Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 36

Rockheart had no idea how the four cores would fare without Inga’s rather impressive guardian form. To lose a dungeon boss in the entry room was a devastating blow.

Yet…

Yet, it was also a daring ploy, and Rockheart couldn’t help but respect her sacrifice. He wouldn’t show her mercy, though. He was more determined than ever to reach the inner sanctum, smash her gem to pieces, and then inhale her Apothos. She had talent, no doubt, but she’d made a mistake supporting the fool goat boy. Mercy had no place in a war zone, and this was but one front in a much larger war. A war for the Tree of Souls itself. He was obligated to honor the Tree through action and save it from those too weak to serve. He would do his duty, even if he might find pieces of it… distasteful.

Ekli Oreniel stood at the edge of the digestive pit, staring down at the disgusting, burbling goop. It was too late to retrieve Erejam’s body. Already, Logan and his friends would be gathering fresh energy from the Azure Branch cultivator. The rank smell of the Runecaster’s corpse being broken down into its component energies filled the room. Logan would get sixty percent of Erejam’s Apothos immediately thanks to his unique digestive abilities. Since Erejam had Vita and Umbral Affinities, the rest of the energy would take longer to process, but the annoying fungaloid would manage it in time.

The Terrible Twelfth were already feasting and growing stronger—no doubt preparing to turn that power against the raiders at the most inconvenient opportunity.

“Argh, lass,” the dwarf cried, still clutching his ruined stomach. Inga had done a number of the Earthbinder. “Ah could use a healing spell, if ya have a minute.”

The half-elf turned and glared at him. “And why should I, you bearded heathen? You said something nasty about elves.”

The dwarf was pale under his beard. “All Ah said, lassie, was that the big bug was a dungeon boss. Ah didn’t mean it as an insult to yer people.”

“Oh, it was an insult. I heard your tone,” the Wood Warden said in a deadly voice, crossing her arms like a petulant child. “Don’t you know how terrible my backstory is? I’m half elf. Which means I’m also half human. It was hard growing up. I was a stranger to both worlds.”

The dwarf winced, obviously in great pain. “Aye, sounds tough on both of ye. But a little healing would keep me from dying, and then ya can tell me more.”

The Wood Warden sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll heal you, but I want you to beg me.”

Orem Leadblade gulped, fingers digging into the earth. His blood continued to drip onto the ground. “Ah beg you, Miss Oreniel. Ah’ll die if ya don’t and if Ah die, there’s a better chance that ya will too. That we all will.”

The half-elf sneered but drew a ruby amulet out of her leathers. “You get the blessing of more life, Orem Leadblade. But you’d best keep a civil tongue.”

Lyndagg the Skinner wiped her steak-knife sword off on the dead caterpillar. She came forward and smiled, showing her tusks. “I don’t mind being half human. Most years, I celebrate the Forevergreen Festival twice, so, twice the gifts. And I won’t be begging for a healing, half-elf. And the dwarf shouldn’t have begged either. You should be begging us to protect you. He is right, without us death awaits. Just how long do you reckon you would last here on your own?”

Ekli lashed out. “I am a servant of the Autumnbrook forest. This roseflower amulet has life itself inside it.”

“It’s a trinket, fit only for a C-Class dumbbell,” Rockheart barked, already tired of the Wood Warden’s dramatics. “If you had half as much cultivated Vita Apothos as you do attitude, you wouldn’t need such silly toys to do your healing. Now silence your tongue before I take the amulet from you and throw you into the pool to join Erejam.”

That got her attention and she finally shut her mouth, though she didn’t look happy about it.

The rogue cleared his throat before tension could escalate further and pointed at the fungal growths around the entrance.

“Those are Blister Wart. If we had more time, I’d collect some and sell them to surgeons, since once processed, they have formidable healing powers. As it is, we’ll have to be careful passing through this way. Also, with Erejam gone, we’ll need another light source. So far, I can guess three out of four of the dungeon cores we face. There’s the insect girl we just killed, the dark muse, and then of course, some kind of fungus lord. I’m not very partial to mushrooms, myself...” A sly grin slipped across his face. “Though I have to say, I did date this girl who made an amazing Opal Truffle soup.”

