Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 19

Logan and the rest of the Terrible Twelfth sat in their crafting class, far across Arborea, nestled deep in the fiery expanse known as the Heckish Hills.

Professor Crucible’s classroom was about half a mile away from the entrance of the Bloodrock dungeon. In theory, not a terribly far distance to navigate. In reality, however, it was half a mile of sheer terror and near-certain death. A series of stone corridors, steep narrow stairs, and bridges spanned deep gorges with rivers of lava glowing far below. The Heckish Hills were all about the lava. The place stank of sulfur and felt like an oven on perpetual cleaning mode.

Logan had to peel off his coat and scarf, both blue and gold and slightly imbued with magic to keep his mushroom form cool. He liked it cold, but not freezing—anything below thirty-two degrees or above eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit was dangerous for a fungal entity.

Luckily, Crucible’s workshop was more cave than classroom, so it was relatively cool. Stalactites reached down while craggy stalagmites crawled their way upward. Some walls leaked water, while others were scalding hot to the touch. Open pits burned with green flame, giving the place an otherworldly feel, while also making it far hotter than Logan would’ve liked. One whole wall was a workbench, carved out of the stone itself, covered with tools categorized and organized by height, weight, color, and functionality. Not that tools were critical. They were creating objects out of Apothos itself—the tools simply made the process easier.

The professor called them Foci.

Opposite the immense wall of tools was an abrupt cliff face that dropped off into a yawning pit with no bottom in sight. Definitely not Logan’s aesthetic, but it fit the professor to a T. 

Logan tucked himself into a gloomy corner and stood in a few inches of water, which trickled down and disappeared into the cracks of the wall. Marko lingered nearby, because Marko didn’t care about school, but he loved his friends. Inga sat with Treacle, way up front, as close to the teacher as they could get.

Professor Ronnalg Crucible sat on his stool, custom crafted to hold up his massive ogre body. The stool was a piece of art. The gleaming shadbush wood was etched with runes of power, and the legs were painstakingly engraved, making it seem as though living vines were holding the seat up. Professor Ronnalg’s face was a series of wrinkles, each deeper and more perturbed than the next. They culminated in a luxurious brown moustache that matched a dark brown crew cut. His brow was permanently upset. Pale blue eyes, forever stern, stared from under a thick brow.

He crossed his arms. “Now, class, you’ve been working on your chair for months now. Today we’re going to see if they’re any good.”

Everyone sat on their crafting stools, which according to their professor were one of life’s simple pleasures. Crucible’s list of simple pleasures was short: three-legged stools, the love of a well-trained hunting dog, beautiful women, and a hearty steak.

The students held their newly crafted chairs, waiting to be graded. Logan had kept his project simple. It was the first time he’d ever made something out of thin air. His chair was wooden, just four legs, a seat, and a back. Classic. Certainly not lavish, but functional. Inga had gone with a reading chair that included a gently curved arm where you could hang a lantern. As for Treacle’s chair, it was a small steampunk wheelchair, with various gadgets and gizmos, cogs and wheels. Logan wasn’t sure why it was so small, and again, he didn’t see a steam engine.

As for Marko, he’d spent forever crafting a baroque throne that was ridiculously ornate. On the back was a carving of the Gelatinous Knight raising a goblet in front of a stag being killed by the goddess of the hunt.

Whenever Crucible looked at Marko’s monstrosity, the professor sighed. The mustached ogre was very adept at sighing. “Yes, class, we’ll get to the chair evaluations. First, however, we’ll review what we’ve learned so far. Who can tell me—”

Treacle beat Inga at raising his hand. Not that either of them knew what the question was. When it came to their crafting class, the minotaur came alive. It was the only time Logan saw a spark in Treacle’s eyes—the rest of the time it was all sighing and waves upon waves of existential dread. But not in shop class. There, at least, Treacle had real purpose. 

