Dungeon Duel (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Thirty-Four and Thirty-Five

A thousand thoughts raced through Roark’s head as he stared at the place the Tyrant King had been moments before. So tantalizingly close. The bastard had been here, right in his grasp, and he’d let it all slip away like black sand through his fingers. They’d captured the Vault and Lowen was dead—both significant victories—but all of that paled in comparison to the fact that Marek was gone and the World Stone with him.

Bloody damnation. How had it all gotten so twisted? They’d done the seemingly impossible, yet somehow things had still fallen apart. Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory.

“It’s gone,” Randy said, echoing Roark’s own thoughts. Wide-eyed, the Herald ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I failed. I was supposed to warn you about the World Stone Pendant—that it wasn’t soulbound anymore. One job. I had one job, and I messed it up.”

“You didn’t fail,” Roark said, though he felt similar frustration rampaging through his thoughts and emotions. “It’s not your fault. I received a message about the soulbinding long before I ever went into battle with Lowen. I knew.”

Mac trundled up beside him, jostling Roark’s leg with his shell while his three heads all fought for pats. Grateful for the momentary distraction, Roark scratched the cobalt head, earning a happy chirp in response.

“There was nothing that could be done,” Roark said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “When I opted to bind the temporal locations together, the power of the stone overwhelmed me—I couldn’t hang onto it despite my best efforts. None of this is down to you, Randy Shoemaker. Just the opposite. I wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for you.

“Marek…” Roark struggled to find the words. “He has a force about him. He’s a monster in the truest sense of the word—I’ve seen battle-hardened generals cave just by being in his presence. The rest of those Dungeon Lords”—he waved a hand back toward the throne room—“they followed me because they believed in my strength. And those Heralds are just as fickle. If you and Zyra and Mac”—he gave the canny beast’s orange head an especially energetic rub—“hadn’t stood up for me, every last one of them would’ve hedged their bets and waited for the winner to emerge. And that winner would’ve been Marek. Just as it’s always been Marek.”

Randy didn’t look convinced.

Roark paused, his lips pursed into a thin line.

“You changed that, Randy,” he continued, certain every word was true. “You stood up to a tyrant when no one else would, and I’m alive because of it. Everyone here is. And it’s not just here you showed that kind of courage, mate. You gave your all defending the Shieldwall, even though you were vastly outnumbered. Your fellow Devs sensed this, and they followed you. They believed in you. There’s not thanks enough in the world that I can give for the kind of courage you displayed, but I will gladly call you my friend and brother-in-arms.”

Roark extended a hand.

The Arboreal Herald beamed at him, some measure of confidence straightening his posture. He accepted Roark’s hand and pumped it vigorously—a curious response, Roark thought. It was typical to grasp forearms, not to shake by the palms, but Roark accepted the oddity as he accepted all the strange things he’d learned about the Other Worlders. They were a different breed, backwards and unpredictable in many ways, but they were also surprising in their generosity and fierce loyalty.

“You were brave even by Troll standards,” Zyra said, Prowling out of a halo of light beside them.

Roark couldn’t help but smile. “He’s not the only one I have to thank.” He turned toward her, fixing her in place with a stare. “I’ve been an arse lately.”

“Lately,” the veiled Orbweaver replied, folding both pairs of arms. “It’s an ongoing malady as far as I’m concerned, Dungeon Lord.” The words were dry and sharp enough to sting. A poisoned barb, though the ghost of a smile in her voice provided the antidote.

“You’re not wrong,” he said with a wry grin. “But the point remains. I told you of my… friend… the thief who was hung. Since her death, I’ve spent most of my life driving people away. Fear can make a man in love do idiotic things. I’m glad you were wise enough to ignore me.”

Roark stopped scratching Mac’s heads and took Zyra’s hands in his. The Yellow head took it poorly and nipped at his wrist, but the Cobalt head crooned, and the beast lumbered off toward a pod of Stone Salamanders.

“Listen, Zyra, the truth is I couldn’t have done this without you. You can’t win a war by yourself, I see that now. But you and I? What we have is bigger than Marek. Bigger than this war. I’ve never needed a reason to fight, but you’ve given me a reason to live after the fighting is done.”

“That’s so sappy I might just vomit,” she said. But she also gave his hands a small squeeze.