Rockheart regarded Corry. He was a smarmy thief, but he was better than the three other bickering dungeoneers.

With the dwarven warrior healed and casting nasty glares at the Wood Warden, they chose a marching order. Lyndagg the Skinner would go first, armed with Ekli’s glowing scimitar. Orem, the Earthbinder, would go next, followed by Flynn Corry the thief. Rockheart would take up the rear, walking behind the Ekli the Insufferable, who would have her roseflower amulet out as their second light source.

They were careful not to brush the Blister Wart mushrooms on the walls of the entrance, and soon found themselves in a massive labyrinth of sandstone.

Flynn Corry laughed. “Ah. Well, that makes it clear as the sun at high noon. The fourth dungeon core is obviously a minotaur. Don’t worry… I’ve beaten a labyrinth before.” He paused and scratched at his chin. “Though, don’t suppose anyone has any golden magic thread? It would save us a lot of time and trouble.”

None of them did, which meant they would have to map the warren of passages the old-fashioned way: trial and error.

Onward they pressed, moving slowly through arched tunnelways filled with twists, turns, choke points, and blinds. Strange paintings in a variety of eye-jarring colors tattooed the walls in chaotic arrangements. They were off-putting in the extreme. Some were of mad bull-headed men murdering innocent people in what looked like a wedding. Others were of mushroom people, with fangs and slits for eyes, devouring corpses. Then there was the Dark Muse himself, a goat-headed fiend who made puppets dance under a bloodred moon. Besides being utterly bizarre, the paintings made it hard to focus. The images somehow invoked movement, so it seemed as though the walls were alive.

They turned corner after corner, and Rockheart’s fury increased every time they had to switchback. With only four hours, Logan and his cohort would’ve been hard-pressed to complete a passable dungeon—which meant they were likely stalling. Right now, the Terrible Twelfth were using Erejam’s Apothos, and the extra time, to finish their dungeon. Were they adding corridors even now? Likely.

Again, begrudgingly, he had to admit it was a good strategy, in its way. Shrewd.

Another hallway brought the raiders to a dead end. It was full of motionless plaster mannequins, all faceless, standing in various poses, their lifeless hands raised above their heads. Was that in fear? Or were they about to attack? Either way, the sight of those mannequins, motionless in the dark, was disturbing. And, as with the painting in the hallways, it was hard to focus. They all seemed on the verge of springing to life any moment.

“Bloody hell,” Corry whispered, “but I don’t like this place. Everything about it gives me the chills. Liable to have nightmares about this place for months, assuming we survive.” He licked his lips nervously and gave his short blades a twirl. They pressed further into the room, padding forward on silent feet, giving each of the statues a wide berth in case they proved to be touch sensitive.

“Pretty pictures and silly statues aren’t anything to—” Lyndagg started.

She didn’t finish.

The moment everyone was in the room, surrounded by the army of grave-still mannequins, the statues attacked in force.

This time, Rockheart took a more active role in the battle.

He forced Apothos from his core, cycling it into his limbs and imbuing his claws with the power of both Terra and Mallus Affinity, transforming them into shards of obsidian glass capable of cutting even through stone or steel. Next, he summoned more Apothos from his core and sent it coursing just beneath the surface of his fur-covered skin. He channeled that power with a whisper of will, reinforcing himself with rose quartz in a spell form often called stone-skin. He would be slower now, less dexterous than the normally nimble cat creature, but he would also be far tougher.

That done, he moved like wind and lightning. He flashed forward in a blur of arms, legs, and claws, effortlessly avoiding sloppy, unwieldly strikes while carving through plaster limbs. In seconds, he’d slashed apart every single one of the mannequins’ sculpted bodies, leaving dusty ruin in his wake.

