Rogue Dungeon: Troll Nation (Chapters 37 - END)

Chapter 37

Home Field Advantage

Roark finished inscribing the last Curse Chain rune onto the walls of the citadel’s second floor, accepted it, then stood back to admire his handiwork. Rings of the sharp, stilted lettering circled the room, nearly invisible to the naked eye, ready to be activated. The lines of runic script were everywhere throughout the level: engraved into pillars, scrawled across the walls, even encircling the entire perimeter of the second level.

And those weren’t the only changes. The whole floor had undergone a total transformation in the past eight hours. Gone were the open lava pits and the hanging cages, along with the torture tables and Blackthorn coffins. What remained was a sleek labyrinth of stone hallways, punctuated by hidden hallways, secret traps, and even more teleportation plates. All of which Bad_Karma would have the pleasure of experiencing in short order. 

Even with the bevy of deadly changes, Roark wasn’t sure it would be enough. 

He turned and leaned nonchalantly against a stone column as wide as a tree trunk, his gaze locked on the portal plate near the far wall. 

Not an easy feat with the wired energy running up and down his limbs. If Bro_Fo’s furious ranting about how they were all “dead meat” could be believed, then any minute now his elder brother Bad_Karma would step across the new transport plate Roark had installed on the citadel’s threshold only to be redirected here, to the second floor, which was currently devoid of all life save for himself. He crossed his arms, then propped one foot against the pillar like Zyra often did. After a moment, he decided such a pose wasn’t for men and returned his foot to the floor. He took a deep breath and blew it out. 

Everything was in place. There was nothing to do but wait. And think about all the ways his plan could go wrong. 

Roark had embedded layers upon layers upon layers of curses into the foundation of the second floor, but because Curse Chains didn’t play nicely together, he hadn’t been able to jam them all together in one neat little runic script. And because Curse Chains further had a certain radius of effect, he’d had to place each new layer with pinpoint precision so the effects of one Curse Chain wouldn’t trigger the others—causing an explosion that would surely kill Roark, though maybe not Bad_Karma.

As a result, Roark would be forced to lead Bad_Karma on a merry chase throughout the floor, activating each Curse Chain in passing, until the hero was finally weak enough for his final surprise to work.

If Bad_Karma managed to kill him any time before the Curse Chains he’d laid out were active, it would negate all the work he’d done, and he seriously doubted he would be able to lure the hero into another trap if this one failed. Bad_Karma was powerful, and his power made him careless, but it wouldn’t make him stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice.

Roark shifted feet and took another deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He didn’t have to kill the hero by force of arms, he reminded himself. This time would be different; he just had to survive long enough to let his dungeon do the brunt of the heavy lifting. If he could manage that much before Bad_Karma killed him, then he would succeed.

The flare of blue light from the portal plate sent Roark’s heart thundering in his chest. He pasted a self-satisfied smirk on his lips and faced the incoming hero.

The level 50 Ascended Blood Sentinel appeared on the portal plate, Lifeblood Billhooked Polearm in hand, his face a mask of confusion.

“What. The. Balls?” Bad_Karma looked around the radically different floor plan. “Bro_Fo? Where you at?”

“By now, I’d say he’s somewhere between an aerial battle over a volcano and a bustling city marketplace with a warning that he’s about to respawn.” Roark pushed off the column, slapping his hand against a bloody red rune—the prime activator—setting off the script around the perimeter of the floor. A lethal containment ward that would prevent teleporting outside of the dungeon. One down. 

“You again?” The Blood Sentinel’s confusion twisted into a snarl.

“I did specify that it would be a one-on-one duel,” Roark said, pulling out a cursed head.

Bad_Karma glanced down at it. The head had come from one of the female heroes from Bro_Fo’s party that Zyra had beheaded, as by now all the Trolls who didn’t support him had either left the citadel or been killed. The long red hair dangled down past Roark’s hand.

“All right, psycho,” the Ascended Blood Sentinel said. “I guess now’s as good a time to kill you as any.” He looked down and to the right as if he was checking something. “Hope you like humiliation, ’cause you’re about to get your ass beat to the tune of one point five million viewers.”

“Is it true that you won’t respawn?” Roark asked casually, arching an eyebrow. “I’ve heard rumors that one kill will end you forever.”

Bad_Karma threw his arms open. “Try it. I’ll give you a free shot.”

With a shrug, Roark pulled the earring from the redhead’s ear and lobbed it at Bad_Karma.

The hero caught it one-handed. It detonated in his gauntleted fist in a blast of fire and bony shrapnel. Shards of the skull embedded in the wall around him. Only a quick Infernal shield saved Roark from being peppered.

The red in Bad_Karma’s Health bar barely twitched.

“Dude,” the Blood Sentinel said, stalking forward. “I’m freaking invincible. Literally nothing you can do will kill me.”

Roark grinned. “You’re basically invincible now—let’s revisit that in ten minutes or so.” He slapped his hand on an invisible pressure plate set into the wall behind him, triggering the first in a long series of traps. “I only survived this long by cheating, mate, and I don’t intend to stop now.”

The grating sound of stone on stone filled the air as a series of panels lining the walls flipped open, unleashing a hail of crossbow bolts. The firing mechanisms weren’t enchanted, nor were the bolts themselves, ensuring they had the best possible chance of landing a clean hit. A barrage of bolts peppered Bad_Karma from either side, many ricocheting harmlessly off his dark crimson armor. Not all of them fell uselessly away, however. With the sheer volume of arrows in the air, some were bound to land critical hits, and so they did—punching through the armor in places and jamming into unprotected joints. 

