Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  “Thousands. They should help those in need instead. Hard times have befallen the Humans.”

  Skylar’s eyebrow raised. “What about the Trolls?”

  Luthias was suddenly angry. “They are beyond help. They have wronged us in ways unimaginable, in ways I can no longer imagine.”

  “Is that why you built a Myrmidon Temple?” Skylar’s tone was inquisitive. “As a way to make war against them? To wipe them out?”

  Luthias growled, “Do not be so presumptuous, adventurer! Our holy Temple was constructed a millennia ago as a symbol of peace and order, of the Elven golden age. That time has long passed, and we have been forced to defend ourselves. We are not the violent savages of this world!”

  Skylar raised two palms. “Whoah. I’m just curious, not implying anything.”

  “Then you should consider your words with more caution,” Luthias said quite harshly. “Even you, an adventurer who has been enslaved by them, cannot comprehend the horrors our people have suffered. In some ways, I am thankful that my memories have taken.” His voice was on the verge of breaking.

  “Awww. There, there. It’s kay.” Gabrielle allowed him a motherly expression, rubbing his muscled back. It seemed to help somewhat. “My dummy husband will burn down all their cities for ya. It’ll be better soon.” And she was rather excited to see that happen; an evil part of her mind was rooting for total mayhem upon those meanies.

  Confliction battled back and forth in Luthias’ eyes. He eventually exhaled, then helped himself to seconds. He drank with the hunger of a giant. “If that is the will of the gods, then I am naught to judge.”

  Gabrielle’s sinister giggles lightened the mood adorably, but her disobeying eyes kept drifting toward Row’s entry on her friend list. The color changed from green to orange again. Then orange-red. Dummy!

  47

  The smashed desk back at the reception area was a godsend.

  Advancing, Rowan held onto a carved-out groove in the moldy board. A bolt struck the wood and sent a mini shockwave up his arm up to his collarbone. A second bolt pierced through, its rusty broad head nicking his cheek. Warmth dripped off his jaw. One drop—a superficial wound.

  Another bolt shook the board, Rowan’s fingers numb. Then another. And another, grazing the back of his hand.

  A final step brought him into throwing range. From his pouch, he pulled out a fire grenade, tossed with all his strength, and activated the unstable enchantment with a mental flick. And even with all his strength, even with the glowing cylinder hurtling with a dragon’s speed, it did not travel more than thirty yards before detonating in a vortex inferno.

  Splinters at the edges of the board ignited in the fallout. His eyelashes singed with a weak sting.

  A few seconds my ass, he thought. That was less than one second before detonation.

  The other two from earlier hadn’t been much better. Perhaps fire grenades were especially unstable. An incline told him their quality ratings had something to do with it, then thought slammed into the back of his skull—friendly fire. He mailed Gabrielle a memo before someone at the base dies thanks to his low-level crafting.

  Rowan LeMort (To Gabby LeMort): Be careful. The grenades go off only a second after activating.

  Gabby LeMort: Gotcha! Thnx! And we’re making slings for em. (My idea!)

  He was already starting to miss her presence at his side.

  Fire burned on before him, releasing noxious smoke. Fluids in his brain stirred. Coughs hacked from his lung as his vision broke out with whitening valleys and mountains. But the smoke then vanished as though a god willed it out of existence. Lucky? Or the dungeon’s magic at work? Rowan guessed the latter.

  Nothing remained of the front third of the hall save for a raised square dais… and charred bits of wood among pieces of sooty equipment. Burning all the loot was a cruddy idea, but was there any other option?

  No.

  Rowan recycled dying flames and embers into his mana pool, runes down his forearms glowing. An ominous vibe tainted the mana before it converted to his own. The feeling was coming from an engraved onyx gem at the center of the dais.

  A secret?

  He approached with extra careful steps. A Cresentia was ready at the tip of his tongue. His knuckles clicked as they gripped Moonfyre tighter, which wasn’t the best idea. Zaine had mentioned there was an optimal grip strength for each of the Myrmidon fighting forms. A soothing breath through the mouth forced his hand to loosen up.

