Civil War: Rogue Dungeon (Chapter 9 - 10)

Chapter 9

Respawn

The driving music of war laid the backdrop to Roark’s journey through death. Though he was incorporeal—a very disconcerting sensation indeed—he could see the winged Infernali and Malaika battled high over the Hearth, the volcano Hearthworld was named for. That were brilliant creatures. The Malaika held aloft on golden wings, surrounded by halos of brilliant opalescent light. The Infernali were equally impressive; a dark counterpoint to the Malaika, though swathed in shimmering purple. Seeing them battle, Roark couldn’t help but think of Lowen, the Tyrant King’s right-hand mage. 

Somehow, the mage had followed him through the dimensions to this place. A thing Roark didn’t understand—a thing that should’ve been possible! Impossible or not, though, Lowen had done it. He was here in Hearthworld somewhere, and bearing the image of the Malaika, no less. And if he was here, it would only be a matter of time before Marek Konig Ustar followed. Roark could almost see Lowen in his head, held aloft by the speckled brown-and-white wings of a cana-hiri falcon, his humanoid body wrapped in soft brown leathers crisscrossed with buckles and straps. 

A stern reminder of just what was on the line. That he needed to move quickly before Marek arrived in Hearthworld and managed to consolidate power here. Which he would. If there was one thing Marek Konig Ustar and his lackeys were good at, it was consolidating power. 

Roark pushed thoughts of Lowen and Marek from his mind as scenes of the younger races—elves, rogs, and humans—joined the epic battle, while the wizened olms took up residence in mountain caves, waiting for the war to end so they could return order to the chaos one way or another. 

Roark watched it all with bitter detachment. There was no doubt those Reavers and Thursr had been sent by Azibek the Cruel—they’d openly admitted as much. The question was how the bastard had known he and his Honor Guard would be traveling down to the lower floors so soon. Another Hellbender spying, invisible to the Troll eye? Or perhaps the Jotnar Exarch had simply thought far enough ahead to outpace Roark’s plans. One didn’t get to be Dungeon Lord by failing to guess his opponent’s actions.

A nasty lesson, to be sure. Best he learn it now, though, while he still only had one level to lose, than later when he was only one level away from evolution.

He had to stay one step ahead of Azibek. The weapons trainer afforded them a small leg up, but it wasn’t enough. The Dread Reaver and Brute Thursr from the ambush had been level fifteen and thirteen respectively. And the pair of Elite Reavers couldn’t have been greater than level 14. Which meant they’d likely come from either the third or fourth floor, but not the fifth. They were far too low-level for that. And if those early floors were already dead set against him, it could be problematic, to say the least. 

If he couldn’t work out an alliance, he’d have to formerly challenge and kill the Overseers, which could be a dicey prospect. After all, the fastest way to turn the ruling class against you was to start taking out their fellow gentry. No, he would have to find a way to convince them peacefully, if possible. The question was, how? Any idiot understood that the demon you knew was better than the demon you didn’t. Hells, Azibek could even be filling their heads with all sorts of propaganda against Roark. The only way to find out for sure was to venture down …

The world before Roark’s currently nonexistent eyes went black and lines of golden text began to appear before him, screaming into the darkness.

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A single eerie minor note wafted along as if carried by an unfelt breeze, slowly swelling into a haunting melody, as the scent of smoke and molten earth curled in Roark’s non-existent nostrils.

HEARTHWORLD, the final line of golden text proclaimed somberly.

A bustling marketplace—not Averi City’s bazaar, Roark realized, but one nearly identical to it—filled with vendors under flamboyant canopies, their wooden stalls showcasing weapons, armor, jewelry, gemstones, food, and drinks. Heroes of every shape, size, and color combination wandered through the stands wearing a mishmash of armor, robes, and helms of varied quality and infernal or divine alignment, chatting or negotiating with the vendors and one another.

Roark readied himself. Last time, this scene had come just before resurrection.

The golden text returned, stretching over the heads of the heroes below.

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Roark didn’t even try to understand the foreign words floating before him, just brushed them aside. Surprisingly, they went.