Bad_Karma barely slowed down. He swept his free hand down his chest like a man sweeping away crumbs after a meal and broke the shafts off. 

“Bro, I don’t know who you think you are, but a couple of bolts aren’t gonna put me down,” he sneered. “Especially cheap-ass bolts without any effects.”

Roark slowly backpedaled, watching as Karma’s life bar flickered above his head. The hero hadn’t lost a sliver of Health. If anything, the minimal damage Roark’s first severed head had dealt disappeared, bringing the hero back to full life. Perfect.

“Oh, there was an effect, mate.” He held up one of the arrows, the tip gleaming with a light veneer of red. “A Health potion, made with a few curious ingredients.” He pulled another head from his Inventory, this one an elf with long white hair and glazed-over eyes. He pulled the cursed earring and hurled the head underhanded, sure that Karma would catch it just as he had before.

A man’s cockiness could be exploited to great effect, as Roark had learned many times firsthand. 

“You already tried this move, loser,” Karma said, catching the head and rolling his blood-rimmed eyes. “How ’bout you Git Gud and stop pulling the same lame tricks?”

Before Roark could respond, the head exploded. This time instead of releasing an eruption of fire and shrapnel, toxic green gas billowed out in a cloud. Above Karma’s head, his filigreed Health vial flickered and turned green, perhaps for the first time in the hero’s life. 

Roark grinned with satisfaction. The Health potion on the bolts had been laced with Clotwart, courtesy of Zyra. Not enough to allow something like contact poison to kill the Ascended Blood Sentinel in an instant, but enough to reduce his immunity from 100%. The potion-induced weakness wouldn’t last for long, perhaps ten minutes at most, but if Roark couldn’t finish this within ten minutes, odds were high that he’d already be dead.

Bad_Karma staggered for a moment, reeling uncertainly.

“What the fuck?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. “How did you even…” He trailed off, clearly examining the strange status effect. There were potions that could remove an effect like that, but thanks to Randy, Roark knew the man didn’t have any such potion in his Inventory. Why would he? Who would carry a potion for a disease they thought they were immune to?

“If you can defeat me, I’ll tell you,” Roark taunted. “Unless you’re afraid to see what I can really do.” He cast a level 1 Hazy Smoke Spell to obscure his movements, then wheeled around and darted down a narrow hall, only a few feet long. 

“I’m gonna make you eat your own asshole,” Bad_Karma called, heavy footfalls following as he charged into the smoke. The fool never saw the metal plate across the threshold of the short hallway. There was a flash of opalescent light as the hero disappeared, carried to a small room deeper in the dungeon.

Roark stamped his foot on a smaller one-off teleportation disk on the floor; the smell of ozone filled his nose as the world shimmered and distorted. He reappeared a second later in the same room as his victim, though he’d arrived in a very different location inside the cramped space. Roark stood on a narrow stone walkway running along the right-hand wall, which connected back to the main corridor that snaked its way through the heart of the second level. Bad_Karma, however, had been unceremoniously dumped into a pool of burbling green acid, whiffs of white steam curling up from the roiling concoction. 

According to Randy, Blood Sentinels had a particular weakness to acid-based attacks, which was precisely why Bad_Karma was waist deep in a pool of the deadliest corrosive Roark could find. 

“You little ass-nugget, come and fight me fair and square!” the hero hollered, trudging toward the edge of the pit, pulling himself along with massive arms while acid sizzled, popped, and chewed at his armor and exposed flesh.

Roark laughed. 

“Not a chance, mate.” With a muttered word and a flick of his wrist, he activated a rune-engraved metal plate next to the door. The plates were built from solid silver and had a Flawless Pearl the size of a chicken’s egg—a beautiful blue stone, shining with oil-slick translucent colors—embedded in the center. Power rushed out from his palm, filling the plate with a buzzing blue-white light. Identical plates, one affixed to each wall, and another, larger plate on the ceiling burst to life with magical power. These particular plates had no active effect, rather they had a very specific purpose: dramatically amplifying the effects of any given spell cast in the AoE while the plates were active. 

Crafting them had been beyond tricky and prohibitively expensive, but the effect would be worth it. 

While Bad_Karma swore and struggled his way toward the edge of the sucking acid pit, Roark summoned his Initiate’s Spell Book above his left hand and cast a fairly standard Slow spell. 

[Selected target is Slowed! Movement speed reduced by 45% for 30 seconds.]

The magick exploded from Roark’s outthrust right palm, a globe of white light that slammed into Karma like a feather pillow. But the second the spell hit, the plates arrayed around the small room erupted in blinding light. Roark squinted and shielded his eyes with his free hand. The light died a second later, the plates becoming inert and lifeless—they were good for only a single use, but the effort had still been worth it. He received a notification: 

[Spell Amplifier! Selected target is Slowed! Movement speed reduced by 85% for 12 minutes.]

Among the other things Randy had told him, Roark had learned that Bad_Karma had a ridiculously high movement rate bonus. Though this Slow spell wouldn’t drop him to the level of a normal player, it would go a long way toward hobbling one of the hero’s biggest advantages. 

And now was the time to exploit just such an advantage.

Roark slapped yet another plate on the wall, this one positioned beside the first, which was now dull and lifeless. The new plate burst to life, and its brothers burned with blue life all around the room. Yes, not one set of spell-boosting plates, but two. Overkill was a term Roark had recently learned from PwnrBwner, and he felt it suited the situation well.

