Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Eighteen

Hiro “Hardclaw” Shirazi had made some pretty bad decisions in his life—there was that one time he used the Wand of Lightning in the Putrid Portcullis dungeon that fried most of the party and melted a pretty cool magical candelabra. Losing out on the loot was tragic. Losing the party? Meh.

But Hardclaw had also made some good decisions. He’d walked away from a dungeon called the Trapped Tomb of Terrors, which was a wide assortment of murderous traps far too complicated for most heroes to ever solve them. Eventually, an S-Class dungeoneer had walked right through the Tomb of Terrors and crushed the smug dungeon core in about five minutes, but Hardclaw never would’ve walked away. Knowing your limitations was important.

Helping to start the Scarlet Paradox had definitely been a good decision.

Inviting Mr. Lou Shador as a co-owner? Hardclaw found the whole experience ambiguous. Yes, guild membership was at an all-time high, and the Scarlet Paradox was booming. Money was flowing, Apothos was flowing. Everyone was pretty happy with what was going on. Those were the high points.

The low points?

Mr. Shador was loud, opinionated, difficult to work with, and messy. So unbelievably, inexplicably messy. The powerful dungeoneer had moved into the best suite at the top of the guildhall, and the smell wafting out from the room was atrocious. His minions came and went unseen by anyone, but they left behind garbage—old roller skates, a few broken daggers, some clown makeup, tubes of mascara, heaps of self-help books, and crumpled up bits of paper, which were actual cryptic love notes.

Do you love the idea of me? Yes or no?

Which do you love more? Me, the universe, or chocolate sundaes? Pick one.

I love you like a burrito. But only one with chorizo. Otherwise, I hate you.

Hardclaw had hired cleaners—as a responsible business owner is wont to do—but he had to play them platinum to go in and remove the massive amounts of food and weaponry from the suites as well as deep clean the hallway carpets.

Another problem with Mr. Shador was his number one obsession—the Interschool Tournament of Collegial Dungeon Excellence, which is the only reason why Mr. Shador had signed on to promote the Scarlet Paradox. The tournament, which featured the best and brightest of the dungeons of tomorrow, was an event so cloaked in secrecy it probably should’ve opened a cloak and dagger emporium. But the thing was, Hardclaw had a spy on the inside. He knew when the semi-finals would be, he knew who would be competing, and most importantly of all, he knew where they would take place.

Invaluable pieces of intel, one and all. And probably the only reason Mr. Shador hadn’t killed him yet.

Hardclaw limped on his magic mace leg into the Situation Room, which was at the center of the administrative offices of the guild above the tavern but below the suites. The Situation Room was mostly filing cabinets, but at the center was a magical crystalline holo table. The Hell-Oh Portal dominated the far wall, opposite the table and filing cabinets. The portal was one of the best benefits of being a part of a guild—members had access to transportation to a multitude of worlds that all housed dungeons.

The Hell-Oh Portal screen was relatively clean, but the magical table in front of it was nicked and stained by all the unruly dungeoneers who’d sat there over the years. Wolfgang Red had carved his initials in one area, while Belinda Dangerous had spilled her acidic tea on another end.

Hardclaw would’ve replaced the table in a second, but it turned out crystalline holo tables were expensive, especially ones hard connected to a Hell-Oh Portal. The cat man cared far more about functionality than appearance.

However, with the money he was seeing from Mr. Shador promoting the Scarlet Paradox, Hardclaw was considering replacing the entire building. Maybe a new place, with a magical fountain, like the Sages of the Golden Thread had. The Sages also had this big courtyard filled with the statues of their heroes. For a long time, Hardclaw thought all that extravagance was a waste of money. He might’ve been wrong there.

Hardclaw clicked a switch and lanterns flared to life.

“Good, brother, you’re here.”

The voice surprised the cat man so much he tried to leap back in a somersault but ended up tripping over his own mace leg and into a beige wall. A firm reminder that he was no longer rogue-warrior he’d once been. No more rogueing. No more warrioring.