A feeling as if he were liquifying trickled through his muscles and bones. He had felt it before the first time he’d died, but it was still strange. As if he were being gently dissolved bit by bit for reconstitution elsewhere. The marketplace vanished around him in a swirl, leaving nothing but blackness behind.

From the blackness came one blood-red word: Respawning …

Roark opened his eyes to find himself in the throne room in the midst of a battle he hadn’t started, wearing nothing but a threadbare loincloth. 

Weapons rang against one another or thudded into flesh. Shouting and the grunts of the injured filled in what earspace the clang of metal on metal didn’t, and the room around Roark was alive with shifting and whirling with bodies. Nameplates floated in the air overhead like tiny personal rain clouds. Kaz and seven first floor Thursrs were facing down a single olm in shining scale mail—[BrokeBoi69]—a heavily muscled rog with a flowing top knot—[Skeeter3.0]—and a pale elf with golden hair known as [Randy_McElvenwood], each one between level twelve and fifteen. Zyra and Mac were nowhere to be seen, but the familiar thorny silhouette of a level twenty-two High Combat Cleric had taken their place.

[PwnrBwner_OG.]

Somehow the jackass had managed to get his gear back.

Roark reached for his Slender Rapier only to find it missing. Frantically, he pulled up his Mystic Grimoire, searching his Inventory.

No rapier, no dagger, no leather armor. No wand or weapons. No potions. Nothing but the World Stone Pendant and his soul-bound Initiate’s Spellbook. And, of course, the dirty loincloth doing a lackluster job of preserving his modesty.

Hastily, he glanced at his character page, noting that he had dropped back down to level 8, though his Health and Infernal Magick had returned in full when he respawned. The Attribute Points he’d invested at level 9 were also absent. Still, it could’ve been worse. He could have been naked and with no soul-bound items.

“Roark is back!” Kaz crowed ecstatically. “Finally!”

PwnrBwner_OG’s head whipped around as if someone had slapped him. When his gaze settled on Roark, the High Combat Cleric aimed his Mace of Thorn Tethers at Roark’s chest.

“Ohoho.” PwnrBwner_OG’s voice grated down Roark’s spinal column like claws on ice. “Just in time for me to wipe you off the map, you cheating, modding, taint-wrinkle.”

He slammed the head of the mace on the floor and thorny whips erupted from the stone, surging at Roark’s feet. 

Roark leapt away, throwing himself into a roll and coming up to the dais. He grabbed his Spellbook, as he jumped up onto the platform; the familiar numb tingling crept down his left hand, as the book levitated open over his palm. The brambles slapped and lashed toward him, hitting nothing more than the steps. Apparently he was outside their reach, since none managed to hit him.

Across the room, the High Combat Cleric was already shouting at whatever forces passed for divinity in Hearthworld. The thorn tethers had merely been a warm-up, it seemed.

Quickly, Roark scribbled out a simple Rebound Spell in one of his empty level two spell slots. His neat, precise letters filled the page, then snapped into place as the magic of this world altered his wording to fit its arbitrary rules.

[45% of all damage done to target will rebound on the opponent for the next 30 seconds.]

PwnrBwner_OG finished his chant, ending on a shout that shook the throne room like an earthquake. A blast of raw electrical power surged forward and blew Roark off his feet, slamming him into the wall between two of the glowing stained-glass windows. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and the sizzling shock that rolled through his lean muscles stole away a handful of his Health, but he was happy to see PwnrBwner_OG across the room struggling to regain his feet as well. The bit of Health the High Combat Cleric had lost was nearly invisible to the naked eye, but Roark knew the spell had taken it.

Roark scribbled furiously, inscribing his next two spells while PwnrBwner_OG recovered.

“You think you’re so clever, huh?” the High Combat Cleric snarled, advancing with his mace raised. He battered the ground again, and again the thorny whips chased Roark to the edge of their reach. “Well, I know what you’ve been doing, writing in your own spells and shit. You ain’t no mob, you’re a player. A dirty, griefing player. That’s right, I got you figured out.”

Roark snorted, finishing the second spell. “I seriously doubt that, mate.”

He cast Spectral Hands at PwnrBwner_OG’s feet. 

