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

Lowen was in no mood for bad news when he returned to the Vault of the Radiant Shield. That von Graf bastard had found some new way to cheat—altering the entire structure of Frontflip Studios and then somehow turning into a twice-damned dragon. So, it was with terrible grace that he discovered his Hearthworld sanctuary in as much chaos as he’d left behind in the Other World. The throne room shuddered beneath his feet, and dust rained from thin cracks beginning to branch across the ceiling and walls.

“What in all the hells is going on here?” he demanded, straining his lungs to be heard over the clamor.

Neither Viago nor Nitola answered. The throne room was empty, and he quickly learned the antechamber and hall were as well. The farther from the center of the Vault he went, the more rubble and scorch marks he found, along with the bloody corpses of mobs who did not belong in his dungeon—Rock people, Lava Kelpies, Harpies—and even a few Malaika Heralds. It was impossible to imagine such a thing. The Harpies had wings, true enough, but none of the other mobs did. How had the bloody creatures even managed to make it up the narrow switchbacks that led to the dungeon entrance? This fortress was virtually unassailable by traditional means. Such was the reason they’d chosen it for his outpost out of all the dungeons in Hearthworld.

Lowen strode to a web-crossed flight porch and looked out into the rapidly approaching sunset of Hearthworld.

Ballistae mounted on looming towers fired bolts the size of yearling trees at the Vault, each one piercing the brilliant golden walls with a crack like thunder. In lower sections of the towers, archers of various dungeons assaulted the defending Heralds and the mindless Gargoyles that haunted the dungeon, filling the air with torrents of arrows that at times even momentarily blotted out the sun.

Down on the path that wound around the Vault’s rock spire, a furious battle raged between Heralds and hulking mobs who looked as if they’d been chosen specifically for their brawn. Battering rams on wheeled frames, housed under reinforced roofs, sat stalled in the fray, the Heralds holding them back with vicious aerial attacks.

From the canyon floor, a trebuchet launched a flaming payload at the Vault. As Lowen watched, what he’d thought was a simple boulder unfurled itself into something roughly man shaped, stretching its arms and legs wide before crashing into the Vault with the force of a natural disaster. The edifice shuddered and groaned, the precious metals and gemstones that made up the stronghold protesting such abuse.

Scowling, Lowen spun on his heel, stalking back to the throne room.

“Is anyone in this light-be-damned bird’s nest?” he snapped, already certain of the answer. “Nitola! Viago! Hells take you both, somebody bloody report!”

His only answer was another thunderous impact. He ran a hand through frazzled hair. How was this happening? How could he possibly be losing a siege on two different fronts, at the same time, to creatures far inferior in magic and skill? The utter incompetence of his own lieutenants couldn’t be enough to account for this. It had to be treachery. Roark’s appearance in the Other World smacked of Talise’s interference. That Lyuko wench would be dealt with in time, but first he needed to crush this heavens-forsaken invasion before Marek got wind of it.

He would not be afforded another chance, he knew.

With a flap of his speckled wings, Lowen propelled himself to the hanging dais and took the seat of power. The Dungeon Lord’s Grimoire confirmed it—both fools he’d left in charge had been sent for respawn, along with an unprecedented number of their fellow Heralds. Timers spiraled downward beside their names—more than he’d ever seen at one time since coming to Hearthworld. It had been a bloody massacre.

More troubling still, a handful were marked [Deceased]. No countdown timer. Those would be the ones killed in the siege on Frontflip Studios. Lucky then that Marek wouldn’t care how many borrowed troops he’d lost, not as long as Lowen returned with the World Stone.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Lowen slammed his Dungeon Lord’s Grimoire shut to find a human standing on the dais beside him. Though how the man had managed that was a mystery, as he had no wings. He was dressed in the strange clothing of the Other World, but seemed entirely unimpressed with the surroundings he found himself in.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Lowen snapped, drawing himself up to his full height and stretching his impressive wings wide. In his right hand, he readied a blast of Divine Missiles.

