Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 24

“Who’s Canarom?” Logan asked.

Kyvandry shrugged. “One of their party, an Azure Branch Dread Totemist who didn’t duck my level-one saw trap. I had Petunia grab his corpse. Petunia, she’s my torture orc chieftess. Big. Mean. Pretty. Don’t get me wrong, I love Rosie, but Petunia is my little angel. You’ll see her in a minute. But let me catch you up. The Jade Leaf magic-user there is Linraist Erejam, he’s a Vampiric Runecaster. He’s also the worst. Keeps trying to plunder my dungeon, but the thing is he has trouble working well with others. I won’t list off the names of the other raiders because they won’t be around much longer. It’s Thursday. The raiders never do well on Thursdays. Keeping track of my stats is the best way to improve and optimize, I say.”

Marko nodded. “Thursday is Friday’s Friday, so it’s like the weekendiest weekday of the week.”

The blade ghoul hooked a thumb at the goat man. “Where did you get this guy? ’Cause him?? He gets it.”

“He came with a six-pack of beer,” Logan said. “Liquor store was having a sale. Buy one, get one goat man free.”

That made Kyvandry laugh.

Then they were drawn back into the action.

The B-Class tank was furious, and she stormed into Erejam’s face. “Canarom was your nephew!”

The magic-user shrugged. “Half-nephew. Once removed. No blood relation, and not a relative I was particularly fond of. Canarom Erejam was rather dim, and he embarrassed me on my ninety-fifth birthday. I feel like I’ll be able to move on from this pretty well.”

Both the rogue and the bard sniggered.

The cleric, a square-jawed true believer in chainmail, nodded. “His soul will find peace in the sainted embrace of Cuthbald the Kind. Cuthbald, whom we all will serve in the end.”

Kyvandry belched. “Actually, Canarom found peace in my core. He was a foul bit of work. Embarrassing his half-uncle, once removed, was the least of his many, many sins. And I’m pretty sure Cuthbald the Kind would agree. His cleric is as nasty as the rest of them. Watch.”

The tank scowled and backed away. She took a fresh grip on her sword and tower shield. “Fine. But I want to know which of you jackals took the ghoul tooth we found. Canarom had it, and one of you stole it.”

The rogue touched his chest and looked shocked. “Why did you look at me? Just because I’m a rogue doesn’t mean I steal all the time.”

“Just most of the time,” the bard chipped in.

The rogue tried hard to look innocent and failed. “Most of the time isn’t all of the time, you know.”

The tank threw up her hands. “You’re all cold-hearted ruffians. That’s the last time I trust the Tremblecloaks to organize a party for me. I’m finally beginning to see why your guild is so lowly ranked.”

“I organized the party,” the wizard said snidely. “You were chosen to stand in the way. Less talking, tank, and more tanking.”

“We are not cold-hearted,” the cleric insisted. “We are here to end the evil of this wicked place. It is our job as heroes to rid the universe of such places.”

Erejam smirked. “Yes, right. Heroism. We are here for heroism. Not to grow in power by collecting the Apothos at the core of this wretched place. Such wonderful, altruistic heroes are we.” It was clear he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying.

“We collect the Apothos, and we collect the gold,” the rogue said with a little laugh.

The bard wheezed snide laughter. “I’m here for the ultimate prize of the Slaughter Pits, the four Butchery Blades. I could do such interesting things with those daggers.”

Back in the inner sanctum, Treacle snorted and flared his nostrils. “Those sound like lures to me—exogenous Apothos manifestations.”

“That’s taking the bull by the horns,” the blade ghoul joked.

The minotaur gestured at Logan. “The mushroom does the puns. I just like crafting.”

Logan wasn’t in the mood to joke. He saw the raiders for what they were: greedy, self-interested monsters who could easily shrug off the death of one of their party. The fighter was the only one who seemed to have a soul. Possibly, the cleric was okay, but something seemed off about him.

Kyvandry flicked a knife finger at the rogue. “He did take the ghoul’s tooth, by the way. And my Butchery Blades aren’t the only lures. I crafted some magical items out of the dentures of this old wizard that bought the farm a few months back. My ghoul teeth are jammed full of vitamins, minerals, and your daily dose of Apothos.” He paused. “And before any of you think the tank is a good guy, she pushed Canarom into the saw blade to save her own skin. It’s probably why she feels bad… and that she wasn’t the one who looted the Dread Totemist’s body.”

