There were hundreds, maybe even thousands of guilds, all started by entrepreneurial dungeoneers who had the will and hubris to charge money to would-be raiders in the guise of helping them save the universe from evil monsters lurking in dungeons. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Rockheart nodded. “Yes, we’ll be taking the back way to the inner sanctum.”
He touched the blank wall, tracing an elaborate pattern with his stone talon. A crack opened, and that crack split wider until it would allow even the biggest among them—Chadrigoth and Magmarty—to pass unhindered. They entered a room filled with crouching hatchet ghasts, vicious undead creatures, human-shaped, with axes where hands should’ve been. They had massive, fanged maws, but no eyes to speak of.
A dozen of them stood amongst the remains of raiders, all long dead. Rusted armor, broken swords, and decaying wizard robes dotted the floor. They didn’t attack, but motioned to a twisting corridor that led to another corridor, which went past a gruesome torture chamber lit by flickering candelabras, which led to a long ladder going down, down, down to the second level. The whole place smelled liked dried blood and coffin dust.
Logan could feel the Morta Apothos gathering around him, battering at his skin, desperately burrowing toward his core. It wanted to be consumed. It was nice, cool, dark... Yes, he could find a nice home in a place like this. The hatchet ghasts were a little grisly for his tastes, but then he was a mushroom man who digested unwary adventurers in acid pits. At this point, he was well beyond casting stones. Besides, if his time at Shadowcroft had taught him anything, it was that looks meant absolutely nothing.
Some of these hatchet-handed horror shows were probably perfectly nice over a couple of pints.
Arketa nodded at the aesthetics. “Yes, I like this room. It’s classic undead dungeon material with the minions to match. And don’t anyone worry. All the traps have been turned off and the minions tamed for us. For the raiders?” She tapped her bottom lip, a sly grin stretching across her face. “Now that is a different story.”
Through a labyrinth of nightmare rooms, narrow hallways, and broken-stepped staircases, they finally reached the inner sanctum of the Slaughter Pits. The central room was the Buckingham Palace of underground torture chambers. Chains, complete with jagged hooks, hung from the ceiling. There were racks, iron maidens, and rusted spikes everywhere. The central pedestal, surrounded by hooks, knives, and all things pointy, looked like a newly used butcher’s block. On all four sides of the pedestal hung long, serrated daggers. Each one had a hilt studded with a different gemstone. Those were obvious magic items and definite lures.
A glossy onyx gemstone, powering the dungeon, floated above the grisly altar.
From out of the shadows shambled a guardian form of truly horrific proportions. He was a bloated creature with a big sloping scarred belly the color of a maggot. Rotten leather overalls, like an 19th century Liverpool butcher’s, mercifully covered some of that bloat. Instead of a left hand, he had a collection of knives sprouting from his wrist. He was bald, with terrible slashes across his scalp. His ears looked like they’d been severed with a chainsaw. Rusty barbed wire had been wound around his head and covered his eyes. How did that thing see? Its sense of smell couldn’t be too good, since it had a tiny nose resting above a huge mouth. Underneath flabby lips were yellow teeth like a shark in need of an orthodontist. Any dentist would run screaming.
Hell, anyone sane would run screaming. Period. End of story.
The big-bellied blade ghoul raised an oversized coffee cup. On it was printed: YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE BUT IT HELPS. He sipped loudly. “Yullis, Arketa, good to see you guys. Do these poor students know what they’re in for? Anyone try to talk them out of the life?”
“Now, now, Kyvandry,” Arketa said, smiling. “Stay positive.”
“I’m positive that today isn’t going to be much of a show. Like most days.” The blade ghoul sighed, then chuckled. “You little dungeon cores think it’s all cocktail parties and saving the Tree of Souls, but it’s mostly middle-management headaches.”
Rockheart cleared his throat.
The blade ghoul laughed. “Sorry, Yullis, I’ll stick with the party line. Lo, yond dungeon cores, it is up to us to keep holy the Tree of Souls and smite unto thee any dungeoneer who comes a-dungeoneering. See? I still know the party line.”
Inga elbowed Logan in the side. “You’re staring.”
Even with that warning, Logan couldn’t stop. The guy was at least seven feet tall and must’ve weighed a thousand pounds.
The blade ghoul came forward on huge, slapping feet. He grinned at Logan and sipped his coffee. “Wow, fungaloid, that choice took some sack. I’m Kyvandry Spencer. Do you do those Opal Truffles? My Uncle Elliott makes a mean mushroom soup. I’m basically dead, but the taste of that dang soup brought me back to life for several delicious seconds.”
Logan’s mouth never felt dryer. He was both disgusted and a bit starstruck. “You’re the blade ghoul who worked with Immelda Inkboon? I’m Logan Murray. It’s great to meet you.”
Kyvandry hooked his coffee cup on one of his steak-knife fingers and stuck out a big mitt. “Great to meet you, Logan. Seriously, anyone try to talk you out of this gig?”
Treacle, standing behind Logan, sighed. “It was either this or death. Or we could become wandering monsters. Though that might happen anyway,” he muttered darkly.
Logan found Kyvandry’s hand cold and rubbery. It matched his own, because mushrooms and decay went together like almond butter and vegans.
The blade ghoul laughed heartily. “The Winnowing! They’re still doing that? Gods above and below, but Shadowcroft hasn’t changed a bit.”
“How was it working with Inkboon?” Inga asked, wings buzzing. One of her many tells.
“Immelda?” The blade ghoul clicked his knife fingers together. “We had some great times together. Wine, butter, butter knives... We did the cutlery tour of Haven’s Home. We didn’t sleep for a week.”
Inga smacked Logan’s arm. “See? And you teased me about reading that book on butter knives.”
“I stand corrected,” Logan said, mystified.
“Mr. Spencer,” Rockheart growled. “Please, you must be concerned. You have active raiders in your dungeon!”
“Geesh, it’s always Mr. Business with you.” The blade ghoul charged over, clearly wanting to put Rockheart into a headlock.
The gargoyle moved back and spread his wings. “Now, Mr. Spencer, I’m not just another student. In fact, I’m the academy’s rector prime.”
“No way!” Kyvandry erupted. “Skip put you in charge? Well, old Flower Skull has been busy lately, running around, fundraising, and recruiting.”
Marko’s mouth fell open. “Skip Shadowcroft? We know what the S stands for!”
Chadrigoth flamed and shadowed his way forward to introduce himself to the blade ghoul, who took time to meet all the students. He lingered with Arketa, kissing her hand, which made the Hellgazer chuckle.
“That’s enough,” Rockheart said a little pointedly.
Arketa laughed. “Now, Yullis, you know that Kyvandry has always been such a flirt.” She then sobered. “K, we are here on business. We want to show our freshmen how you deal with dungeoneers. We’d rather not miss a single kill.”