“Pardon me, Dungeon Lord,” Ick said, dry washing his hands. “I didn’t want to intrude on your moment, but there is a pressing matter I think you need to see.” He gestured toward an arched doorway on the far side of the throne room with his spidery arms. “Just this way.”

Roark smirked. “Of course. We’ve gone almost a full minute without a disaster; we were overdue.” He nodded to Zyra. “Shall we?”

Together, they cut through the press of bodies and crossed the room in a handful of long strides, Randy and Ick following in their wake.

Already preparing for the worst, Roark strode out onto a stone portico, inhaling a wash of brisk mountain air, heavy with the aroma of a fresh snowfall and pine trees.

The breath in Roark’s chest caught at the sight. The Radiant Citadel no longer sat high atop a column of rock, overlooking the red valley canyons, but rather was nestled in the snowcapped peaks of the Karasu Mountains. Below, just beyond a swath of white-kissed evergreens, lay Korvo.

Night was falling quickly, but he could see the high stone walls encircling Korvo and plumes of gray smoke drifting up from stone chimney tops. With its winding cobblestone streets and its brightly colored, thatch-roofed homes, the city looked so peaceful. It was early winter, and the shutters were battened tight against the chill. Roark couldn’t see the streets, but he knew those residents not busy with work would be clustered around kitchen tables, telling stories, and warming themselves at the hearth. That or letting a stiff mead warm them as they sang and gambled at the tavern. So different from the soaring buildings of glass he’d seen in the Other World.

It all looked smaller than he remembered.

From this vantage, Roark could also see the old von Graf manor house. Or what remained of it. Marek must have put it to the torch after Roark’s assassination attempt, what felt like ages ago.

“It almost looks like Star Iron Hills,” Zyra said, slipping up against him. “Where the Rock Wyverns make their nests. But the air.” She paused, leaning up against the stone railing and drumming her fingers. “It feels different. Cooler. Cleaner. And I don’t remember a village like that one down there.”

“That’s because it’s not,” Roark said. “Not Hearthworld, I mean. That’s Korvo down there. And that”—he gestured toward the ruins of his old house, marring the landscape like an old wound—“is where I grew up. These are the very mountains I learned to climb in as a boy.”

“So we did it, then?” Randy asked, his silver wings giving an excited shiver as he took in the snowy landscape. “It’s all true. I mean I knew it was, in theory, but being here… We’re actually in another world. I wasn’t sure my mind could even make the transition. I honestly can’t believe I survived. When I logged in, I just assumed my mind would be trapped, unable to log out before the shutdown, but to think that I’m actually here. That this is the real me.” He held up a hand and wiggled his fingers, wonder etched into the lines of his face. He touched the bridge of his nose. “Twenty-twenty vision without glasses. This is me now.”

“I believe this is good news, yes?” Ick asked, legs twitching as he surveyed the land. “It appears whatever you did, the World Stone has returned us to your land.”

“It’s brilliant bloody news,” Roark said, clapping the Nocturnus on the shoulder, feeling a sudden surge of optimism.

“As lovely as all this is, Dungeon Lord,” Zyra said, “I feel obligated to remind you that the World Stone is still gone. We might have won the battle, but this Tyrant King of yours won the war. He got what he wanted all along.”

Randy seemed to deflate, shoulders bowing, wings drooping.

With a frown, Roark turned and glanced back through the archway. More than a few of his followers shared Randy’s posture. A handful of Dungeon Lords and their followers seemed to be celebrating, but most were somber. Concern burned in their eyes. The Heralds, one and all, were the most grim-faced of the lot, sharing hushed words and furtive glances with one another as they stood in little clumps well apart from the other mobs. There would be work to do in the days and weeks ahead if he hoped to bring the two groups together, but like so many things, that would be a concern for later.

So long as they didn’t try to plant a dagger in his back, they would keep for the moment.

They’d taken the Vault, killed that bastard Lowen, and even driven Marek back, but Zyra was right. Their most potent weapon, the World Stone, was gone. It had given them an edge at every turn, and now Marek held it once more.

Roark needed to find a way to repair the defeated mood permeating his troops. Wars were won and lost on morale. Honestly, he wished more than anything that Kaz were here—the Bonesnap Behemoth always knew the right thing to say when things seemed darkest—but the Gourmet was off on another world, hopefully safe with PwnrBwner at Shieldwall. That meant the necessary task fell to Roark.