  Up close, the feeling was trying to draw him in—a moody weight pushing on his shoulder blades. Breathing was difficult. So was walking, as though he were resisting quicksand. He commanded the game interface to spit out a description window.

  ???

  “Helpful.”

  This was one of the three secrets—right here out in the open. It was a puzzle. Or a trap. Or a portal to a different section of the dungeon. Best of all a loot cache.

  Please be a loot cache.

  A jet of regular fire did nothing. A sustained jet neither helped, but a few loose bits of abyssalnite were glowing red—only for a second and a half, the heat eaten by that onyx.

  Or something else.

  Rowan reminded himself not to make assumptions here. Magic was complicated. Unpredictable.

  He crouched and leaned in, but found no tiny engraved runes. He was about to shuffle closer when the chatbox beeped. Surprise whipped across his neck and brow at the name.

  Viola Everbright (To Rowan LeMort): Is everything okay? My slave link is different.

  Why not have a conversation? It wasn’t like this dungeon was timed.

  Rowan LeMort: Passed it to Gab. I’m in a dungeon, but how are you doing? Died to a bear yet?

  Viola Everbright: What? How are you in a dungeon?

  Rowan LeMort: I’m an Enchanter.

  Viola Everbright: Oh, nice! We can have some proper bathrooms now.

  An incredulous expression nested into face.

  Rowan LeMort: You turned on passing waste?

  Viola Everbright: No, but I could smell those longdrops.

  Enough.

  He put her beeps on mute, and redirected attention back to this mystery dais, to its gleaming onyx. Liquid-like mana swirled within much like the orb Tasha and Ayla had encountered at that Human town. Rowan pulled up his Plopbox screenshot library and compared the two. While the mana in the orb was like flowery blossoms among ribbons, the mana in the gem was like eddies in boiling water.

  That, he decided after many ticks, was enough of a difference to warrant a risk.

  He reached out with Moonfyre’s point. He prodded.

  Nothing.

  With an influx of mana into Moonfyre’s pommel, he poked again.

  The gem flashed white. Mechanisms in the walls shifted and clicked.

  Rowan was already dashing sideways, the wooden board protecting his left. Three thumps traveled up arm. He felt the wind of projectiles from whizz past his neck, missing by a hair length. His heart stammered a beat even though something like this was to be expected.

  Metal darts had clinked against the wall onto the ground. One was tipped with a brownish-green goop, oozing it.

  Enchanted Mithril Dart of Poison

  Damage: 42

  Quality: 529 (Admirable)

  Poison: May infect a flesh wound with varying severity.

  Nice. There was always a silver lining.

  It didn’t take long to scavenge nine of them, each around five hundred quality, each poisoned. He handled them by their fletchings, not daring to touch the goop. And thankfully, the pouch’s magic ensured they wouldn’t slather a mess inside.

  Now, Rowan was certain the onyx was a loot cache. He almost skipped on approach, picking up Moonfyre, and touched with his bare finger flush with fiery mana.

  It flashed.

  The wall ahead groaned and split down a hidden seam. A skeletal humanoid wielding a hammer and buckler stepped through.

  Rowan didn’t waste time with a description window.
“Cresentia,” he breathed, cutting downward. He drew back for a stabbing motion. “Thrustra.” His wrist flicked upward on the lunge. Twin needles combined with the crescent into an arrowhead of hellfire.

  The skeleton’s jaw unhinged. It somehow garbled a word in the mystical language, and a familiar glassy coat of mana encased chipped, cratered bones and that rusty buckler nailed onto its wrist.

  But it wasn’t enough. Hellfire ate through the mana shield and into its midriff. Its spine broke into two under the ribs. The top half of the skeleton fell, the weight of the axe carrying it forward. Yet it still lived, its jaw speaking again.

  A forceful blast pushed Rowan back. His sandals pressed up against a ridge. He tripped.

  The skeleton garbled the a third word.

  Rowan slid across the room. Skin ripped off his elbow. The back of his head painfully hit the wall, cracking. White circles fuzzed in his eyes. He could not move or feel his toes. Panic squeezed his groin as he found a Paralysis debuff counting down from five seconds.