The drums started again, and the piping, and the laughter. The dissonant voice resounded through the halls, eerie and distant. “My friends are dead! And you will be too! You will dance in your coffins, and you will jig in your graves, and when you drink, the wine will pour from the holes in your belly! The wine! The dancing! The singing! Dead, you will be friends. Once dead, we can be the best of friends.”

More maniacal laughter.

Rockheart saw fear in the eyes of the raiders. Except for Flynn Corry. He was listening closely. “That voice came from this way.”

“No. We can’t trust it,” the rector prime said, shaking his head. “This Dark Muse can use a skill, Ventriloquism, to throw his voice. It’s a lure. I think I know the way.”

Rockheart had kept track of the twists and turns. He’d been teaching dungeon crafting for a long, long time and worked with more than his fair share of minotaurs.

They came to a long hallway, a fresh new corridor, which meant they were on the right track. Here, bright lights glimmered from the floor, illuminating paintings on either wall as well as more mannequins. On the left-hand wall were faceless plaster statues, a dozen of them, all standing in front of a hellish mural. In the painting, horned demons tormented the souls of various races—humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs, all burning in a lake of fire. On the right wall, there were clouds and cute chubby cherubs strumming harps. Their faces were innocent. Their wings were perfect. Their appearance welcoming.

An obvious trap. The question was, were the mannequins the trap or were the paintings? Marko did have the Living Artistry Skill from the College of Shadows. It was possible that both statues and paintings were rigged, but considering Logan and company had a limited time frame and stunted Apothos reserves, Rockheart found it unlikely.

But, before he could determine where the danger lay, Lyndagg the Skinner let out a ferocious roar and charged, slashing apart mannequin after mannequin with her glowing scimitar and her razor-sharp buckler.

Flynn Corry winced. “Oof. I hate raiding dungeons with orcs, she or otherwise.”

None of the mannequins had come to life. They were simply statues.

Lyndagg turned. “You’re welcome.”

Corry turned up the smarm. “Well, Miss Skinner, you definitely showed the plaster people who was boss. How can I ever thank you?”

The half-orc growled, “You just thanked me, idiot, by asking the question.”

“Of course, such a blundering oaf I am at times.” Corry caught Rockheart’s gaze and shrugged.

The rector prime found himself liking this thief. However, Rockheart still didn’t entirely trust the hallway. “This still feels like a trap.”

The half-elf laughed. “Lyndagg is halfway down it. Nothing has happened. Keep walking to the end, Miss Half-orc. And good for you. You were probably happy your whole life. Not me. To be caught… between two worlds. Alone.”

“Or perhaps you’re just a delicate, arrogant elf child. I, on the other hand, am a ferocious warrior, and I have a warrior’s heart.” The half-orc strutted the rest of the way, smug and self-satisfied. She’d made it to the other end without incident.

“See, idiot?” Ekli smirked. “How did you even make it to Azure Branch being so timid?”

Flynn Corry went to the mural of the cherubs in the clouds. “There isn’t any canvas, just stone. We could wash off the paint. That would be the safest bet, since we’re dealing with a Dark Muse.”

“I agree,” Rockheart said. “It will slow us down farther, but it’s better than being caught unprepared.”

“This is stupid! You’re wasting our time. Obviously, it’s safe.” The half-elf called to Lyndagg. “And for your information, I have a warrior’s heart too!” The Wood Warden went storming after the half-orc in a huff. That, it appeared, was the wrong choice.

The wall art shimmered and morphed. The demons changed into laughing people, the lake of fire became a beach, and the tortured people turned into happy satyrs drinking wine and eating mushroom canapes without a care in the world. In seconds, the mural went from a hellish eternity of torture to a Sangretta beach party. Because, of course it did.

On the right? The happy cherubs turned into fat little imps, their fluffy wings becoming leathery bat wings and the golden harps transforming into wicked bows.

A barrage of arrows shot out of the painting.

Lyndagg and Orem had their shields to protect them.

