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

Leaving behind half the defenders under the leadership of Grozka and Pang, Roark took Kaz, Randy, and the rest of the troops from the newly christened Shieldwall and crept through the tunnel under the green. PwnrBwner had been indignant at the message to watch the sky, but he’d finally agreed to stay hunkered where he was and wait.

Roark hoped the impulsive Ranger-Cleric could hold out. If they drew the Heralds’ attention away from Shieldwall too early, this plan wouldn’t go off like the exploding forge he hoped it would be.

They made it to the end of the tunnel without issue, then climbed up onto the street under the silence of Arjun’s Level 9 Umbrella Stealth spell. Barely a hundred yards away, Roark could see the back line encircling the now star-shaped walls. A handful of those horseless carriages he’d observed on his first visit to this world had been placed at intervals, along with a strange boxy metal shed on treaded gears that had a long barrel jutting from its face. Roark couldn’t discern a use for the shed, unless it was some sort of mobile blockhouse. Humans manned each of the carriages, and so Roark assumed there were more inside the metal blockhouse as well. With their small numbers, however, they were more gap than blockade.

Just beyond the human line, Lowen’s troops were entrenched. Dozens more than there were humans, and at least three times as many Heralds as Roark had fighters. But if all went to plan, that wouldn’t matter.

A roar went up at the stronghold.

“Onward to glorious battle!” Grozka’s raucous shout cut through the night.

The huge Thursr Knight and the troops Roark had left with her—hero and monster alike—flooded out of Shieldwall’s entryway, fortified with buffing spells and Enchanted armor, screaming battle cries and wielding Obsidian Glass weapons.

The Heralds shot into the sky, sparkling comet tails trailing behind them, then darted down to counter the Zealot’s mad charge. Chaos erupted across the green, screams and curses punctuated by the clang of weapons slamming against shields. Dazzling lights erupted, magick burning brightly in the night.

“Now!” Roark called to his troops.

Archers began firing off Cursed arrows and casters hurled powerful spells while tanks clad in the Peerless armor he’d brought raced between the horseless carriages and pushed toward the center of the fray.

Now it was time for him to do his part.

Roark took a running leap into the air and spread his wings, strong currents of air lifting him up, up, up. Arrows whizzed by him and streaks of golden lights exploded around him—Heralds desperate to knock him from the sky. Good, let them come.

He pumped his wings as fast as he could, wind whipping against his shaggy hair and caressing his cheeks as he rose. He raised a hand and triggered Necrotic Invigoration. He had no target in mind for the spell, but the nimbus of violet light around him made him stand out in stark contrast against the bruised black heavens.

He was simply impossible to miss, which was the true point of the cast.

Cries rang out from below. Every eye turned toward him, fingers pointing, weapons turning.

Alone and apparently vulnerable, he drew Heralds like moths to a candle’s flame.

They came in droves, weapons raised, magick at the ready, all hoping to land the killing blow and curry the Tyrant King’s favor. Taking Roark out would be a sure way to earn lands, riches, titles—anything their wicked hearts could desire.

Roark bided his time, letting their greed draw them in while Necrotic Invigoration burned like a green-and-purple beacon all around him.

Closer they came.

Thirty feet…

Twenty…

Ten…

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Roark triggered Draconic Form for the first time, not knowing precisely what to expect. Pain roared through him like a tornado. His flesh and scaled plates tore away, and his bones stretched and distorted, reshaping themselves into a great skeletal dragon. His strong jaw elongated, wicked fangs bursting from his gumline, while his wings seemed to stretch forever outward. Fingers and toes elongated; ebony claws the size of short swords jutted from their ends. Bony spikes erupted from his spine, connecting to a lashing lizard’s tail as long as the mighty redwoods of Dambol.