He pulled an unenchanted Peerless Slender Rapier of plain steel from his hip and padded forward along the walkway, gaining the measure—guadagnare la misura, entrare in misura­—then lunging in fast and deadly, stoccata, driving the tip of his blade between the creases of Bad_Karma’s left pauldron from above. The hero moved to slap the thrust away, but a moment too slow. The blade slipped through the heavy plates and bit into yielding flesh below. 

The instant his sword penetrated, Roark triggered his second spell, this one granted by his Hexorcist Class: Hex-Touch. Though Bad_Karma was at a far higher level, his skill points were heavily distributed in favor of Strength and Constitution, so his Intelligence was lower than Roark’s.

The hero’s arm batted Roark’s aside, tearing the rapier from his shoulder. At the contact, the spell took hold like an iron fist.

Roark had slotted the Hex-Touch in a fourth-level spell slot, extending the duration of the spell to eight hours. He focused on the attribute he wished to curse—Constitution—as stomach-churning power, like raw sewage, rushed out through his knuckles, down his sword, and into the Ascended Blood Sentinel’s body. A notice followed as soon as the spell landed. 

[Spell Amplifier! Selected target is Cursed! Constitution Stat reduced by 60 Points for 12 hours.]

Roark almost cackled as he pulled his sword free and backpedaled out of the room. 

Furious, Bad_Karma howled and cursed, finally pulling himself free from the burbling acid pit that had claimed a fair bit of his overall Health. Between Roark’s attacks, the poison working through Karma’s system, and the acid pit, Roark had managed to whittle down a fifth of the hero’s substantial Health bar. Roark lingered at the door, dropping to a knee with an engraver’s awl in hand. On a square of stone just inside the room was a mostly finished Curse-Chain—one that had proven to be particularly deadly, though effective. With a few quick marks, a notice appeared. 

[Would you like to Transmute Inscription to invent Curse Chain: Sucking Miasma of Death? Yes/No?

Note: There is no cost to attempt to invent Curse Chains, however not all combinations of runes and curses play nicely together. Success depends upon compatibility of runes and curses used and will not be revealed before the attempt to invent a Curse Chain is accepted. Failure comes with steep consequences.

Please inscribe responsibly.]

Roark accepted, knowing exactly what would follow. 

[Your invention of Sucking Miasma of Death has failed! Goodbye!]

The notice disappeared, immediately replaced by a cloud of toxic yellow fog. The fog churned and bubbled, moving at many times the speed normal fog would waft, but unlike the first time—when this very same spell had killed him in such a grisly fashion—Roark was ready. He slipped a transport gauntlet on over his right hand, instantly whisked away from the death-trap room and into the next chamber in his elaborate cogwork death machine. 

This room looked much the same as a the first, a rectangular space with one hallway leading away at the far end. Directly in the center of the room, however, was a large statue that resembled none other than Kaz the Gourmet. The statue was solid stone, a gray so dark it was nearly black. Roark broke into a steady trot, positioning himself behind the stone Kaz’s giant back, holding his breath as he waited for what would come next. Secretly, he was praying the Sucking Miasma of Death curse would kill Bad_Karma just as it had killed Roark what felt like a lifetime ago. 

But a second later there was a flash of light, and the hero appeared in the room, alive—though he looked far worse for the wear. His armor was heavily scorched, even cracked in places, and steam rose off him in waves. His overall Health had dropped by a full quarter, putting him down around seventy-five percent. Not even close to death, but far more damage than Roark had managed to do doing their time in the arena together, and Roark hadn’t suffered a single point of damage yet. 

“You keep running, dickweed,” Bad_Karma growled, clearly no longer having fun. “Your traps are gonna run out eventually. And when there’s no place left for you to run, I’m gonna hack you into pieces and camp this stupid dungeon until you give up on the server.” 

“Best of luck,” Roark said, leaning out from behind the Kaz statue. “Let me know how that goes. In the meantime…”

There was an audible click as Karma stepped on a pressure plate running the length of the floor. The Kaz statue’s mouth unhinged and dropped open, belching out a column of blue flame that burned like the surface of the sun and smelled curiously of bacon. 

Bad_Karma flicked up a bloody shield to defend himself against the devastating attack; he was so distracted, however, that he didn’t even see the two gleaming hammers, far larger than even Kaz could’ve handled, swing down from the ceiling. They hit with a clang, sandwiching the hero in between their blunt faces, then promptly exploded, sending fire and shrapnel spinning through the room. 

Roark, thankfully, was protected by the enormous statue in front of him. 

“I’M GONNA MURDER YOUR BITCH ASS!” Bad_Karma hollered at the top of his lungs, miraculously still alive. 

Roark just smiled and slipped from the room. 

Chapter 38

The Hero Falls

So it went for the next several minutes—though the time seemed to stretch and drag, oddly distorted by the intensity of the experience—Roark leading Bad_Karma from room to room, hallway to hallway, trap to trap. Acid-tipped darts in one section, poison-laced spike pits in others. There were deadfalls, razor-sharp pendulum axes, exploding heads, and of course Curses! All of the Curses!, Curse Chains, and Hexes Roark could possibly muster, each one designed not only to chip away at Bad_Karma’s Health, but more importantly to eat away each and every one of the hero’s natural advantages. 

A Curse-Chain of Withered Adroitness, crafted from a gold plate studded with jade and amethyst stones: -13% Dexterity.

A Hex of the Unholy Lich, robbing Bad_Karma of the beneficial effects from his Blood of the Damned, Necrotic Persistence, and Necropolis Commander passive abilities. 

Curse! of the Blunted Blade, which whittled down both his attack speed and overall attack power. 

