Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 29

Rockheart’s voice boomed through their simulated dungeon. “All right, Logan and Inga, your six hours is over.”

Both dungeon cores returned their minds to the gems floating over their pedestal, which was surrounded by an underground mushroom forest. Some of the fungi were decorative, but others had a definite sinister purpose. Strands of purple-black Ghoul’s Snare covered the ground, especially near the entrance, where Logan had sprouted a ton of Blister Wart. The Blister Wart was a fairly innocuous looking mushroom with a thick white stalk and a spotted red cap. Something out of a fairy tale. But if an interloper accidentally brushed up against those crimson caps, they would find out they were in a Grimm’s fairy tale instead of a Disney one.

And, thanks to his symbiotic relationship with Inga, both she and her minions were immune to the negative effects his mushrooms dished out. Just one of the many perks of the bond.

The Blister Wart uniformly covered the walls and floor of the short hallway that connected the sanctum to the antechamber. If the raiders made it that far, he wanted them in pain. And if they started hacking through the towering toadstools in the sanctum, the ceiling was a carpet of black Spike Flies ready to descend in an instant. Their inner sanctum was likewise packed full of insects and fungal fun.

The rector prime still didn’t like the idea of the astral moth lowering herself. “Inga, are you sure you want to throw your lot in with this fungaloid? I wouldn’t normally ask, but you have so much potential, it seems a shame you are about to waste it.”

Her response was immediate. “Don’t be tiresome, Professor. I know what I’m doing. If you had any sense, you’d see that.”

“Very well. Then let your fate be his, Astral Moth. The Placement Exam begins now!” Rockheart’s grumbles were lost as the five adventurers appeared at the entrance.

Sir Brandybutter was there, but he was so different now—an archer instead of a cavalier mage. Clothed in studded leather armor, he looked like a middle-aged Robin Hood with a beer belly, a scraggly white goatee, and a longbow. Brandybutter was joined by Arfgar of the Hill People—and even at a quick glance it was clear he was the tank of the party. Huge metal plates covered his chest and back, all tied together with leather thongs. He gripped a stupidly large single-bladed battle-ax. He also had a series of gleaming daggers sheathed on an oversized belt wrapped around his waist. Both men were C-Class, middle-ranked fighters.

Powerful, but not terribly so.

And Brandybutter knew it. “Drat! My powers are minimal, my intellect is restricted, and I fear that I shan’t prevail!”

Arfgar raised his axe. “Find me skull to split, old man. Me bathe this dungeon in the blood of my enemies. Me rejoice in the lamentation of the women.”

That made Logan laugh. <Wow. Some references are not so culturally specific.>

Inga thoughts were full of smiles. <This is excellent news. The fighters are C-Class, which means this won’t be a melee-heavy scenario. That is incredibly lucky for us since we are terrible in close-quarters combat! Even better, Arfgar is dumb even with his intellect turned up, though he has far more charisma than poor Brandybutter, who looks silly without his plate mail.>

The other C-Class raider was a Harbinger of Illumina Pate, the Bald Phoenix—a type of cleric class that could deal damage, but mostly focused on healing and defense spells. Her real name was Lindarval Lanathandyx, but the students just called her Feathers due to her ornate golden plate mail armor, sculpted to look like the magnificent plumage of her patron god. A long cloak, also covered in red and gold feathers, trailed down her back, swirling about her ankles as she moved. She fought with a mahogany cudgel, sculpted to look like a bird taking wing.

The two B-Class dungeoneers were a rogue and a spell-caster.

Daggers McFinn didn’t try to hide the fact he was a thief. His leather armor was black and sleek, and his soft shoes allowed him to walk without making a sound. His short sword and dagger were perfect for backstabbing, and he’d brought a short recurve bow—perfect for taking out unwitting targets at range.

The other raider was the real firepower of the group—the Magnificent Morty Mercutio Mimsy. Though, honestly, Mimsy looked more like a creepy uncle than a mighty sorcerer. He had thinning brown hair, a wispy beard, and robes that were more monkish than wizardly. He had a sheathed dagger hanging from his belt, which struggled to keep his prodigious gut in check. He looked doughy and nonthreatening. But as with everything at Shadowcroft, looks could be deceiving.

Logan saw the problem right away. <Daggers McFinn, even with his introductory settings, is going to sniff out our traps in a heartbeat. Looks like we’ll be fighting after all. And dodging spells. Mimsy might not look like much, but an Azure Branch mage is nothing to laugh at.>

Inga agreed.

