Dungeon Duel (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Thirty-One

The tank ran out of shells in the corridor just outside the Vault of the Radiant Shield’s throne room. It could blast its way no farther. Likely for the best, Roark thought. Between the tank’s devastating shells and the relentless bombardment from the siege engines, many of the load-bearing walls within the Vault had destabilized to dangerous levels. Even now, after the blasting had ceased, the structure creaked and groaned uncertainly, as if it could come down at any moment.

Roark put the thought from his head.

The Vault only had to hold a bit longer now. The end of this battle was within his grasp—the return to Traisbin, the death of Marek Konig Ustar, freeing his sister and the land from the Tyrant King’s grasp. All that remained was one final obstacle between him and the completion of everything he’d sought to do these last twenty years. One infuriating, arrogant horse’s ass of a mage.

Roark folded his leathery wings and alit on the battle-scarred and scorch-marked golden floor. With deft motions, he exchanged magazines in both his pistols—best to be fully loaded before he confronted Lowen.

Twelve hundred pounds of Adolescent Turtle Dragon slammed gracelessly to the floor beside Roark, the shock nearly stopping his heart. The air shimmered with visual distortions, and Mac appeared.

“Silly beast,” Roark muttered, slamming home one of the new magazines. He thumped the fool creature’s shell affectionately while his thundering heart calmed. “I nearly shot you.”

Mac licked one bulbous eyeball, apparently unconcerned at the narrowly avoided fate.

A moment later, the scent of deadly coquelicot blossoms tickled his nose. A flare of burning golden smoke puffed just to his right, and Zyra Prowled out of it. Her lacy black veil rippled gently in an unfelt breeze, her cloak fluttering dramatically behind. Her newly smithed Tattooed Colt 1911s rested on each hip in the sheaths that used to hold her Cursed Longknives. Miraculously, it seemed that the original scabbards had shifted size and shape to perfectly fit the guns.

“You’ll want this,” Zyra said, handing Roark an Ultimate Healing Potion.

“Much appreciated.” Roark gulped the syrupy concoction down, dismissing its accompanying message as it refilled his filigreed Health vial. Minor injuries from the battle thus far repaired themselves under its influence.

“Don’t die, Dungeon Lord,” the veiled Orbweaver Ravager said. She crossed her arms. “I have a lot of coin riding on this fight, and I’d hate to lose it to that insufferable Rohabim. He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“You bet on me to win for once?” Roark quirked his brow. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

Zyra sighed in disgust and turned her veiled face away from him. “Love can trick even the best of us into making a fool’s wager now and again.”

Warmth seeped through his veins like a fast-acting poison, and he grinned at her begrudging admission.

“I’ll make certain you win your money back,” he promised, returning the empty potion bottle to her. His scaled fingers lingered on hers for a moment before he turned to face the door. Steeling himself for the confrontation ahead, he assured her, “I don’t intend to lose.”

“Losers never do,” she offered coolly before vanishing in a halo of light.

Roark ground his teeth.

He would never ever understand women—that one most of all. Love one moment and cool indifference the next. The worst part was, he knew he was to blame. He had driven her away and now he was reaping the results. Once he ended Lowen he would fix things with her—assuming she would still have him. Yet another reason to wipe Lowen’s miserable presence from existence. Filled with renewed determination to set things right—both for grievances past and the hope of things to come—Roark strode into the Vault’s throne room as if it already belonged to him.

The dozen Heralds who had escaped respawn were posted around the room, muscles tensed for the attack. Many held Divine spells and golden weapons at the ready. Strangely, the same smell of desperation Roark had sensed upon his arrival at Frontflip hung in the air here—blood and sweat and fear. The last of Lowen’s troops watched Roark’s approach nervously, their feathered wings twitching, feet shifting with uncertainty. The fall of boots and Mac’s low warning growl were the only sounds as allied Dungeon Lords and Griff’s small, now leaderless crew of low-level mobs fanned out behind Roark, training their guns on the Heralds.

In the far corner sat the portal—shimmering violet light edged by an ornate archway of heavy white stone. A stable portal to Traisbin. His gateway home.

High overhead, a throne sat perched on a hanging dais that had been knocked askew during the firefight. Seated on its golden bench was just the Divine Dungeon Lord Roark was looking for.

Since they’d last met, Lowen had upgraded his oiled leather armor as well, though rather than purple-tinged black dragon scales, the Herald had chosen shining silver and gold plate, etched with Divine sigils that glowed with power. Roark recognized the runes that increased Strength and Intelligence—Aryuand Eild—and saw, too, that the armor was set with the highest quality Pearls in Hearthworld to amplify the fool’s already overpowered spells.

A smirk tugged at the edges of Roark’s lips. He hoped to all the heavens that Lowen would try one of his overwritten attacks. Let the tosser taste firsthand the devastating toll that Discordant Inversion and Deflection could extract.

From his perch, Lowen looked down his nose at Roark.

“I would welcome you to my throne room, but your barbaric entrance hardly invites sophisticated hospitality,” he said in the wearied tones of a much put-upon noble. He shook his head and walked to the edge of the skewed dais. “Just like a piece of common Lyuko trash, barging your way onto territory where you’re not wanted and staying well past your welcome. One assumes your father had to agree to wed your mother just to rid his land of her damnable caravan of relatives.”

“Family history has it that she was the end result of a curse on the von Grafs,” Roark returned easily. “A bit like your father’s loose purse strings at the gaming tables or your mother’s loose chemise strings everywhere else. Although the von Graf curse never emptied our coffers or saddled my parents with unwanted bastards they were forced to pretend were legitimate heirs.”

