“Kaz thinks …” The Changeling shifted from foot to foot nervously, and he lowered his voice, leaning in as if he were about to speak terrible blasphemies. “Kaz thinks Roark is right. To become Thursr, we must take heroes’ equipment … a-and use it.”
Roark’s toothy Changeling mouth broke into a grin. “Good.” He clapped Kaz on the back with one hand and held out the Rusty Falcata with the other. “I wanted you to have this as a reward for that fight, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it if you didn’t come around.”
Kaz gazed down at the falcata with wide-eyed adoration. His stumpy blue hands closed worshipfully around its hilt as he took it from Roark.
“Here, take this as well,” Roark said, passing over the buckler, hoping Kaz would have the Stats to utilize it. Roark had never been much of a buckler man—clumsy and made for getting hit—but it seemed perfect for the nervous Troll. No, Roark was a man of grace and speed. He pulled out the Slender Rapier and examined it closely.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Slender Rapier of the Falcon
One-Handed Damage: 15 - 19
Durability: 32 of 32
Level Requirement: 1
Strength Requirement: 12
Blade Class Weapon - Fast Attack Speed
+10% Attack Speed
╠═╦╬╧╪
A gentleman’s weapon. Perfect. He gripped its handle and gave it a few practice swings as he danced through familiar forms. A lunging stoccata. A feint, followed by a ridoppio. A twirl, a flick, and a wicked sottomano—an ascending cut, meant to catch the inside of the thigh. Yes, the blade would do nicely for the time being. He stowed the rapier and glanced over at Kaz, who had the buckler strapped down on his left arm and the falcata firmly in his right hand.
“You said they’ll be respawning in three hours’ time and return here for their equipment?” Roark asked.
“Yes,” Kaz said, too enthralled with brandishing his falcata and ducking behind his buckler to get caught up in having broken the Troll taboo against hero-looting.
“Then we’d best be quick,” Roark said. “We have a lot to do before they return, and I’d like to meet this Floor Boss you mentioned.”
NINE:
Floor Boss
Roark followed as Kaz led the way out of the dead-end cell and through the remainder of the floor. At Kaz’s terrified urging, Roark had finally agreed to unequip his new boots and blade and go to meet this Floor Boss in nothing but the dirty Threadbare Loincloth he’d started out with. It rankled his pride, but he gathered from Kaz’s panic that the Floor Boss would confiscate their plunder as his own—or worse—if he saw them with it.
As they negotiated the stone corridors, they passed other Changelings wandering aimlessly, gulping down flagons of ale, or swaying on the spot and staring fixedly at nothing. Overhead, colonies of Reaver Bats clung to the ceiling, crawling over each other and occasionally dropping into a graceful swoop before darting down the passageway. Roark saw one Stone Salamander near an open door—slate gray, with a long thick tail, bulbous granite eyes, and a round, nearly spherical head—but as they approached, its coloration shifted and it disappeared from sight. When Roark reached the doorway and pressed his hand to where the creature’s head had been, he felt the momentary caress of cold, velvety skin—the very end of the tail. Then it was gone.
Roark leaned in the doorway to see if the Stone Salamander had slipped into the room. Immediately, all thoughts of the creature fled. Rotting shelves lined the walls, broken and tumbled down in places. A long table stood in the center of the room. A sort of stone pedestal had been erected in one corner.
And on every surface, books.
Books, books, and more books. Some in neat stacks, others tossed down haphazardly, and still others charred and nearly disintegrated. And somewhere among all those neglected and forgotten tomes, there might be parchment … Perhaps even a quill.
Roark’s heart thundered in his chest and his head spun at the sight of all that magick in one place. The things he could learn. The havoc he could wreak. This could change everything. True, he could carve a couple of cantrips into his arm—provided he didn’t accidentally kill himself in the process—but the cost to his Health vial was too high for those to be effective in battle. But if he had paper, he could access all of his spells. With those in his arsenal, the next band of heroes wouldn’t stand a bloody infant’s chance in the blighted caverns.
“Has Roark changed his mind?” Kaz asked hopefully from behind him, drumming his fingers together in eager anticipation. “Does he not want to meet the Floor Boss anymore?”
