Dueling Dungeons (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Ten

Hard Choices

When Roark had finished imbuing the last of the Poser Owners who’d volunteered with Vassalhood, he stepped back and appraised them with a critical eye. He had grown used to dealing with fearsome dungeon lords of a hundred varieties; heroes hardly seemed impressive to him anymore. Small, puny even. Even so, he had to admit that PwnrBwner had rounded up a decent force. Unfortunately, from what PwnrBwner had told him, this lot wouldn’t look the same in the Other World of the Devs—even if they did have their same abilities.

It would have to be enough, though.

“Thank you all for your bravery,” he said to them. “Far too few would answer such a call when the threat didn’t directly affect them. Where I come from, those few who stand between the forces of darkness and the weak were once rewarded with titles and land.” He frowned thoughtfully. “If it were within my power, I would do the same for you.”

“A nice consolation prize might be gold and loot,” said a rog in plate mail. “Just sayin’.”

A lean, muscular Ronin named Ninjastein shrugged. “This beats spending the weekend doing the accounting for my parents’ shop.”

“I’m technically on call, so if there’s an IT emergency, I’ll have to bow out for a while.”

Roark revised his impression of them; they would be a decent force if PwnrBwner could find a way to keep them in line. In a world with no respawns, discipline could mean the difference between life and forever-death.

“Shut it, cockmouths,” GothicTerror snapped, as if she’d heard Roark’s concern. “It’s rousing speech time. Get roused, losers.”

“Screw the rousing speeches,” PwnrBwner said. “It’s Let’s Do This time. Soon as you log out, head for Frontflip. Meet in the Visitor Parking Lot on the south side. If anybody says anything to you, tell them it’s a flashmob thing. If you get there first, couldn’t hurt to practice your shit a little and get used to using it IRL.”

The heroes began to filter out of the Cruel Citadel.

PwnrBwner turned to Roark.

“Make this shit count,” he said, sticking out his fist. “Rip the Vault a new one.”

“Good hunting.” Roark thumped his knuckles against PwnrBwner’s.

When the Ranger Cleric strode away to join his guild, Roark returned to the series of portal plates he’d set up near the smithy. The plates had been hard at work all day, transporting supplies and troops to the staging point in the red rock canyons near the Vault of the Radiant Shield. Even now, mid-level Thursrs and Reavers waited in line with Inventories full of equipment, potions, and spell scrolls.

Ick and Yevin—the Witchdoctor and Arcane Paragon who’d become such unlikely friends—presided over the whole affair, keeping the lines moving in neat order. Students from their respective schools of Night and Light magic ran errands and checked supplies off lists as the carriers stepped through in flashes of blue light.

When Yevin saw him, the Arcane Paragon waved a hand at Roark, beckoning him forward.

“Dungeon Lord coming through,” a student in Paragon robes shrilled. “Let him pass! Make a hole!”

That was a tad unnecessary, Roark thought as he joined Yevin and Ick. No one was blocking his path. Where the mobs of the Troll Nation had been intimidated by Roark’s Jotnar Infernali form, this new Draconic Chaos Harbinger form practically sent them running at a glance.

“Dungeon Lord.” Ick gave a shallow bow, clasping his hands and the multitude of spidery limbs protruding from his back.

Roark returned the bow. “You two appear to have things well in hand.”

“Things are proceeding on schedule here”—Yevin shot a glare at the yelling student—“in spite of the heads swelling with the smallest bit of power they’ve ever known.”

“Any word from the staging point?” Roark asked.

“Noble Griff sent word that the spot is secured, Dungeon Lord,” Ick said. “His Rumble Squad, along with the esteemed Troll Gourmet and Our Lady of Night, cleared the chosen ravine and established lookouts.”

“How are the plates holding up?” he asked. Like all smithed items, the portal plates degraded with extended use. He’d created and hexed several dozen for the task, but if they were running low now, he would stay and smith a few dozen more just to be certain.

“We’ve only gone through half a dozen.” Yevin gestured to the replacements stacked against the wall of the Smithy. “I don’t see us running out before the supply chain does.” His yellow rog eyes roved over the shifting lines. “What you see here are the last of our transporters. On your way in?”