Arfgar beat on his metal chest plate with his axe. “Arfgar says we should split up. I will go to the right with small man and feather girl.”

Brandybutter pinched his nose. “Tut, tut, Arfgar, we will not be splitting up the party. Even in my reduced state, I know that.”

“Cover more ground that way!” the barbarian insisted, brows furrowing as he scowled.

Daggers McFinn rubbed his chin. “Splitting up, eh? I’d get to take what loot I found. How about I go right, and the rest of you go left? I can walk in shadows. I can move silently. I am the night.”

Brandybutter sighed. “Oddly enough, my good man, I am the day. Is that why I never see you at any of the meetings?”

<Speaking of day and night, Inga,> Logan sent to his comrade, <both you and I can see in the dark. That means we need to turn off the lights as quickly as possible.>

For now, the adventurers stood in the torchlight at the dungeon’s entrance. Mimsy took one of the torches out of its sconce, while Feathers cast a spell to make her cudgel glow.

“Whether we split up or not, Illumina Pate will guide us and protect us upon this venture!” Feathers offered enthusiastically.

Daggers shrugged. “No, no splitting up. Gods but you lot really are dumb.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Listen, without me none of you will ever survive, and I need you armor-wearing morons to keep me from getting my skull caved in right and proper. So, we all stick together and I’ll get my loot the old-fashioned way. When one of you rubes die, I’ll go through your pockets. Now, let’s head out, eh?” He made a get-along-with-it gesture with one hand. “Fighters first now. Don’t be cowardly.”

The barbarian snarled into the face of the rogue. “Arfgar will do this one thing for you, small man, but Arfgar is leader!”

The rogue winced. “Perhaps Arfgar can find some mint. I hope this is a minty dungeon.”

After a bit more bickering and back-and-forth, the party set out as one, following the forking path that angled left. Much to Inga and Logan’s disappointment, Daggers McFinn proved to be an exceptionally competent thief who found their swivel door in a matter of seconds. “See, right there, that’s a trap. If one of us gets too close, the wall swivels out, spikes us, and then Bob’s your uncle, we’re down one dungeoneer.”

“Bob is not uncle!” Arfgar roared. “Uncle is Ymir. Ymir is good uncle!”

Brandybutter shook his head sadly. “This quest, my comrades, doth weary me. I long for the sweet release of death.”

<Sounds like something Treacle would say,> Logan sent.

<Concentrate,> Inga returned, attention entirely fixed on the invaders.

The raiders retreated and started down the hallway, which led away from the trap room. After snaking this way and that, it doubled back and wrapped around to more stairs, which ended in the antechamber. However, Logan knew the final fight might take place in the inner sanctum itself. That would hurt their grade, since the whole point of a dungeon was to keep the raiders away from the pedestal where their gems floated.

He and Inga needed to take out the rogue or the spell-caster, since they were the most powerful cultivators in the group. The spell-caster would no doubt deal the most DPS—damage per second—but he was probably also as fragile as a porcelain tea set. He’d make an excellent target, though dispatching Daggers first would open up the rest of the party to the nasty assortment of traps they’d carefully laid out.

Logan grinned, an idea forming in his head. <We can’t waste resources. Since we couldn’t bring the raiders to the trap, I say we bring the trap to the raiders.>

Again, Logan felt like the dungeon was a part of him, an extension of his body—like an extra limb. He reached out with his will and undid the secret ceiling in the swivel-wall trap room. With a thought, he reached out to the centipedes waiting within, already covered in Braincap spores. Logan took control of his fungal servant. Slipping into the inhuman body was always strange at first—everything moved wrong and alien thoughts buzzed in the back of his head.

Thankfully, the feeling faded after a moment and he skittered over to the Gem-Studded Puffballs waiting in the trap room. They were beautiful—amethyst orbs covered in glittering multicolored spikes, resting atop delicate black stems. Deadly treasures that could maim or kill with equal ease. Carefully, so carefully, he calmed the quivering spheres to stop them from exploding. He then moved the centipede under them, transferring the deadly puffballs from the wall to the chitinous back of the bug. This was ultra-risky, but in the end, he got lucky. None exploded.