Crucible looked at the former gnome lord with a weary look. “Would it be too much to ask for you both to wait until I finish the actual question?”

Inga lowered her hand.

Treacle didn’t.

Crucible squinted at him. “What’s the problem, son?”

“If you’d like a review, Professor,” Treacle said, “I can provide one. Crafting is based on three important things—blueprints, Apothos, and raw materials. As long as we have all three, we can create anything, as often as we like. Raw materials are usually based on raw elements like water, dirt, fire, metals, glass, things like that. There are some precious metals that, of course, can be used as lures in and of themselves.

“We can use our Apothos to create most things like hallways, rooms, and traps. If we need to, we can reabsorb that energy back into our cores with a slight loss of energy. This brings us to the two basic kinds of objects. Endogenous Apothos Manifestations are items that cannot be removed from the dungeon core’s sphere of influence. Such items will melt like dust in the wind. Your words, sir.”

Crucible frowned. “Yes, son, I understand, but—”

Treacle wasn’t about to stop. He snorted and forged right on ahead. “Exogenous Apothos Manifestations, on the other hand, are more difficult to build, since they can be removed from dungeons. This allows advanced crafters to create valuable magic items both for themselves and as lures. You yourself built the Glaive of Kings, which was a polearm known for being useful against any cultivator below your class.”

“I get it, Mr. Glimmerhappy, you like—”

The minotaur was actually smiling. “I would stop, Professor, but truly, this is the part I like the best. Once you slay dungeoneers, you get to keep their items. The items themselves can be used as lures, or dungeon cores can reprocess them, transforming them into two of the three basic components: their blueprint and their Apothos. The third component—the raw materials—are destroyed in the process. You used the example of the Helm of Darkness—a classic cap of invisibility. If you were to absorb that item, you would get a great deal of Apothos and the object blueprint. There is also a slight chance that you would get the glyphic signature, which would then mean you could bestow that invisibly enchantment on subsequent items.”

“Treacle Glimmerhappy!” Crucible thundered. “How old are you, man? Or rather, how old were you when you were Reaped?”

The minotaur looked confused. “A hundred and two. Middle-aged. Why?”

“Because you’re popping off like an excited schoolboy. Look, I know, you chose the toro guardian form for a reason. You’re a what, a Horned Artificer? Low- to mid-range C-Class?”

“Almost a Torrific Artificer, sir,” Treacle said.

Marko spit out a laugh. “He’s gonna be a Terrific Artificer!”

Crucible shut the satyr up with a look of pure silent rage. “You be quiet. I like the Horned Artificer. I’ll be patient with him. Not you, goat boy.”

“Goat man, sir.” Marko managed to hush himself.

The professor’s forehead doubled in wrinkles. He let out a low growl. Then he turned his attention back to the minotaur. He considered Treacle for several long moments. Then he nodded. He addressed the rest of the class. “It seems we’ve had our review. Thank you, Mr. Glimmerhappy. Are there any further questions?”

“Can you go over the purpose of Foci once more, sir?” Inga’s wings buzzed behind her in anticipation. 

Professor Crucible grunted, folded beef-slab arms across his enormous chest, then nodded. 

“Mr. Glimmerhappy is correct in that we dungeon cores can create with only the essentials. All you need is Apothos, a blueprint, and the necessary materials. But we can also create specialized Foci that can aid in the creation process—reducing Apothos costs, production time, or even in some cases reducing material component costs. Foci are rare and extraordinarily hard to make or find blueprints for, but they’re worth their weight in gold. Some Foci can even increase your odds of capturing an item’s glyphic signature.” 

He reached into one of the deep pockets adorning his leather apron and pulled out what looked like a complicated jeweler’s loupe. “I crafted this once I hit Heartwood cultivator. It took three months to forge and it gives me a sixty percent chance to analyze and capture a glyphic signature. But I wouldn’t expect anything like this from any of you. I teach first-years the bare-bone basics. We don’t get fancy with glyphs and enchantments until years two and three, and only the most talented crafters learn to create Foci in year four.” He paused and stared down each monster in the room. The look on his face said in no uncertain terms that he expected none of them to make it so far. “Now, anything else?”