“What? No.” Roark gave himself a mental shake and forcibly tore his eyes from the stacks. The treasure trove of words and paper could wait. None of the creatures inhabiting this place were going to run off with the books, he reassured himself, not if the ones he’d met so far were any indication. For now, the most pressing business was procuring help from the Floor Boss to better defend the citadel. “I have to speak with him. Let’s get on with it.”
Kaz shivered, his bottom lip trembling with fear and disappointment, but he led onward. They turned down a final hall, their steps echoing off the stones. It ended in an iron portcullis similar to the one in the bailey wall aboveground.
Kaz gulped. His stumpy arms were trembling too hard to pull down the heavy wooden lever that opened the gate. Roark nudged the frightened Changeling aside and shoved the lever down himself. Gears and chain links clanked. The portcullis rose with a rusty screech.
On the other side was an ornate throne room, obviously decorated with the Infernal in mind. Tattered purple tapestries hung from the ceilings. A row of twelve spikes lined one wall, each one with the rotting head of a Troll impaled on it. Stained-glass windows depicting scenes of those black-winged women luxuriating in carnality and carnage cast their soft glow onto the room. A faintly glowing, ornately carved black-and-purple chest rested in the corner.
And four midlevel Thursrs who’d been standing guard were all now staring directly at Roark and Kaz.
The Thursrs were huge creatures, each the size of a full-grown human, but nearly twice as wide across the shoulders as a typical man. They were built with thick blue muscle covered in a thin layer of coarse white hair. Their arms were the size of small tree-trunks and capped by four sausage-sized fingers, each tipped with vicious hooked claws. Their faces were ugly things with strong square jaws and deeply recessed eyes like chips of onyx peering out from underneath sloping foreheads. In addition to the fluttering filth-caked loincloths that seemed to be standard uniform for Trolls, the Thursrs were also covered with bits of spiked armor and lengths of swinging chain.
One carried a crude spike-studded club, while another leaned a pitted battle-ax against one broad shoulder. A third clutched a bulky flail, the chain crafted from a spinal column and topped by a yellowed Troll skull. So, it seemed using weaponry wasn’t completely against whatever rules these things lived by, but rather it was the act of stealing from dead Heroes that was taboo. Roark filed the tidbit away for later.
At the head of the throne room, a Brute Thursr whose size and muscle put the other four to shame sat on an immense twisted obsidian chair, the remains of a wide grin quickly souring on his face. Each of the Brute’s serrated teeth were easily the size of Roark’s hand. Above his head floated the name [Ugoraz the Vile], the white letters surrounded by a bloody red aura.
“What’s this now?” Ugoraz the Vile snarled. “Why you two ain’t at your posts, huh?”
Roark drew himself up to his full height—which barely came up to the hip on the midlevel Thursrs—and strutted into the throne room, oozing confidence and purpose. Kaz’s following footsteps were conspicuously absent.
“We’re not at our posts because we were overrun by raiders and had to retreat into the citadel to mount a better defense,” Roark said in a bitingly cheerful tone. “We’ve got to talk about your defensive strategies, mate, ’cause the way you’re deploying troops right now is about
as effective as a retired whore trying to protect her virginity. The battle’s already lost. The least you could do is send your strongest warriors outside.” He gestured at the midlevel Thursrs scattered around the chamber. “With toughs like these posted in the bailey, a raider would never make it to the staircase, let alone inside.”
Ugoraz the Vile scowled.
“Will ya look at this, boys,” he said, sweeping one meaty arm toward Roark. “A little flea what knows all about dungeons come to tell me my job. What’s your level, flea?”
The Brute Thursr’s eyes lost focus for a moment and he nodded.
“A level two, comin’ into my throne room to talk down to me, a level twelve.” Ugoraz grinned down at Roark, his eyes narrowing. “You know so much, little flea, but didja know you ain’t up there to keep the adventurers out? No, you’re there to die nice and easy for ’em, to lure in as many as possible so’s we can feast on their energy. The weak die at the hands a’ you little snots, and that’s your shot at leveling. The strong’re worn down a little at a time as they traverse the dungeon, ’til they make it to the heart, where they end up food for the Uber Trolls.”
