Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 30

Logan was grateful for every Monday night he’d spent using his Braincap spores to inhabit the bodies of Inga’s centipedes. Moving all those legs in unison was a tricky bit of business, but he’d taken the same lessons he’d learned during physical therapy and applied them to the creature. Now, it felt almost as natural as walking on two legs. He slithered forward, the rough stone floor sending minute tremors racing up his many legs. The centipede’s vision was rather lackluster, all things considered, but the vibrations he felt painted a picture of their own.

He could sense the heartbeat of each dungeoneer, could feel their feet shift and sense each of their positions throughout the room. And, thanks to the gnarled Braincaps growing from the centipede’s back, Logan also had access to his Fungal Vision, which allowed him to see even in the dark.

He crept forward, slow, steady, and patient, not wanting to draw attention to himself before the time was right for his ambush. At five feet out he reared back, his mandibles silently opening and closing in anticipation of the kill to come. He carried two of the Gem-Studded Puffballs, cradling them like eggs that might break at the slightest provocation. With a flick of one of his many jointed arms, he hurled both puffballs directly at Daggers McFinn then—without a moment of hesitation—he launched his insectile form at the Magnificent Mimsy.

He bowled into the sorcerer in the same instant that the puffballs landed. They exploded like frag grenades. One puffball was a direct hit, vaporizing Daggers McFinn where he stood, turning him into little more than pink mist and gory armor. The other sailed past Daggers and smashed against the base of the fountain, sending out a wave of glittering shards of glass in every direction. They weren’t powerful enough to penetrate Feathers’ plate mail, but Arfgar and Brandybutter weren’t so lucky.

Logan expected to get a dose of Apothos from the kill, but then he remembered this was just a simulation. He had to be content with the kill.

As for Mimsy, Logan wrapped his body around the spell-caster’s legs, using his momentum to bear the sorcerer to the ground. Mimsy let out a terrified squawk, shocked at finding himself at the mercy of such a creature. He seemed too flabbergasted to cast a spell. Logan didn’t wait for him to gather his bearings, but rather lashed out with his mandibles, clamping down on one of Mimsy’s forearms, slicing through fabric and drawing hot, metallic blood. He reared back, clawing at Mimsy’s vulnerable face with his spike-tipped legs. He blinded the sorcerer in one eye and left a deep gash across his forehead.

But just as he was preparing to end the spell-caster he felt the heavy pounding of footfalls followed by the sharp edge of steel biting into his neck.

Things went momentarily dark, and a heartbeat later, Logan found his consciousness back in the inner sanctum.

Damn, but that had been a rush. And although he hadn’t killed Mimsy, the sorcerer was in a bad way. Arm bleeding freely, face shredded, legs peppered with fragments of glass. Logan felt extremely satisfied with the battle.

Better, the action wasn’t over. Two more centipedes, waiting in the wings, charged in, beelining toward the downed spell-caster. If they could end Mimsy here and now, this would pretty much be a wrap. Logan held his breath, his guardian form tense as he waited.

He let out a disgruntled sigh as Feathers darted in from seemingly nowhere, positioning herself between the incoming bugs and the downed caster. She moved with speed and intensity, easily batting away the bugs with her glowing eagle cudgel. Brandybutter was also back on his feet and was launching volley after volley of arrows. Many of the feathered shafts bounced harmlessly off their chitinous exoskeletons, but one skewered a centipede through the center, pinning it against the far wall.

Arfgar charged, axe raised high. He brought the blade down in a wicked arc, finishing off the pinned centipede while Feathers killed the other with a lance of brilliant golden light.

With the insects dead, the barbarian strode over to retrieve the ruby lying in the bloody mess of what once was the rogue. “Thief wanted to loot us. We loot him.” The giant barbarian pointed at Feathers. “You heal wizard.” Not a question but an order. “We go. See? Arfgar in charge.”

