Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 31

That Saturday, after the last of the Placement Exams, it seemed all of Arborea was shut down. Breakfast was a ghost town, lunch was leftover breakfast, and Logan was going to skip dinner completely. Logan had no idea where the academy staff were, but the majority of the students were either sleeping after the exhausting tests, or they were out in the Xiru Forest, drinking and celebrating at the Wayfarer Inn. That or tearing it up in Vralkag—heaven knows that was where the Gelatinous Knight was.

He’d passed his Placement Exam easily. No surprises there.

The big surprise was that Marko wasn’t with him.

Marko had vanished after epically failing his exams, and no one seemed to have a clue just where he was holed up. Logan, Inga, and Treacle had spent that entire Saturday looking for the lost satyr. The three started a systematic search of Arborea, checking all his common haunts first—the bars, pubs, and inns—then moving on to increasingly more unlikely locations. The towering trees of the Xiru Forest, the burning furnace of the World Forge, even the white-capped mountains of the Grimjour Bluffs. No sign.

They feared the worst.

And honestly, Logan couldn’t blame the satyr for wanting to disappear. Marko hadn’t just failed the Placement Exam, he’d sent his personal ranking plummeting to the bottom of the leaderboard. The Terrible Twelfth had slipped back into last place, which made the Franklin Four happy. Marko had done so poorly that the Azure Dragon Clan had even fallen out of first place. Rockheart was beside himself with rage, and the First Cohort threatened to serve barbecued goat that night for dinner. Well, at least Chadrigoth and his lackeys had. Tet clearly thought the competition was insipid.

By twilight the following day, Logan got lucky.

He finally found the satyr staring out over the Bogbottom Falls, near the BYE Portal that had taken them to Eritreus.

It had rained that afternoon, a warm early summer shower that left the trees dripping and the air heavy.

As a fungus, Logan loved the humidity, but he would’ve liked it about ten degrees cooler. He was in his linen pants and short shirt. The sun was setting into the fog of this pocket dimension. The sky was a gorgeous red, streaked here and there with bands of orange and neon pink. In the shadows, it was cool. Near the Tree of Souls, the entire world vibrated with energy as the day came to an end, the sun shutting its eyes on the world, making way for darkness.

Marko rested on the stone wall overlooking the roaring falls. He was kicking a tune out with his hooves against the rock. Next to him was a big green bottle, a golden chalice, and a wicker basket.

The bottle wasn’t a shock. The fact that it was full, however, was another matter entirely. Marko hadn’t touched a drop as far as Logan could tell.

The fungaloid walked over and plopped down next to his friend, not saying a word. The water of the lake was dark as it tumbled over the literal edge of the world. Then it became a white froth before disappearing into the abyss, swallowed by the void.

On the other side was the Bogbottom Swamp. Every so often, the trees, drooping with moss, would rustle as some monster pushed its way through the black water.

Logan kept quiet, letting the silence say everything that needed saying for the time being. He wanted to let Marko know he was there, but he didn’t want to push him to talk. Besides, that swamp looked so inviting. Fungaloids had an affinity for delicious marshes.

After a while, Marko finally stopped kicking his hooves against the stone and uttered a sigh. “So, Logan, you’re all quiet. It’s freaking me out. What are you doing here?”

Logan nodded his floppy yellow cap. “Just taking in the sights. Like you, I guess. I like it out here. I could totally rock a swamp dungeon, I think. Or is that rot a swamp dungeon—as in rot ’n’ roll? It’s a long way to the top, if you want to rot ’n’ roll.” He grinned and shook his head. “Either way, it suits me now.”

Marko smiled, though his eyes remained sad. “Shadowcroft said puns would be a problem. Long live rot?”

“Long live rot,” Logan agreed. “Carpe carrion. Seize the decay. I think that might just be my new motto.” He reached for the bottle, uncorked it, and took a sip. It was strong wine, dark and red like fresh blood. “Did you know that alcohol is more about yeast than bacteria or fungi? Though I consider yeast to be my cooler, second cousin. More people like beer than they do mushrooms.”

“Funny,” Marko said.