[A field of spectral hands erupts from the floor, grabbing and holding any enemy for 30 sec – (1 sec x opponent’s character level), in exchange for 1 HP x caster’s character level.]

Ghostly blue hands, with overlong spindly fingers, reached up from the stone floor below, grasping and clutching at the cleric’s Thorny Armor Boots. The red in Roark’s filigreed vial dipped a notch as the spell took its required Health. 

PwnrBwner_OG immediately began hammering the ethereal hands with his mace, but they didn’t dissipate or release him—and wouldn’t for another seven seconds and counting.

Roark cast the second spell, a modified version of the stone lance he had last carved as a blood cantrip into his arm.

In his spell book, he’d written: A stone lance shoots from my palm, through the heart of my target.

And the book had replied with

[Congratulations, you have inscribed Stone Lance in the Initiate’s Spell Book! 

Stone Lance can be cast (1) time per inscription! 

Base Damage: 50 HP to target, +50% chance of Critical Hit.

Critical Hit deals 2x damage to target.

Cooldown period between casting Stone Lance and re-inscription: (2) hours!]

The lance tore from Roark’s palm, dragging a shout of pain from his throat as it went. PwnrBwner_OG twisted away at the last second, the lance plunging through his shoulder instead of his chest. Roark cursed. He’d missed the heart by a long shot, but the red bar over the cleric’s head dipped down to three-quarters full nevertheless.

“Little bitch!” PwnrBwner_OG snarled, snapping the protruding end of the lance off with his rose mace. The ghostly hands grasping at his ankles dissipated, and he smirked at Roark. “Now you’re in big, big trouble.”

The High Combat Cleric raised his mace to the sky with his undamaged arm and shouted again in that undulating language Roark couldn’t understand.

Thinking back on their last face-to-face battle, Roark started inscribing a counter to the spell he guessed PwnrBwner was casting.

Sure enough, as the cleric gave a final shout, lightning forked across the throne room ceiling and thunder boomed. Rain poured in sheets from nowhere, blistering Roark’s leathery white skin.

Roark cast his counterspell, which occupied his only level 3 spell slot.

[Rain heals all Infernal creatures 10HP per second.]

With every stinging raindrop that fell, a surge of red poured back into his filigreed Health bar. And not just him, but all of his troops within the Throne Room. Trolls had a naturally high Regeneration Rate, but nothing that could come close to this. 

Roark couldn’t help but grin smugly. 

PwnrBwner, however, didn’t take it quite so well. Nearly shaking with fury, the High Combat Cleric roared and sprinted across the floor, swinging his rose mace at Roark’s head. Roark whirled away and inscribed another Stone Lance into his spell book. PwnrBwner_OG followed, swinging wildly. Roark dodged and ducked, forcing himself not to pull his body out of line or take three steps away when one would suffice. What he wouldn’t give for his rapier. The cleric was unhinged, his attacks insane with anger. Sloppy. Any swordsman worth his blade could exploit mindless fury and extract a steep price paid in blood.

Proving his point to himself, Roark sidestepped a vicious swipe—still close enough to feel the wind of the rose mace—then opened his hand and fired off the second Stone Lance at PwnrBwner_OG. This one lodged in the High Combat Cleric’s side and dropped his red bar down to less than half.

It also made him even angrier. He screamed at the sky, his face red, and leapt after Roark again, sending raw purple energy streaking through Roark’s body. The electricity seared away several points of his Health and knocked him off his feet, but the rain continued to pour, bringing them right back to him.

Roark hit the ground and rolled, narrowly missing a blow from the mace that cracked one of the flagstones.

“There’s too many of them and they’re healing like crazy!” came a cry from behind them. “Fall back! Retreat!”

This stopped PwnrBwner_OG mid-swing. “Da fuck?”

Not far away, BrokeBoi69 stumbled backward toward the portcullis, his paddlelike tail whipping behind him as he threw shurikens into the crowd of Thursrs advancing on him as he went. 

“I paid your sorry asses to kill this bag-rash, not run away like little girls!” PwnrBwner_OG yelled, spittle flying from his lips.