“Lou Shadow?” Hardclaw sputtered.

“That’s right, brother,” the masked hero said.

“How long have you been sitting in the dark, waiting for me? Also why?”

“How long is unimportant,” he said, “but the why should be obvious—dramatic effect. Oh yeah! Now, I wanna talk about the tournament. The Crucible round has been over for months now, and yeah, I get that it might take some time to get info, but I’m getting tired of waiting. Feels like you’re stringing me along, and we can’t have that. I want all that you have. Let’s talk winners, losers, and dungeons for the Semi-Finals. Six of ’em. Six newbie dungeons just waiting to get their core gems cracked. Now what can you tell me, brother? And it better be good—I’ve been spending a lot of gold to keep the lights on in this place.”

Hardclaw pulled himself up and gulped as he tried to calm his nerves. He could feel his ears twitching. “Yes, uh, I have some news. It just came in from my spy, and I was going to tell you everything. I was just waiting to confirm a few details, but now’s as good a time as any to share what I have with you. Especially since, there’s been a rather surprising development.”

“Surprise me, then, brother.”

Hardclaw limped over to a filing cabinet and pulled an enormous, rune encrusted bronze key from a chain around his neck. The whole cabinet shook and clanged as he turned the key and a chorus of locks, binding seals, and magical warded runes disengaged. He pulled out a dozen manilla folders packed with special parchment. He shuffled over to the crystalline holo table across from Shador.

The big, strange dungeoneer had his big gleaming white boots propped up on the crystal surface. He was leaning back in a chair, the crimson cowl of his cloak covering his face. He had one hand resting on his big, hairy belly. In the other was a chocolate-cayenne pepper Creamsicle, trademarked and delicious. Mr. Shador’s face remained a mystery, hidden by the cowl of his cloak.

Hardclaw quickly rifled through a folder’s contents and slapped the first parchment on the table. The surface glowed and a magically conjured figure appeared—a giant ice wyvern. “That was the winner, a White Wyrm called Wintersylver. She was the favorite, so it’s not a surprise. If you’re looking for a soft target, you’re going to want to avoid her, Mr. Shador.” He paused and licked his lips. “But we before we continue, would you mind if I asked you why you’re so interested in the dungeon school tournament?”

Shador pointed his Creamsicle at the ice wyvern. “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard, brother. Like asking me if chocolate-cayenne pepper Creamsicles are delicious or not. These newbies are gonna be protecting nodes, but they don’t have much power now, do they? They’re still in school, which makes them easy pickin’s. And yer right, Wintersylver wouldn’t be easy pickin’s. What about that Nobleblade kid? Did he win? I hate that guy. Hate that whole family, actually. One of ’em took out a friend of a mine a while back.”

Hardclaw put Wintersylver’s parchment back in a folder. “Well, that’s the surprise. Chadrigoth won but he stepped down at the last minute, and there’s a rather interesting dungeon core that took his place. Have you ever heard of Logan Murray?”

“Nope,” Mr. Shador said, then sucked noisily on his Creamsicle. A bit of melted cream dripped down onto the white tape covering his meaty forearms. “What’s his story, brother?”

“He’s a fungaloid, and though your typical mushroom dies pretty quickly, Murray has managed to advance to B-Class in only a couple of years. He’s impressive. Some are saying he just might make fungaloids cool again.”

Mr. Shador wrinkled his nose. “Stinky. Moldy. Breakable. Keep going. That better not be your surprise, brother. ’Cause it ain’t much of a surprise, now is it?”

News of Chadrigoth stepping down was shocking. And the fact that this relative newcomer to the dungeon core scene—and a fungaloid no less—was going to compete was big news. Mushroom dungeons just weren’t taken seriously, despite the rumors of how powerful the Spore Lords had been. But the Spore Lords had been dead for ten thousand years at least. Couldn’t even really call them rumor at this point. They were little more than a dusty, mostly- forgotten legend..