His wings were big enough to block out the silvery light of the crescent moon overhead, each of his scales as large as a kite shield. He was a leviathan nearly as large as Frontflip Studios, sprawled out below, the living embodiment of Aczol the Eternal. Though this form wouldn’t last long, it thrummed with the power of the ancient Undead serpent. Roark opened his jaws and roared, releasing a gout of Necrotic Infernal Breath. A maelstrom of green and purple flame—equal parts ice and death—seared through a Herald’s Health bar, killing him on the spot.

Despite his impossibly large size, he wheeled easily through the sky, searching for more prey.

The Heralds were in full retreat, frantically trying to get away from this fresh terror, but they’d come too close. Their greed and lust for bloodshed had gotten the better of them, and now they would pay the price. Roark lashed out with razor-sharp claws, shearing through wings and armored limbs as though they were made of wispy silk. Heralds toppled, splatters of golden blood raining down onto the streets below. With a flick of his massive tail, Roark sideswiped a female spellcaster, the impact snapping her spine. She slammed into the side of a nearby brick building and hit the pavement with a wet thud.

She was alive, though barely. A wave of armored heroes on the ground fixed that, descending on her with gleaming Obsidian Glass weapons.

A trio of Heralds flew a ways off, chanting in unison, hands flying through a series of complex motions as they completed some sort of ritual summoning. With a crack, a shining golden portal appeared and a dozen lion-headed creatures with enormous scorpion tails tore into the world. They carved through the air like birds of prey on tawny oversized wings, heading straight for Roark. Divine Manticores, he recalled. Formidable creatures and deadly against Infernally aligned mobs.

With a bone-shaking roar, Roark unleashed another wave of scorching flame, burning two of the Manticores to ash and bone. More of the beasts dove and rolled away—surprisingly nimble—narrowly avoiding the deadly blaze.

He caught another in his snapping jaws, cutting the beast nearly in two, but the others came at his flanks, launching balls of acid from their swaying scorpion tails. Green slime slapped against his scales, sizzling on contact, but Roark’s filigreed Health bar didn’t budge an inch. Divine attacks were as useless against his newly Undead nature as Infernal attacks were against the Heralds.

Roark threw back his head and crowed in laughter, the sound booming in the air. He reared back and slammed his scaled hands together, sending out a rippling ring of raw force that blasted the Manticores. While the creatures struggled to regain their altitude, Roark turned his head on the summoners. Wings still beating furiously, he thrust one hand forward and called forth Necrotizing Infernal Torment, engulfing the trio of casters in agonizing death.

The Heralds howled, emerald fires consuming them. The remaining Manticores dissolved as the summoners died, no longer able to remain in this realm without their masters.

In short order, the Heralds realized the air wasn’t the safe place they had thought it to be only moments before. Retreating to the ground, however, saw them hacked apart and poisoned with the Obsidian Glass weapons.

Terrified shouts went up from the Heralds, begging Lowen to sound the retreat, but no portal opened to ferry them back to Hearthworld and safety. Roark squinted, searching for the bloody bastard, but there was no sign of the man. Say what you would of Lowen, but he’d always had more sense than courage. Unfortunate, since Roark would have loved a chance to end things here and now, but there was no point stewing on what wouldn’t be. He was running out of time in his Draconic Form, and there were still Heralds to kill. The more he killed in this world devoid of respawns, the more would stay dead.

He wheeled left, pulled his wings in close, and dove toward the fleeing Heralds on the ground.

“Troll Nation, stand clear!” he bellowed, the sound of his voice carrying like a thundercrack.

PwnrBwner’s heroes scattered, leaving a group of grounded Heralds ten deep completely exposed.

A golden-winged Herald cast a dome of protective light around the group, but Roark knew it would be nowhere near enough. He sucked in a huge gulp of air, then triggered Necrotic Infernal Breath, strafing the ground with green-purple flame. The blazing shield cracked like an egg under the pressure of the spell and the Heralds within screamed as Undead fires cooked them alive. It was a sickening sight.

Bodies blackened, twisted, smoking.