Resolved, he squared his shoulders, headed back into the throne room, and took to the air, landing gently on the hanging dais high above the crowd.

“A moment,” he barked, loud enough to draw every eye in the room. Monsters and Heralds all looked up at him with expectant eyes. “I know everyone is shaken,” he said plainly, not bothering to mince words, “but I want you all to know that this is a setback and not a deathblow. Together, we did the impossible. We took an impenetrable dungeon and robbed Marek of his right-hand lieutenant. No one can steal that victory from us. We also put Marek on his heels—we may not have defeated him, but he turned tail and ran.”

A murmur rippled through the ranks of mobs, a subtle shift in their faces and stances as he reminded them of their accomplishments.

“The Tyrant King is a shrewd sort, not willing to fight unless he is certain of his victory,” Roark continued. “But remember this. He had the pendant in his hand and the power of a Hearthworld god backing him, yet here I stand. Alive. Alive because we all banded together as one. Marek may be more powerful than me, more powerful than any one of you, but he is not more powerful than us. Let it never be forgotten that he ran. He is afraid. Together, we will find a way to destroy the bastard, and we’ll do it the same way we’ve beaten every other impossible threat we’ve faced. We will cheat.”

A cheer went up, mobs slapping each other on the backs, weapons clanging against shields in furious approval. Even the Heralds looked momentarily mollified.

“Dungeon Lords, prepare your troops to march,” Roark called down to them. “We have only just begun to fight—the fate of two worlds hang in the balance…”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Griff floated in the blackness, a flute’s single eerie note slowly evolving into the familiar haunting tune he’d grown used to over his years of arena fighting. The respawning period. He’d been through this tired song and dance plenty of times before, but not since joining up with the Griefer.

He was tempted to say he’d gone soft working with Roark, gotten used to living and leveling instead of dying and respawning, but it seemed nearly every day had been a battle to build the Troll Nation, save the Troll Nation, or keep the Troll Nation. Couldn’t complain, though. The work suited him, gave him a way to stay useful in his old age—one that didn’t involve being dinner for feral mobs at the arena. Besides, he liked training up the young pups, watching them cut their teeth on the low-level weapons, then go off to fight. Nothing was more rewarding than seeing a little mob Evolve and knowing he’d played a direct role in teaching them how to get that experience for themselves.

That wasn’t the only reason he’d been willing to take the bullets for the Griefer, but it was a large part of it. Now he just had to hope Roark was back there whipping those birds’ tailfeathers. The allied forces had the numbers and the determination, Roark had given them the weapons, and Griff himself had made sure they had the training. They could do it.

Though he didn’t have a voice just then to grumble out loud, Griff complained mentally at how long the respawn was taking. Maybe he’d just forgotten what a stretch two hours felt like. Either way, he was impatient to get back. Wanted to see how things had shaken out at the Vault.

Finally, that bubbly, dissolving feeling came over him, and the bloodred text he’d been waiting for appeared: Respawning…

About time.

ERROR

If Griff had had a body right then, his blood would’ve run cold. Error warnings were never good. Griff braced himself for the worst.

Set respawn location, “Cruel Citadel,” not found

Searching for default location, “Averi City”

“Averi City” found

Respawning…

The darkness receded, and with a series of blinks to adjust his eyes, Griff found himself standing in the middle of the dozens of wooden stalls and brightly colored canopies of the Averi City Marketplace. Vendors hawked their weapons, armor, food, potions, scrolls, and jewelry to a strangely small crowd. Griff recognized a few of the local NPC trainers who wandered the town looking for work, but he didn’t see a single hero.

Still, it was a damn sight better than no respawn location being found. He had his body back, had his trusty battle-notched short sword on his hip and his old buckler over his shoulder, all three of them showing the wear and tear of countless battles but still ready for action. Time to get back to it.

With a thought, Griff opened his grimoire to the Maps page.

He froze.

The Cruel Citadel wasn’t there anymore. It should’ve been located just a jaunt from Averi City, but where the Citadel had once stood was empty map space. Not even a symbol for the crumbling ruins of the graveyard that used to stand outside its walls.

