Dungeon Duel (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Twenty-Six

Roark took a step back from the massive piece of Flash he had just Tattooed onto the front armor plate of the tank—a skeleton finfolk woman with sparrow’s wings jutting up from her back, long hair flowing around her exposed skull, a snake slithering out of her grinning jaws in place of a tongue, and a dagger-pierced heart glowing inside her rib cage. It was quite impressive, he had to admit. Perhaps not the type of fine art that would be appreciated by the nobility of Traisbin, but beautiful in its own way.

He had spent the night imbuing the weapons and armor from the Other World and leveling up his Flash Art Gunsmith Skill until he’d reached Level 5. The intricate image, known as The Goddess of Revenge, reflected the sum of his current expertise. The M1A1 Abrams, a formidable power in its own right, now had Enchantments for Attack Speed, Counterstrike, Multiplied Bleeding Damage, Necrotic Damage, and Multiplied Magickal Bonuses added to its already Enchanted projectiles.

“Eh,” Vang said, crossing his lumpy Changeling arms. His quest had given him the promised title of Tank Commander and raised him to level 10, but it hadn’t done anything for his height. “Can’t say she’s my type, but she does add a certain something, don’t she?”

“Wait until you see her in action,” Roark said, beaming with barely concealed pride. “You’ll think she’s bloody gorgeous, I can promise you that.”

“Well, I like her,” said one of the Reavers, poking his head out of the hatch in the front of the tank. Looking down from on top, his twin nodded in agreement.

Surprisingly, like Vang, they had both acquired titles from their training—the male twin was now a Driver and the female a Gunner.

“Get back in the tank!” snapped Vang, flapping his hands at them. “Both of you! Didn’t you hear the Dungeon Lord? It’s time to pick up and get to the fight.”

As the Reavers followed their Tank Commander’s orders, Roark climbed onto the top of the tank where the Gunner twin had been, since he couldn’t very well fit inside with the others. The steel behemoth lurched into motion, a great roar filling the air as the metal treads tore across dirt and grass, leaving snaking paths of destruction in their wake. Roark couldn’t contain a vicious smile as he opened another portal scroll.

From below, the Driver twin expertly maneuvered the tank into the shimmering violet light.

A moment later, they rolled out into the daylit chaos surrounding the Vault of the Radiant Shield. One of the siege towers had been destroyed and its fiery ruins were burning brightly, but the other ballistae and the trebuchets remained intact, still giving the hive seven hells. Zyra had managed to maintain the spiderwebbing, forcing the Heralds to fight on foot as often as naught, which put the winged bastards at a decided disadvantage. Especially since Roark had distributed his new Obsidian Glass weapons far and wide. Unfortunately, as a result, the path to the Vault was blocked in a bedlam of allied mobs, Heralds, Gargoyles, and destroyed battering rams.

“I’ll clear the way!” Roark yelled to Vang over the clash of the battle. “Head straight to the top!”

The Tank Commander gave him a sharp nod, then pulled a strange piece of headwear down over his mismatched ears and spoke into a stick positioned in front of his mouth. According to Vang, the tutorial had called this a “radio,” and it allowed the members of the crew to communicate without mishearing orders thanks to the thunderous clamor of the tank itself.

Roark leapt off the back of the machine, taking wing.

Lowen was nowhere to be seen. Was he holed up inside or had he traveled back to Frontflip to attempt another push while Roark was gone?

As he soared over the chaos, his eyes locked on Zyra and the rest of the webcrawlers. They dangled from the bottom of the Vault from spider-silk lines, attacking or dropping entangling webs and dancing away before the Heralds could respond, like deadly acrobats. He angled his wings and banked over to the Orbweaver Ravager.

“Have you spotted Lowen?” he called to her.

“No!” Zyra laughed with delight. “But you’re missing out on all the fun! These dimwitted Heralds don’t know whether to come after us or hold off the fighters on foot!”

In spite of his urgency to find the Tyrant King’s right-hand mage, Roark couldn’t help but smile. Zyra wasn’t the lighthearted sort as a rule, but when she found something she did enjoy, her glee was contagious.

“Care for an upgrade to your weaponry?” he called, producing a pair of Obsidian-Hardened Steel pistols he had Smithed the night before especially for her. Monstrous and beautiful things called Colt 1911s. They were Tattooed with a dagger through the heart of a peacock, which would give her bonuses for Backstabbing Attacks and did additional damage to winged chimeras. “Every round is coated in your Rotting Sun poison.”

She took the proffered pistols and studied them, checking their specifications.

While she was reading, a Herald darted toward her, frantically throwing off a tangle of webbing before drawing a Blessed Falchion from the scabbard at his side. Roark pulled his own new weapon. Before he could fire, however, Zyra pointed her twin pistols at the Herald and pulled the triggers.

One shot went wide, careening into the stone face of the hive, but the other punched through the brown-winged creature’s breastplate. The metal was nothing compared to the hellish force of the bullets. Not only that, but after a few experiments the night before, Roark learned that steel armor was actually detrimental to its wearer. The projectile punched a hole through the metal plating, but didn’t have enough force to exit through the backside. As a result, it would bounce around inside the victim, causing massive internal damage. Savage, but uniquely suited to their task at the Vault, as the majority of the Heralds wore plate.

The unsuspecting Herald’s Health bar flashed green as he cried out in shock. In panicked retribution, he raised his free hand and fired an Angelic Lance at Zyra.

