Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 9

Professor Yullis Rockheart, the rector prime of the Shadowcroft Academy and the master of the Azure Dragon Clan, stood alone in the Golden Serpent Hall, but he wasn’t alone for long.

Shadowcroft came down the steps from the upper rooms of the castle. He limped along in his normal gait, one shoulder lowered, moving quickly. His green beard swayed and the flowers on his grassy head wobbled.

Rockheart, stood on the dais, holding his gemstone core. One of his stone wings itched, and he scratched it with his beak. Images flashed across the wide-open air of the vast hall. Fifty-five students battled their way through their various Threshing dungeons. Some of the weaker students would be killed but that was the way of the Threshing. If they couldn’t even survive the Threshing, they didn’t deserve to go further. Ending them here was a mercy in its way, Rockheart mused. He wasn’t a guardian known for mercy—just the opposite—but he fully endorsed ending the weak before they could suffer longer. Or become a drain on academy resources.

Shadowcroft lurched up. It wasn’t clear if the Headmaster had chosen the Treowen Guardian Form or if he’d been born into that race. Shadowcroft was a mystery. Rockheart was too busy to ponder mysteries. For a century he’d not only helped the Headmaster run the entire school, but he’d also been a clan master as well as teaching classes.

As a result of all the work, Rockheart didn’t sleep much, he was overworked, and under-appreciated, and this new round of recruits weren’t about to make his life any easier. Except for a few exceptional students, most of them were terrible.

And Shadowcroft knew it. Honestly, the recruits seemed to get worse with every cycle while the dungeoneers they contended against seemed to grow stronger and stronger, raiding ever more nodes and harvesting even the most powerful dungeon cores.

The Headmaster frowned as his eyes darted around to take in the onslaught of incoming images. He winced as one of the students, a Swamp Revenant, was torn in half by a Gorptor Beast. Her core gem shattered on the floor, and her Apothos rejoined the Tree. “Oh, Darla, I had high hopes for you,” he sighed, the sound like wind rustling through fall leaves,

Rockheart scowled. “We’ll need to lose at least three, Headmaster. In that way, we’ll have thirteen cohorts, which is an unwieldy number. If I were you, I would Thresh the lot ourselves to get down to twelve.”

It was as if Shadowcroft hadn’t heard a thing Rockheart said. “Oh, yes, Inga, you are clever to have figured out the sphinx riddle. I like that Okitori woman though her core is rather weak, at least compared to the others.” The tree man furrowed his brow. “We’ll have the top cohort coming through any minute. Those four from Eritreus will be in the First Cohort. Clearly.”

Rockheart couldn’t suppress his grumbling sigh. “Our recruiting process should give us twelve such cohorts. You expect me to provide the universe with the most powerful dungeon cores, and yet, you give me… this to work with.” Rockheart waved a claw-tipped hand and brought up the worst of the incoming class—some fungaloid named Logan something. It wouldn’t matter. The mushroom creature surely wouldn’t survive the Threshing. Currently, he was dangling from a rope above a Vicious Hoggler.

“Logan Murray.” Shadowcroft smiled, though it was a sad sort of smile. “Yes, he will be in the last cohort, clearly. Assuming he survives.”

All of the images flickered as twelve-foot tall tortoise man took shape, first made of light, and then made of pure apothos that hardened into flesh. A black shell, cracked and chipped, covered his dark green skin, creased with age. Above his lip was a patch of white skin that looked like a moustache. He limped with a long staff made of polished black wood, the head a gnarled lump that resembled a closed fist. This was the Thresher Turtle, and somehow, this entity was able to keep all fifty-five dungeons running. There was a space in the Thresher’s belly for a gemstone, but right then, it was bare.

The Thresher’s voice was as cracked as his shell, elderly and rasping. “The top and the bottom are easily Threshed, friends. Easily, easily, quite easily.”

Shadowcroft raised a branchy hand. “Hello, old friend, any surprises?”

The turtle grinned. “Always surprises, old friend. Look. Your Urothling has come up with a unique solution to his Hoggler problem.”

Rockheart watched as the chitinous mushroom came crashing down on the monstrous pig, somehow lodging himself in the creature’s throat. He shook his head. “It is but the third room. He has twelve more rooms to go. I wouldn’t bet a squirt of rain on his chances.”

Shadowcroft reached into his robes and touched the gem set in the wood of his belly. “How I do love watching the Threshing,” he said with another windy sigh. “But sadly, it seems, I have an important matter to attend to, Professor. I trust that you’ll oversee the Threshing in your usual exemplary manner. I couldn’t run this school without you, Yullis. I truly appreciate your efforts.” Shadowcroft clapped him on the shoulder in affection. He was a touchy-feely sort, the Headmaster, though skilled and powerful beyond imagining. 