Roark had thrown everything he had on this plan, sparing no possible expense. He’d spent all of the floor’s points and had used every crafting ingredient the dungeon had available, plus a fair number of items Randy had donated to the cause. The type of curses he’d created were unparalleled in their effectiveness, but they hadn’t come cheap. Roark didn’t have an ingot left to his name, and every precious stone was gone. Lapis lazuli, ruby, jade, amethyst, diamond, opal, topaz, and pearl—all used. Not so much as a blemished stone lined the shelves of his Enchanter’s vault. 

Most of these items couldn’t be retrieved or reused, which was a true shame. But if it allowed him to kill Bad_Karma, broker the alliance with the other dungeons, and take down Lowen, Roark would spend it all over again in a heartbeat. 

Roark stepped across the final teleportation plate, which teleported him into a boxy space at the very pinnacle of the fatal warren of rooms and passages. The room appeared to be completely closed off, no way in or out, though there was actually a small hidden passageway in the wall immediately behind him. It was impossible to find unless one knew it was there or was a master rogue.

Bad_Karma didn’t know, and he was a far cry from a fleet-fingered sneak thief. 

Other than that, the room was rather plain. No columns, no pits, no obvious traps. Though every inch of the walls and ceiling were covered with hair-fine containment script and rune-etched plates, in many ways the humble room looked like the crypts and tombs littered about Hearthworld. Fitting, since one way or another, someone would die there today. 

Roark flexed his fists and braced himself. This was easily the most dangerous part of the plan. The runes in this room were the most complicated of the lot and needed to be set off in a precise order. One misstep and he ran the risk of killing himself without springing the true trap at all.

The trick would be setting them off perfectly while staying alive. In such a small, confined space, Bad_Karma could easily kill him.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come, and drew his steel rapier, dropping into a terza guard, a knuckle down position that offered great flexibility whether on the attack or defense. 

Light flashed and Bad_Karma materialized before Roark, his face a twisted mask of hate, his billhook drawn and ready to kill. The Blood Sentinel took a quick scan of the room, clearly wary of whatever fresh hell this place contained, then smiled as he realized the truth: there was nowhere here for Roark to run. This was it. 

“End of the line, you modding piece of shit.” Bad _Karma circled left as he swung his weapon in deadly looping arcs. 

“It certainly is for one of us,” Roark returned grimly. He followed the Ascended Blood Sentinel’s lead, circling slowly.

“Gotta admit, you gave me a pretty good show,” Bad Karma said. “Maybe I should thank you. My numbers are through the roof, but Doctor Karma’s tired of playing around. It’s time for your one-shot. Say goodnight to my fans, loser.”

“Goodnight,” Roark snapped, shooting in, rapier lashing out, left to right in a horizontal tondo. 

Bad_Karma rushed forward, bloodred billhook meeting Roark’s forged steel with a clang that resounded off the walls. 

Even with all of the Curses! arrayed against him, Bad_Karma still hit like a ballista. Roark barely turned the hooked blade, then dove right, narrowly avoiding another vicious swipe. He came up on his feet, but instead of turning to face the hero, he spun on his heel and bolted for the far wall, triggering the first part of his trap. 

Bad_Karma’s billhook snagged his ankle as he ran, carving a terrible gash into his leg. He tripped and stumbled, shoulder ramming into a simple steel plate. 

The runes on the ceiling and floor flared to brilliant life with amethyst-colored light. 

Roark whirled and ducked in, knocking aside a vicious overhand strike that nearly took the head from his shoulders. But Roark was stronger than he’d ever been, barely a sliver of his own Health had drained away, and he could feel just how weak Bad_Karma had become. He forced Karma’s polearm aside, lunged in, and drove an elbow into the hero’s face. The Ascended Blood Sentinel stumbled back, one hand coming loose from the polearm and pinwheeling as he fought to keep his balance.

Roark took the opportunity to dart across the room. One final plate sat flush with the floor, this one a disk as big around as a wagon wheel. 

He dropped low, trading his Kaiken Dagger for an enchanter’s awl. 

His hands flew through the motions, etching the last line of text, binding this plate to one that Griff had already placed in the depths of the Wareling Deeps, outside of Frostrime.

But he wasn’t fast enough. Just before he finished the last jot, the crimson billhook slammed into his back, pushing through Roark’s gut and pinning him to the floor. A spike of pain ripped through his body, his limbs spasming like mad as Bad_Karma’s magic went to work, siphoning his blood away, feeding it to the Ascended Blood Sentinel. 

“So close,” Bad_Karma said, leaning over, his face hanging upside down above Roark’s, clearly savoring in his inevitable victory. “Any last words you want to want to share”—he tapped at the edge of his eye, perhaps indicating those “viewers” he’d mentioned—“before I take your head off and turn it into a trophy?”

“Yes,” Roark croaked, blood leaking from his lips as his HP dropped faster and faster, down to fifty percent now. “Never gloat.” Pushing past the agony, Roark slashed the awl across the plate, finishing the final mark and accepting the Curse Chain before Bad_Karma could stop him. 

A new set of glowing runes exploded to life along the walls, these pulsing with a sea-foam green glow. There was a crack, and then icy salt water gushed in from the ceiling and walls as a portal opened to the bottom of Frostrime’s bay. 

The surge of seawater blasted Bad_Karma from his feet, slamming him into the far wall. The hero somehow managed to keep hold of his weapon, tearing the hooked blade free from Roark’s gut in the process. Roark was down to thirty percent Health, but his filigreed vial was no longer plummeting like a stone.

With a groan, Roark pushed himself up, struggling to regain his feet under the onslaught of water. Across the small room, Bad_Karma was having an equally hard time standing under the deluge. 