Maybe that damn error had Undiscovered a couple of his Discovered Locations. Not something to worry about offhand. He panned down to the Vault of the Radiant Shield. He’d just head back there and catch a portal scroll back to the Citadel with somebody once he knew everything was sorted out with the Heralds.

Except the Vault wasn’t there anymore, either.

He panned over the rest of Hearthworld’s map, found all the places he’d visited over his long life Discovered and waiting for him. All except for two.

Fear started to gnaw at his innards. Griff closed out of his grimoire and strode to the edge of the Marketplace where the Notice Board hung. Next to the fluttering parchments offering gold for pests killed in breweries and rewards for missing swords was posted a massive map of Hearthworld for heroes and NPCs to check how much traveling quests would require before accepting them. Griff’s one remaining eye scanned the empty spaces where the Citadel and the Vault should have been.

No heroes in Averi City, which was usually chock-full of those pains in the backside. No Citadel. No Vault. Not on his personal map or on the Hearthworld map in the center of town. This was starting to smack suspiciously of Roark.

Griff scratched at his jaw, whiskers rasping under his calloused hand. “What did you get into this time, Griefer?”

Not one to sit around and cool his heels, Griff headed out of the Marketplace toward the fountain court. He would take a portal down to the next closest dungeon—looked like the Crystal Caverns—and then trek over to the canyon where the Vault should be, see if Roark and the rest of the allies had survived the assault. Might even find out that this was all some sort of mistake twisted up in that respawning error.

Griff had no sooner stepped out of the Marketplace than a deep bass rumble rolled through the air, more felt than heard. Blinding amber light flared across the city. In a heartbeat, he’d equipped his Notched Short Sword and Buckler.

But the attack never came.

Instead, the light receded to reveal shimmering portals scattered throughout the Marketplace and streets. Griff stared, unable to comprehend what might be happening. Portals couldn’t be opened outside of a city’s designated fountain court—wouldn’t open even if you wanted to. Wind whipped past him, ruffling his white hair.

Then the first screams went up. Armor and goods crashed. Griff spun around to find the pickpocket trainer from the One-Eyed Unicorn tumbling toward a portal at the center of the Marketplace like he was pitching down a mountainside. That bookseller beauty and an elderly matron went next, followed by the heavyset rog baker. An elven spice merchant sprinted toward Griff as his colorful stall was ripped off its meager foundation and dragged into the portal, but couldn’t escape the pull.

Griff set his feet and hooked an arm around the railing of a nearby stair, but the force of the portal ripped him into the air. He scrabbled for a hand or foothold, but found no purchase. The best he could do was protect his head and neck and hope he didn’t get run through by a stray lance caught up in this hell storm.

The last thing Griff saw as he tumbled toward the portal was the entirety of the Sulky Selkie Tavern blinking out of existence, leaving behind a gap of cloudless blue in the city’s skyline.

When everything stopped moving, and the wind died down, Griff found himself lying on his side, surrounded by NPCs who looked just as bewildered as he felt. And not just NPCs. Mobs of all sorts and varieties. Lava Kelpies, Nocturnuses, Trolls, Blackwyrms, Wyverns, and Terrorsquids blinked up a strange sky of orange-black. The low buildings of Averi City had been replaced by towering monoliths with glowing windows, and beneath their feet was dingy black paving. A street?

Wherever they were, it wasn’t Hearthworld.

Something wailed, and metal crashed. Griff gave his head a shake to clear it, then staggered to his feet and drew his sword and buckler again, certain this time they were under attack.

A contraption of metal, glass, and rubber had slammed into the side of a Terrorsquid. More of them crammed the street in either direction. Ink sloshed under Griff’s feet as he ran to help the creature fight off this strange new threat.

***

Scott stared out across the city from Shieldwall’s new battlements. With the one-two punch of the bombing and their defenses, the last of the Heralds had been killed or surrendered and he’d finally been able slap up some walls—really get this bitch in shape. Right in the nick of time, too, because that military guy had called less than an hour after Scott put the finishing touches on the place to let him know he was gonna have to surrender Frontflip to its rightful owner. Apparently Silva had snuck out after his fuckery, and was now demanding his building back.