She sidestepped the clumsy attack, disappearing into the daylight and appearing a stride away, pistols once more leveled at the Herald. She and Roark fired at the same time. Both bullets hit their mark, conjuring a gout of golden blood. The Herald’s Health bar flashed a critical warning, then emptied, and he fell from the sky.

Zyra lifted her veiled face to his. “Not bad for a ranged weapon.”

“They’re even more effective if you shoot someone in the back,” he said.

She leveled one at a Herald swooping low over the battle, aiming intuitively over the metal sights, and squeezed the trigger. The impact sheared through a wing joint, poisoning the man in the process. His Health bar took a sharp hit, and the furious air currents surrounding the Vault drove him unceremoniously into the rocky wall. Down he went in a hail of rubble and stony debris.

Zyra cackled joyfully. “They’re brilliant!”

“I thought you’d appreciate that. And I brought more,” he said, passing her several of the Enchanted Other World weapons along with replacement magazines. “Will you pass them out to your webcrawlers?”

“Of course, Dungeon Lord.”

“Much thanks. Have them draw the Heralds away from the path if you can.”

She gave him an affirmative wave and did another of those strange Shadow Stalks into the light—instantaneously reappearing beside one of the other dangling webcrawlers.

Far below, Roark spotted Griff leading the frenzied push up the steep switchback.

He folded his wings and dove down to alight next to the scar-crossed weapons trainer.

“Making a habit out of this fashionably late act, Griefer,” the old man called as he deflected a Herald’s attack with his buckler.

Roark fired two shots in quick succession, taking the Herald in the shoulder and golden cheekbone. The man veered sharply off course, and Griff finished him with a series of combos that belied his aged appearance. Another Herald tried to take his fallen comrade’s place, but Roark shot him down as well, using a trio of bullets, then exchanging magazines with quick, sure hands. He’d practiced the maneuver a hundred times the night before, taking quick breaks between his Enchanting.

Seeing which way the tide was turning, the golden-skinned creatures gave him and Griff plenty of space.

“I’ve some new weapons for your fighters.” Roark handed off another series of pistols to the bewildered trainer. Several Glocks and a few more Colt 1911s. “Use them with caution, though. Make sure the men know not to miss a Herald and hit an ally. These things don’t discriminate between friend and foe.” Then he pulled out a machine gun, a smaller version of the .50-caliber monstrosity the tank utilized. It was called an M240G. Not quite so powerful as the .50 cal, but much more manageable and less cumbersome. It could even be fired utilizing a sturdy shoulder mount. “I have fewer of these, but they should help with our larger associates.”

Shots rang out from above, and several of the Heralds tore themselves away from the battle for the steep terrain, flying at the webcrawlers as if getting closer would negate their strange new projectiles. In the momentary lull, Griff and Roark quickly passed out the Other World weapons and gave the fighters a brief explanation on how to use them.

Movement behind the allied forces caught his eye, and Roark launched himself into the air to address them all at once.

“Let the tank past!” he shouted. “Climb over or get around it if you can, but let it into the lead, then follow it to the top!”

Like rolling ocean waves, the throng of Trolls and allied mobs scurried to obey, the smallest creatures edging along the rock wall and the larger climbing overtop the advancing tank. A few stopped on top of the armored vehicle to hitch a ride. Despite their massive size, the tank bore their weight with ease. Roark couldn’t help but marvel at its prowess. These Other World weapons of war were far more devastating even than the magick of his home world. After all, spells were potent, but they took years of training and meticulous practice to master. These creations, however, could be devastating even in the hands of a trained primate.

Though they would give him a decided edge against Marek, Roark also felt some small reservation about bringing the weapons back to Traisbin. They would help to overthrow the Tyrant King, but once these tanks and guns were introduced, Roark’s world would never be the same. Warfare would change forever—and most likely for the bloodier, not the better. There was nothing to be done about that, though. He would do what needed doing and pay the price for his actions later.

As soon as the way was clear, the first of the tank’s enormous shells boomed from its barrel. A charging Herald was reduced to a gory golden mist as the 105 round slammed it into the side of the Vault and detonated in an explosive wave of fire and searing heat. The gold lining the walls twisted and melted, and opal and marble crumbled as a gaping hole appeared in the outer wall.

Heralds darted around like panicked wasps—terror etched into the lines of their faces— unsure whether to attack or break and flee.

One took the lead, shouting orders and pointing at the advancing army. A small line of the flying mobs followed her into a suicide charge.

Roark was about to intervene, but the largest allied mobs attacked. Equipped with their new machine guns, they strafed the Heralds with suppressive fire. The Heralds, failing to understand just what they were up against, flew straight into the barrage of bullets. It was a bloodbath. In moments, the allied forces had cleared the air around the Vault’s entry, though bodies littered the ground.

Seeing there would be no stopping them while they wielded these strange new Other World weapons, the remaining Heralds pulled back, retreating into the interior of the Vault—likely hoping the size of the tank would eliminate its effectiveness once inside.

And in truth the tank shouldn’t have been able to fit through the front entry.

But Roark was learning that with enough firepower, all things were possible. It raised its long gun and blasted a hole triple the size of the first, then rolled inside.

As Roark flew to the head of his army, he took out mindless Gargoyles and deflected a haphazard attack from a murder hole above, sending the perpetrator for respawn. Inside, the tank continued blazing the trail, blasting passageways through to accommodate its bulk, and letting in hundreds of well-armed troops, who were bolstered by their sudden progress.

And just like that, they had broken the unbreakable stronghold. They were inside. All that was left to do was push for the throne room.

A feral grin clawed at Roark’s face as he recalled his promise to Talise. Hopefully, he would find that ass Lowen cowering inside.