Roark felt a flicker of confusion flash across his face, but quickly smoothed it away under a mask of annoyance. Ugoraz saw and broke into a belly-rolling chuckle that thundered around the chamber. Over his shoulder, Roark heard Kaz whimper.
“Naw, you didn’t know that,” the Floor Boss snarled. “The twos of ya are just a couple runts what gained a level and now you think you can do better’n me at runnin’ this floor.”
“N-n-no,” Kaz whimpered. “No, Overseer, we don’t think that.”
“I don’t think I can do better than you,” Roark agreed with a dip of his chin. “I know I can.”
With the speed of a striking adder, Ugoraz the Vile heaved himself up from the throne and grabbed Roark by the throat. His huge fist nearly swallowed Roark’s neck. Roark clawed and pried at the Brute Thursr’s hand, but couldn’t budge a single finger.
Thinking quickly, Roark triggered his Soul-Forge ability. A notice popped up in response.
[Action failed! You may only make Greater Vassals of creatures equal to your current level or lower!]
He dismissed it, grimacing. It certainly would’ve paid to know that restriction earlier.
“Gunnin’ for my position, are ya?” Ugoraz growled, long serrated teeth just inches from Roark’s face. A stench like a tannery pit filled the little bit of air Roark still had access to through the Floor Boss’s grip. “Climbin’ the corporate ladder down here’s a bloody business, flea. I took the Overseer position from Krotz the Foul when I ripped his head off his stinkin’ shoulders. Every time a challenger steps up lookin’ to take the position from me, I do the same to them. See ’em there?” He waved his free hand at the various heads mounted about the room. “That’s what happens to those what come against me. Now I don’t answer to nobody but the Dungeon Lord hisself. You overstep, flea, and you’ll end like them, dead for good. No respawn, no nothin’.”
Roark’s vision was going fuzzy and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his eyes. His lungs burned like fire, begging for air, but he glared cold Lyuko daggers at the rank-smelling Brute crushing his windpipe. He wouldn’t be intimidated by some two-bit lackey on a power trip.
Ugoraz grinned and tossed him to the floor. Roark coughed as the air scraped across his bruised trachea. The room spun at the sudden rush of oxygen to his brain.
“Time to teach you a lesson,” the Floor Boss crowed. “One fitting for a flea what don’t know his place!”
Roark staggered to his feet, fists balled and ready to fight, but two of the much larger mid-level Thursrs grabbed him, stretching his arms wide and lifting him from the stone floor. Roark fought and kicked and cursed, but the musclebound bastards just laughed at his struggling.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Kaz moving forward, Rusty Falcata in his quaking hands. A brave move, but foolhardy. Roark gave Kaz a quick shake of his head. If they both died, they would both lose their level and be right back where they started. Smarter to take the punishment himself and keep Kaz at level two.
Kaz looked both relieved and horrified at Roark’s order to stand down, but he obeyed.
“Take a good look at my face, flea.” Ugoraz the Vile came back into Roark’s field of vision. He held a cat-o’-nine-tails in one beefy hand, each of its cords knotted with bits of rusty metal and sharp obsidian. He gave Roark a solid rap on the forehead with the whip’s handle. “Each floor can only have one boss, and on Level One, that’s me.”
Roark bit back a caustic retort before it could escape his mouth. But just barely.
Ugoraz handed off the whip to one of his Thursr flunkies, then plopped back down on his throne to enjoy the festivities, a satisfied smile on his face.
The loose ends of the whip traced Roark’s back as the Thursr took aim. As the cords lifted away from his skin, Roark gritted his teeth and tried to brace himself. He didn’t want to give this grinning buffoon the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
As it turned out, he didn’t get a choice. When the first lash landed, nine bright lines of pain burned across his back, punctuated by the resonating thuds of nine shards of metal and stone embedding themselves in his flesh. The scream tore through his teeth, and he fought against reason to break free of the Thursrs’ iron grasp, to get away from the pain any way possible. He screamed again when the shards buried in his skin ripped free, taking bloody chunks with them, a ragged howl torn from the depths of agony.