Squinting through the water, Bad_Karma stabbed his billhook at Roark. Lava flowed through Roark’s veins as the attack tried to boil his blood and failed.

Roark threw back his head and laughed. “You’re a bit of a one-act play, aren’t you?”

With a roar, the Ascended Blood Sentinel rushed Roark, charging through the icy water, arms and legs pumping as he fought through the surge. The water was churning around their waists and slowing Roark’s movements. His curses had taken a toll on Bad_Karma, but still, the hero was ungodly fast. The Ascended Blood Sentinel cut through the waters like a knife, throwing rooster tails of spray up on either side. 

Roark readied his rapier and pulled free his Kaiken Dagger, adding the short blade to his off hand as he set himself for the coming onslaught. He was so close to victory now. Just a little longer and it would be too late for Bad_Karma.

Bad_Karma swept his billhook at Roark’s throat, but Roark pulled his body out of line at the last moment and hit the hero with an Off-hand Combo. His spin was slowed by the rushing water quickly rising past his chest, but the first strike made contact. A bright red line appeared across Bad_Karma’s cheek, but his Health bar barely moved.

The hero whipped his billhook around faster than Roark could backpedal, slashing the blade in a downward diagonal, laying open Roark’s jaw and biting into his collarbone with a sickening crunch. Troll blood poured into the icy spray as it crept up to his throat. Over half of the red liquid remaining in Roark’s filigreed Health vial drained away from the single hit. Down to a mere fifteen percent—just a single strike or two away from death.

But now even Bad_Karma was struggling to move in the rising waters. While the hero fought to move his billhook and arms in the cast for what would undoubtedly be the Summoned Blood Golem spell, Roark pulled an Absolute Health potion from his Inventory and downed the sickly strawberry-wine-flavored brew. Brought to you by Coca-Cola! Thanks for drinking! His Health vial refilled to the top just a moment before blinding pain pierced his chest. Bad_Karma had speared him through with the billhook once again.

It hurt like seven hells going in and double that when the Ascended Blood Sentinel ripped it back out. But the water had risen over their heads, leaving them both afloat in the little cell.

Roark ducked under, reaching for another Health potion.

[Action failed! You cannot drink while underwater.]

He would have to surface if he wanted to heal. Whatever Bad_Karma had torn out of him on the end of that polearm must have been vital—he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t have to fight. The water was about to take care of the Ascended Blood Sentinel for him.

He used his wings and one arm to pull his head up out of the water, coming up halfway across the crypt from Bad_Karma. The hero looked on the verge of panic, struggling to keep his face above water as he fought against the heavy plate mail weighing him down. 

“What the fuck did you do to me!” Bad_Karma screamed. “Why won’t my Water Breathing work?” There was an edge of genuine panic underlaying his words as though he finally realized just how dire his circumstances were. 

“Because that was my final curse, mate!” Roark crowed, bobbing on the far side of the room. He spat a mouthful of water out so he could add, “This whole room is cursed. Any items with the Water Breathing effect are rendered useless for five minutes—more than enough time to drown you.” 

“You fucking pyscho!” the Blood Sentinel yelled, trading out his billhook for a Town Portal scroll.

“I have one for that, too,” Roark called triumphantly, treading the water with overlong arms and powerful legs. “Second to last.” Roark choked, a bit of blood trickling from his lips. “Portal magic only works into the room, not out.”

As he said it, the hero ripped the seal off the scroll. Violet light flared up, then fizzled out.

“See?” Roark said before tipping back the Absolute Health potion. The chunk of missing flesh in his chest repaired itself with a painful but fast knitting sensation, and feeling returned to his legs. He gave his arm and wings a rest and kicked to stay afloat for the final few minutes of Bad_Karma’s life.

“You’re crazy!” Bad_Karma pressed his face against the ceiling, trying to stay within the air bubble until the very last of it was consumed by the water. “You’re going to drown in here, too!”

Roark chuckled. “Afraid not, mate.” Still kicking furiously, he pulled out his grimoire, fighting to keep the pages in the rapidly diminishing air. “One last trick.”

He cast his final spell, a Transmutation cantrip he’d picked up just a few hours ago. As the words of the incantation left his mouth, his legs twisted and shifted, forming into a powerful tail capped by a broad fin that glimmered with blue-green scales. His arms thinned out, webbing sprouting up between his fingers while his wings vanished and gill slits bloomed on either side of his throat like strange flowers. 

His transformation to a selkie took less than a few seconds. 

Selkies didn’t have the most versatile range of transformations—basically they could take the shape of a human or revert into their natural monster form. No more, no less. But since selkies could breathe underwater without any form of enchantment, they were perfect for this last leg of combat.

A moment later, the icy water closed over their heads. Roark let himself drift, weightless. It was actually quite relaxing underwater when one didn’t need to surface for air. He had wondered what it would feel like to breathe underwater while he hunted down the selkie off the coast of Epsor Loch—whether it would be similar to when water went up your nose while swimming—but the sensation was more like breathing in a damp spring fog. Cool, wet, even refreshing. 

Across the crypt, Bad_Karma was clawing at the ceiling. His cheeks and chest were puffed out, holding in his final breath. Overhead, the Ascended Blood Sentinel’s Health bar flashed and shook as if it were the creature that needed to breathe. With every second, another little slice of red was carved away.