Roark nodded. “The Poser Owners just left for the Devs’ home world. As soon as we have confirmation of Lowen’s attack, we’ll launch our strike against the Vault.”

“We shall join you the moment the final transporters have passed through the portal plates,” Ick said, smoothing back his rubbery tentacles with one of the spidery limbs.

Roark thanked the men, then stepped onto the closest portal plate. Blue light flashed, and a harsh, dry wind blew through his hair.

When his eyes adjusted, he found himself standing in the narrow red ravine they had chosen as the meeting point for the allied dungeons. Nearby, transporters from the Troll Nation as well as Djinni, Imps, Rock People, Bloodleeches, and Mind Mantids stepped off the arrival plates and headed to dump off their supplies or join their fellow mobs.

“The littlest Dungeon Lord has gained another Evolution, I see,” squawked Drokara the Gullet. The Harpy Queen perched on a boulder, overseeing the arrival of her troops.

Nearby, Ko the Faceless rotated her head toward Roark, though she had no eyes to take in the sight. We thought you were at your fullest potential, Griefer, the Mind Mantid sent to Roark’s brain.

“Transmute Flesh,” Roark said, drawing himself up to his new full height. “By combining a core stone from a stronger dungeon with a lesser mob’s, they can unlock a mega-evolution. If any of your troops wish to gain an Evolution above their level cap, send them to me. Yet another of the many perks on an alliance with the Troll Nation; I’ve got core stones for as many as want them.” He glanced from the Mantid to the Harpy. “Including Dungeon Lords. Though I warn you, it cannot be undone once it’s done—not without destroying the core stone and possibly the host as well.”

Let us see this in action, Ko said. Transmute me.

“Of course.” Roark pulled out the core stone from Takumen-Ra. Something about the Mind Mantid told him it would be a good fit. “What’s your level?”

Just reached 41 yesterday, Ko sent, along with the image of flaying a hero’s mind until his skull exploded. The Mind Mantids were a truly terrifying group of creatures. Roark was glad they were on his side.

“Perfect,” Roark said, doing the math. Transmute flesh wouldn’t work if the host was lower than half the level of the core stone—another of Hearthworld’s many arbitrary rules, though Roark guessed this one was most likely in place to keep power in check. With a thought, he brought up Ko’s character sheet and selected Preview.

[Compatibility: 91%

New Evolutionary Path for Ko the Faceless, Pestilent Mind Scythe, detected! Cleaving Plaguemantid (available at level 55) or Virulent Psyonic Blightmage (available at level 61).]

The transmutation would bring Ko up to level 52, and give her Poisoned Strike, Dark Walker, a shadow-traveling ability, and Command Betrayal to turn an enemy’s summons against their summoner.

We must do something about the face, Ko’s voice echoed in his mind. It is displeasing to have such a mundane thing in the middle of my head for all who look upon it to relate to. Take it away.

“You can adjust your appearance, but it will alter your stats,” Roark explained. “Give it a try.”

Ko fiddled with the sliders until the face disappeared, leaving behind a smooth and eerie nothingness.

With the Mantid satisfied, Roark accepted the transmutation. Amber light flashed, and Ko the Faceless stood before them in her new Pestilent Mind Scythe form.

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This I like, the newly evolved Dungeon Lord purred in Roark’s brain.

“It is an improvement,” agreed the Harpy Queen, ruffling her feathers. “Do me next…”

Soon, word had spread throughout the encampment, and Roark was completing Transmutations on Dungeon Lords and mobs alike. A Harpy Queen, combine with a deadly Razorwing Mistraven, became a Vengeful Metalwraith. An ethereal Djinni, combined a Jade Maw Phoenix, fused to become a Stormbreaker Specter. A quartz-covered person walked away as a lumbering Tomb Troglodyte, and a pale Bloodleech morphed into a red Grim Corpse Defiler. Each evolution more spectacular, deadly, and ghastly than the last. By the time Roark had depleted his supply of cores, more than half of the troops gathered had been given new Mega-Evolutions.