“Screw it, dude,” the elf, Randy_McElvenwood, said, laying down a wall of fire to back off Kaz and the pair of level five Thursrs harrying her. “We just wanted to see what was up with these freaks. A couple hunnies in gold and a merc tag ain’t worth dying down here.” She turned and ran for the exit.

The rain cut out sharply.

“No!” PwnrBwner_OG slammed his mace into the floor. Thorn tethers tripped the olm and anchored the elf to the spot. “No one’s going anywhere until the Griefer is dead! That was the deal!”

To prove his point, the High Combat Cleric sprinted past Roark, past the olm, the rog, and the elf, and kicked the portcullis lever with the flat of his heavy boot. The pitted iron grate fell with a metallic clang that Roark felt in his feet.

“What the hell, man?” Skeeter3.0 snapped. “I just got this shield and you’re gonna make me lose it down here?!”

“Yeah, assface, what’s your problem?” Randy_McElvenwood yelled, a hint of panic in the words.

“My problem is I payed a buttload of money to a buttload of losers who won’t even kill one freaking Troll!” PwnrBwner_OG spat. “You wanna be cowards? Then die like cowards!”

With that, he shot a bolt of lightning at Randy_McElvenwood. The crackling purple leapt from the pale elf to BrokeBoi69 behind her. The thorn tethers kept them from being thrown off their feet, but the elf dropped dead in the tangle of thorns.

“Aw, what?” Skeeter3.0 yelled. “You dick! You killed Randy!”

“You got a problem with it?!”

Kaz caught Roark’s eye as this drama unfolded. Roark felt a corner of his lips turn up and he shrugged. He was certainly interested to see who the psychotic cleric would kill next. But they also needed the Experience griefing these heroes would bring them, and standing around watching PwnrBwner_OG murder his own kind—while entertaining—wouldn’t result in levels for anyone. 

Roark jerked his head at Kaz, motioning for his friend to flank the heroes. Kaz crept around, and the other Thursrs in the throne room followed suit. As they did, Roark inscribed his final level two spell slot.

The olm saw what was happening, and his panicked shouting attracted the rog and PwnrBnwer’s attention.

“Back the fuck off,” PwnrBwner_OG snarled, spinning around to point his mace at the Thursrs surrounding him. He couldn’t keep them all in his sights, though—they were already too spread out. So he aimed the thorny head of the rose mace at Roark. “Or I’ll kill the Griefer.”

“Better men than you have tried, mate,” Roark said, casting his spell at Kaz’s feet.

[Infernal chimeras within a fifteen-foot area of effect gain Strength equal to 2x character level for 30 seconds.]

As the heroes were surrounded, two of them trapped in brambles, and the third now hated by his companions, it took far less than thirty seconds for the Thursrs and Roark to finish the three of them off. Roark stood over PwnrBwner_OG, staring down with a lopsided smile on his face as the High Combat Cleric struggled uselessly to reach a Health Potion at his belt. “Better luck next time, mate,” he said as he dropped to one knee and drove his black-tipped claws into PwnrBwner’s exposed throat. The man died with a gurgle, eyes going hazy, as a torrent of Experience filled Roark. 

Not enough to level up, but not too far off either. 

And he wasn’t the only one who’d gained a nice bit of Experience. Two ascending chimes rang through the Throne Room—one following right on the heels on the other—as golden light enveloped a level five female Thursr named Tezzi, and … Kaz. Roark watched, grinning, as the mighty chef lifted off the ground for a moment, golden light quickly transforming into a halo of indigo power, which spit out crackling burst of blue-white lightning. Only one thing that could mean. 

Evolution …
 

Chapter 10

Memento Mori

The light faded, guttered, and then died, revealing the new and improved level 8 Kaz—the first Elite Thursr on the floor. He’d grown by at least a hand, maybe two, and was now a few inches taller than Roark. He was also much wider across the shoulders and chest. His leather flesh had darkened a shade, going from light blue to deep navy, while the course white hair running along his arms and legs had turned nearly black. Kaz lifted huge, powerful hands, staring at his banana-sized digits in wonder. 

