Kyvandry shrugged. “Too late for that. I got lucky, killed one on the first level a little while ago. Plucky bunch, though. They managed to circumnavigate some rooms to get to level three. Not that I’m worried. If they do manage to survive the third level, there’s big plot twist on the fourth floor. As in my buddy Rosie, an abattoir ogre, who likes to twist the heads off raiders.” He sighed, smiled, and wiped a tear from under the barbed wire digging into his eye sockets.
“Probably won’t need Rosie. Presently, I have two dozen torture orcs ready to descend on the raiders. Not sure I’ll need them, since they’re five seconds from butchering each other. I hate it when heroes murder each other. I get my fair share of the Apothos, but still, it’s kinda disappointing. I like doing the slaughtering. I have the knives for it.” He motioned to the four daggers on his altar.
The floating black gem flashed. A holographic scene appeared in the air above them, and Logan was reminded of Shadowcroft’s light show back on his first day dead.
Five raiders stood in a medieval kitchen. It was a scorched stone room full of ovens, meat hooks, blood sausages hanging from the ceiling, and bundles of herbs tied together. A fire roared in an enormous stone hearth, and on it, something turned on a spit, juices dripping into the flames. Was it a pig? Logan winced. Yeah, he didn’t think so.
Picking out the character classes of the dungeoneers was easy. The first in was obviously a tank, with a tower shield big enough to cover a child and her thick plate mail glimmering with runes. She was built like a Valkyrie juiced up on gorilla steroids. Then there was a powerful magic-user with a gnarled staff, an oiled black beard, and ornate gem-encrusted robes that screamed warlock or wizard. A leather-armored rogue equipped with two short swords shadowed the tank—probably searching for traps. Bringing up the rear was a chivalric cleric with chain mail and mace, and a weaselly-looking guy with a moustache, who held a bow with an arrow nocked. Hanging from his shoulder was a lute. Bard. Bingo.
“These clowns are delusional. Those patches there mark them as members of the Tremblecloaks. Not even a top one hundred guild. These jokers are B-Class Azure Branch cultivators with eyes that are bigger than their stomaches. Even if every one of them were A-Classers, they never should’ve come here. This is firmly an S-Class dungeon.” Kyvandry scratched his big decaying belly and shook his head. “That’s the third-floor kitchen. Notice that body turning on the spit? It’s mostly for show, we don’t eat the bodies, but the aesthetic of your dungeon is very important. Remember, it’s crucial to demoralize the raiders as much as you can. Actually, that’s probably the most interesting part of the job... you know, the psychological torment you can inflict on these pests.”
Marko nodded. “Yeah, K, I keep telling my buddies it’s all about the aesthetics of the dungeon. It’s the art.”
Kyvandry clacked his knife fingers. “Hey, goat boy, Arketa can call me K. For a satyr like you? It’s Mr. Spencer, sir.”
“Sorry,” Marko said. “And I prefer goat man.”
“Sure you do, junior!” The blade ghoul laughed. “I’m just kidding. I had a satyr buddy who did well, went the Liber Pater route, and his dungeons were magnificent. He and his garden of living statues killed so many dungeoneers.” Kyvandry lifted a hand. “Wait. Listen.”
“We will not turn back!” a voice echoed through the room.
“But that’s Canarom on the spit!” another voice boomed in horror.
The dungeoneers were shouting, and from the sound of it, they were several bad seconds away from turning their weapons on each other.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“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 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.”
“You’re all cold-hearted ruffians,” the tank said with a scowl. “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.”
“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.”