“We should go slowly,” Brandybutter cautioned, pulling a piece of glass from his arm. “We lost our thief, and this dungeon is obviously more than it seems at first glance.”

Arfgar didn’t agree.

He gave the archer a sneer and then strode down the corridor, strutting like he owned the place.

Inga saw the injustice. <If only we put our trap room along that hallway.>

<Don’t worry,> Logan sent. <They’re on their way to the antechamber. We’ll let them go past into the inner sanctum then hit ’em from behind. They’ve already shown that they aren’t too good with surprise attacks.>

<If they get to the pedestal, if they get to the altar, we’ll fail.> Inga sounded scared. She had a right to be.

Their best bet was to cut down the sorcerer and Feathers the Harbinger since Arfgar and Brandybutter weren’t as bright or as powerful. Speaking of which, both fighters entered the antechamber while the servant of the Bald Phoenix was still busy patching up Mimsy back in the minion room.

Brandybutter saw the alcoves full of mushrooms, and he glanced down to the Mucal Film covering their pit trap. He grimaced. “Good heavens, those Opal Truffles have given me a level of excitement that I cannot contain.” It was almost painful watching him embrace his stupidity. “Although it seems counterintuitive, I must press forward! True, this floor looks suspicious, but the allure of the Truffles is simply too powerful for me to resist. Such a shame, really, that I am so daft.”

He strode forward while Arfgar watched, not even attempting to stop the foolish archer.

Brandybutter tumbled through the Mucal Film, impaling himself on the spikes below. Three more centipedes attacked with hungry fervor, mandibles chewing through his armor and taking his life. Logan didn’t bother inhabiting them, since the kill was over as quickly as it had started.

Mimsy and Feathers entered into the antechamber to see Arfgar with his axe raised. “See! Mushrooms bad! Mushrooms always bad!”

The Magnificent Mimsy cast a spell to divide himself into three different casters, all doughy and nonthreatening. All three of the pudgy wizards raised their hands and flung javelins made of light into the centipedes clambering out of the pits. All three of the bugs met their end with the perfectly aimed flashes of deadly magic.

“Me wanted to kill giant bugs!” Arfgar thundered, staring daggers at the sorcerer.

Mimsy shrugged, the two copies of himself merging seamlessly back into the chubby mage. “Give it time. I’m sure you’ll have your chance yet, friend.” He eyed the alcoves where Logan’s and Inga’s guardian forms stood motionless in the tangle of fungal growths. The wizard raised his torch higher, squinting to get a better look. “Well, there are only three of us left, but the inner sanctum looks like it’s on the other side of those alcoves. Just through the mushroom forest, there. Though, I’d bet every copper to my name that there are more creatures waiting for us in there. If I had to guess, I’d even wager that’s probably where the dungeon guardian is hiding.”

Arfgar sneered at the spell-caster and stomped forward without a care in the world. “Me no afraid.” He strutted along the right side of the pit. Logan’s side.

Logan made sure his fungaloid form didn’t move a muscle. Not a twitch. Mimsy was right, but there was one crucial detail he’d missed. He thought there was only a single dungeon guardian. That was a mistake.

Logan was going to make sure those three raiders stayed mistaken. <Inga, change of plans. Stay hidden. You’ll know when to attack.> Logan leapt out with a mighty cry. He brandished his rusty dagger and waved the ruby buckler, which glowed with a dark scarlet light.

“Arfgar of the Hill People!” Logan roared. “You will not plunder this dungeon. I am the Shroomian Acolyte of this realm, and I will smite you!” Sounded a little stilted, but he wanted the stupid barbarian oaf focused on him, and a little monologuing seemed like the best way.

The Magnificent Mimsy struck Logan with a dispel magic spell. The ruby shield’s light winked off like a flashlight with a dead battery. Huh. Hadn’t seen that one coming.