As for Flynn Corry, his armor ring flashed, and shafts bounced off his black lacquer armor.

The arrows might as well have been sticks on Rockheart’s reinforced skin.

The tragic half-elf wasn’t so lucky. The arrows pin-cushioned her like a swarm of bee stings. She hit the ground, eyes glazed over in death, feathered by a dozen shafts. That was no coincidence, Rockheart was sure. Once again, the dungeon cores were aiming well, eliminating the most powerful raider first, and the healer second. A textbook play, though executed to perfection.

Once the imps ran out of arrows, they froze into place, and the music started again, deranged and deafeningly loud. Drums and piping and laughter.

Flynn Corry danced over and went through Ekli Oreniel’s pockets. He took the roseflower amulet, but he tossed it to Rockheart. He had to shout over the thunderous music. “You’re our last spell-caster, Tearclaw! I’m hoping you can use this to heal!”

He turned the item over in his hands, letting his sense delve into its magic. The amulet was a simple core enhancer for a C-Class druidic spell-caster. It wouldn’t help him at all. Nor would it help the other raiders since they weren’t magic-users. Technically the Earthbinder was a body and elemental cultivator, but his skills were focused in the wrong areas. Rockheart tossed it back to the thief. “I’m no healer, and that amulet is worthless to me. If we get out of here, you can sell it.”

The rogue brightened. “I misjudged you, Tearclaw. Thanks. When I buy my next wench with the proceeds, I’ll think of you.” He laughed tragically and shot Rockheart a wink. “I’m hoping to get another wench at some point, though things seem dire. We’re down to a party of—”

A groan cut the thief off before he could finish. The sandstone floor tipped. In a heartbeat, the Wood Warden’s body slid down and was gone, the floor sliding back into place on well-oiled hinges. There must be such hidden passageways tucked away all over the place. It reeked of Treacle’s handiwork.

Corry closed an eye and rubbed at his temples. “Alright. So, I’m thinking that losing the bodies of our comrades is not helping our cause, yes? The fungaloid is eating them, growing stronger, isn’t he?”

“You’re not wrong,” Rockheart growled, hands balling into fists.

Lyndagg had ventured forward, and she came sprinting back, eyes wide as teacups. “I found the center of the maze. Looks to be a trap room, or maybe some sort of puzzle.”

“Finally, some good news.” Rockheart scowled. “So far, this dungeon has been one step ahead of us the entire time. But if there is one thing I know, it’s trap rooms.” Then, under his breath, “I’ve spent the year teaching traps to these whelps.”

The central room of the labyrinth wasn’t the inner sanctum—there had to be a second level tucked away below, since that was where they’d taken Ekli’s body. Instead, Rockheart and the three raiders found themselves in the middle room of the maze, facing an iron cube the size of a normal dungeon room. The walls were welded together and studded by brass rivets. There was a door leading inside the cube, but it was closed.

Lyndagg burst forward to pull open the iron hatch. Unbelievably, she was going to waltz into the iron cube without a second thought. The stupidity of these dungeoneers was impressive. Perhaps he had been too hard on the goat boy, considering just how moronic their competition was.

Rockheart caught her arm. “No. One does not simply walk into a trap room. Not without consulting me first. I’m taking command of this party. We’ve lost our wizard and our healer. All because of blundering and impatience.”

“Ah won’t miss that woman.” The dwarf’s frown was lost in his beard. He gripped his stony hammer tighter. “And Ah say we let our last Azure Branch lead us.”

“Fine.” Lyndagg shoved Rockheart away. “It will be as you say.”

Corry nodded. “I’m assuming you want me to go into the room first. Check it for traps? Leap out if anything goes boom?”

“Do it,” Rockheart ordered.

Corry carefully opened the metal door and slipped inside, just as carefully. He came out a handful of minutes later, scratching his head in bewilderment. “I scanned the floors, ceilings, and walls for pressure plates, trip wires, and hidden runes. Nothing. From what I can tell, it’s as much a puzzle room as a trap room. There are music instruments welded all over the floor and walls. There’s also another sign, courtesy of the Dark Muse… THE LUCKY PIPER CALLS THE UNLUCKIEST OF TUNES. There’s a door on the other side but it’s locked tight. Seems we have to solve his little riddle before we can move on.”

