Dungeon Duel (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Twenty-Eight

The allied dungeon mobs weren’t the only ones feeling the rush of optimism as Roark and his troops blasted their way through the golden corridors of the Heralds’ lair. All this time, Roark hadn’t allowed himself to think there was any chance he would kill the Tyrant King and escape with his life. Hadn’t dared to hold even the smoldering ember of possibility, but now… Now, that ember had grown into a raging blaze, its heat capable of forging a weapon even greater than the tank they’d pilfered from that Other World. Hope.

He took in the chaos surrounding him. Heralds many levels above most of the allied troops were being sent for respawn by a hail of bullets. The range of the guns neutralized their flight advantage, even in these vaulted halls. By leaps and bounds, the allied dungeons were gaining ground. They were only minutes away from the throne room, just yards from the portal back to Traisbin, to the Tyrant King.

As if the World Stone could feel how close it was to its former master, the pendant twitched around Roark’s neck. He palmed the stone, but found nothing amiss. The movement must’ve been nothing but his imagination. He dismissed the thought, returning to the shifting tide of the battle.

Perhaps they really could accomplish this. Perhaps with this Other World weaponry, he might not only have leveled the field between himself and Lowen, but maybe… just maybe… these weapons could give him the chance to kill the Tyrant King and get away. To live. What a bloody mad thought that was.

Danella would have offered a cold laugh at the wild notion. She’d always expected death around every corner—a noose around the neck, a knife in the dark, an ambush in a lonely alley. Those were the only potential futures she’d ever spoken of, and Roark had to admit, of all the lessons she’d taught him, those had had the greatest impact.

Though perhaps not for the better.

That dark outlook had kept him alive, but he’d driven off everyone close to him as a result. His inevitable death couldn’t hurt anyone if he was an island unto himself, he reasoned—and their inevitable deaths couldn’t hurt him. But perhaps the dice needn’t fall that way. If he could just find the way to leverage these guns correctly, he might not have to say goodbye to all the people he’d begrudgingly grown close to after all.

He glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. Zyra was Wall Walking and Light Prowling about, always staying just behind the defending Heralds, where her Backstab Multiplier would do the most damage. Griff was at the head of the ground melee, calling out orders and encouragement to the lower-level mobs as they fought Heralds whose wings had been injured beyond the point of flying. Kaz was still back at Frontflip, but Roark was certain the Bonesnap Behemoth was even now delighting in all the new spices and foods the Devs kept on hand.

The bump of a scaly shell against Roark’s side drew his attention back to the Vault. Mac chirped at him fondly, a dismembered golden arm dropping out of the Adolescent Turtle Dragon’s mouth.

With a grin, Roark scrubbed the canny beast’s scaly head and slapped his shell affectionately.

“You’re right, mate,” he said. “Best not get ahead of ourselves yet. We still have a battle to win here.”

Mac blinked his bulging eyes out of time with one another, then stooped to slurp up the dropped arm.

Leaving the bloodthirsty beast to his gory meal, Roark searched the room for a target. Parallel with Vang’s Tattooed tank, a Herald with dove gray wings was harrying a frantic Mistraven. From the looks of things, it seemed the Mistraven had run out of bullets and couldn’t figure out how to exchange magazines in the panic.

Roark took careful aim and blasted the Herald in the side. With an angry screech, the golden-skinned fighter flew at him. Roark fired another shot at the oncoming Herald, then focused all of his attention on the Herald corpses closest to hand and triggered his new Raise Thralls ability.

Four of the winged corpses rose shakily from the floor, groaning and moaning; they flew in lopsided lines at the Herald barreling toward Roark. The Undead creatures fell on their former ally and tore into his remaining Health with their hands and teeth, now all reinforced with some form of Undead magick. The Herald tried to fight them off, lashing about with a curved saber of gold and silver, but there were too many of them. Within moments, his Health bar was flashing out its critical warning.

When the Herald dropped to the floor dead, Roark released the Thralls. They let out a series of pained groans and burst into piles of sickly green ash.

Roark darted across the room to the frazzled Mistraven and took the pistol from her shaking blue-green paws.

“Like this,” he said, ejecting the empty magazine and replacing it with a full one from his own Inventory. “See?”

“Yes, Dungeon Lord,” the Mistraven croaked, beaming. Grateful tears leaked from the corners of her slitted eyes. “Oh, thank you, Dungeon Lord, thank you! I thought I was on the way to respawn for sure, I did!”

Roark gave her a sharp nod and returned to the fight, alternating between the Other World weaponry and magickal abilities. He lobbed Cursed heads that exploded with bursts of sickly Undead energy, used his Necrotic Infernal Breath to char to ashes Heralds that drew too close, or sent enemies into fits of crippling agony with Necrotizing Infernal Torment. He also leaned heavily into his Raise Thralls abilities. He had an abundance of corpses to choose from, after all. The Heralds’ dead were piling up on the floor. Many of their wings were bent at odd angles from the trampling feet of allied dungeon mobs, but they were still useful in attacking the injured and grounded Heralds.

Little by little, the number of Vault residents sent for respawn was beginning to draw even with the number still living.

And the Heralds seemed to realize it.

They fought as creatures possessed, desperate and terrified, making terrible blunders. They wanted to run as those at Frontflip had done, Roark could read it in their faces, but they battled on, likely more frightened of what Lowen or Marek would do to them than death or respawn. Dying wasn’t an end in Hearthworld, even if it was unpleasant.