Arfgar grinned. He dashed forward like a whirlwind and brought his battle-axe careening down. Logan tried to backpedal, but he was far too slow compared to the C-Class brawler. The axe landed, slicing and dicing Logan as efficiently as one of those hibachi chefs. In seconds, Logan was little more than a pile of limbs and rubbery flesh. Admittedly, not his best moment.

Logan’s guardian form lay completely useless on the ground. However, it was all part of the plan to make the raiders overconfident.

“Easy dungeon boss.” Arfgar stepped over the ruins of Logan’s form.

Mimsy and Feathers followed the barbarian right past where Inga waited in her alcove. The minute they walked past, she shot out behind the caster. She raised her hands while her entire body radiated a blinding light that stunned the raiders for one key second. Inga drove her sword arm directly into Mimsy’s chest. The sorcerer let out a surprised cry and fumbled his torch, which immediately was snuffed out in the dank fungal growth covering the floor of the short hallway.

Feathers turned, ready to engage, but Inga was already on the move, darting inside Feathers’ guard using her Lepidoteral Reflex ability. The astral moth batted the eagle cudgel out of the cleric’s hand. In seconds, the place was plunged into darkness.

Logan let his gem core gleam on the pedestal, casting just enough glimmer to offer some hope to the barbarian tank. Oblivious to the trap, Arfgar rushed toward the gleam since he had the brain of a gnat.

The barbarian had breached their sanctum, but he was only able to take a single step before he was stopped. The black-and-purple Ghoul’s Snare coating the floor activated, tendrils of fungal growth shooting out, wrapping like pythons around his legs. At the same moment, Booker and Noodle Doodle came hurtling out from beneath a pair of swaying toadstools. Both jumped and latched onto the barbarian’s legs. Arfgar’s woes were just beginning. The Spike Flies descended, striking the blinded Arfgar from the left and the right.

He never had a chance.

Once he was dead, the bulldog-shaped Spore Wargs bounded over to the badly wounded Mimsy. The wizard was frantically trying to cast a spell when the Wargs bowled him over. Not only was his magic disrupted, he was sent face-first into the Blister Wart covering the walls. Since Logan wasn’t doing much good lying in literal pieces all over the floor, he forced his mind into Noodle Doodle’s body, co-opting the doggo’s senses. The world blurred on the edges as his point of view radically shifted. Suddenly he stood on four sturdy paws, only three feet tall. His canine mouth was open and salivating.

“Illumina Pate!” Feathers cried out. “Heal the Magnificent Morty Mercutio Mimsy with your balding love!”

Her armor glowed golden, and that gold light filled Mimsy’s chest. He might not be bleeding to death, but from this close up, Logan could tell the guy didn’t look good. The Blister Wart was doing its work on his face.

The harbinger wasn’t done casting spells. “Now, my loveable phoenix of the pure skies, thin my despair and give me a weapon of light!”

Logan canted his doggy head and watched as a new cudgel appeared in her hand, this one gleaming gold and spitting sparks like a Fourth of July sparkler.

Inga stepped back and wrapped her wings around herself. From out of thin air, silken thread swept around her, encasing her in a cocoon that covered her completely. It was six feet of gossamer threads, and inside, dull moonlight pulsed, growing brighter and brighter.

There was plenty of light to see the Magnificent Mimsy’s ruined face, swollen so that once again his eyes were closed. Even more gross, the blisters were starting to fill with pus. His hands were equally useless, huge balloons of red, angry skin. He tried to talk, but he couldn’t form words. Was it just the Blister Wart? Or did he get unlucky with the bite from the Spore Wargs?

“I will heal you again, Wizard!” Feathers called out. “But first I will slay these vile mushroom dogs!”

She turned her back on Inga’s cocoon. The cleric swung her cudgel and bashed away Booker, quickly turning him into a quivering pile of meat, but Logan was quicker. He dodged left, avoiding the attack, and took cover behind a towering Opal Truffle. His heart was racing, and his tongue lolled out as he panted. After a beat, he turkey peeked around the corner and saw that Feathers was once more focusing on Inga. Her shimmering cocoon had doubled in size, but she was still defenseless. Logan needed to buy her time.