Rather than immediately breaking into a frothing rage, Lowen favored him with a tight-lipped smile.

“Hand over the World Stone now, you sodding cur,” the mage said with unnerving calm, “and I’ll make your death a quick one. Far better than what Marek will afford you, I can promise that.”

A sudden worm of anxiety gnawed at the back of Roark’s mind. Something wasn’t right. From their first day at the Academy, Lowen had always been easy to rile. This cool composure wasn’t his way. The mage was holding something close to the vest, some unknown trump card, waiting to play it the moment Roark’s guard was down.

“You’re bloody smug for someone so outstripped, mate,” Roark said, glancing around with feigned nonchalance. “In case you can’t calculate the odds, you’re well outnumbered. Nearly five to one.”

“Call it deific favor, or perhaps borrowed confidence,” Lowen said with a bored shrug. “Either way, I don’t see myself losing to a half-breed today, even with your stolen weaponry. However, if it makes you feel better, I’ll grant you a free shot.”

With a measured step, the mage opened his brown-speckled wings and glided down from his throne, landing gracefully before Roark.

Warily, Roark held his ground. The Herald stood well within a lunge’s measure, arms thrown wide to invite the attack.

“What’s the matter, trash?” Lowen smirked at his hesitation, eyes narrowing hatefully. “Frightened?”

The symbol for a new message blinked in the lower right corner of his vision. It was from a member of Randy’s Frontflip troops, Helen Rose. Roark was reluctant to take his attention off Lowen for even a moment while the prat was within striking distance, but the timing paired with Lowen’s sudden overconfidence was too suspicious to be ignored.

Griefer – BLUF: Your World Stone amulet is NOT SOULBOUND anymore! Whatever you do, DON’T DIE and DON’T TAKE THE PENDANT OFF! It’s just like any other object now. If you drop it, someone else can pick it up, and it will be lootable if you die. Silva removed the tag so Lowen would think they were working together, but he really just moved up the shutdown time! You have less than two hours left before Hearthworld goes offline for good!

Roark’s adrenaline had been pumping near constantly all day long, but this news sent a renewed spike through his gut. Not even the news that Lowen didn’t realize he’d been double-crossed was enough to alleviate the black hole of rising panic. Not only was the World Stone no longer bound to him, but the destruction of Hearthworld was imminent. If Lowen got his hands on the pendant, everything Roark had worked for, everything he’d sacrificed would have been in vain. Lowen would take it back to the Tyrant King, and Marek’s bloodstained rule would extend unchecked to every dimension he could reach.

Well, the only way to be certain Lowen would never lay a finger on the World Stone was to blunder ahead with this deadly gamble. If Roark died now, he couldn’t respawn in time to try for the portal again anyway. He didn’t have any other choice.

Roark forced an icy smile.

“Call me what you like, but I would make a better ruler than you any bloody day of the year. The army of allied dungeons that just destroyed your defenses can stand as evidence of that.” With practiced motions, Roark drew his Cursed rapier and the newly reloaded Tattooed pistol. Then he let his glare travel over Lowen’s troops, taking in Herald after Herald desperate to turn tail and run, but too scared to do it. “You wouldn’t even have these wretches backing you if they weren’t more afraid of your boss than they are of me.”

A few of the Heralds flinched at the accusation, but none could deny it.

“And yet they stand behind me nonetheless,” Lowen said, apparently unperturbed by the truth of their allegiances.

“For now,” Roark said. He addressed the winged enemy combatants. “Defectors are welcome to join us now or to do so after I’ve killed your pompous ass of a leader. You’ll receive a full pardon for your surrender. On the other hand, those who keep fighting after his death will be summarily executed.”

None of them dared to move.

Lowen chuckled. “They know you don’t stand a chance against me. You’re nothing more than outclassed scum without the good sense to surrender to your betters.”

Roark’s mind leapt back to the frantic warning message and the countdown to destruction hanging over all of Hearthworld—Lowen unwittingly included.

“Good sense is a luxury none of us can afford right now, mate,” Roark said. Time to stake everything he had on this final gamble. Someone called out his name from the sidelines, but Roark was too focused on the battle at hand to care. This was it and he had no room for distractions. He saluted the mage with his rapier. “Since we’re in your throne room, let’s make this official. Lowen von Reich, I challenge you for Dungeon Lord of the Vault of the Radiant Shield.”

A scrap of parchment covered in text appeared before Roark’s eyes, fixing the parameters of the duel.

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Stealing Heaven’s Golden Throne

You have challenged Lowen von Reich for the right to rule over the Vault of the Radiant Shield as Dungeon Lord!

Objective: Kill Lowen von Reich in single combat.

Reward: Become the new Dungeon Lord of the Vault of the Radiant Shield, command and deploy Vault mobs, create and alter the layout of the Vault, gain access to the Dungeon Lord’s Divine Blessings, 90,000 Experience

Failure: Die at the hand of Lowen von Reich in single combat.

Penalty: No respawn.

Restrictions: No outside assistance, no Health potions may be used.

Accept quest? Yes/No

                                                                          ╠═╦╬╧╪

Roark accepted in a heartbeat, and it seemed Lowen had done the same, because the moment he dismissed the page, the Tyrant King’s right-hand mage streaked toward him in a blaze of savage light.

Baring his teeth in a snarl, Roark raised the Tattooed pistol and fired a pair of shots Cursed with Undead Chaos at Lowen’s heart.

The bullets dented the plate but refused to penetrate. Flattened hunks of metal toppled harmlessly to the floor with a ping that rang out in the shocked silence.