This time, everyone chose to remain silent. 

For the next half hour, they took turns bringing their chairs to the professor. He would stand, walk to the bottomless pit, and stick the chair out to see if it vanished. That workshop had special magic, making it similar to a dungeon.

For Treacle’s weighty contraption, Crucible asked for the minotaur’s help in rolling the chair off the edge. They both struggled to keep from dropping it. The wheelchair was small, but solidly built, and Crucible nodded in satisfaction. That was about as close as you’d get to praise in the class.

Logan approached, nervous.

His chair passed just fine. Crucible grunted. “It is an adequate chair, Mr. Murray, one that would not hold my weight, but would probably seat the mediocre just fine. Now, where is the goat boy’s work?”

Marko danced up, holding his masterpiece.

Crucible took it in one hand.

Logan watched Marko’s face light up. “See how pretty it is. And that carving is in homage to my buddy GK. I made it just for him.”

“Uh-huh.” Crucible held the gaudy piece of furniture out. It turned to dust in his hands. “We needed an Exogenous item, Mr. Laskarelis, not Endogenous. This will not help your grade, the ranking of your cohort, nor the ranking of your clan. I’m sure Rockheart will not be pleased.”

Marko put his head back. “Dude, I worked so hard on making it pretty. I didn’t think about the blueprint matrix of the thing. Do I get any credit?”

“Pretty is for dinner dates, fine dogs, and sunsets, son. Pretty is tolerable if there’s function first. Good day.”

Crucible never dismissed them. He simply bid them “Good day” and left.

Hs stalked off, leaving the class alone.

Logan considered his adequate chair. “What do we do with them?”

Treacle pushed a button and his chair chugged to life. A hidden electric heart, like a small sun, buzzed merrily along, powering the engine’s army of pistons. “We get to keep them. Take a seat, Logan. I was getting tired of lugging you around when we had to run someplace. Here’s your Forevergreen gift by the way.”

Logan climbed up and realized it fit him perfectly. That was why it was so small. “Forevergreen? What’s that?”

Marko got on the back and shouted, “Joyride!” Then he reached and hit a switch. The wheelchair went screaming off as Inga covered her hands with her face.

Logan couldn’t see it, but he was pretty sure that Treacle was grinning.

That night, over dinner in the Golden Serpent Hall, Logan heard all about the Forevergreen Festival. It was basically Christmas, a holiday in the middle of winter, when snow was everywhere, and spring seemed like a dream too good to be true.

That weekend, Shadowcroft’s would be celebrating the festival with a big party, food, drink, and dancing. According to Marko, GK was brewing up his own hooch, which would consist of bread, soonerberries, and GK’s own gelatin. Which didn’t make it very appealing to anyone not made from living goo.

Logan didn’t eat. He only had a little cup of old coffee, left over from the morning, though he would’ve liked for it to age longer. The fungaloid sat and watched Treacle happily eat his hay, Inga pour honey on her roast beef, and Marko create a pattern on his plate using rice, green beans, and a liberal amount of gravy. Marko would eat eventually, but he was more interested in his artistic masterpiece.

Inga had a book open, reading while they munched, but she shot a sidelong glance at Logan. “Why aren’t you eating?”

He didn’t know what to say.

Marko tried to explain. “It’s kind of gross, Inga. No offence, my fungal friend.”

“None taken.” Logan paused and knew he had to say something. “I actually am eating, just not here. It started with eggs.”

“The egg phase didn’t last long,” Marko said. “I was glad. The rotten eggs did nothing to help the smell of our rooms.”

Inga grinned, her solid black eyes full of wonder. “I understand, Logan. You’re using Digestion. You don’t need to eat here. You can eat anywhere. So you started with eggs, but now what are you using? You get both Apothos and nutrients, right?”