Before Rockheart could say a word of complaint or critique, Shadowcroft was already limping away through the portcullis and toward the exit of the castle. The Headmaster didn’t stand, sit, or say anywhere long.

Shadowcroft’s voice drifted behind him. “I know how unsatisfied you are, Yullis, so we’ll put the top cohort in the Azure Dragon Clan.”

That made Rockheart feel a bit better. He glanced at the Thresher.

The turtle nodded. “Yes, of course. The Azure Dragon Clan draws the unique and the heroic.” The Thresher squinted. “Oh, dear, Nathan isn’t going to make it.”

That was an understatement. The Skeleton Cavalier met his end in an ice trap. Frozen solid, the gem in his belly shattered. The Cavalier’s apothos was re-absorbed into the Tree of Souls, nourishment for the universe.

A second later, a grand demonic figure came waltzing out of thin air into the room. He was eight feet tall, wreathed in flames and shadow, a serene look on his handsome face. His horns were long and sharp. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, Professor,” the Abyss Lord said. “I’ve always heard the Threshing was difficult.”

Rockheart didn’t show his proud smile. He only nodded. “Welcome, Prince Chadrigoth of the First Realm, of the Eritreus Elite.”

The demon tipped his horns in deference. “Thank you, Professor Rockheart. I hope my performance impressed you enough to put me in your clan.”

“It’s not my decision,” Rockheart said. “The Thresher decides.”

The turtle chuckled until he choked and coughed. “Yes, Prince Chadrigoth, you and your three will be in the Azure Dragon Clan. All will be Threshed. All will find a home, either in the academy or back in the Tree. Such is the way.”

Rockheart couldn’t help but scowl. The Thresher’s ways, and his power, were as mysterious as Shadowcroft’s origins. If it were up to Yullis Rockheart, he’d appoint the clans himself. But it wasn’t up to him. The Threshing not only weeded out the weak of heart and will, feeding their essence back into the Tree, but it somehow also developed the depths of their very soul. Every choice, every door, every move. They all blended together in a grand tapestry that allowed the ancient Thresher Turtle to place them in within the proper clan—a clan where they were be nourished, and watered, growing to bear much fruit. 

The Azure Dragon of the East for the bold, loyal, and disciplined. 

The Vermilion Phoenix of the South for those of a virtuous nature and fiery temper. 

The Crystal Tiger of the West for the headstrong and brave—the proud maverick, determined to carve a different path. 

And, of course, the Onyx Tortoise of the North with their cool heads and kind hearts. Rockheart had always considered them to be the weakest of the Clans, yet Shadowcroft himself was a disciple of the Onyx Tortoise, so that was one opinion he kept to himself. Other dungeon cores appeared in the Golden Serpent Hall, and the Thresher easily sorted them into both cohorts and clans.

As for Little Logan nobody? He and the rest of the weaklings continued to struggle their way pathetically through the dungeon rooms. It was sad, really, but it was better this way.

Yullis Rockheart only wanted to teach the best of the best.

                                                                                     * * *

For three hours, Logan scrambled from door to door, from room to room. Fifteen more chambers to be precise, each more difficult than the last—the puzzles progressively harder, the golden luck rooms wicked and enticing in equal measures. He faced down rooms filled with stagnant pools of water and clouds of killer hornets. Clockwork puzzles that threatened to crush his frail body in titanic whirling gears. Enormous spiders, dastardly deadfalls, and head scratching riddles. He moved slowly, but he never quit—never even considered it—and eventually, against what seemed like all odds, he made it through. 

Logan finally found the onyx doorway at the end of one last gray stone corridor, like a mirage glimmering in the desert heat. But this was all too real. 

He tumbled through the magic portal, one arm missing completely, one leg burnt to a shriveled black crisp, a chunk of his left shoulder just … gone. A swinging pendulum axe as big as he was had sheered the limb off. He fell onto the stone floor and glanced up with bleary eyes, finding himself no longer in the dungeon, but back in the reception hall where this had all started. He felt like shouting out, pumping his one remaining arm in sheer triumph. He didn’t because he was too exhausted to lift his hand, much left pump it. That had been a brutal blow, losing another limb. At least his leg, however blackened, still supported his weight. He’d made it out with the satchel, dagger, the raggedy cloak, and the magical shield. So that was something.

Lying on his back, a fiendish rocky face glared down at him. The gargoyle-griffin Professor Yullis Rockheart, sneered. “Took you long enough, fungaloid fool. I’m surprised you made it at all. Now, restore your form, and we can continue.”

Logan grinned at that one word. Restore. He sighed and closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to do it, but I love the sound of it.”

“Tree above,” the professor spat, “but you are pathetic.”