When Bad_Karma glanced his way, Roark smiled and waved a webbed hand at the hero. Then he took an exaggerated breath and let it out. Little currents disturbed the water in front of his face, but they were lost in the rushing swirl of the water still pouring into the crypt. Bad_Karma’s face twisted with hatred, but he turned back to his attempts to escape. Quickly realizing the futility of trying to scratch his way out of this watery grave with his gauntleted hands, the hero pulled his polearm and dug the billhook into the space between stones, trying to pry one free.

Roark’s brows rose. He hadn’t considered that possibility. But this was why Bad_Karma was the top hero in Hearthworld. He was nowhere near as stupid as the rest of them.

Roark pulled his dagger once more as he swam over to the Ascended Blood Sentinel. He didn’t know what would happen if Bad_Karma got a stone loose in the ceiling—whether his Curse Chain would be destroyed as the surface it was inscribed in was destroyed or the water would gush out the top, bursting through the weakened point—but he had seen Kaz nearly punch a hole through a wall before, and he couldn’t take the chance this close to victory. Already the Health bar over Bad_Karma’s head had dropped below fifty percent. He just had to keep the hero there for another thirty seconds…

But as Roark swam up, Bad_Karma whirled and jabbed the billhook into Roark’s guts, tearing out a chunk of vital organs and muscle as he ripped the hooked blade back out. Underwater, Roark’s vocal cords didn’t make a sound though he felt the scream as the blade tore it from his throat. The liquid in his Health vial dropped below half once more, but he forced himself forward. Bad_Karma’s was at a quarter, even bolstered by the bit of Health he stole from Roark. Fifteen more seconds…

With the water hampering his every movement and his flagging oxygen quickly killing him, Bad_Karma’s next swipe of the billhook was clumsy and slow. But Roark wasn’t moving much faster with his guts torn out and spilling into the water. The billhook tagged him just above the left hip, stealing a much smaller fraction of his Health this time. Roark’s filigreed vial dropped by a handful, no more.

A flurry of bubbles escaped Bad_Karma’s mouth and nose as he exhaled for his last time in Hearthworld. Less than a tenth of the red bar over his head remained. It was flashing out a critical warning. The Ascended Blood Sentinel cocked back his billhook for a final plunge through Roark’s heart.

But just before the hero did, the last of his Health bar expired. Bad_Karma’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body going limp. Slowly, dreamily, the dark crimson plate mail dragged his corpse to the floor of the room like an anchor.

Aching, cold, exhausted, and full of holes bleeding little clouds of selkie green into the icy seawater, Roark kicked his way down to the corpse and removed the helmet. He got a fistful of Bad_Karma’s hair and started sawing his way through the hero’s neck with his Kaiken Dagger. It was no easy task, removing a head underwater, but eventually he cut through the last string of muscle holding it to the body.

Prize in hand, Roark swam to the portal plate that had transported Bad_Karma into the crypt. With his free hand, he flipped it over. Another Curse Chain was inscribed on the back. Not a destination definition, but a transport chain connected to a portal plate in the Dungeon Lord’s throne room. This one affected only Jotnars level 36 and above. 

Chapter 39

The Grand Prize

Roark had hoped to arrive in the throne room with a little more ceremony, but with the entrails spilling out of his gut and the rush of seawater that was transported through the portal along with him, he spilled out onto the floor like a fish from an overturned barrel. And since he was still in selkie form, the comparison was even more apt. Reversing the Transmutation magick, Roark quickly found himself back in his own shape, though covered from head to toe in frigid water, his armor smeared with blood and guts. He floundered to his feet, water sheeting from his badly damaged wings.

A scaly mass of shell and claws sprinted across the floor and skidded to a stop at Roark’s side, for once not taking him to the ground. Roark grabbed onto one of Mac’s larger shell spikes with his free hand to hold himself up. Bloody hells, he needed a Health potion.

A throat cleared impatiently. Thirteen Infernal Dungeon Lords—the original seven had invited friends, it seemed—lounged on the multitude of cushions once occupied by the Troll High Court, staring at Roark.

“The head of Bad_Karma, as promised,” he choked out. 

Roark tossed the head to Shess the Shrewd, wincing at the pull of his torn abdominal muscles even though his Rapid Regeneration was already working desperately to repair the damage. The snake woman caught it easily, inspecting the thing as if to make certain it was no trap. Maybe she’d heard about his cursed heads. Hells, since Bad_Karma hadn’t been able to shut his mouth about viewers, it was possible she’d even seen the fight firsthand.

“It isss him,” she hissed, turning to the other Dungeon Lords. “Sssee for yourssselvesss.”

While the head was being passed around for verification, an Absolute Health potion appeared in Roark’s wavering vision.

“Drink this before you fall over, Dungeon Lord,” Zyra whispered, her voice both pleased and teasing.

He accepted the brew gladly and downed it, so grateful he hardly grimaced at the taste. His hanging guts all pulled themselves back into their proper positions, and the hard muscles of his stomach laced themselves up tight. He sighed with relief as the pain disappeared and his filigreed Health vial topped off.

“Thanks,” he told the hooded Reaver. 

But she was stepping away from him like a servant being dismissed. He started to move toward her, but Mac began to growl at something behind him. 

A deep, raw voice like river stones rasping over one another spoke up.

“Roark the Griefer, Lord of the Troll Nation,” Beryl King the Severe intoned, his crystal joints grinding as he held up the head of Bad_Karma. “On this day, we the Infernal Seven hereby swear to fight alongside you as allies.” He swept one crystal hand at Gevaudan the Terrible, Ishri the Cunning, Shess the Shrewd, Rohibim the Deceiver, and Drokara the Gullet, all of whom were nodding. Ko the faceless had no face to nod, but she projected a feeling of agreement into Roark’s mind. The Beryl King turned and indicated the unknown Dungeon Lords, a variety of creatures that looked like they’d crawled out of the depths of someone’s worst nightmare vault. “We bring many mighty associates to join in your war as well. Will you have them?”