The five raiders left the kitchen and wandered into a natural cave, where more desiccated bodies hung from the ceiling. A central trough, three feet wide, running with black sludge, split the cave in half.

Marko rubbed his furry chin. “Yeah, see there, Logan? He’s managed to split the attention of the raiders. Are they going to focus on the hanging bodies? Or are they going to worry about whatever is in that trench?”

Kyvandry went to slap Marko’s back with his knife-y left hand, caught himself, and knocked him with his elbow instead. “Nice, goat man. Hey, Arketa, I bet you love this guy.”

Arketa put up a dainty gloved hand. “Like him. No love. Just like. I have to be very careful about my wording where our dear satyr is concerned. But you are correct, Mr. Laskarelis. Such flourishes are meant to keep the dungeoneers on edge.”

Rockheart stood with his arms crossed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Spencer, but neither are important. This is your hidden door room, right? This is where you strike the spell-casters and missile-throwers from behind.”

“Yep, your range types,” Kyvandry agreed. “Like that bard with the bow. And by the way, that trench is an open sewer. And while I love my torture orcs, my Petunia doesn’t always smell like the sweet flower she is.”

Logan saw it. “That’s why the cleric is holding his nose.”

The ghoul blade grinned and pointed. “Watch now.”

Several stalagmites tipped forward on noiseless hinges, and long, lean orcs, adorned with rusted metal, emerged. The monsters were armed with cleavers, meat hooks, and bone saws. One of them, a tall pig-faced female wearing an iron bikini, had two rusted scimitars sheathed at her sides. Her hair was white, matted, and greasy. She led the attack.

Petunia and the torture orcs hit from behind, cutting down the bard in a sneak attack.

The gem glowed brighter. Kyvandry’s guardian form swelled as he drank in Apothos from the kill. “Yeah, Sorrel Songfingers, your days of raiding dungeons are over.”

Linraist Erejam wheeled, his staff glowing. He cast one hand forward, launching a wave of bloody red magic at the oncoming torture orcs. Meanwhile, Petunia had engaged the rogue from behind, but her scimitars clanked off his short swords. The rogue didn’t have much by way of armor, but he moved like a greased pig, dancing forward and back, his blades a whirlwind of motion. The she-orc batted his blades aside, waiting for an opening. After a long beat, she saw it. She feinted right, then lunged forward, driving one of the spikes on her shoulders through the rogue’s leather armor. She left him wounded, retreating before he could swing again.

With a series of grunts and squeals, she sounded the retreat.

Arketa clapped her hands. “See there? The chieftess is pulling back. This is why having floor-level bosses is important. Without leadership, the other torture orcs would’ve fought to the last man… er… orc. But they’ve done all the damage they needed to do—including a hefty blow to morale. Now, they’ll pull back and redeploy to another room. This way, the dungeon core is conserving resources.” She sighed and shook her head. “We haven’t covered minion management as much as I would’ve liked. See, Yullis, sweetie, this is why we need to add another class to the freshmen curriculum. We haven’t even touched on the formation of floor-level bosses.”

“Arketa, darling,” Rockheart growled, “we’ve talked about this. Minions aren’t critical for first-years.”

Logan exchanged glances with Marko. Sweetie? Darling? Was it possible… No. No way.

Erejam did not take the death of the bard well. He and the tank yelled at each other more while the cleric of Cuthbald attempted to heal the rogue. The cleric stuck a needle into the thief, and it must’ve been poisoned because the rogue’s eyes slipped closed, and the black gem radiated dark energy.

The cleric rifled through the dead man’s clothes, pulled free the ghoul’s tooth, and secreted it in a pouch at his side.

Kyvandry winced. “Wow. Gotta admit, I didn’t see that coming, though I should’ve. Cuthbald the Kind is kind of the god of irony. His Battle Paragons help people with their pain by killing them, since the dead don’t feel pain.”

“The kindness of killing,” Marko breathed. “Twisted.”

The tank came over, crouched, and felt for a pulse. “What happened?”

The cleric shrugged and offered his most winsome smile. “His wounds were too grievous, I’m afraid. I am sorry. I shall say a prayer for him that he finds peace in the light of my god.”

The tank started going through pockets, searching, and then let out a roar. “Where is it! Where is the bloody tooth?”

