drow origin.

  “Great,” he said.

  “Why is Uncle Dref not wearing anythink?” asked Sprat.

  “It’s a wardrobe malfunction,” replied Cuthbert, not hiding a smirk very well.

  “I can’t go about like this,” said Dreth. “I’m all exposed.”

  “I can see your liver,” taunted Percy, pointing at the organ, which was regenerating amidst all the other usual internals.

  “You can have a spare robe of mine,” said Redthorne, hunting about in his pack and drawing out a red and blue garment. He passed it over to Dreth, who put it on.

  “Mmm. Not really my color,” he said critically.

  “Look, we can’t stand about here all day,” the wizard said. “We had a deal. Hand over the baby and I’ll tell you what I know. Unless you plan on reneging on our agreement?” He stepped back slightly and raised his staff.

  “No no. I can’t be bothered to take you on right now, and we need to be moving away from here. Tell me your information.”

  Redthorne looked at him for a moment, evaluating the situation. “Tell the zombie to stand next to me first,” he replied.

  “Cuthbert, take the baby over there,” Dreth nodded.

  Cuthbert muttered under his breath, but complied, moving to stand near the mage.

  “Now wizard, speak!” demanded Dreth. “What do you know of my contract?”

  “The Overlord has it,” said Redthorne.

  “The Management? In the Black Desert?” Percy asked.

  “No, that’s the Master of the Dungeon,” said the wizard. “The Overlord is his master, and no doubt the ruler of other dungeons as well. I believe it works on some kind of franchise deal, from what the Drow told me, and from what I’ve heard from other sources.”

  “Interesting,” said Dreth scratching his chin. “And where can we find this Overlord?”

  “Ah. Well, I don’t have a precise location for you. Most say that he lives in a large castle, somewhere over by the Dragon Forest. Others believe that he resides in the Ugly Swamp, to the north. However, these only rumors. I hear tell that the famed prophet, the Hermit of Farsii, knows the exact location.”

  “And where may we find this prophet?” asked Dreth.

  “He’s on the far side of the City of Real. In the hills somewhere.”

  “That’s it? That’s this ‘valuable’ information you’ve been boasting about?” said Dreth.

  “It’s more than you had before,” he said. “I believe there’s a village somewhere nearby here too.” He shrugged. “Now, about the baby…”

  Dreth looked at him for a moment, and Redthorne shifted his staff meaningfully. Finally though, Dreth nodded. “Give him the baby Cuthbert. We have no further use for either of them.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the zombie, hesitating.

  “As much as it goes against the grain, yes. He’s too powerful to deal with easily. I’ve enough on my plate as it is.”

  Reluctantly, Percy handed over the baby to Redthorne, who took it carefully with one hand, eyes never leaving Dreth.

  Once the transfer was complete the wizard stepped back. “I would like to say it’s been a pleasure knowing you Dreth, but that would be stretching the truth. However, for an evil murderer with no morals or conscience, you aren’t a bad sort. I’m sure you’ll understand if I say that I hope our paths never cross again. Farewell.” With that, the mage raised his staff and uttered a powerful incantation. There was a flash of light, and the wizard and baby vanished.

  “So much for that then,” said Percy. “Hey! Who’s he?” He pointed off into the trees.

  There was a sudden movement. A young human boy popped up from behind a bush and ran into the undergrowth screaming.

  “Wonderful, a witness,” said Dreth.

  “He looked tasty, shall we go after him?” Cuthbert asked.

  The zombies looked at Dreth expectantly, who in turn looked at the evening sky.

  ”Come on! Fresh boy!” Said Percy. “Still kicking and everything.”

  Dreth practiced sighing, trying out his lungs, which were still not full regrown. “No. We need to get out of here. Besides, he probably belongs to someone, and if he goes missing we’d likely have a mob tracking us down.”

  He put his hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll run into plenty of victims. We’re on the surface now after all.”

  The zombie’s expression brightened, though this didn’t make it any less horrific. “Well okay,” he said.

  “So, do we go straight to this Dragon forest then?” asked Emerald.

  Dreth shook his head. “No, I think a trip to the prophet is a better bet. Even if this Overlord is in the forest, traveling elsewhere first may throw him off the scent, so to speak.” He paused and looked around. “Of course, it would help if we knew where this city is. Ah well, one direction is as good as another for now I suppose. Which way do you think Percy?” he asked.

  Percy considered for a moment, and then pointed off to their left. “I’ve a good feeling about that bearing,” he said.

  “Excellent,” said Dreth. “After me then.” So saying he set off in the opposite direction.

  “Hey!” said Percy, who had started off in the way he’d indicated. “You’re as bad as the living you are!” The zombie about faced and stumbled after his comrades, complaining all the while.

  ~ * ~

  The forest wheeled below the small bird, a lush verdant canopy of living green. Not that the bird, which didn’t have a name because it was just a bird, thought of it like that. It didn’t re
ally think at all for that matter, merely being a small creature driven by the primordial instincts to survive, eat and procreate, not necessarily in that order.

  The primordial instinct it currently felt was to have a bit of a rest, as it had had a busy day hunting for worms and insects and what not. Hence it swooped down and alighted on a branch of a small tree. Opposite this particular tree was a small mound, and in the side of this mound someone had built a stone wall, presumably to block off a tunnel behind. This must have happened some time ago, as the wall was mostly covered over by soil and various climbing plants.