Logan offered him a thin smile. “Saying funny and not laughing means it wasn’t that funny.”

The satyr couldn’t help but chuckle for real. Then he sipped from the goblet. Logan’s heightened senses told him it wasn’t wine, but plain old water.

“You know,” Marko said, “I grabbed that bottle from Vralkag last night. I figured I’d come out here, get drunk, maybe throw myself over the waterfalls and see if I’d fall forever. You know. Normal Friday night. No big deal.”

“Sounds like a big deal,” Logan said quietly.

“Yeah. Probably.” Marko set the goblet down with a clink on stone. “I couldn’t do it. I like the party, Logan. I’m all about the party. On Sangretta, we have wine gods, and beach parties, and it’s all so much fun. We enjoy life. Me sitting here alone? There’s no fun to be had in that. I just couldn’t bring myself to drink the wine. Didn’t even want to.” He shook his head sadly. “Worst. Party. Ever.”

“How come you didn’t come find us and talk to us?” Logan asked.

“I meant to.” The satyr turned to look at the Tree of Souls, the single branch piercing the flat world of Arborea. A stone wall surrounded the sacred wood. “But I couldn’t leave. Sitting here, I feel the Tree. I feel how connected we all could be. Every time I stood up to walk to the portal, to go and find you guys, I ended up back here. This dungeon business is important. I see that now, though I didn’t when we first started. I understand so much more. I guess I absorbed more of Shadowcroft’s stupid Ethics of Murder class than I’d realized. Unfortunately, my enlightenment came too late.”

“Never too late,” Logan replied.

Marko threw his horned head back and let out a frustrated grunt. “Don’t play that game with me, Logan Murray! This is not the time for any sort of cheerleader speech. I’m screwed. Take one look at the leaderboard and that fact is completely self-evident. There is no way I can create a dungeon in four hours, with my cultivation abilities, in the worst location on Arborea. You know I’m going to get the SandScream in the World Forge Wastes. The SandScream, Logan. There’s sand. There’s me. Screaming.”

In his gut, Logan knew he was right. Unless you were Tet-Akhat, or another Egyptian-themed desert dungeon core, the SandScream was a brutal place to craft a dungeon. And Rockheart was pissed beyond belief at Marko—he’d cost the clan the number one spot on the leaderboard. Rockheart would ensure that Marko had the worst possible dungeon for the final. Despite that, Logan still wanted to launch into a cheerleader speech. He wanted to talk about his combat experience, or the fact that he’d progressed so far at Shadowcroft, or that they’d survived the dungeoneer attack in Kyvandry’s Slaughter Pits.

He wanted to tell Marko that anything was possible.

Now wasn’t the time, and this wasn’t the place.

So instead, he simply nodded and sipped more of the wine, wincing. “The alcohol can’t kill my spores, but it sure is killing my stomach. I’m pretty sure you could use this to clean a carburetor.” He paused and glanced down at the bottle. “I suppose that’s what Inga would call a culturally specific reference.”

“Inga,” Marko said sullenly. “She hates me now. But you have to know something, Logan. You have to know I tried. I truly did.”

“I know,” Logan replied. “You’ve been different since the Slaughter Pits. And from what you told me, those nights we thought you were out partying, you were actually studying with GK.”

“Never party with someone who is smarter and more responsible than you. Always drink with stupid people you can feel superior to,” he said in all seriousness.

“Too late. I’m best friends with Inga Thosa Therian.”

Marko exhaled long and loudly. “You got me there. For most of the year, I figured GK was as hopeless and messed up as I was. Nope. All along, he was this secret genius. He passes easily, and I’m at the bottom of the barrel. It figures. I shouldn’t be surprised. Yet somehow I still am.”

Logan let a beat pass. “Listen, we saw you trying. All of us did. And I know I can speak for both Treacle and Inga. We want you to keep trying. We have two weeks before the Final Exams start. You’ll get another chance. We can work with you—maybe help you find a way to survive this thing.”

The satyr gave him an annoyed look. “And there’s the cheerleader speech.”

“Guilty as charged. My punishment? More of this stuff.” He sipped more of the wretched wine. “Also, what is this stuff?”