With no other options, Lowen’s remaining forces broke, streaking into the night and away from Shieldwall. The battle was a rout. The one exception was Darith, Lowen’s Hearthworld second-in-command, with a reputation back in Traisbin as a bloodthirsty lunatic. More than one innocent village had been slaughtered by the madman for nothing more than his amusement.

Laughing with delight, Darith swooped over the battlefield with a weapon Roark had never seen before. He pointed it at combatants, and a report echoed out. Below, heroes fell, blood gushing onto the trampled dusty grass.

Roaring, Roark flapped his skeletal wings and tore through the night toward the mad Herald. Darith cackled when he saw Roark careening at him. Hate burned in the man’s eyes, but there wasn’t a lick of fear. Mad indeed. Darith rolled in the air and aimed the odd weapon at Roark. There was a crack. A bit of bone chipped off one of Roark’s enormous draconic ribs, but other than a trickle of red stolen from his filigreed vial, he was no worse for the wear.

Roark blasted Darith with another bout of Necrotic Infernal Flame, and the potent magicks quickly burned through the madman’s Health bar.

Then a series of cracks like the breaking up of a mountainside in an avalanche boomed through the city, shaking Roark’s exposed bones with their volume. Something slammed into his chest, swatting his huge body from the air.

The timer on his Draconic Form ticked down to zero just before he landed, and he collided with the earth like a meteor, crushing an overturned steel carriage on impact. Nearly two-thirds of his Health was gone, and whatever had hit him had punched a hole in his scales. Blood bubbled from the wound as he struggled to breathe. On the edge of panic, Roark cast Infernal Undead Invigoration.

The red in his vial crept up, but it wasn’t enough. He still couldn’t get any air, and his throat was filling with frothy blood.

“Don’t worry, Roark! Kaz will save you!” The Mighty Gourmet raced across the battlefield, huge legs pumping, trading his Legendary Meat Tenderizer for an Ultimate Healing Potion. Mac raced beside him.

The cracking sound echoed off the walls again, and chunks of stone exploded under the impact of unknown projectiles.

“Kaz, get down,” Roark wheezed. It was nearly impossible to talk; his lung had most certainly been punctured.

The Mighty Gourmet couldn’t hear him over the chaos. Suddenly, Kaz stumbled, blood flying from his side, and tumbled to the ground. Mac was there in an instant, using his spiked shell as a protective shield to cover both Kaz and Roark. More of the projectiles whizzed toward them, but they ricocheted away, failing to penetrate the Adolescent Turtle Dragon’s hardened plates.

Roark cursed up a storm and crawled to meet his friend.

“Kaz is fine,” the Mighty Gourmet swore. He thrust the Ultimate Healing Potion at Roark. “Roark must drink this.”

“Get one for yourself, too, or I’ll shove this one down your throat,” Roark rasped.

Kaz pulled another potion and downed it. Roark followed his example, his lungs and chest knitting themselves back together as the cloying brew did its miraculous work.

“We’ve got to retreat, Kaz,” Roark said, clambering to his feet. He stayed in a crouch, hiding behind Mac’s bulky form. “Head for the Shieldwall and call it as you go.”

The Bonesnap Behemoth’s eyes doubled in size. “Roark isn’t coming?”

Roark glanced at the metal blockhouse rolling their way with its odd barrel protruding from the front. When the cracking started again, flashes burst from the metal tube. Overhead, screaming metal birds with whirling wings hung suspended over the green while men dropped small objects that exploded upon landing. It was bloody damned impressive, and terrifying.

“Their weapons are too powerful,” he called to Kaz over the noise from the birds. “We can’t survive this, let alone defeat it. Mac, go with Kaz, keep him safe.” He patted the Turtle Dragon on the shell. “And good boy. Now, go! Go!” He slapped Mac once more.

The Turtle Dragon chirped and broke into a lumbering run, shielding the Gourmet with his body.

Filling his lungs, Roark bellowed, “Retreat!” at his troops. “Grab the wounded and retreat!”