With a howl, he broke cover, lupine legs eating up the ground as he hurled himself like a missile at the armor-clad harbinger. Feathers turned on a heel and thrust one hand out, letting loose a bolt of golden glory. Logan feinted and juked, narrowly avoiding the blast. He leapt, his powerful legs carrying him high into the air as his jaws opened wide—

Feathers’ enchanted cudgel whipped through the air, smashing into Logan’s skull with a sickening crunch that killed Noodle Doodle in the air. The Spore Warg body flopped to the ground, and Logan’s consciousness returned to his gemstone, giving him access to the dungeon as a whole. Although he hadn’t even laid a single claw on Feathers, Logan had done his job.

The cocoon split, and twelve feet of angry heavy metal caterpillar came spilling out. This was Inga’s Metamorphosis ability at its best.

She was an armored worm, clothed in the same silver metal that she used for her chrysalis swords. Both her back spikes and her mandibles looked like chrome sharpened into razor-sharp points.

Feathers held up her puny stick, but the caterpillar smashed her like a pesky fly, crushing the harbinger beneath her steely bulk. Feathers was dead in seconds, and the spell-caster followed shortly, as Inga’s mandibles finished off what the Spore Wargs and Blister Wart had started.

Logan couldn’t believe the carnage. Then he remembered, unlike him, Inga had chosen a powerful guardian form, and this was why he had teamed up with her in the first place. Yes, he could grow a bunch of mushrooms, but for pure physical power? No, it was all Inga… all the time.

Inga inched her way into the sanctum and wrapped herself around the pedestal in a gorgeous if creepy display of victory.

Logan watched the tableau she created. Their gems glowed, creating shadows in the mushroom forest even while her chrome caterpillar body glowed, ghostly and grotesque, covered in the blood of the raiders.

                                                                                     * * *

Professor Yullis Rockheart watched the astral moth’s victory dance for the tenth time with an uneasy feeling in his stony belly. He sat at his pristinely clean desk, in his perfectly ordered office, near the top of the Shadowcroft Castle. His office was packed with books, statues of his ancestors, portraits of former students who had become Heartwood-level dungeons, and of course, the paperwork that went with being the rector prime of the best dungeon core school in the multiverse. Everything had its place. Excellence required order and discipline.

Rockheart was alone for a moment, though he’d been meeting with other professors all day long, to go over grades, to evaluate students, and to review footage from the Placement Exams in the Tartarucha Cells. The exams were finally finished—the last student, Treacle Glimmerhappy, had run his course over an hour ago. Rockheart should’ve been relieved that the testing was done, but he wasn’t. He’d been shaken.

Nothing had prepared him for Inga Thosa Therian’s dance. It was impressive… as was the sanctum itself, with its fungal threats and those Spike Flies. Both proved deadly.

Yes, technically, Arfgar of the Hill People had made it to the inner sanctum, but he’d been killed almost immediately. All in all, the dungeon had been mediocre at best, without much style or pizzazz, except, of course, for that sanctum, which was the stuff of nightmares.

Far more impressive was how the two dungeon cores had used their resources. Their strategies had been impeccable, especially killing the rogue first. Their performance had been exemplary. And troubling.

Could he be wrong about these poor, Apothos-starved students? Without a doubt, Logan Murray had helped the Azure Dragon Clan on the leaderboards. The fungaloid had proven himself, again and again, as being a most worthy opponent. He’d passed the Threshing and even defeated the dungeoneers in the Slaughter Pits, which was no small feat. After that, Rockheart had pushed them to the limit in Core Calisthenics—forced them to endure a grueling level of training, all in a bid to break the Terrible Twelfth. Yet, exactly the opposite had happened.