“It’s Enrico Kagster’s finest vintage, known as Liverkill. It’s designed to kill you, slowly, especially on Monday mornings. Bottled last night in Vralkag, it’s basically fermented Coptician viper venom, aged in Bone Vault coffins. Kagster might’ve eaten grapes while mixing it up, though I’m pretty sure grapes aren’t involved at all.” Marko sat back, bracing himself with his arms, and gazed up at the swirling red of the sky. “I thought things had changed after the Slaughter Pits. I mean, I helped defeat those raiders. I kinda saved you, Inga, even Treacle.”

“You did save us,” Logan said. “But this isn’t about that, is it? It’s about your past, isn’t it?”

Marko turned and gave him a sly smile. “Ah, my mysterious backstory, the roots of my tragic self-destruction, and the source of all my miseries. I like drama. Perhaps it’s time you finally heard about my dramatic redemption arc. If you’re up for it, that is.”

“Give me a good redemption arc any day of the week,” Logan said.

Marko turned away and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “It’s all such crap. Why I’m here? What happened? It’s dramatic, but it’s also stupid. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of Marko Laskarelis. Dramatic, but stupid.”

The satyr sat in silence a long time.

Logan looked down between his feet at the water running under them, headed toward its own destruction. The metaphor was kind of too on the nose. No wonder Marko had sat there for so long.

The satyr finally braced himself and started talking, fast—like he knew if he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to start again.

“And the story begins, ladies and gentlemen, with the Forevergreen Festival Feast on the Peach Beaches of Sangretta. The sand was peach, the drinks were peach, we ate peaches. It was all peaches, all the time. And one young handsome man, Marko Laskarelis, the life of the party, was there, with his friend Emilio. Although best friend is more accurate. They were mates. They were brothers. No, closer than brothers. I have brothers, and I never felt for them what I felt for Emilio.

“We were friends until the end. Until the very end. At the big holiday party filled with peaches, Marko and Emilio happened to run into some old university acquaintances—the Dukane brothers and some of their cousins. We all go way back, though I never cared much for the Dukanes. Anyway, they talked about the Calavera Caves down the coast, and the riches therein. So much gold. Fame awaiting the bold and the brave. A den of wicked, monstrous things that needed slaying.

“And before you can ask, my little mushroom friend, the Calaveras Caves were actually one of Shadowcroft’s reaping dungeons. And now that I’ve spent nine months learning about dungeons, I can definitively tell you a Toad King ruled there. The Dukanes painted me an exquisite picture of his cruelty. He raided the nearby towns, they said. Burned vineyards, pillaged crops. Ate the choicest cows and dumped out the rum! At least according to them, though now I understand that was just the story they used to justify their raid. It wasn’t true. How do I know? We’ll get to that, Logan Murray. We’ll get to that.”

Marko took a moment to sip his water, while Logan took another swallow of the Liverkill. Enrico Kagster should be put in prison for crimes against humanity.

The satyr took in another breath and rattled off more of his story. “After too much peach wine, our bumbling hero reluctantly agrees to join the raid and finds himself in the Calaveras Caves. He comes out of a blackout, and there, dead on the ground in a pool of his own blood, is his best friend in the world, Emilio Joesha Kradenza, the duke of the Emerald Coast. Did I mention I was royalty? I mean, I was disgracedroyalty, but I still got invited to all the nicest Forevergreen Festivals.”

“I’m sorry,” Logan said.

“You and me both, brother,” Marko said in a lost little voice. “Never raid dungeons drunk. Both me and Emilio knew how to use a sword, we’d be trained, and we knew some simple spells, but we shouldn’t have been there. We weren’t powerful cultivators or members of one of the dungeoneer guilds. The Dukanes put in for membership with the Radiant Shields but got shot down with a form letter. I think raiding the caves was their way to prove they were good enough. Obviously, they weren’t. We weren’t.

“The Dukanes said I tried to save Emilio from bullywogs, those are Toad King minions. But I don’t remember any of that. It’s all just this ugly black space in my mind. All I know is that I failed my best friend in the world. Then? It got worse. I couldn’t leave the dungeon. The Dukanes said if I tried to bail, they’d kill me and blame it on the dungeon. I had no choice.