Logan’s eyes flipped open as the gargoyle grabbed him by his one remaining arm. Rockheart shook him a few times, in front of a room full of his fellow students. The gemstone in his belly gleamed, and Logan felt the apothos flow from his core to his extremities, circulating out like a river, pumping energy through his limbs, then returning to his core in a never-ending circuit. Logan’s burnt leg plumped back into shape and turned a pasty white. A new arm came flapping out of his stump.

Rockheart slammed Logan back onto his little toadstool feet before storming away in a huff. The gargoyle griffin marched up the steps of the dais at the front of the room to stand next a giant geriatric turtle man leaning casually on a black staff. A black gem, cracked and leaking a reddish glow, was embedded in the turtle’s belly

Rockheart addressed the room. “Congratulations to you all for surviving the Threshing. Seven recruits died, thank the Tree of Souls, because that gives us an even number, divisible by four, which is what we want.”

A big demony fire guy stood a bit too close to Logan, causing his shroomy skin to dry and shrivel. Logan eased himself away.

Rockheart continued. “We will divide the forty-eight into cohorts of four. Each of your cohorts will belong to a clan. At the Shadowcroft Academy, you will be in constant competition with your fellow cores. We will have a leaderboard marking the progress of both the clans and the cohorts. The top clan as well as the highest-ranking three cohorts will be gifted with extra power, magical items, and cultivating pills and potions. The losers will get nothing but ridicule as is right and proper.”

Logan was trying to listen, but the Balrog-wannabe kept inching closer and his flames were hot. Logan figured if demon boy didn’t step back, he’d have to punch the guy. It might mean a bad burn, but no one was going to bully him.

Marko sauntered over, pretended to trip, and slopped his wine onto the feet of the demon. The wine hissed, the fire guy let out a grunt, and moved away.

Marko rolled his goat-like eyes. “Chadrigoth might be the best dungeon core in our class, but that’s not going to stop him from being a total asshat. As in wearing a metaphorical butt for a hat, which would be both inconvenient and smelly.”

Logan knocked Marko with a doughy, boneless elbow. “You made it, Marko! Congrats!”

“Silence!” Rockheart thundered. “Yes, you have all passed the Threshing, but your status at this school is not secure nor will it ever be secure. You were reaped, you were threshed, and during your freshman year, you will be winnowed.”

“The Reaping, the Threshing, and the Winnowing,” the turtle man croaked. “Yes, that is what we do. Watching you brave cores, I am filled with hope, however. And even if you die, you simply join the Tree. We all rest in the end. Now, it’s time I earned my paycheck. I’ll divide you fine cores up based on your choices in my dungeons.”

Logan didn’t like the sound of this winnowing business. But he took a second to go over the math, speaking his thoughts out loud. “Forty-eight students divided into twelve cohorts of four. That means there were will be three cohorts in each clan.”

“Of our year, yeah,” Marko said. “The Shadowcroft Academy is a four-year program and, from what I’ve heard tell through the ol’ grapevine, each class has around fifty students.”

The gargoyle-griffin lifted his claws and spread his wings. “Doubtless, you all know of the grand clans of the Shadowcroft Academy. You will be a part of your cohort, closer than family, and you’ll be part of your clans, more powerful than death. The clans are taken from the greatest Guardians of all time—the four Primal Guardians, also known as the Four Auspicious Beasts. The Azure Dragon of the East. The Vermilion Phoenix of the South. The Crystal Tiger of the West. The Onyx Tortoise of the North.”

“Yeah, but there’s a fifth Guardian,” Marko murmured. “But the Golden Serpent of the Center is not a clan but represents Ashvattha itself. That’s why they call this the Golden Serpent Hall.”

“Welcome to the Golden Serpent Hall!” Rockheart echoed.

“Like I said.” Marko gave Logan a knowing smile and a wink. For being such an easy-going guy, it was obvious there was more to Marko than strictly met the eye.

The turtle tapped his staff on the dais. “Yes, yes, grand heroes of the past, though I am more interested in the heroic dungeons of the future. And so, on to the meat of the day. The First Cohort will consist of the best students. That would be Prince Chadrigoth of the First Realm, the Archduke Jimi Magmarty of the Eritreus Elite, Her Lady Elesiel of Everstar, and Tet-Akhat of the Coptic Champions.”

Demon boy was Chadrigoth, and he was joined at the front of the room by a hulking Earth Elemental not unlike The Fantastic Four’s Ben Grimm. Lady Elesiel was a lich queen as thin as a desiccated corpse and as beautiful as a moonless night. Green necrotic energy glowed around her skeletal hands and snaked up her arms in intricate swirls. Tet-Akhat had an Egyptian-cat-woman-goddess thing going on. So that was the best of the best. And yes, they were sorted into the Azure Dragon Clan, which Rockheart led. He made that clear. He was enormously proud of it.