Probably why Mr. Shador couldn’t care less.

“Uh… Yes…  Of course, I do have another surprise.” He didn’t. Instead, Hardclaw coughed, pretending it was a hairball, while he stalled for time. He’d have to make one up. “As for the other competitors, they aren’t as impressive as Wintersylver, certainly, but they probably won’t be that easy to beat. You’re right, Mr. Shador, they still are in school, but that doesn’t make them particularly weak, I don’t think.”

Mr. Shador finished licked some cream off his white tape bracelets. “Easier than a dungeon who’s had centuries to dig in. Don’t tell me my business, brother, I was born to eat dungeon core gems and crap thunder. Tell me about the rest of the winners.”

Hardclaw went through the list quickly, putting parchment down on the table so images of the semi-finalists appeared one after another.

Woody Bone Splinters, Sylvan Revenant from Nightfall University.

Tommy Bugnutt, a Chitinous Bugbear from Gadsore’s Institute of Defense.

Britta Scary, a laughing lich from the Plaguebringer College of the Undead.

Lorena Quartz, a Crystal Duchess from Saudrian’s School of Guardians.

That last one made Mr. Shador laugh. “Now that crystal lady is the one I’ll go after. Can’t even believe Saudrian’s School is still around. I thought they’d closed down years ago. I like breaking through crystal dungeons, brother, like a bull in a china shop. I’m the bull. Lorena Quartz is the china shop.”

Hardclaw wasn’t going to argue with the dungeoneer, but in his mind, attacking a competitor who didn’t win, but had the winning position given to him, would be the easiest dungeon to beat.

Mr. Shador swiveled in his seat and then leaned over the magic table. He motioned with his dripping treat. “Have they chosen the six celestial nodes yet for the Semi-Finals?”

Hardclaw sniffed at the mess. “If you could… maybe I could get you napkin?”

“What for?” the dungeoneer used his hand to wipe up the mess, and then he licked his fingers clean.

Hardclaw was all for self-grooming, but this cloaked and cowled raider was just gross.

The cat man just had to ignored the disgusting indignity and soldier on. “I wasn’t going to come to you until I could confirm the locations the host school have chosen. I have the worlds, but not necessarily the dungeons. First up, we have Sucrosia.”

Hardclaw slapped a parchment onto the table. An image of candy world appeared, bright pink bubblegum trees and soda pop rivers. There were literal mountains of rock candy and the clouds were spun sugar drifting through a perfectly blue sky.

Shador grunted. “Now that’s a tasty little world, isn’t it? Show me the node.”

Hardclaw had to take a moment. “You don’t even call them dungeons anymore. You know they’re nodes.”

The dungeoneer swept his Creamsicle through the air, splattering more splashes of stickiness across the table. “We ain’t kids, Hardclaw. We destroy nodes and harvest Apothos for our own gain. Let’s not sugarcoat it.”

Hardclaw shifted the paper and showed the dungeoneer the rock candy caves of the dungeon, which was currently being protected by a powerful Arcanus Confectionary Mage by the name of Dia Betty.

“Okay, candy dungeon. Keep going.”

Hardclaw put down a fresh parchment. “Twilittia. It’s a shadow world, full of shadow creatures, and it’s always twilight. The dungeon, er, celestial node is a pit in the Forks-Wa dessert—very sandy, very dark. Currently, there’s a Deadly Night Shade protecting the inner sanctum. We can only hope the fungaloid winds up with the sand pit.”

Mr. Shador grinned at the shadowy dessert crack. “Real hot and dry for a fungus, brother. That’d be good. What was his name again?”

“Logan Murray.”

“Hmm. Might just be my guy. Depending on location. It’s random though, isn’t it. Six cores get randomly placed in six dungeons.” Mr. Shador only had a little bit of his Creamsicle left, but he wasn’t eating it. It was kind of distracting. Not to mention the mess.

