Dueling Dungeons (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Seven

Spies

Lowen von Reich sat perched on the hanging dais of the Dungeon Lord’s Throne in the Vault of the Radiant Shield, staring down his nose at his most trusted spies. One was a tall, heavy-set man with a thick beard who looked as if he should be toiling in a mine with a pickaxe in each fist, and the other was a slip of a woman with flowing red hair and restless, constantly shifting green eyes. Both were wingless at the moment, a necessity to walk among the heroes of Hearthworld unnoticed, though another hour would see the sawn-off appendages regenerated.

“Unlike mobs, the Devs who shape this world do not live here,” the fiery haired woman said, green eyes searching one corner of the room and then the next. Though she spoke in a low voice, it rang off the cavernous golden ceiling and walls. “The heroes claim these Devs travel back and forth just as they do, from Hearthworld to the Other World.”

“We’ve been unable to find the portal the Devs use,” the heavyset man said. He folded calloused hands over his barrel gut. “But we have learned that they make their home in a stronghold known as Frontflip Studios.”

“Stronghold?” the woman scoffed. “One of the heroes I spoke with showed me a painting of this Frontflip Studios on the WikiLore page of their grimoire. It is a palace of leaded glass and stone. Sprawling and vast, but vulnerable. There are no walls, no moat. Not a murder hole in sight. In my estimation, a small force could raze it within a matter of hours.”

Lowen smirked. He would never understand these fools who plotted attacks with the least troops necessary in mind. If a small force would do, then it only stood to reason that an overwhelming force would do better by that same order of magnitude. That was his secret to all things in life—and part of the reason he was so well known for over-writing his spells. Because why use a light touch when a heavy one would do just as well?

He lurched to his feet. “You two, get an Ultimate Healing Potion and restore yourselves. We move as soon as I return.” As the spies bowed out, he turned to Darith, his second in command. “Watch the throne room.”

“Will do, sir,” Darith said, returning to tormenting the latest Gargoyle he’d captured. Lowen had no idea where the psycho kept finding these creatures, but as long as it kept him from turning on his fellow Heralds—without Lowen’s permission first, of course—Lowen was willing to let it continue.

In a flash of tawny wings, Lowen glided across the room to the foot of the arch containing the Traisbin portal. He hesitated a moment to smooth out his brow and affect an air of confidence. It was a risk barging in a second time and asking for more resources, but it would pay off. He imagined hacking von Graf’s infuriating head off his shoulders and returning the World Stone Pendant to Marek still dripping with gore. It was a fantasy that never failed to put a spring in his step.

He braced himself for the disorientation that came with portal travel and ducked through the shimmering archway. An icy breeze raked through his hair and feathers, but otherwise there were no ill effects. Having grown up taught the dangers of portal travel like everyone else in Traisbin, Marek’s stable portal was a marvel that never ceased to amaze him.

After a moment, stone floors coalesced beneath his boots and heat poured over his body. He blinked his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The Vault of the Radiant Shield shone with brilliant white-gold light at all hours, but at the moment, the imperial war room was empty and the banked fire in the hearth the only source of illumination. Obviously it was later than he’d guessed.

Lowen strode through the castle, boots clicking on stone, wings rustling softly behind him, until he came to the Tyrant King’s private chambers. The door to the sitting room was already ajar, and through the crack, he could see Marek at a game table, playing Rivals with his “granddaughter” over a cup of tea.

As he watched, Marek took his turn, cutting off the girl’s carefully laid traps and destroying her potentate’s defenses with a single decisive move.

“Bloody damnation take you straight to the seventh hell,” she cursed, scowling down at the board.

Marek chuckled. “Your grave is entirely of your own making. You never know when to leave the maneuvering behind and go for the throat. You could have ended this five turns ago, but you were too busy scheming.”

“I can still win,” she muttered, folding her hands beneath her chin as she studied the board intently.

“That’s doubtful, my child. We have a spectator, and you’ve proven to fair even worse when under scrutiny.” Marek gestured to the door, making Lowen flinch. “Stop skulking about, von Reich. If you’ve excuses to make, get in here and make them. I only have so long before I sleep, and I want your unending torture begun before I retire for the night.”

With the toe of his boot, Lowen nudged the door open and entered the sitting room.

“No excuses, my lord,” he said, bowing. “On the contrary, I’ve made considerable progress. My spies have found the location of the Devs’ stronghold in the Other World. I need only a mass portal stone to transport my armies and take the bastion they call Frontflip Studios. I’ll have Roark von Graf’s head and the World Stone Pendant for you within the fortnight.”

As he spoke, Lowen watched Talise for any telltale reaction to the mention of her brother’s name, but the girl was so focused on salvaging her stupid game that she hardly seemed to hear him.

“Very well,” Marek said, groaning as he pushed himself out of the overstuffed wingback chair.

The aging tyrant went to a trunk in the far corner of the room and waved a hand over its locks. With a series of clinks and clacks, heavy gears whirled to life and the catches popped open. Marek flipped up the lid and selected a pair of stones engraved with a glowing blue rune.

He held out the stones, but when Lowen moved to take them, Marek withdrew his hand.

“Do not fail me,” the Tyrant King said. His voice was as flat and bored as if he were discussing the weather at a ball, but Lowen could hear the death sentence in every word.

Lowen forced himself not to recoil as he took the stones. “I won’t, my lord.”