Logan opened his mouth. Even then, he could feel the energy and food filling both his gem and his form.

Marko, again, beat him to the punch. “One whole chicken, recently deceased, that he keeps buried somewhere in his mushroom mansion outside. I don’t smell it. I don’t like to think about it. I don’t wanna know.”

“Where is it?” she asked.

Logan shook his head. “Not telling. It’s my business. We don’t tease Treacle for chewing his cud. We don’t need to talk about my dietary habits.”

Marko let out frustrated yelp. “Don’t. Wanna. Know. Moving on. Are we giving each other Forevergreen gifts? Because, you know, funds are tight, can’t really craft anything, would probably only give you booze anyway.”

Inga lowered her eyes. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but yes, I have gifts for you all. Books from the library, pulled from the shelves, special reserve.” She snorted a laugh. “Yes, I know, extravagant, but important. Shall we go now? The anticipation of seeing the glee on your faces has been killing me.”

Marko closed one eye and gritted his teeth. “Not really into the Forevergreen Festival. I have some unprocessed holiday trauma, which I kinda want to keep unprocessed.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Treacle said.

Inga wasn’t about to be denied, however.

Logan drove his new wheelchair to the Stairwell of True Seeing. He left it there while they made the trip down to the undercroft. Both Inga and Marko kept their eyes forward and hurried down after him. For Inga, it was about her new appearance. For Marko, it was all about avoiding his past, which seemed to involve the winter holiday.

They’d been going to the library for weeks now, since Chadrigoth and the First Cohort had taken over the Azure Dragon common room like they owned the place. That was okay since the Codex Athenaeum was a good place to study.

However, it was like no library Logan had ever been in. For one thing, the librarian, Madam Orry Gammy, never left the place. She was a rare guardian, a Papyrus Harpy, and her body, head, and wings were made from what looked like folded paper. She was silent, scolding, and she ran the library like it was her own personal dungeon. That meant traps in periodicals, random monster encounters in the stacks, and some peculiar ideas on sorting. She used an ancient version of the Dewey Decimal system that only she and Inga could understand.

Of course, Madam Gammy loved Inga more than anyone, and most of the time, she would only talk with the astral moth. It was love at first book.

The Terrible Twelfth had their own little space reserved at the far end. They had to cross old wooden planks that spanned a dark abyss. The rickety bridge led to the private carrels and tables near windows carved into the cliffs of the island. When the wind was right, the water of Loch Endless blew against the panes.

Most nights, they had the place to themselves.

Once Inga got them situated at their usual table, she went back and got them the books she’d put on hold. She had three big volumes, which she handed out in turn. Logan loved the look of happiness and expectation in her eyes.

“For Treacle, I have Tigg Allegg’s heretofore unpublished crafting book, Don’t Stand Naked on My Blueprint.” She gently placed a leather-bound tome, nearly as big as Logan, on the desk.

“For Marko, I have Obb Roso’s lesser-known text, Painting for Joy and Murder.” His book was slimmer, but far more grandiose, with a crushed red-velvet exterior edged in gold.

“Lastly, and the book I’m most excited about, for Logan I have Immelda Menagerie Inkboon’s only published appendix that focuses on plants and fungal guardian forms. It’s called A Forest of Screams and Silence: Deadly Flowers, Terrifying Trees, and Mushroom Magics.” She showed Logan the spine. “It has never been opened. You’re going to be the first person to ever read this.” She snorted in excitement once more, obviously tickled with herself. “You might be the only person to ever have read this. It is exceptionally rare.”

From somewhere in the library, someone wailed, “By the dark gods, I’ve been shot!”

Madam Gammy was there to shush them with a voice that sounded like an octogenarian smoker—two packs a day at least. “Hush, child.” Her words floated to them like the rustling of book pages. “I will take the spear out of your back. No need to make a fuss.”