The cleric shouted back. “I don’t know! I am a holy Battle Paragon of Cuthbald! I would never steal—you must believe me!”

Kyvandry made a face. “It’s true. He murdered and then took the item, which isn’t exactly stealing. It’s looting. Two totally different things. Hey, do you guys still have to suffer through Shadowcroft’s Ethics of Murder?”

“We like that class,” Logan protested.

“Takes all kinds,” the ghoul blade replied with a lopsided shrug. “Now, they’ll loot the rest of the bodies and then search the cave because the trench makes them curious. They want to see where it leads. Which is not something I would recommend for any number of reasons.”

The tank and the cleric did indeed the loot the bodies of their friends, until the magic-user, Erejam, yelled at them, his face beet red as he commanded that they keep moving. The party followed the trench to the back of the cave. That was when the stalactites fell and impaled the tank.

Arketa quizzed the students. “Who can tell me the name of that monster?”

Inga belted it out before anyone else could. “Those are fallusks, mollusks that form like stalactites and then fall on dungeoneers. Even if you survive the damage, the fallusks cause acid damage. To be honest, though, I would not have expected them inside a tortured undead dungeon.”

“Always keep ’em guessing.” Kyvandry grinned.

This time, the cleric did heal the tank, though the wound was so grievous, the tank wasn’t healed fully, even when the cleric ran out of Apothos.

The tank was done. “I want the ghoul’s tooth! Give it to me now, or I’m leaving!”

“You won’t make it to the surface without us,” Erejam sneered, stroking his oily black beard, curling the tip around one lanky finger.

“Watch me!” The tank turned and stomped away, armor rattling with every step.

The cleric watched her go and then sized up the magic-user. “Mr. Erejam, I trust the tank far more than I would ever trust you.”

Without another word, the cleric turned on a heel and chased after the fighter. Neither was interested in going on, not even to get the coveted Butchery Blades.

Erejam’s face turned purple with rage. He shook a fist at the ceiling. “Damn you, Kyvandry Spencer! I will be back! I will win your daggers and your gem, or my name isn’t Linraist Gandolfini Erejam! He twisted a ring on his finger and vanished in a sooty cloud of gray smoke.

The blade ghoul laughed. “That’s what they all say. I’ve seen ’em come, and I’ve seen ’em go. Good ol’ Erejam hasn’t even made it to the fourth level. He gets down to three and then uses his gimmicky little Ring of Astral Port to get back to the surface. Those other two, though, might have a tough time of it.” Kyvandry zoomed out to show the two remaining raiders trudging back to the surface, oh so carefully retracing their steps. The pair walked in the circular glow of the cleric’s lantern.

“I’ve got a few nasty surprises waiting for them. I’ll probably let one live. It pays sometimes to let word spread. Remember, it’s a balance. We want dungeoneers to come so we can reclaim their energy for the Tree of Souls. If you make the dungeon too hard, no one will want to even make the attempt. But if you leave survivors, it lures ’em into a false sense of security. They’ll say, oh, if that clot made it out alive, I probably have a decent shot.”

“Fascinating,” Inga said, bobbing her head then jotting down a quick note.

“Indeed,” Arketa said, arching an eyebrow. “Now, would you mind showing us your entire dungeon, K?”

Kyvandry agreed and gave them a virtual tour of the place. The dungeon was massive, six levels, over fifty rooms, and the torture orcs were just the level-three monsters. There was a series of bigger, more horrifying creatures the deeper you went until you reached Kyvandry Spencer himself. His other minions included Rosie and the other head-twisting abattoir ogres, hulking hook wretches, and lightning-fast demonic knifelings. The traps included everything from saw blades to living chains to traps that sent you plummeting down into pits full of the hatchet ghasts.

Logan took in the spectacle of the well-crafted dungeons, one of the best on Eritreus. Finally, he raised a hand to ask a question.

Kyvandry sipped his coffee. “Oh, look, an inquisitive mind that needs some enlightenment. Whatcha got for me, fungaloid?”

“Why the horror show?” Logan asked. “Why be scary? I mean, we’re the good guys, right? We’re obviously not like Erejam and those murderous, backstabbing asshats, so why don’t we look more heroic?”

Chadrigoth laughed. “Shut up, fungus. That’s such a level-one question. We all know you’re a dumb newb but don’t embarrass us all.”