Logan frowned as more students were called up and sorted into cohorts and clans by the ancient, slightly-loony turtle. Other house masters walked up onto the dais to represent their clans. A woman wearing dark glasses, her head wrapped in a pink scarf, was the master of the Vermillion Phoenix Clan. A massive shark man with a hook for a hand, wielding a spiked anchor, lead the Onyx Turtle Clan. Lastly, a tiger-headed giant in white crushed velvet robes glimmering with diamonds and rubies was the clan master of the Crystal Tiger. That last reminded Logan for all the world like a cross between Elvis and Liberace—assuming either had a tiger head.

Logan didn’t catch their names. He was too busy listening and watching.

Marko sipped and grinned and nodded. “Yeah, it’s looking like you and me are going to be together in the sewer, my mushroom man—makes sense, since we are obviously terrible. But the real question is who else will be joining us?”

Rockheart clapped his stone hands together to quiet the room as the new cohorts were talking loudly. The room hushed.

The Thresher cleared his throat and spat to the side. “Yes, yes, thank you, Yullis. We are down to the last cohort.”

Rockheart nodded. “This last cohort doesn’t matter. But you, you forty-four dungeon cores are the universe’s greatest hope.”

The Thresher’s laughed a rusty chuckle. “This last cohort does have a great deal of work to do. Yet.” He licked dry lips and raised a gnarled finger. “Yet, they survived in me. And so we’ll get them sussed out. The twelfth and last cohort will be the following students: Inga Thosa Therian, Treacle Glimmerhappy, and Marko Laskarelis. And one more, the unlikely Urothling, Logan Murray.”

Marko slammed Logan on the back. “Welcome to the Terrible Twelfth. We suck but we’ll have fun.”

The morose minotaur and the socially awkward moth woman shuffled forward.

The insect girl’s antennae stuck straight up, quivering madly. “I’m Inga Thosa Therian, of the Okitori Elite, Grand Archivist of the Eastern Aerie Archive and former sorceress of the Far Cloud Mountain Palace. The Thresher forgot my titles. I’m sure he just forgot. He seems aged.”

Treacle Glimmerhappy sighed and sorrowfully shook his great horned head. “I was a gnome lord. I had titles, too. They don’t matter. Nothing matters, now does it? We’re doomed.”

Logan wasn’t sure he heard that right. Gnome lord? The minotaur was at least seven feet tall.

The turtle tapped his staff. “Yes, and one last thing if you please. This last cohort will join the Azure Dragon Clan. May they rise to the occasion.”

“This can’t be!” Rockheart thundered, turning on the old turtle like a cobra, poised to strike. “No! They shouldn’t be in my clan. They are weak. It doesn’t look like a single one of them even knows the word discipline. You’re mistaken, I’m sure. Surely, they seem a better fit for the Onyx Tortoise.”

“I dinna ask for them, lad!” the shark man had a definite Scottish-sounding accent. Were all sharks Scottish? It did beg the question.

The turtle just chuckled. “There are no mistakes, Yullis. None at all. Ashvattha decides as it will, and I am but a conduit of the Tree’s guiding power. Although it may seem unlikely to you, in your infinite wisdom, the Tree believes they are best suited to the Azure Dragon Clan. It is the way.”

Rockheart fluttered his rocky wings a scowl painting his face. “I’ll be talking to Shadowcroft about this,” he snarled.

“Do as you must, Yullis,” the turtle said, “but we all serve the tree—even our honored Headmaster.”

Marko threw his head back. “Ugh, we’re going to have to deal with Chadrigoth and those other uppity annoying dungeon cores. Doomed isn’t a strong enough word. Yep, Treacle Glimmerhappy, we have nothing to be happy about.”

Logan stepped up. “Whoa now,” he said, raising stubby hands. Stubby restored hands—how cool was that? “Don’t be so quick to give up. Yes, we’re at the bottom of the barrel, but the only way to go is up, am I right?”

“That or die,” Treacle exhaled through his big bull nostrils. “We could die.”

“But we won’t,” Logan said, cutting off that line of thought before it took root. “We’re going to show Rockbutt that he’s put his faith in the wrong dungeon cores.”

Marko looked at his empty goblet. “I like your enthusiasm, Logan, but I’m going to need a lot more wine to even flirt with optimism.”

Treacle turned away. “I need a nap. To forget. To remember. To remember to forget.”

Inga seemed to be deep in thought. Her eyes were completely black and her face expressionless. It was hard to know what she was thinking. Finally, she nodded with determination. “I’d like to see the library before I re-join the Tree of Souls. And I’m sure there’s a welcome package with an introductory level. That would be fun to read.”

Logan had his work cut out for him. That was okay, owning his own landscaping business had meant he’d learned how to motivate people. They might be the last cohort sorted, but that didn’t mean they’d have to be the worst.

Keep Reading Here: Chapter Ten