  The skeleton was coming ever so slowly with its hammer dragging it one forward hook at a time. A rib snapped as it caught on the dais’ corner, but the skeleton did not care. It did not feel pain. Those eye sockets were empty, that skull devoid of consciousness. But the magic of its animation was very much alive, threatening, screaming for battle.

  Someone’s magic was keeping these things going

  That damaged arm raised for a smash.

  Paralysis lapsed.

  Moonfyre parried with a clang. Rowan dropped the wooden board, stood, and held out his left palm. A torrent of magic rushed down his arm, and bathed those dusty bones in hellfire for ten good long seconds. Fifteen for extra measure. Twenty to be sure. His mana bar was empty on the twenty-third.

  Black ash blew away in the draft. The necromantic magic was no more.

  Rowan let go of the breath he had held, then stood with bolstered confidence. That was much easier than he had assumed! Especially for a dark dungeon!

  Something below the system clock blinked for attention—the boss counter.

  Mini-bosses: 1

  Elite bosses: 1

  Secrets: 3

  Time: 289 minutes

  Damn. I’d already spent an hour in here.

  The onyx was still swirling with mana. Did he dare touch a third time? Hell, yes. He was a Demon Lord. Pride demanded so. His pulse fluttered at his temples as he reached out and poked with a fiery index finger. The gem was cold to the touch, freezing even.

  It cracked.

  A dense wave of malice shuddered in the air, through his body.

  He flinched backward, jumping.

  An explosion of black miasma smothered his left hand. Without pain, flesh and bone blackened and crumbed. The numb and cold traversed up his arm. Moonfyre bounced on the floor as he grabbed a health potion. He chewed off the cork, swallowed strawberry. The miasma slowed to a crawl.

  A second vial stopped it entirely, and a third did not regrow his stump of an arm. Skin wove together into a smooth callus over rounded bone.

  Rowan did the only thing appropriate for this moment: laugh, laugh, and laugh until his lungs were aching for breath. His distorted voice echoed back at him. He probably looked rather crazy; he did not care. He sniffed back tears. “What a game. Three in a row. Will it be a forth?” His left eyebrow wagged at the pieces of onyx.

  It didn’t seem so.

  However… a particularly polished piece in the shape of a familiar square was glinting at the edges. Three squares. He knew what they were.

  Onyx Loot Gem (3)

  “Nice,” he exhaled.

  Sheathing Moonfyre, Rowan almost skipped like Gabrielle would with a juvenile beaming smile. He crouched and plucked one. “Now, how do I open you?”

  At the question, the gem glowed white, magically turning it into a blob of something warm but not weightless. A cube-like object the size of a pumpkin formed. The white darkened to a matte black. A full helm with maroon feathering rested on his palm.

  Blacksteel Full Helmet

  Item Type: Armor (head)

  Defense Rating: 68

  Magical Defense Rating: 46

  Quality: 534

  Nice. He slipped it over his hair. It covered everything down to the bottom of his neck, quite oversized, but an influx of typeless magic shrank it slightly—a perfect fit. The weight rested on his shoulders not uncomfortably. And his vision was not obscured by much.

  Next gem.

  The same magical effect blobbed, except this time smaller. A weight gathered on his palm—a block of metal very light for its size.

  Dragonsteel Ingot

  Item Type: Crafting Material

  Holy hell.

  Not bad at all! Utter delighted bloomed in Rowan’s skull, for this red-tinted metal was of neutral affinity was three times stronger than mithril, just as malleable, far lighter. He dropped it into his pouch, then moved onto the next.

  The blob effect completed speedily this time. A small pointed arch formed. Gray.

  Yellow Faerie Wishbone

  Item Type: Crafting Material

  Quality: 488

  The best loot yet.

  Rowan’s eyes rolled as he fed it to his pouch. Maybe it could be good in a potion or something. Who knows. No one on the forums had anything to divulge regarding Apothecaries yet. Few had attained advanced professions other than Builder, and they were smartly tight-lipped.

  He tossed Gabrielle a message, noticing Viola hadn’t messaged him since the long drop comment.

  Rowan LeMort (To Gabby LeMort): Just got some loot. Can you tell Luthias I don’t need a helmet anymore?

  Her reply came after half a minute.