Inga saw what he was doing. <Yes, wait until they are distracted, and then hit the raiders from behind.>

<That’s exactly what I’m thinking.>

The five would-be heroes entered the minion room at a crawl, the rogue searching for traps while the others scanned for deadly monsters and/or seductive treasure. This was where the adventurers would face Inga’s newest set of minions. They were invisible in the bright light filling the room. Not only did the raiders have their light sources, but a central fountain of gleaming white marble glowed with a blinding light all its own. A red glint topped the tumbling water. Marko had suggested the water feature. The satyr had an uncanny eye for elegant dungeon design.

Above the interlopers, clinging to the ceiling with spindly legs, were dozens of Tsuki Ants, each about the size of a kitten. Though no one in their right mind would want one of those nasty little buggers curling up in their lap. In bright light, the ants couldn’t be seen, but in darkness they would glow with an otherworldly lunar light. The creatures waited motionless, thanks to Inga’s perfect control. At higher levels, they could become smaller and more plentiful, with diamond-sharp mandibles capable of piercing even spell-enchanted metal. Even at Inga’s level, though, they were difficult to deal with.

Misdirection was everything. When raiders concentrated on the burbling marble fountain, the insects would strike.

Arfgar stood spellbound, watching the fountain gurgling, the light dancing in the water. “Pretty fountain,” he crooned like some giant, armor-clad baby staring at a fancy crib mobile.

“This all seems rather curious to me—” Brandybutter started.

The Tsuki Ants attacked at Inga’s command. They dropped onto the assembled raiders, and while Inga aimed for the rogue and the spell-caster, Arfgar took the brunt of the assault. He started dancing around, fruitlessly swinging his huge axe with one hand, swatting at the biting creatures with the other—desperately trying to free himself from their deadly mandibles. Once they fell, once they started squirming, the ants could be seen.

With a roar, Arfgar dropped his axe to the floor with a clatter and started to pop the ants with his bare hands. After a moment, he slammed a booted foot down, sending out a massive earthen shock wave that knocked more ants free, revealing them for the first time. The other dungeoneers leapt in to help him. Brandybutter rapid fired his bow, a look of distaste plastered across his face. Daggers McFinn didn’t draw his bow, but he hardly needed it. The man could move like the wind. He danced across the floor, slashing with his short sword while simultaneously flicking blades of pure Apothos from his off hand, impaling the ants at a dizzying rate. Any time the pinching creatures closed in, he would leap through the air like an acrobat, landing safely behind either Arfgar or Feathers.

Not very heroic, but extremely effective.

The Magnificent Mimsy kept his torch raised even as he conjured blazing violet bolts of power, which he cast with uncanny precision. Ants exploded like fireworks, sending chunks of charbroiled ant carapaces flying. Those pieces of smoking ant peppered both fighters, slashing open bare skin, but Mimsy didn’t seem particularly bothered by that fact and kept right on casting.

Feathers, though, was the real MVP of the party. “Grand phoenix of little plumage, scatter our enemies so we might slay them!” she crowed, head thrown back.

Her cudgel flashed, and a ring of blinding golden energy exploded out from her, not affecting the party members, but violently hurling the ants into a corner of the room. A lance of flame as thick as a telephone pole from the good ol’ Mimsy finished most of them off. Any that happened to escape met their fate at the end of a conjured knife blade or Arfgar’s crushing mitts.

The barbarian ripped the very last ant apart. “By the High Hills of my people, this was too easy. Me want glory, not bugs.”

Daggers frowned. “Agreed. Bugs don’t have treasure. What exactly is the point of raiding this dungeon again?”

Brandybutter rolled his eyes. “Well, for one thing, my good chap, there, at the top of the fountain, is a gemstone.” He wasn’t wrong. Suspended above the waters by flows of magic was a blood ruby the size of a golf ball. “And from the rumors I’ve heard about this place, there are Opal Truffles in this dungeon to boot. I enjoy such delicacies in my nana’s omelets.”

Arfgar roared, veins bulging in his neck and temple. “I hate mushrooms!”

“Heathen,” Brandybutter muttered with a grimace.

“Opal Truffle cream sauce, a nice wide noodle, some wine, and any number of lusty inn wenches.” Daggers nodded. “But let’s see about this gemstone first.” He padded forward on perfectly silent feet and plucked the gem from the top of the fountain with nimble fingers.

<See?> Inga sent. <We needed that lure there.>

If Logan had possessed lips, he would’ve smiled. This was only going to help their grade.

While the raiders were distracted, Logan focused, sending his consciousness back into the overgrown centipede, who had a very special delivery for those raiders.