Well, as Scott had told that army dude, Silva could suck a dick. Scott wasn’t giving Shieldwall back ever. This was his dungeon now, and he was lord over it—at least as long as Roark was MIA. If Silva wanted it, he was gonna have to come and take it. That was how being a Dungeon Lord worked.

The tanks were still out there, but they weren’t attacking right then. Maybe waiting for the order to come down from on high that they were supposed to pry Shieldwall out of Scott’s cold dead hands and give it back to that douchewad. Either that or seize it for the CIA. There was probably a load of scientists and military types that would cut off an arm to get a look around this place.

Scott checked the time on his phone. The shutdown was coming any minute, so at least he didn’t have to worry that they’d attack before Randy made it to the other side. He shoved his phone back in his armor, snorted up a loogie, and spat it over the wall, ignoring GothicTerror’s disgusted grimace.

Her and Kaz had come up to keep him company like an hour ago. Not that Scott needed it. He wasn’t going to break down and bawl like some little bitch over Randy. Dude had made his own decision and was going out like an OG. Besides, he figured it was all part of being a Dungeon Lord. This was a real war, so you lost real good guys. You just had to keep kicking ass and taking names so their sacrifices would count and shit.

“But both Jordan Bamsey and Gry Feliri only have recipes for baked cheesecake,” Kaz said, getting GothTots back into their top ten best foods discussion. “They stand by it!”

“You can’t believe everything you hear from a celebrity chef, Kaz,” GothicTerror said, shaking her head. “Cooked cheesecake is gross, I don’t care who says it’s not. The pudding no-bake stuff with the graham cracker crust is where it’s at. Put some blueberries on that, and you’ve got the ultimate culinary creation known to man.”

The Mighty Gourmet grunted doubtfully. “Kaz will have to compare the two.”

“Soon as we get a chance, I’ll grab the stuff from a supermarket and show you,” she promised. “It takes like ten seconds to make.”

“Has PwnrBwner tried this no-bake cheesecake?” Kaz squinted at Scott doubtfully. “Is it truly better than baked?”

“I don’t know, Kaz,” Scott said absently, checking his phone again. Any minute now. “Just assume that whatever Screamo said, I disagree with. Across the board.”

“So what you’re saying is you were born an irredeemable dick,” GothicTerror said.

A rumble like thunder rolled through the city, and the night sky lit up, brighter than all the light pollution across LA combined. Scott had to throw an arm over his face it was so intense.

“Is this normal in PwnrBwner and GothicTerror’s world?” Kaz asked, fear in his voice.

“No,” Scott answered. “I don’t know what the fuck this is, but it’s not normal.”

The light died out a second later. As Scott blinked away the afterimages, the sounds of honking and screeching tires tore through the night.

GothicTerror gasped. “Is that a… portal?”

Scott followed her line of sight to a swirling portal right inside the fucking battlements he’d just put up. Immediately, mobs started pouring out of it.

“Dammit!” he growled. “What the hell is the point of walls if you can just portal inside them?”

“There’s one by the tanks, too,” GothicTerror muttered. “Holy crap, you guys, they’re everywhere.”

Scott spun around to find the shimmering lights scattered across the city, spewing mobs and NPCs like a brohole who couldn’t hold his liquor. As he watched, a skyscraper across the street disappeared, replaced by some wooden old-world-looking building with a thatched roof and a couple of chickens. A cemetery full of crumbling mausoleums popped up in a vacant lot.

Off in the distance, there was a sound like a bomb going off, and suddenly there was one too many peaks in the San Gabriels. Fiery orange lava boomed out of one of them in chunks of pyroclastic surprise.

“Kaz recognizes that volcano,” the Mighty Gourmet said in a quiet voice. “That is the Hearth. Kaz went there once to gather Saffron Crocuses.”

Car alarms started beeping and sirens wailed around LA as more and more mobs and buildings appeared on the scene. Gunshots went off in the distance, but for once in the last couple days they weren’t coming from around Frontflip.

On a hunch, Scott checked his phone. The timer ran out as he watched.

“What would the Hearth be doing here on PwnrBwner and GothicTerror’s home world?” Kaz asked, tapping thoughtfully at his chin.

Scott frowned out at the chaos. “Your buddy Roark just screwed something up, Kaz. Majorly. And I bet I can tell you who’s gonna have to clean it up.”