  As the bird watched there was a muffled noise, and the bricks quivered, as if something had hit them from the other side. A moment later the action was duplicated, sending bits of loose earth tumbling to the ground in a miniature avalanche. The wall shook again as it was repeatedly attacked until, in a dull explosion, the bricks erupted outwards.

  A hand appeared in the resulting hole, tearing more of it away and enlarging the gap, until it was finally big enough allowing an oversized shape to squeeze through. It was followed by a smaller figure, which clambered out after the first and stood next to it.

  “We out!” exclaimed the big one.

  “I told you we would find a way Gut. Hammath Highhand always keeps his word,” the second one said.

  Both forms had obviously been through a lot. The giant’s clothes were torn and ragged, and several large and recent scars marked various points on his torso. The elf by his side wore armor that was dented and grimy. Bloodstains and other unidentifiable marks tarnished the metal, and his long hair was raggedy and ruffled.

  “Where we go now?” asked the one called Gut.

  “Now we’ll go to my home. Many good hunters have lost their lives recently. Indeed, I may have joined them if you hadn’t come to my aid against those damned Drow. I shall return to Jollygreenwood and gather more fighters. Together we shall track down Dreth, who has taken your lady of course, to recover our lost child.”

  “Ok,” said Gut.

  “Let us be off,” said Hammath. “We have some distance to travel.”

  The two turned and set off through the trees, quickly disappearing from view.

  The bird, who hadn’t understood any of this, decided it was rested enough and left too soaring back into the blue sky, only to be tragically* eaten by a hungry eagle a bit later on.

  *For the small bird that is. The eagle was quite happy with the situation.

  End of Book 1.

  Tired of Death.

  A Comedy of Terrors.

  Book 2:

  The Overlord.

  (Preview).

  Neil. Hartley.

  Village of the Not-Damned.

  The screams died down, and a shadowy shape stepped back, the pincers he was holding in one hand dripped with blood.

  “Please, I can give you wealth, fame! Anything!” pleaded his victim.

  “I already have those things,” replied the large man. “Besides, an example must be made. You were given a solemn duty to oversee this dungeon. You failed. A Dungeon Master cannot be seen to fail.” He tested the bonds that tied the former ruler down to his own table.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of you,” said the blood splattered form, somewhat blurrily. “What’s your name?”

  The dark figure drew himself up to his full, impressive, height and spoke in deep tones. “I am known by many names across the land. If evil lurks, I am there. Whenever Dark acts are performed, my presence is felt. If cruel and unnecessary violence is required, I’m the one to summon. Should Dirty Deeds need to be done, sometimes dirt cheap, look no further. Commoners cower in my presence. Heroes quail before me. I am the bringer of the Dark. The harbinger of Horror! Blood, death and fear follow in my wake. I am… Veronica the Violator!”

  There was a short pause.

  “Veronica? Veronica??” sneered the DM, spitting out a tooth. “What kind of name is that for an Anti-Paladin?” he asked. “It’s… it’s a girls’ name!”

  The Violator growled. “That kind of remark is exactly why I became the evil that I am today. My school chums also made fun of me.” He crossed his arms. “They do so no more.”

  “Because you killed them all horribly? Hunting them down one by one, killing each in ways too horrible to mention? Each death feeding your lust for blood and revenge until your very soul was steeped in it?” The Master would have rubbed his hands together if they weren’t tied, or in one case nailed, down.

  “Oh, good one, but no. Actually I just lost touch.” The Violator waved the pincers about casually. “You know how it goes, you move on, drift away.” He leaned forward and smiled. “But just wait until next year’s reunion.” He threw his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls.

  The Dungeon Master groaned. “Is this part of the torture?” he asked.

  “Oh no, I’m just keeping in practice. You need a good evil laugh to be an anti-paladin you know.” He stepped back and looked at his reflection in a nearby full length mirror. “Do you think this cloak makes me look fat?” He swirled said garment around.

  “Maybe a little,” answered the Master. “It’s a little hard to see with one of my eyes hanging out.”

  “Ah yes. Sorry, I get distracted sometimes,” said Veronica, still looking in the mirror.

  “No problem at all,” replied the Master. “Torture is hard work. You should get up and stretch every twenty minutes you know. RTS* is a real problem.”

  “It’s so true. Not many people appreciate the art nowadays. It’s all… break this bone here, flail the skin off there. No skill anymore.”

  The Master rolled his eye. “Tell me about it. You just can’t get the staff. Do you know I have to give my advanced level guardians a pension plan? I mean come on! What’s evil coming to?”

  “I agree.” Veronica sighed and shook his head. “Still, enough of this banter. Where was I?”

  “Working on the fingernails,” said the Master helpfully. “Good job by the way, I appreciate professionalism.” He paused a moment, then added: “Though in this case, not as much as usual.”

  “Right, let’s get back to work then.” The Violator stepped forward and raised his pliers.

  Screams once more echoed through the castle.

  *Repetitive Torturing Syndrome

  ~ * ~

 

  Tired of Death is available FREE at:

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