  Gabby LeMort: Kay! What else did ya get?

  Rowan LeMort: A dragonsteel Ingot and a Yellow Faeire wishbone. Poison darts too.

  Gabby LeMort: Dibs on the wishbone! I’m gonna be an Apothecary. ^_^

  Naturally. Cook was the prerequisite.

  Rowan stretched his arms, and picked up his wooden board… There was one small problem. He now only had one hand to work with. Shit. Gabrielle was definitely not going to like this. A voice of reason urged him to tell her now to not cause a scene later.

  Rowan LeMort: Lost my left arm btw. Not joking.

  Her reply didn’t come, so he shrugged and marched through the side passage, his index finger poking through the wood ready to shoot hellfire at anything undead.

  48

  In this labyrinth of corridors, stairs, and the odd hall, Rowan had walked miles worth of retrace. He had doubled back every ten minutes when he had stumbled into a mocking dead end, and the ends were not all cave-ins, seemingly built that was to frustrate, and he was growing more than just frustrated.

  He checked the time remaining—one hundred and sixty-three minutes.

  Not good. Faenin’s body was going to spoil soonish. The wooden board, gripped tighter, creaked between his fingers.

  What kind of bloody dungeon layout is this?

  Still two secrets remained alongside one mini-boss and one elite boss. Basically no change in the past two hours; the density of Undead mace and crossbow wielders remained constant—one every forty yards, more or less, plus a handful in each hall. And he had battled through eight halls now. None after the first had contained a loot cache or a mini boss.

  A dungeon so barren really couldn’t be called as such.

  There, at the corridor’s bend, an Undead meandered into view. Its claw-ravaged face was blue in the light of runes on the ceiling. Those milky eyes slowly drifted leftward. Its skinless arm rose, a chunky mace guarding an old laceration on the right side of its chest. It wore no mail or linen—a first.

  Suddenly enraged, the Undead dashed with a hunched back. Its bones were clicking, its muscles flexing with spongy noises. The smell of rot and other bodily fluids blew down the corridor. This one was by far the most decayed out of hundreds.

  Rowan almost yawned.

  He walked up as though greeting a
n old acquaintance, except the greeting was a narrow hellfire jet out of his index finger. Motes of dust tumbled out of the way as though frightened, and the Mana bar at the bottom-right dropped below thirty percent. He could feel the drain in his heart again.

  The fatty Undead did not react, did not slow in its mad rush, and ate the flames head-first between two rows of chipped yellow teeth. Everything below its eyes and above its collarbone were rendered away. The top half of its head carried on forward, leaving behind a headless corpse. Pocked kneecaps folded in submission.

  A second jet vaporized that cranium before it were splatter onto his face. He had tasted enough rotting gore.

  The mace clanged harshly against the floor. The non-rusty mace. A mace of dull white metal.

  Alabaster Mace

  Type: Melee Weapon (one handed)

  Quality: 32 (Utter Disgrace)

  Damage: 15

  A rare metal. At last, some more loot.

  Rowan was almost pleased, but, unfortunately, alabaster and light magic were like chocolate and caramel. A favorite of the Dwarves. Rumor had it that they’d scoured the entire planetary surface for the stuff and hid away vast reserves under their mountain bases.

  And despite the over-used tropes, Rowan was more than curious to pay them a visit. What did their bases look like? Their food. Their traditions. Their loves and hates, passions and disgusts. And if they were also savages…

  They’d also burn.

  Perhaps he simply desired a justification to go down a path of mass destruction, but this was his right, his Fate. He—and Gabrielle—was the purifying force of the coming age. That was what the AI had intended. He alone had been selected for Demonborn.

  Why else? Why grant someone the power to erase matter from existence? Some things needed to burn before new creations could take root. It was the natural cycle of life. Whether by flood, or earthquake, or asteroid, or fire, it was going to happen.

  Rowan was not guilty in the slightest.

  Down a left split, he again almost bumped into a mace zombie. He was about to raise his hand to block, with the wooden board, realizing he had left it behind in the previous hall. Stupid. Dummy, Gabrielle would say. Tendons ached as he hopped backward, missed a blow to the head by a good half yard to spare.