“If our attack goes well, I should have more core stones for the rest of you,” he said. “See me afterward.”

With disappointed groans, the remaining mobs turned back to their fires or went back to admiring their newly evolved associates.

Roark slipped through the crowd, and soon found his own friends around a glowing fire. Zyra was mixing poisons in a portable alchemy set while Kaz stirred a huge pot and Griff stared into the flames with his one good eye.

“About time you showed up, Griefer,” the grizzled weapons trainer said, catching sight of Roark’s new Dragonblood form. “I suppose that’s the NecroDragon’s effect?”

“Roark is just in time!” Kaz took a deep whiff of the steam curling off the pot. “Kaz’s Strengthening Stew is ready!”

Before Roark could even take a seat on one of the boulders, the Gourmet had shoved a steaming bowl into his hands.

“Thanks, Kaz.” Roark tried a bite, then when he saw that Kaz was waiting eagerly for some sort of response, he added, “It’s great.”

Kaz beamed. “It is a humble dish, made with few ingredients, yet combined in ways that create a bold and satisfying flavor. As Jordan Bamsey would say, amateurs often believe that complex dishes are the height of kitchen knowledge, but knowing how to craft a simple classic in a way that pleases the palatte is the essence of Gourmet cooking.”

“Right.” Roark was never quite sure how to react to the teachings of Kaz’s culinary idols. Good or bad, food had never been much more than fuel to him. He took another bite, which seemed to be what Kaz was looking for.

Once Kaz had ladled out bowls for Griff and Zyra, the three of them ate in silence while the Gourmet hustled off to check on his apprentices working to feed the troops at the other cookfires.

Roark shifted his leathery wings awkwardly. He’d hoped for something a little more cheerful when he joined his friends, but without Kaz there, the mood was strangely sullen. Griff chewed thoughtfully while Zyra ignored her bowl in favor of mixing her poisons.

“Think this is gonna work, Griefer?” Griff finally asked. “What if that fly Lowen doesn’t buzz back to the Vault when you attack?”

“He will,” Roark said. “And if he’s too late to stop us from taking the Throne Room, so much the better. We’ll have the high ground.”

“You’ll still be fighting him in his home turf,” Griff pointed out, gesturing with a spoon. “Taking down a Dungeon Lord in his own Throne Room is no walk through the flowers”—Roark opened his mouth, but Griff cut him off—“no matter how many times you’ve done it before.”

“If I have to, I’ll drag him through to the Hearthworld side,” Roark said. “No matter what I have to do, I’m going to end this. Just make sure you’re through before Marek catches wind of what’s happening and closes the portal. If you’re still planning on going, that is.”

“Haven’t changed my mind yet,” Griff said.

Abruptly, Zyra stowed her alchemy kit and stood, making to walk away.

“No.” Kaz caught one of the Orbweaver Ravager’s right arms as he returned to their fire from his rounds. “Zyra must not Shadow Stride away from this. As Jordan Bamsey says, “Clear communication is key to a well-regulated kitchen.’ This is no different, Kaz thinks.”

In a flash, her Cursed Longknives were in her hands, dripping with poison.

Roark jumped to his feet, as bewildered as he was certain he would have to stop Zyra from sending Kaz for respawn.

But Zyra only shook the Mighty Gourmet’s huge paw off and growled, “He’s made up his mind, Kaz.”

“Perhaps a kind word and reasonable discussion can change Roark’s mind, like the addition of sugar changes the rue from a gravy to a dessert sauce,” Kaz said. “We cannot know unless we try.”

“Changing a Dungeon Lord’s mind?” Zyra scoffed, but sheathed her Longknives. “That’ll be the day.”

“What’s all this about?” Roark asked.

“Arrogant, foolhardy, suicidal Dungeon Lords,” Zyra snapped. “The same thing it’s always been about.”

Kaz gave Zyra an imploring stare, then turned to Roark.

“Kaz and Zyra do not want Roark to fight the Tyrant King alone,” the hulking Gourmet said. “Griff is going; Kaz and Zyra wish to go, too. Perhaps a team could succeed where Roark believes he will fail?” He spread his massive hands as though pleading for Roark to see the sense in his words.