“Of course,” Roark said, patting Mac’s scaly head to let him know this wasn’t an enemy. “As long as they follow the laws of the Troll Nation and agree to aid us in battle, they’re welcome to join.”

[Congratulations! You have completed the quest Karma’s Head! You have made an alliance with the Seven Dungeon Lords, gained 70,000 Experience, and received the Eternal Blessing of the Seven!

To Maintain the Alliance: Allow the subjects of the Seven Dungeon Lords to shop, trade, train, and dine at the Troll Nation Marketplace.

To Break the Alliance: Bar the subjects of the Seven Dungeon Lords from the Troll Nation Marketplace, or challenge one of the Seven for Dungeon Lord of their native dungeon.]

As Roark closed his mystic grimoire on this page, a scrap of parchment appeared, this one with a much shorter note.

[You have received the Eternal Blessing of the Seven! Recruit willing monsters from any aligned dungeon, adding them to your permeant roster. 

Congratulations! You have leveled up your Troll Leadership Skill to level 5! Even other Dungeon Lords recognize your authority and unparalleled leadership! Infernal monsters across Hearthworld hold you in the highest regard and will flock to your cause!]

And as he put that scrap of parchment aside, an ascending chime rang through the throne room and golden light shined from his skin.

LEVEL UP!

Not wanting to spend too much time with his face in his mystic grimoire while the rest of the Dungeon Lords were waiting on him, Roark quickly glanced over his character page.

Along with not one but two new levels, Roark had also received new spell slots—including, finally, his first level 9. His heart raced, pumping burning blood through his body, as he realized he could write a portal spell back to Traisbin right then. The image of Marek putting Talise on his hip and walking out of the gates of the von Graf Manor played through his mind like a snatch of haunting melody he couldn’t shake. He could go back tonight—if the portal didn’t kill him horribly—and find out the truth about what had happened. He could finally have his revenge on the Tyrant King for everything the bastard had taken.

Except, he realized, it would be a pointless endeavor while Lowen was still out there. Roark could jump back and forth until his luck ran out with portals, but that horse’s ass would thwart his every attempt to kill Marek. It was the reason the Tyrant King kept him around. Besides, Roark couldn’t leave the Cruel Citadel unprotected—Lowen would attack sooner or later, and if he found Roark gone, there was every chance he would use Roark’s friends as leverage to get the World Stone Pendant. And truthfully, if Zyra or Kaz was in Lowen’s hands, Roark wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay away.

No, the only way past Lowen was through him. Roark would have to kill the mage and secure Hearthworld against further invasion before he could take down Marek Konig Ustar.

An impatient throat clear snapped Roark’s attention back to the Keep’s throne room. He would have to assign the points later, when he wasn’t entertaining thirteen Infernal Dungeon Lords who wanted to pledge their allegiance to him.

He closed his mystic grimoire, and one by one, he accepted the pledges of each of the Dungeon Lords in the throne room, blessing them with his Lesser Vassal Authority, ensuring they would be well and truly bound to his cause. Mac stayed at his side, the dutiful guard dog protecting his master until he was certain none of the new arrivals would try to attack. Though most of them barely glanced at the Young Turtle Dragon before continuing with their pledges, Roark let the bloodthirsty little beast think it was him they were afraid of.

When the oaths of fealty were finished, the throne room’s doors opened and a Knight Thursr in a white chef’s toque appeared.

“The celebration feast for Roark the Griefer’s victory is now served in the Troll Nation Inn and Café, if the Dungeon Lords would like to retire to its common room.” Kaz caught Roark’s gaze and grinned. “The meal features the newest discovery of the Troll Gourmet and that greatest of all savory meats: bacon.”

Mac chirped gleefully at the word bacon, then looked up at Roark, tail slapping against his shell with enthusiasm.

Roark chuckled. “Let’s go, mate.”

The Young Turtle Dragon let out a joyful bark and bounded toward the door, nearly knocking Kaz off his feet.

The Mighty Gourmet huffed indignantly, then raised his chin and proceeded to lead the way out of the Keep and across the fifth floor, his white hat a beacon to the following Dungeon Lords. There was much excitement among the ones who had tasted food before, and many of the Seven spent the walk to the Troll Nation Marketplace explaining to their new associates about eating. Ko the Faceless in particular seemed overjoyed, her scythe-like mantid hands scraping over one another eagerly as she projected food-related emotions to the new Dungeon Lords.

Roark hung back, letting the lot of them draw ahead a good distance before following. Though he’d tried to push it back, thoughts of his eventual return to Traisbin kept churning to the surface of his mind.

“Look, dude”—PwnrBwner_OG fell in beside him, dragging his focus back to the present—“you’re still a major pain in the balls for griefing me all those times, and a total dickhead, and nobody but a total tard would buy your fake pirate accent…”

“If this is your attempt at flattery, I think you’re misunderstanding the concept,” Roark said.

They stepped onto the transport plate outside the settlement walls and were instantly teleported into the outskirts of the marketplace.

PwnrBwner snorted. “What I’m trying to say is, from one gamer to another, your skills are pretty decent. Especially considering you’re not even from a place with video games. And the way you killed Karma? Pretty epic.”

“So, what’s next?” another voice asked.

Roark managed to stifle his reflex to cast an Infernal Torment, but only just, as Randy the Arboreal Herald Admin appeared at his opposite side.

