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. “Canarom 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 who 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 sawblade 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 ranged types,” Kyvandry agreed. “Like that bard with the bow. And by the way, that trench is an open sewer. 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, held two rusted scimitars. 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? Is 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, but 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. “See, told you. If you didn’t see that coming, you 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 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 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 impact, 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.