“Completely random,” Hardclaw confirmed with a nod. “We won’t know which dungeon gets which node until the day before the contest. I’ll work on making sure our Hell-Oh Portal can get you wherever you want to go. I’ve also put the word out to other dungeoneers who might want to—”

“No!” Shador shouted, rising out of his seat. “I get my pick, brother, and you best believe I wanna hit more than one. You keep this quiet, Hardclaw, or so help me, I’ll make a mess of your guild.”

Hardclaw stiffened. “Our guild. You’re co-owner of the Scarlet Paradox now.”

Shador sat back down and seemed to sniff his Creamsicle. No eating. Just stiffing. “Gimme the last four worlds, and quick now.”

Hardclaw did as he was told, eager to be rid of the adventurer.

Necroscant was a giant cemetery world, the vast necropolis of an ancient civilization—basically a crypt that covered an entire planet. There were only two Celestial Nodes there, one a relatively weak skeletal pit which wasn’t going to draw any serious raiders. The real prize was the Grand Tomb of Anonymity, which was a sprawling underground crypt, miles long, that culminated into a fright-fest. It was currently being protected by a Ghoul King. Of course, Necroscant would be perfect for either Woody Bone Splinters or Britta Scary, since they were both undead dungeon cores.

The world of Angleria was just… strange. The celestial node was located on the back of an enormous moon sized-fish that swam through the galaxy with glowing fins that caught and harnessed the solar winds. It ate lesser stars and often lured unwary travelers into its enormous, spike studded maw.  Dangling above its cavernous jaws was an odd glowing appendage that acted like the sun. Impossible as it was to believe, but there was a thriving settlement on the monster’s back. The residents were fish faced folk, who subsisted off the vast cosmic moss that sprouted along the beast’s scales.

Angleria had only a single dungeon, located in the back of the massive fish’s throat. It was a damp and inhospitable location, not completely underwater, but close to it. The dungeon core currently protecting the node was a Boggle-eyed Bogeyman, who had embraced the wet nature of the place.

Pallooshun was the fifth world, and it was a place of steam engines and coal smoke. It was like a continent-sized London in the 1850s. Every bit of green was covered in a layer black ash. The coal mining had removed a good deal of the mantle, and so there were vast underground cities, some living, some dead. There were six Celestial Nodes total, which kept the world alive, even though all that pollution should’ve killed it.

Most likely, the dungeon competition would take place in the Kintookie Mines, which had several layers of mining shafts and was littered with digging machines and the corpses of workers that didn’t make it. Currently, it was being protected by a Foreman Fright—a giant dungeon guardian in overalls and huge black boots who carried a sledgehammer half again as tall as he was.

Lastly, and the most boring of all, was Eurofaux, which was a world trapped inside a feudal society. The dungeon was typical medieval castle affair, with a nearby town that had a tavern called the Dew Drop Inn. It was cliché and uninteresting.

Mr. Shador finally slurped the last off the cream off his Creamsicle. He tossed the stick behind him right onto the floor. He didn’t even try to aim for the trash can. “Good work, brother. Now I know what I’m up against. Yeah, boy, I think you’re right. Gonna mash up that mushroom and then crack up that crystal lady, then we’ll see what’s left for the taking. Don’t care which node I get, but I’m gonna get one, all right.”

Hardclaw found Eurofaux trite, but at least it was both clean and familiar.

Mr. Lou Shador was neither. Dirty and strange, Mr. Lou Shador wasn’t about to be stopped. He was going to charge right into the Semi-Finals of this dungeon tournament and wreak havoc left and right, leaving a string of shattered cores and raided nodes in his wake.

Then again, thew worlds might change, or one of the competitors might die.

The Semi-Finals were weeks away and there was still so much that could happen.

Regardless, Hardclaw was confident he’d gather up a ton of loot and Apothos from Mr. Shador’s raids. The cat man would just have to hire more cleaners. Good thing he could afford it.