“Could you give me some warning when you’re about to do that, mate?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Randy blinked owlishly. 

Roark paused, surveying both heroes carefully. After a long beat, he extended his hand. “I wanted to thank you both. I know this has been difficult, but I couldn’t have accomplished any of this without you.”

“You’re damn right you couldn’t,” PwnrBwner said, shaking his hand. 

Randy was a bit more gracious. “I’m happy to do it. To actually make a difference for once, I mean. I think… I think you’re doing something good, and I’m glad to be a part of it.”

“Be that as it may,” Roark continued, “you both took tremendous risks to help me, and I know there are likely going to be consequences for your actions. Betraying your guild’s founder won’t win you any favors, PwnrBwner, and Randy, going against the gods of Hearthworld themselves…” Roark shook his head in awe. “Although it’s a bit unorthodox, I want you both to know that you have a place here in the Troll Nation. And to that end, I have a gift to bestow. I’m not sure what exactly this will do to heroes, I’ve only ever tried it on Hearthworld beings, but if you would let me, I would knight you both as my Greater Vassals.”

“Greater Vassal,” PwnrBwner said, rolling the words across his tongue. “Not sure I like the sound of that. I mean, we’re like cool or whatever, but I ain’t your bitch, dude.” 

“What would that entail, precisely?” Randy asked, ignoring the High Combat Cleric. 

“Honestly,” Roark replied with a shrug, “I’m not sure exactly. It’s magick of the World Stone Pendant”—he pulled the amulet out from beneath his armor—“but Kaz, Zyra, Griff, Mai, even Macaroni, they are what they are in large part because they became Greater Vassals. As I said, I’m not sure what effect it will have on beings from your dimension. You both already have awareness and abilities. Maybe it will do nothing, though I wouldn’t put my money on that outcome.”

Randy dropped to a knee at once, bowing his head.

PwnrBwner remained firmly standing, arms crossed, a glower plastered on his face. But after a handful of seconds, he too nodded in agreement. 

Roark placed one claw-tipped hand on each hero and focused his will, his intention. The World Stone Pendant burned ice-cold through his leathers, and tawny light flared from the stone and from beneath each of his palms. When he let go of the pair, the glowing imprint of his hand remained for several seconds before disappearing.

“Huh.” PwnrBwner stared at his until it disappeared. “Weird.”

“So, what do we do now?” Randy asked, getting to his feet. “Do we go after Lowen right away? Or do we have more prep work to do?”

They resumed their trek into the marketplace.

“We won’t go after Lowen tonight,” Roark said. “Tonight, the troops need to celebrate their victory.”

They stopped outside Kaz and Mai’s inn. As if to punctuate Roark’s claim, the chaos of the cheerful celebration inside spilled out into the street in the form of several drunken low-level Thursrs and high-level Changelings crowing a bawdy song at the top of their lungs. While the door stood open, the merry din of laughing and shouting from the common room washed over them. Inside, Roark could see Kaz and Mai making eyes at one another as they bustled around with plates of sizzling bacon. Overhead, the spiky mound of Mac’s shell traversed the ceiling of the common room while Changelings and Dungeon Lords alike tossed morsels of food up to him. Roark searched for Zyra’s dark hood and snowy curls among the throwers, but couldn’t find her.

Roark’s expression darkened along with his grim vision of the battles to come. Even with their wave of new allies, he felt certain the Troll Nation wouldn’t have much cause for revelry once the war began. Lowen would make Azibek look like a childhood bully. 

“Tomorrow we’ll prepare for war,” Roark said. “It’s time Lowen fell on his blade and drowned in his own blood. And when that’s done, I intend to head back to Traisbin and bring the battle to Marek.”

“Sweet,” PwnrBwner said, smacking a gauntleted fist into his palm. “Asshole hunting season’s about to open.”

“Wow,” Randy said. “I don’t know. You might want to rephrase that. It sounds… gross.”

“Shut up, Randy.”

The Arboreal Herald muttered something under his breath.

Roark smiled. “Why don’t you enjoy the feast, gentlemen,” he cut in before a real fight could break out between the two heroes. “You earned this as much as anyone.” 

“I’m already late for work,” PwnrBwner said. “Might as well go full hooky and skip tonight. You in, Randy?”

“Eat, drink, and be merry, gentlemen, for tomorrow we might be fired,” Randy said with a wry shrug.

“Whatever, weirdo. Come on.” PwnrBwner nodded at Roark. “Catch you inside, jerkbag.”

“That’s Dungeon Lord to you, Greater Vassal,” Roark said with a smirk.

PwnrBwner held up his middle finger in a way Roark sensed was supposed to offend him.

With that, the High Combat Cleric and the Arboreal Herald climbed onto the inn’s porch and made their way past the group of raucously singing Trolls to the feast inside.

A curl of inky smoke wafted over Roark’s shoulder.

“Are you going to make an appearance at the festivities, Dungeon Lord, or just stand out here and brood all night?”

Roark turned to face Zyra. “I haven’t decided yet. If I’m honest, neither sounds particularly appealing.”

The hooded Reaver ghosted up to him on silent feet.

“Then allow me to suggest a third option,” she said, taking hold of him by his rapier’s belt and pulling him closer. “Collect on your bet.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach and his throat went dry, but he slid his arms around her waist as if he had all the confidence in the world. She leaned into him, warm and soft, her lips a breath from his. The scent of sweet, poisonous blossoms filled his nose.

“You don’t know what I want yet,” he said.

She nipped his bottom lip, then pressed a kiss to it. “I’m willing to go double or nothing with you that I can guess.”