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 clod 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 a band of head-twisting abattoir ogres, hulking hook wretches, and lightning-fast demonic knifelings. The traps were everything from sawblades 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 motherlover 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, 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.”