Roark took full advantage of their growing number of dead. Soon, the floor that had been littered with bodies was littered with piles of glowing green ash from his fallen Thralls.

The whine of a bullet passed by Roark’s head.

“Seven hells.” That had been too close. He searched the melee below for the allied mob not watching their aim.

A cackling laugh caught his ear, followed by another shot.

“Over here, Lyuko scum!” Darith, Lowen’s second-in-command, howled with laughter, beating his wings to hang in the air. He leveled the pistol he’d taken from Frontflip at Roark. “Leave these other kiddies behind and come play with me!”

Roark was sure he’d killed the man back in the Other World, but Darith was worse than a cockroach. It wasn’t surprising that he’d somehow managed to survive the draconic assault. Roark snarled, turned his pistol on the madman, and fired, but Darith was already swooping aside. Roark followed him, aiming just ahead, where he was going to be. As the laughing Herald passed into his sights, Roark squeezed the trigger.

Click.

[Your Glock 26 has jammed and is currently inoperable! Glock 26 will remain inoperable until you have cleared the chamber!]

Agony exploded through Roark’s left elbow, the joint shattering in a spray of blood and bone; the jammed pistol dropped into the chaos below.

Darith cackled. “I’ve got three shots left, traveler trash! Think I can take out your knees and other arm, too?”

“I doubt it,” Griff’s rough voice called from just below the madman. “Not if you can’t stay in the air.”

The grizzled weapons trainer took aim and fired five shots in quick succession, blowing chunks of feathers and flesh out of Darith’s right wing, disabling the appendage.

Undaunted, the Herald tucked his wings behind his back and rocketed downward at Griff, a crazed rictus twisting his golden features.

“Good play, grandpa!” Darith raised his pistol and leveled it with Griff’s scar-crossed face. “Now it’s my turn!”

Griff fired another shot, this one missing the Herald by the narrowest of margins. The slide on his weapon locked back. Griff was out of bullets.

Roark cursed and hit Darith with a blast of Necrotizing Infernal Torment, but the green and purple dancing flames didn’t distract the Herald from his new target, and they weren’t eating away at the madman’s Health fast enough.

Still cackling, Darith emptied his pistol into Griff.

Blood flew, and the weapon trainer’s Health bar flashed a critical warning, then ran dry. Griff crumpled to the floor, dead, a moment before Darith slammed into his corpse.

“Looks like the old coot was right!” Darith shouted gleefully to Roark as he staggered back to his feet. “I couldn’t destroy your knees and elbows with those bullets—not with them lodged in his head like that!”

Cold fury filled Roark’s chest at the madman’s taunting. With a powerful flap of his wings, he chased down Darith. The Herald tried to escape by shoving his way through the melee toward the next corridor, but Roark was much faster. He caught up to Darith and launched a gout of Necrotic Breath at him. The icy anger in Roark’s chest burnt away in a rush of fire and hell as the emerald and amethyst flame burst forth from his mouth.

Darith shrieked, still giggling like a lunatic as the twin Undead and Infernal flames seared his skin. The Infernal portion of the magick rolled off uselessly, but the brilliant green of the Undead melted his golden flesh and feathers. Red evaporated from his Health bar like a snowflake tossed into the depths of a roaring bonfire.

Almost as an afterthought, the burning Herald slung an Angelic Lance from the sloughing skin of his palm. It was off-balance and shoddy, but Roark was in no mood to dodge the cast.

With quick but precise motions, Roark flung up one of his precast Discordant Inversion and Deflection webs—prepared beforehand for just such a moment. The brilliant white Divine lance hit the web, shifted in a flash to glow a bloody crimson color, and rebounded violently toward the burning Herald.

Darith never saw the corrupted spell coming. The emerald flames had taken over the entirety of his face and seared his eyelids shut in a dripping, molten mess. A gurgling cackle burbled from his throat as the crimson lance speared him through the chest.

Yet still he refused to die. Growling with frustration, Roark pulled a fresh pistol from his Inventory and blasted the Herald with precise shots, each one slamming into Darith’s chest and stomach, punching neat holes in his melting breastplate.

Three shots were required before the madman’s Health bar finally flashed out its warning. Apparently, Darith had been at the highest level possible for Heralds. But the fourth round finished him off, and his deformed corpse tumbled to the floor as gracelessly as a dropped marionette. Dead. At least until his wait to respawn ended.

Cursing himself, Roark raised his eyes to the next corridor. The fighting hadn’t waited for the drama with Darith to play out. The allied troops were already pushing forward, ever closer to the heart of the Vault of the Radiant Shield. The remaining Heralds were pulling back, likely regrouping to mount a final defense in the throne room itself.

Silently, he vowed to finish this before the twice-damned lunatic came back. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to be distracted by dreams of imminent victory. No matter how likely the triumph looked, he reminded himself, they hadn’t won anything yet. There was still one overwriting mage to kill and a dungeon to pry from the bastard’s cold, dead hands before he could move on to the Tyrant King.

Roark downed an Ultimate Health Potion, wincing at the oversweet taste, and let the empty bottle drop as his ruined elbow knit itself back together. Without wasting a second, he replaced his lost pistol with a spare from his Inventory, then darted through the tank-widened doorway to the final corridor before the throne room. No more distractions, no more speculation. Not until the Vault of the Radiant Shield was his.