Roark took a moment to pull up Kaz’s character page within the Followers section, quickly examining the changes before closing his Grimoire. 

Impressive. Kaz’s Health had shot through the ceiling, his natural Regeneration had also increased, and his attack damage was … formidable, to say the least. Perhaps most impressive of all was his increased movement rate and the addition of the Stunning Blow ability to his special skills repertoire. It seemed Evolutions weren’t just for show—there were some very tangible benefits. 

“Kaz has evolved again,” the newly-minted Elite Thursr whispered, his voice now deeper. Almost primal. “Kaz never thought …” he trailed off, then shot a look a Roark, a goofy grin stretching across his broad face.

Oh, bloody hells, Roark knew exactly what was coming next. In the span of an eyeblink, the Elite Thursr closed the distance between them, throwing tree-trunk arms around Roark and pulling him into a deathly tight squeeze. Had Roark been a Changeling, Kaz’s display of affection might have been enough to do him in. 

“That’s enough, you ox. Put me down.” 

Kaz gave him one more powerful hug, Roark’s feet clean off the floor now, then reluctantly complied. “It’s just … Roark gave Kaz this chance. To evolve. To become powerful. To win. To cook. It is all because of Roark.” 

“Nonsense,” Roark replied as he slipped back a step—Kaz wasn’t the best with the notion of personal space. “I may have helped some, but you’re the one who did the work. You took the risk and trusted me enough to throw your lot in with mine.” He grinned and shook his head. “You should be proud of you, Kaz. You accomplished this, not me. Now, let’s go see what new treasures we’ve won.” 

Kaz and the other Thursrs promptly helped Roark loot the heroes’ corpses and mark their position and time until respawn. 

From the mercenaries PwnrBwner_OG had hired, they turned up a handful of gold, a Health potion, a Gnarled Birch Staff with a +1 boost to Intelligence, and a single-use scroll of Summon Venomous Manticore. 

                                                                        ╠═╦╬╧╪

Summon Venomous Manticore

Summons one Level 8 Venomous Manticore. 

Manticore will attack any target the summoner is attacking.

Duration: 60 seconds

Uses: 1

                                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

This being the mercenaries’ first death in the Cruel Citadel, the treasure they left behind was scanty. As Roark had learned, in Hearthworld, two was the optimal number of deaths for maximum looting. Any after that would leave behind few or no items at all, though it would continue to award the same amount of Experience.

As this happened to be the High Combat Cleric’s third death—though he had somehow managed to recover all his items before dying again—Roark unloaded a full Inventory. A thrill ran through him as he held the Unique Rose Mace of Thorn Tethers to the dim light of the nearest Infernal stained-glass window, prompting a page of description to open.

                                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

Unique Rose Mace of Thorn Tethers

One-Handed Damage: 

Durability: 102/125

Level Requirement: 16

Intelligence Requirement: 100

Magick Requirement: 6,180

Mace Class Weapon – Medium Attack Speed

Casts Tethers of Thorn over 15-foot area, entangling targets for up to 30 seconds

Warning: Tethers of Thorn does not discriminate between friend and foe! Anyone in area of effect will be entangled!

+65% chance of successfully calling down Obliterating Lightning of Rajthorne the Mighty + 1% x per character level

+45% chance of successfully calling down Purifying Rain of Rajthorne the Mighty + 1% x character level

                                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

Roark dismissed the page with a thought. It was a handsome weapon—for a glorified club—but the requirements were far out of his reach for the time being. The added enchantments, however, were incredibly enticing. The ability to cast ensnaring thorny brambles, lightning, and that deadly rain without taking the time to write a single word could drastically alter his chances against the lower floor Overseers. He needed to raise his Enchanting level high enough so that he could learn the mace’s enchantment and apply it to new weapons.

But there was business to be about first. Most important for the time being, heroes to funnel down to Wurgfozz. He opened his mystic grimoire to the Quests page and checked the timer—only 9 hours 37 minutes and 5 seconds before the Quest lapsed and his hard work was undone.