Logan took the book from Inga, who couldn’t stop smiling.

Marko grinned. “So you aren’t giving us these books. You’re checking them out for us?”

“No,” the astral moth returned, “you’ll have to check them out. However, I risked my life to get them for you—these were buried deep in the stacks and the challenges that I faced getting them were…” She trailed off, lips pursed. “Formidable,” she finally finished. “Well worth the effort, though. They are absolutely perfect, aren’t they?”

“It’s the thought that counts.” Treacle perused his book. “I for one like a gift I don’t have to store, or return, or pretend to use when the giver comes over. Being polite is a terrible burden. Still.” He paused and flipped to a page displaying an elaborate schematic. “I think I might just like this Tigg Allegg. Thank you, Inga.”

“You’re welcome, Treacle,” Inga said, beaming.

Marko adjusted his book on the table and laid his head on it. “Oh, so comfy. The crushed velvet really is delightful. Best pillow ever.”

Logan punched his buddy’s arm. “Be nice.”

The satyr leaned back, opened it up, and let out a happy laugh. “Hey, pictures. Aww, Inga, you know I like pictures.” His whole demeanor changed in a second. “These are actually very well done. There’s a happy tree. A happy cloud. And a way to paint shadows so they come alive to stab raiders in the back. Wow! Joy and murder!”

Logan’s tome was as thick as a dictionary, made from something that didn’t feel like leather, but rather more like someone took tree bark and hammered it flat. He opened the book and it fell right open to a page that was made from a single flower crushed perfectly flat so it was the width of a single page. When the air hit the flower page, it plumped out into a delicate white display of petals and a yellow disc.

Suddenly, Inga’s eyes were the size of frisbees. “No, it can’t be.” She inched closer, inspecting the page with wide eyes, her antenna quivering. “My word. That isn’t a simple flower. I believe it’s a cultivation bloom.”

“That would be awesome,” Marko exclaimed. “Sometimes cultivation blooms have more recreational effects. You should just eat it, man. Or we can share it, go on a trip, get trippy, listen to music, and look at my book.”

“Absolutely not. That is incredibly dangerous,” Inga shot back.

Treacle sighed. “Eat it. Don’t eat it. But please, quiet down. I’m enjoying my book.” He licked a broad finger and flipped another page.

Logan knew a little about cultivation blooms. Some were beneficial, some were dangerous. They were similar to the cultivation pills and elixirs that they would learn to make in their third year, except these were natural and unrefined. That made them more powerful in many ways, but also more dangerous. Purified elixirs lost a bit of their juice, but they also weren’t liable to poison you. He wasn’t about to add anything to his core just for kicks. He turned to the front page and read the introduction while Marko and Inga watched. Plumped up, the flower could now be felt in the middle.

“Well, what does it say?” Inga asked.

“Ms. Inkboon warns against anyone choosing a plant guardian form because they are so weak at first. And she says her publisher didn’t want her writing this book because it wouldn’t sell. People like dragons, liches, and goblin kings, not killer cacti. I’m trying not to be insulted here.”

They all returned to studying until Logan couldn’t stop himself from pumping a fist in the air. “Yes. This, this is going to let me take out Magmarty. Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” He turned to the middle of the book and carefully removed the flower. It looked freshly plucked, not dry as it had at first.

“Is it okay if I eat this?” he asked. “Will I get in trouble from the librarian?”

Inga nodded. “I asked Madam Gammy about magic items we found in the book. She said if you can retrieve a book without dying, the spoils of war are yours. What does the bloom do, Logan?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Without a second thought, Logan popped the flower into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed the bitter bud down. For a second, nothing happened.

Marko gazed at him expectantly. “Do you see rocking horse elves eating marshmallow pies? Am I all trippy?”

Logan went to answer, but before he could get a word out edgewise, pain hit him like a Mack truck. He was pretty sure he’d just made a terrible mistake.

 Keep Reading Here: Chapter Twenty