They’d grown closer together, worked harder, and exceeded even Shadowcroft’s expectations for the quartet. And yet, Rockheart couldn’t let go of his hatred or his disgust. Yes, the Terrible Twelfth had improved, but they shouldn’t have come to Shadowcroft in the first place. Shadowcroft needed to recruit the best and the brightest—it shouldn’t be a home for orphans and weirdos, no matter how surprising.

Still… He was reluctantly coming around to the possibility that he’d been wrong about Logan. And most certainly about Inga. If there was one he hadn’t been wrong about, though, it was that disgusting satyr, Marko.

His performance had been a disgrace.

A knock at his door brought Rockheart out of his reverie. He waved a hand, opening the door with magic.

The clan leaders all rushed in: Professor Arketa of the Vermillion Phoenix, Professor Suresh the Merciless from the Crystal Tiger Clan, and lastly, Professor John Toothbyte of the Onyx Tortoise.

Arketa’s headscarf bulged with her excitement, and she kept having to adjust her sunglasses.

John Toothbyte’s normally dead shark eyes actually glittered enthusiastically. Even the haughty and distant Suresh the Merciless appeared to be blown away. The tiger-headed man kept twitching his ears, and by the Tree, the rakshasa was purring.

“Did you see what those two did?” Arketa cried. “And we both know Daggers McFinn was unusually adept today. Still, it was a complete murder, and I daresay Inga could’ve taken on another few raiders. Yes, Logan had to sacrifice his guardian form, and yet, if these had been real raiders, he would’ve been able to heal himself because each kill would’ve given him Apothos. Plus, his possession of the minions was brilliantly executed. That bit with the Spore Warg at the end was inspired.”

Professor Ronnalg Crucible ambled into the room. “I have to disagree, Ms. Hellgazer. The mushroom man was diced up into Eritreus stroganoff.”

“Aye,” John Toothbyte agreed. “Besides, is it fair for the pair to be running a dungeon together? They have pluck to try it, but it bends the rules, if not breaks them altogether.”

Suresh the Merciless nodded his feline head. “I agree. And why are we even talking about these less-than-stellar students? Your other Azure Dragon students did very well, did they not?”

Rockheart didn’t need to comment. All of the First Cohort had passed the Placement Exam. Prince Chadrigoth and the others rightly knew that they could easily take out the raiders in their inner sanctums, and they did, personally, with very minimal risk. In a way, their performance had been dreadfully average.

On the other hand, Logan and Inga had utilized every resource brilliantly.

Crucible frowned so deeply his forehead wrinkled into green hills. “None of us had doubts about the First Cohort. They’re fine. They did fine. I’d like to mention how well I thought one Treacle Glimmerhappy did. Nothing fancy. Just a finely crafted dungeon. That’s what we need more of.”

Rockheart had to admit that the minotaur’s dungeon had also been superior. He’d created a number of ingenious traps that had wiped out half the party before they reached the inner sanctum. Treacle had grown leaps and bounds over the past few months, spurred on by Logan’s exemplary leadership. However, the final battle had been close.

Treacle’s sanctum had been a death trap of whirring gears and random sawblades buzzing out of the floors. The last two raiders—Sir Mediocritus and his wizard friend Hallsee the Sad—had won their way to the sanctum’s pedestal.

Treacle had fought them off with the last of his minions, two Ugknot Calflings. The short minions, half calf, half machine, had overwhelmed Sad Hallsee while Treacle plunged his battle-axe into the skull of Sir Mediocritus.

Suresh stopped purring to growl, “The minotaur did passably well, I suppose. I would like to return to this Logan creature and his moth girlfriend.”

“They’re just friends,” Arketa chimed in.

Rockheart sighed and shook his head at the Hellgazer.