Rockheart’s mood didn’t improve. This was the minotaur’s doing, working in concert with that buffoon Marko.

Once all four of the adventurers were inside the room, the entry door slammed shut, which was no surprise. The iron room had slits as well as round holes in the walls. From his time working with Treacle Glimmerhappy, Rockheart knew deadly saws could come buzzing out of the slits at any minute. Those holes were no doubt for spears or spikes. A keyboard stood on a metal stand in the far corner, with a series of panpipes nearby, also welded onto a platform. Trumpets, a brass pipe organ, a flute, a steel lute, and a variety of other instruments were spread across the room.

A single note, from the metal piano, rang out, reverberating in the air like a struck gong.

“The luckiest piper calls the unluckiest of tunes,” Rockheart murmured to himself. It was a clue, but it wasn’t much of one.

For a moment, nothing happened, and then the entire room shifted to the right with the groan of gears and the rattle of chains. Razor-tipped spikes erupted from what was now the floor. Corry executed a handspring to a flip, grabbing hold of a brassy trumpet welded to a stand. The dwarf would’ve fallen on the spikes if Lyndagg hadn’t grabbed him by an armor strap. She herself clutched one of the pipes of the organ, formidable biceps bulging. As for Rockheart, he anticipated the whole room turning, and so he simply walked onto the new floor.

After a few seconds, the spikes retreated, sucked back into the iron walls.

The panpipes flashed, playing a low, sad note in a minor key. This time, Rockheart knew what to do. He jumped, caught hold of the pipes, and blew through the largest tube, echoing the note.

The room reverted, righting itself.

“The piper calls the tune,” Rockheart said. “We merely have to repeat whatever note and instrument is played.”

The next note sounded as he finished.

And so it went.

An instrument would flash, they would have to mimic the tune, or else the room would turn again. Or saws would come roaring out of the walls. Or spears—that shot out to clatter onto the metal. Or a cloud of spores that left everyone, except Rockheart, sniffling and sneezing.

Luckily, no one was killed… or even hurt. The puzzle was cunning in its way, but not especially dangerous. It was a bit of a disappointment really, after all of the other clever things his students had done so far.

Too simple, really.

As the instruments flashed faster, the four divided up the work, to make sure they didn’t miss a note. Two notes became four became eight, and Rockheart knew there would be thirteen notes in all—the unluckiest of tunes. By the time the last run of notes sounded, the four remaining raiders all waited in separate corners, ready to play their notes on cue.

Rockheart took the large brass organ, pressing keys that lit up. Down the wall from him, Corry strummed the steel lute. Across the room, Orem blew on the trumpet, while Lyndagg used an obsidian dagger hilt to strike a xylophone made of yellow human bone or blew through the twisted panpipes.

They were going to beat the room.

As Rockheart played the thirteenth note, the single clarion note exploded in the air and his stomach sank. He watched for the door on the far side of the room to swing open, but instead the floor rumbled and shook. His eyes widened in shock as he realized what they’d done. This room wasn’t truly designed to kill. The traps and weapons—spikes, saws, and spears—were little more than distractions. Clever sleight of hand, designed to herd the dungeoneers. Rockheart watched as a metal wall rose from the center of the room, splitting the party in two before anyone could react.

Marko’s insanely amplified voice filled the puzzle room. “I’m such the lucky piper, and you four have played the unluckiest of tunes. Winning is losing, in this case, but our little party is only just beginning. You survived the first level of my amazing maze. But will you survive the second?”

Corry threw Rockheart a weak grin. “Looks like it’s just me and you, Tearclaw.” A previously hidden iron door slid open, revealing stairs leading down. The thief laughed weakly. “Now, cat man, which one of us should go first?”