“I don’t intend to fail,” Roark shot back. “Whatever it takes, I will kill Marek and end this.”

“You’ve said yourself you doubt you’ll make it out alive.” Zyra crossed both pairs of arms over her chest and stomach. “Not much of a success if you’re dead, is it?”

“If it spares all of Traisbin another year under that tyrant’s bloody boot and gets my sister out of his hands, then that’s all that matters,” Roark said. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me, the millions of lives it will save are more important.”

“You see, Kaz,” Zyra said, voice dripping with false cheer. “He’s bent on self-destruction, and there’s no amount of reason that can convince him otherwise.”

“But Kaz and Zyra cannot allow Roark to face this alone!” The hulking Troll Gourmet’s face twisted with righteous anger. “It is an outrage against loyalty and friendship!”

Roark scowled. It seemed to take a monumental effort to pry the words up from his guts. “I’ve lost more than enough people I cared about in this fight, Kaz. I won’t let you or anyone else die. Not when I can prevent it.”

“You know, Griefer, I could dose you with Virulent Contact Poison every time you tried to leave, and you would have no idea what hit you until you respawned.” Something silvery glinted in Zyra’s hands, and Roark instinctively cast an Infernal Shield between them. She chuckled and held up a length of silvery spidersilk, part of her Arachne’s Pride spinning ability. The strand caught the moonlight and glowed as if it were enchanted. “Or I could catch you in a web and never let you free… keep you trapped like an insect forever.”

The lacy black veil obscured her face, but from her tone, Roark felt certain Zyra was enjoying these pictures of his death and entrapment she was painting. She wrapped the spidersilk around her fists and pulled it tight as a garrote.

“I could do all that and more,” she said, “But I don’t. I let you make your own terrible decisions, whether I agree with them or not. That is called freedom of choice.”

Roark gritted his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly.

Zyra laughed, a forced sound, then turned to Kaz. “See, Big Guy? It was all just a waste of breath. The Great Dungeon Lord’s word is final over his subjects.”

Kaz’s huge eyes watered. “Roark will not reconsider?”

“This is for your own good, Kaz,” Roark growled.

“Your Eminence,” Zyra jeered, bending into a low, mocking bow.

“I’m not a bloody tyrant! Can’t you see—”

But before he could finish, the Orbweaver Ravager turned and disappeared in a wisp of inky black smoke.

Roark cursed under his breath and turned to the hulking Gourmet.

“Kaz…”

With a great sniff, Kaz shook his huge head. “Kaz must check on his apprentices. If the stew is burned, the Troll Nation forces will have to eat plain, unfortified food. The second greatest sadness of the night.” He spun on a wide heel and strode off, enormous fists clenched at his sides.

“Damn it all.” Roark dragged his claws through his hair, watching the Feral Hellstrike Knight trudge past the closest cookfire and keep going.

Griff, who’d been silent throughout the argument, finally spoke up. “You’re just driving them away the more you try to control them, Griefer.”

A curl of inky smoke caught Roark’s eye at the far edge of camp. A moment later, Zyra had taken out her alchemy kit and begun mixing poisons again, her motions jerky and severe.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Roark said. “I’d rather they live to hate me than die because of me.”

“And what if you do make it out alive?” Griff asked, piercing Roark with his sharp one-eyed gaze. “Have you ever considered that?”

Roark didn’t answer. The truth was he hadn’t considered it. No sense in planning for the unlikeliest of futures.

“What are you gonna do if everything goes off without a hitch, and you’re left standing alone in victory, Griefer? You get the outcome you always hoped for, but haven’t got anybody to celebrate with.”

Roark swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat and set his shoulders. Reminded himself that he’d been alone for almost twenty years. Solitude and loneliness he could survive. The death of more friends he could’ve saved, however… that might be the thing that finally broke him.

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me,” he told Griff, locking eyes with the grizzled weapons trainer. “Not as long as Marek is dead and my friends are safe.”