Suresh pressed on. “I care nothing about the romantic lives of our students. I am more worried that this might become a precedent. Dungeon cores working together? It is a travesty, Rockheart. A travesty. Why anyone would want to work together is beyond me. But nevertheless it is happening, and on your watch, no less.” He paused and regarded his claws. “Perhaps you’ve gone soft, Rockheart ol’ boy. Maybe Shadowcroft will consider a new rector prime come next year.”

Of course Suresh would use this as an excuse to angle for position. Rockheart and the rakshasa had history—centuries of hatred, infighting, and rivalry. Yet, and Rockheart almost couldn’t believe this, he found himself agreeing with the blustering, image-obsessed halfwit. Such teamwork was unheard of and potentially dangerous.

Arketa, as always, stood up for Logan and his ilk. “People, remember, we are less about rules here than about results. We haven’t had a fungaloid here in generations. Mr. Murray is utilizing one of his unique abilities, and both he and Ms. Therian are benefiting. Should we not reward cleverness, however unorthodox, at this institution?”

Rockheart showed Professor Arketa any number of courtesies… for various reasons. This time, however, he lost his patience. “If the fungus can’t stand on his own two feet, he doesn’t belong at Shadowcroft.” He slammed a fist down on his desk, rattling a stone inkpot. “And neither does Marko Laskarelis for that matter.”

That last comment was a definite dig at one of Arketa’s other favorite students.

She winced. “Yes, I fear you are not wrong on that count. Marko has proven to be gifted in some areas, but a complete disaster in others. And his time is running short. He’s at the bottom of the Azure Dragon Clan, is he not?”

“He is,” Rockheart agreed with a curt nod.

Crucible let out a sigh that turned suspiciously into a growl. The ogre stood at the back of the room, leaning against a big bookshelf stuffed with tomes.

“That was the goat lad, wasn’t it?” Toothbyte laughed and waved his anchor arm. “No kills. Not a single kill! I ask ye, have we ever had a student who did so poorly?”

Arketa’s cheeks colored under her dark glasses. “Now, from a stylistic standpoint, his dungeon was excellent. There was a unified theme, a consistent aesthetic. Art has the power to kill.”

Crucible let out another annoyed growl.

Arketa turned. “Do you have something to add, Ronnalg?”

The ogre nodded. “Yes, I do. The goat boy’s dungeon was pretty. Pretty might kill you on a Saturday night in Vralkag, but it won’t kill a raider. If we’re talking about who needs to go, that goat boy is it.”

“And what is your stance on Logan and Inga sharing the victory?” Rockheart asked. Ronnalg Crucible was known for his unbiased opinion. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the Placement Exams, the crafting professor wouldn’t even be in the castle.

Crucible shrugged. “Whatever works. If Murray and Therian have figured out something that works, good. The goat boy hasn’t.”

“Goat man,” Arketa muttered.

Rockheart gazed at the faces of all the professors. Other than Suresh, none of the professors seemed to care much about Logan and Inga. On the surface, that made the rector prime’s job easy—he’d have to award the students who did well and punish the students who didn’t. At a deeper level, though, Rockheart knew the truth.

He cleared his stony throat. “Marko’s performance is an embarrassment. We all agree on that, at least. Not a single kill. For his Final Exam, he’ll only have four hours to prepare his dungeon, and he’ll get the last pick. Also, I’m going to make sure he faces seasoned dungeoneers. As for Murray and Therian?” He paused, clicking his stone nails on the desktop. “I will give them a single draught of the Red Lotus Juice for their accomplishment. They ran a single dungeon, so they will receive a single reward. As for their Final Exam?”

Arketa tilted her head and pouted. A subtle sign, but one he was well-familiar with. If he went against her, there would be hell to pay… again, for a variety of reasons.

“Fine,” he growled under his breath. “The two will get the works. Nine-hour prep time. First pick of dungeons. But by the Tree of Souls, I’m giving them raiders that will truly challenge them.” Perhaps this was a fluke—the Winnowing would prove one way or another whether they deserved a place in his school…