A loud chirp drew Roark’s attention back to the throne room. He shut the grimoire to find Mac barreling across the floor toward him, feet slapping on the stone. Roark stepped gracefully aside just before the bloodthirsty galoot knocked him over. Excited, Mac took this as an invitation to play. He bounded around Roark in a circle, chirping gleefully, while his tail smacked the floor behind him.

Roark chuckled and crouched down, wrestling and growling playfully with the silly beast. He got his arms around Mac’s neck and shoulders, but the Elite Salamander shoved with his powerful hind legs and knocked the two of them over backward.

“Somebody’s happy you’re back,” Zyra said, stepping out of the shadows of the staircase. “He wouldn’t stop fretting while you were in respawn. Followed me the whole time. I think he thought I was going to wherever you were.”

Roark knocked Mac’s nuzzling head lightheartedly aside and shoved the Elite Salamander off his chest so he could sit up. The creature had the damnedest way of making him forget how serious their situation was. As if Mac thought he were still much smaller, he climbed into Roark’s lap and laid down, settling in for a nap. 

“Out of curiosity, where were you going?” Roark asked, absently scratching behind the bulbous slate-colored head hanging over his long legs.

“Downstairs.” Zyra perched on the arm of the twisted obsidian throne. Though she looked nonchalant, Roark doubted the hooded Reaver would ever sit full in the seat without winning the Overseer position for herself. The throne taboo likely ran far deeper for Trolls than the one against looting heroes. “And I brought back good news and bad news. After you died, Kaz here killed most of your attackers in a fury—”

“Kaz will never allow a Troll to lay a hand on Roark,” the headdress-wearing Thursr vowed, crossing the room to join them. “Not without paying the price for their crime.”

“Congratulations on the evolution, by the way,” Zyra said, hood tracking from Kaz’s head to foot. “And as for making them pay, you certainly did that. Too bad mercing other Trolls doesn’t give you experience or you’d probably be a Brute by now.” Yes, that was, indeed, the rub. Every battle with the lower level mobs was an exercise in utter futility. 

“Hang on,” Roark said, pointing one claw-tipped finger at the hooded Reaver. “Before we move on, you said most of the attackers.”

“I managed to get one away from Kaz alive—an Elite Reaver—and drag her up to Wurgfozz. Applying his special brand of persuasive questioning, old Wurgy got our assassin to talk.”

Roark leaned over Mac’s sleeping form. “Well?”

“Apparently, Azibek’s telling everyone that you’re destroying the Infernal balance of the Citadel.” Though he couldn’t see Zyra’s face for the hood, Roark could hear the scorn in her voice. “Destroying the natural order by making profane alliances with outsiders, hogging all the heroes for the first floor so the rest of the Trolls down below never get to level up. Whatever he can twist to slander, he’s twisting.”

“If that’s it, then it’s a bit disappointing,” Roark admitted. “I was expecting something a little more elegant than mudslinging.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I not mention that slander was the good news?” Zyra crossed her arms and raised one hand in a courtly gesture more suited to discussing some fop’s new light-o-love than murderous despots. “Let’s see if I can rectify that oversight with the bad news: He’s also sent out a word-of-mouth quest. Every resident of the Citadel who manages to kill you gains 1,000 Experience, Azibek’s Lingering Blessing, and 1,000 gold.”

As soon as she finished speaking, a weathered page full of text appeared in Roark’s vision.

                                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

Memento Mori

Azibek the Cruel, Dungeon Lord, has issued an open quest to all residents of the Cruel Citadel.

Objective: Strike a killing blow which sends Roark the Griefer for to respawn.

Reward: 1,000 Experience, 1,000 gold, and Azibek the Cruel’s Lingering Blessing

Restrictions: Must be a resident of the Cruel Citadel to accept Memento Mori.

Note: Memento Mori may be completed as many times as desired. If a single resident kills Roark the Griefer six times, that resident will receive an additional bonus of 6,666 Experience, 6,666 gold, and Azibek the Cruel’s Eternal Blessing.

“The best way to remind a soul of his mortality is over and over again.”

                                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

Roark dismissed the notice to find that Kaz’s eyes had lost focus and his mouth was twisted as if he’d bitten into a rotten apple.

“This has appeared in Kaz’s active quests,” Kaz growled.