“But I knew the bullywogs weren’t bad. I found one, wounded, and he begged me to stop my friends. They weren’t my friends. I never liked the Dukane brothers or any of their kin. Then the bullywog talked about the Tree of Souls. I’d heard stories… never believed them… until right at that moment. Long story short?” He inhaled, held the breath, and closed his eyes. “I helped the Toad King wipe out the raiders. I turned on them, killed Danzi Dukane but not before he stabbed me, right there, in the inner sanctum. I did so well that I wound up here. By accident.”

“Like Treacle,” Logan whispered. “Like me.”

“You’re right,” Marko agreed. “And as your reward, you don’t have to take another sip of the Liverkill.”

The satyr got to his feet, walked away, and then came back. Logan peeked into the basket. It was full of cheese, crackers, and grapes. The satyr packed a picnic but hadn’t touched a bite. Logan stood and walked over to his friend. It was getting dark, the air wet and cool. This was fungal weather all right.

Marko turned and looked Logan right in the eyes. “I was devasted over Emilio. I didn’t want to be a dungeon. I didn’t want more flippin’ school. I was never good at school, you know. Only the parties. Yet, here I was, determined not to take it seriously.”

Logan could argue that point. Marko had gotten up early, day after day, to cultivate. He’d hung out with the Terrible Twelfth at night, in the library, before he went to party in Vralkag. It was clear that some part of Marko did want to do well. It was only his sadness that held him back.

Marko finished his story. “Things changed after the field trip, though. I save you in the Slaughter Pits. I think to myself, maybe I can do something to save the Tree of Souls. Maybe my life can mean something. So I try. I commit. For the first time ever. I’m doing it for Emilio. I’m doing it for you guys, because, come on, Logan, I love the Terrible Twelfth. Then? I fail.” He slumped forward, broken and defeated. “Miserably.”

“What happened in the Tartarucha Cells?” Logan asked.

He shrugged and shook his head. “I got lost in the art. I made this gorgeous dungeon, intricate, elegant, with a unified theme. Aesthetically, it was perfect. Professor Arketa reached out to me, you know. She told me she appreciated my efforts. She also warned me that next time, it has to be function over form. Though it won’t matter. I’m done, Logan. There’s no way I can build a decent dungeon in the SandScream in four hours.”

Logan searched Marko’s face. A million thoughts hit the fungaloid’s mind at the same time. He pressed his lips together and stopped himself from grumbling out loud. He then sank back down, drumming his heels against the stone wall. Logan opened the basket, took out a piece of cheese, and unleashed his digestive spores on it. It grew into a fuzzy little snack. He popped it into his mouth and chewed.

Marko stood over him. “Well?”

Logan kept chewing. He took out another piece of cheese and went to town.

The satyr tapped his foot. “You can’t just sit there eating. For one, what you’re doing to that fine cheese is disgusting. For another? I just told you my situation is hopeless.”

“So are you giving up?” Logan asked.

“I should.”

“But are you?” Logan tried a stale cracker. No, the cheese was better.

Marko waved a finger at him. “Oh, so that’s the game, is it? You want me to give myself the cheerleader speech? This is the real cheerleader speech?”

“That’s up to you,” Logan replied around a mouthful of delectable cheese.

Marko grumbled and narrowed his eyes. “Well, I’m one step ahead of you. What would I say if I were you, eh?” He tapped at his chin. “I would say, ‘We have two weeks until the Final Exam. Between you, Inga, and Treacle, I’m thinking we might figure out a way for me to survive the Final.’”

“You’re right.” Logan nodded. “That’s exactly what I’d say. But you need to believe it. I can’t believe it for you. So, what’s it going to be? Do you believe?”

He huffed and folded his arms across his chest, goat ears twitching madly in annoyance. “Fine. I believe. I’m not giving up. Also, for what it’s worth, cheese is mostly mold anyway. So what you’re doing isn’t that impressive.”

Logan grinned. “Best. Cheerleader speech. Ever.”

Two weeks wasn’t much time, but with a sober Marko, anything was possible.