“Let’s dispense with the intimidation tactics.” The man gave him a cold smile. “Mike Silva, founder and CEO of Frontflip, the company you and your Griefer friend seem intent on destroying.”

Lowen recognized the glint of dismissal in the man’s stare. He’d seen it often from more affluent nobles over the years. Silva was looking at him as if certain that he ranked well above Lowen in the pecking order—that he was nothing more than a second-rate noble with more title remaining than land or wealth.

Lowen’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing in my Vault?”

“This is my Vault,” Silva said. “Just as the Griefer’s Citadel is my Citadel. Everything in this game belongs to me. I can do what I want with it, travel where I please in it. Your friend’s allies assumed they could keep me locked up, and yet here I am.”

“While you’re in my dungeon, you’re subject to my whims,” Lowen growled, holding up his fistful of Divine Missiles. “I could send you for respawn in a heartbeat.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Silva said, unperturbed. “And you can’t hurt me. Not a hair. My body is in a deep dive pod back at Frontflip studios, and I have all pain sensors turned off. And, to be perfectly clear, I have supreme administrative powers here, so I could certainly send you for respawn. Observe. Now, Aaron.”

This last was spoken with the air of an order being given. A heartbeat passed, then a scrap of parchment appeared before Lowen’s eyes.

[You have been Marked for Death by Mike_Silva_1. Any attempt to attack the caster will be disallowed and you will be hit with immediate Respawn.]

“I’ll assume that stricken look on your face means you just received confirmation that I’m not bluffing. It’s a new mechanic I had patched in. Required some destruction of other essential code, but we’re past the point of salvaging this sinking ship, aren’t we?”

A panicked [Greater Vigilant Gargoyle] flew into the room squealing like a burning hog. Lowen threw the fistful of Divine Missiles at it. The Gargoyle shattered into a thousand tiny shards of marble, peppering the throne room.

Silva smirked like he knew the show of violence for what it was—a tantrum thrown by a child in an impotent rage. Lowen gritted his teeth. This was nothing but a mere human, and yet he’d never felt so utterly beneathsomeone, not even in the Tyrant King’s presence.

Lowen folded his wings and crossed his arms. “One assumes you came looking for me for a reason?”

“I was told this whole war—the attack on Frontflip, even the anomalous code you and your Griefer friend have been spreading throughout my game—has been about a single item. Something called the World Stone. You want it unsoulbound from his account, correct?”

A sudden burst of something like hope flared in Lowen’s mind. Perhaps this could be salvaged yet, if only he could return to Marek with the pendant in his hand.

With a rustle of his wings, Lowen attempted to smooth the eagerness from his features.

“What I truly want is to kill that half-breed von Graf—forever-dead—and spit on his cooling corpse,” Lowen said, “but yes, taking the World Stone is a necessary step to obtain total victory over the bloody cur.”

“Let me ask you this,” Silva said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “If I could give you both—this Griefer’s death and unbinding this World Stone—would you pull your troops out of my world and stay out for good?”

Lowen scoffed at that. “Why would I need your chicanery when I can capture a Dev and force them to do the same thing without the negotiating?”

Silva chuckled.

“You think the Devs are powerful?” He shook his head. “I can not only take away a soulbinding, Lowen, I can shut down Hearthworld and kill everything inside. The Devs you’re trying to capture? They work for me. They’re my Vassals. Everything in Hearthworld goes through me. In Hearthworld, I am god.” Silva raised a brow. “So, do you want to keep up this vain posturing or do you want the one true god of Hearthworld on your side?”

Lowen studied Silva’s face, searching for any sign that this was simple bluster, any weakness that could be exploited. He found none. This man was a tyrant in his own right, as surely as Marek was. Lowen didn’t respect much, but he knew power, and this man had it.

“Very well,” he said. “Let us talk.”