“It showed up in mine when I first heard about it, too,” Zyra said with a solemn nod. “That’s why it’s called a ‘word of mouth’ quest.”

Roark glanced around the throne room, curious how many of the other Thursrs had overheard. At least four of them had stopped sorting through the looted items while their eyes roved over unseen words, two of them moving their mouths as they read silently. Which meant it wouldn’t be long before every Troll on this floor knew about the bounty on his head. 

Roark scowled. “I got the notice, too.”

Zyra’s hood cocked slightly to the right. “Interesting. I suppose when Azibek said any resident of the Citadel, he meant any.”

Kaz grunted in frustration. “It won’t go away! Kaz cannot reject it!”

“I couldn’t either, big guy,” Zyra said with a shake of her hooded head. “Just ignore it.”

“Kaz can’t!” The angry Elite Thursr slammed one melon-sized fist into the closed portcullis, denting several squares of the rusty iron grate. “Kaz hates unresolved quests!”

“It’s a clever gambit,” Roark admitted grudgingly. “Azibek’s set it up to work around the lack of reward for killing other Trolls. Make it worth the risk of dying. I’m half-tempted to kill myself six times to see how many evolutions I get out of 6,666 Experience points.”

“So, what do you want to do about it?” Zyra asked.

Roark understood her desire to jump into action. He’d seen resistance fighters flip allegiances over smaller purses than what Azibek was offering. He trusted Kaz and Zyra with his life, but the Trolls of the first floor had become his Vassals because he offered a smarter way to level and protection from the backstabbing that was common in the Citadel. But would they keep following him now that the Dungeon Lord was dangling the potential for a relatively easy two or three levels in front of them? This would certainly make his attempts to strike a bargain with the lower Floor Overseers more difficult. 

“For the moment, there’s nothing we can do.” Roark pushed Mac off his legs—struggling a little to budge the three-hundred-pound salamander until Mac stirred back to wakefulness and helped—then stood, dusting himself off. The feel of nothing but a threadbare loincloth under his palms reminded him that he needed to retrieve his weapons and armor from the third-floor bottleneck as soon as possible. He needed every advantage he could get against the flood of would-be assassins who were likely to come out of the woodwork eager for his head. Though, sadly, that might need to wait. 

“Alliances are what’s going to build a barricade between us and Azibek’s forces,” he finally said. “We have to cement our partnership with the second floor before they decide to turncoat—that needs to be our immediate focus for the time being. After that perhaps, we’ll be able to bring the third over to our side, then start building relations with the fourth floor.”

“Well, no matter what we decide to do, I want a guard on you at all times.” Zyra glanced in the direction of the staircase down to the second floor. “And one on that door whenever you’re in the throne room. Me, Mac, or Kaz. Somebody we can trust not to stick a knife in your back. And you inspect everything before you touch it for contact poison.”

Roark nodded. “Speaking of poisons, did you ever replenish your supply?”

“I traded some things while I was down-level.” She flexed her hand open with a flourish so that he could see the jagged row of stick-death needles across her palm, then fiddled with her leather wrappings to stow them safely. “I’m stocked again. Should be good for a few rounds of griefing … or anything else … before I run out again.”

“Kaz, would you mind taking the first watch?” Roark asked. “I need to concentrate on the Overseer’s Grimoire for a while.”

“Kaz will not let so much as a smell slip past him,” the Thursr growled. He pulled out his twin Hook Swords—they had grown with him to the size of shepherd’s crooks—and settled himself in the doorway to the second floor, facing the shadowy landing with his feet planted wide apart.

Roark headed for the twisted obsidian throne. When Mac saw where he was going, the beast padded along beside him.

“I do need you to let Zyra pass, mate,” Roark told Kaz as he sat down. Almost without thinking about it, he moved forward so Mac could curl his too-thick body around his back. “She’s got an important job downstairs.”

The Reaver’s hood cocked slightly, at an inquisitive angle. “And what would that be?”

Roark opened the Overseer’s Grimoire to the Floor Design page and began subtracting traps, keeping a close eye on his total points.

“I need you to tell Wurgfozz his playthings will be on the way shortly.”