In the corner of his vision, the filigreed Health vial appeared, a tenth of his life draining away. The realization that it would take nine more lashes to die and end this torment almost undid him.
The second lash fell, the thuds of the cat’s tails lodging themselves in his flesh drowned out by his cries. Another cruelly small fraction of Health bled out of his vial. Sweat poured off his body like a river, leaving the aching wounds stinging with salt as the tails ripped free again. Roark dropped limp between the Thursrs, shaking with a combination of pain and fear of the next lash.
The third lash landed in untouched meat of his left shoulder and tore free, shredding the flesh there. The sound of his screaming faded into the background of his mind, too small and far away to compete with the hugeness and immediacy of the agony. The fourth dug into his lower back, making him arch his spine until he thought it would snap. The fifth wrapped around his upper ribs and just under his arm. The sixth tore across the back of his neck, but brutally failed to sever his spinal cord. Clearly this Thursr had been given the job of punisher on the merits of his talent for searching out unmarked flesh with each lash.
Roark prayed for oblivion, but received only renewed agony as an answer.
By the ninth lash there was no undamaged flesh left to shred. The whip tore more bloody chunks from the tattered center of his back.
Through a haze of pain-clouded desperation, Roark waited for the final lash to fall. It would hurt, but it would also suck away the last fraction of red in his vial and end this torment.
Without warning, the vicelike grips of the Thursrs released. Roark dropped to the floor and slid a little, leaving a sheen of blood and sweat behind like a slug’s trail. He rested his scorching cheek against the icy stones, reveling in that tiny bit of relief.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Ugoraz rumbled, scratching his vast gut. “I shoulda killed ya both, but not many Changelings earn a level. Just remember who’s the boss around here or next time I will kill ya. Get ’im outta here ’fore I change my mind.”
Feet scuffled across the stone floor, but Roark’s eyes didn’t want to stay open. He let them drift shut as small leathery hands closed around his wrists and Kaz dragged him out of the throne room.
TEN:
Supplies
When Roark’s mind finally climbed free from the haze of pain, he found himself lying facedown on the floor of the stone corridor, halfway between the throne room and the decrepit library he’d
seen earlier. Red was returning to his Health vial in halting increments, and he could feel the tattered flesh and muscles in his back knitting together slowly. Roark spared a wry laugh for the irony of choosing to increase his Constitution just in time for that budding second-rate tyrant to whip him to within an inch of his life. If he hadn’t increased his Constitution, he might’ve only had to bear five or six lashes.
Wincing at the bright flashes of pain dancing across his still-healing back, Roark pushed himself up onto hands and knees, then stood.
Kaz leaned against the wall beside him, hands on his thighs, panting.
“Kaz can pull Roark farther,” the Changeling wheezed, waving a hand as if to coax Roark to lie back down. “Kaz’s Stamina has almost returned.” He gulped loudly. “Phwew. One more minute, that’s all.”
“Don’t worry about it, mate, I can manage.” Roark clapped Kaz on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting me this far.”
“What will we do now?” Kaz asked.
“Simple.” Roark shrugged. “We kill the bastard.”
Kaz’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He clasped both hands over his mouth and stared back down the corridor toward the throne room as if afraid Roark’s voice might have carried back to Ugoraz’s filthy ears.
“Roark shouldn’t talk like that!” the Changeling hissed in a panicked whisper. “Ugoraz will not spare him twice!”
“I’ve dealt with worse tyrants than that catchpenny’s pretender,” Roark said. “It’s time for somebody who knows what they’re doing to take the reins on this floor.”
“But if Roark issues a formal challenge to the Floor Boss and Ugoraz kills him, Roark will not …” The Changeling faltered and licked tentatively at his lips. “Roark will not respawn,” he finished in a whisper. “Such is the way of Trolls and other chimera of Hearthworld.”
“I caught that. When I do challenge him, I don’t intend to lose.”
Kaz grabbed his arm as if he were going to run back to the throne room this very moment. “But—”
Rogue Dungeon Page 7