Kyvandry lifted his non-knife hand. “Wait, Prince. And yes, I know who you are. Your father and I golfed back when you were a humanish little squirt and your father was on his second wife. He’s very happy with wife number three, I’m sure, and very proud of you.” The blade ghoul scratched his scarred head with his knife hand. “It’s a fair question. I mean, I chose blade ghoul because I liked the aesthetic, and I liked the traps, and come on, this place is scary as hell. It’s meant to be.

“A big part of it, I think, is that I want to scare off normal people. People aren’t bad, they’re a natural part of the universe and have a place in the grand order of things. I don’t want that sort wandering in here by mistake. If this place was all delicious appetizers, puppies, and rainbows, your everyday joe would come in here looking for hen wings and hot sauce. As well as Apothos. But my Slaughter Pits? No one without an agenda comes down here. The dungeoneers say they are making the world a better place by destroying the dungeons, but we know better. I’ve never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to do the Tree of Souls harm.”

Logan could see the logic. Kyvandry had the carrot, to attract raiders, but he also had the stick, to keep civilians away. Logan had another question. “Do you ever worry about a Crown or Immortal Crown raider coming down here?”

The blade ghoul smiled, gently, peacefully. “At some point, that may happen. I’m going to give you the truth. My day-to-day is pretty boring. Chat with Rosie and Petunia. Give my hatchet ghasts some rotten meat. Trim the torture orcs’ toenails. Sharpen my saws and rust up every inch of metal.”

Kyvandry sighed. “And yet, at the same time, I’m living the dream, baby. I’m a successful dungeon core, keeping the Tree of Souls safe. But if a Crown-level cultivator decided to destroy my Slaughter Pits? It would be a wild ride, man. It would be exciting. I would fight that mother lover with everything I had. And if I died defending the Tree of Souls? Eh. So be it. I died righteously doing something I loved.” The monster grinned. “And believe you me, I love this place, every rusted bit of chain, every dull hook, and every last one of my horrific little minions.”

The entire class went silent.

Arketa reached under her glasses to wipe away a tear. “K, you are so inspiring.”

The blade ghoul laughed heartily. “For the love of the wine gods of Sangretta, A, you have got to talk these poor pups out of the life. It’s not worth it!” He contradicted what he’d just said with a goofy smile, showing his yellow shark teeth.

Logan had known happy old grumps like Kyvandry all his life. They talked bad about their jobs while at the same time loving them. Soldiers were just like that, too. A soldier would do anything, go anywhere, take any hill, secure any objective, as long as they could complain while doing it.

Would Logan be able to craft such a dungeon with the sole purpose of murdering raiders? If they were anything like that rotten Linraist Erejam and his soulless cronies, yes, yes he could. The field trip had been eye-opening indeed.

* * *

Rockheart kept track of the tank and the cleric, watching them as they made their way up the levels, back to the surface. They had to take a route that would bring them close to the back corridor on the second level. If Rockheart timed it right, he might be able to be free of the Terrible Twelfth before the end of the year.

While Logan asked his insipid questions, Rockheart pulled Chadrigoth to the side. He pointed at the path of the raiders making their way to the surface. When the rector prime leaned in close, the Abyss Lord’s flames warmed his face. “I can’t sully myself with any sort of unfortunate accident. However, my friend, this might be our chance to remove these… I think you used the term newbs... from our school and from our lives.”

Rockheart motioned to the hallway with a trick door. “If someone were to accidentally push them through that portal, then they would be tested by the raiders. In theory, if such an unfortunate mishap were to happen to you and your cohort, you could deal with such dungeoneers easily. Rightfully so, since you belong at the academy. There are others among our number, however, who clearly do not belong. They are not bad or evil, but they are liabilities. They risk the Tree of Souls by their very existence and sully the names of their betters. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if their inept stench were cleansed from our clan. In theory, of course.”

“Of course,” Chadrigoth replied with a telling smile and a conspiratorial wink.

It was obvious to Rockheart that Prince Chadrigoth of the Eritreus Elite knew exactly what needed to be done and had zero qualms about doing it. Just as it should be. Rockheart didn’t hate Logan and his compatriots, not exactly, but they didn’t belong in the Shadowcroft Academy for Dungeons and certainly not in the Azure Dragon Clan. He was a utilitarian at heart—he worked for the greatest good for the most people—and their removal would be best for everyone.

Keep Reading Here: Chapter Twenty-Five