Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 37

So far, Logan Murray couldn’t believe how well things were going. He also couldn’t believe how much Marko’s plaster statues looked like the theater mannequins from Layers of Fear 2. Creepy. Creepy and amazing.

Granted, Inga had only killed one of the raiders, but that had been Linraist Erejam. When Logan first laid eyes on the Vampiric Runecaster, fear had hit him hard. This was someone who’d tackled Kyvandry’s Slaughter Pits repeatedly and had managed to survive. To beat someone like that? It would take some daring planning and not a little luck. Deploying Inga so early was a terrible gamble, but it had paid off in spades as far as he was concerned.

They’d also gotten fortunate with the Wood Warden, though her death was really her own fault. If this had been Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, there would’ve been an Oompa Loompa singing a song about being difficult to work with and not following simple instructions. Like the rogue had suggested, she should’ve waited for them to wipe the magical paint off the wall. Had the half-elf just had a little more patience, she would be alive right now instead of dissolving in a vat of digestive acid, providing Logan with a burst of much-needed energy.

Things had turned out well for the Terrible Twelfth, even down to splitting the party in Treacle’s puzzle trap, which Logan had called the Bop-It room.

Inga had been thrilled to split the party—that was kind of her thing. While her guardian form lay dead at the entrance, her consciousness still swam in her gem floating over the pedestal—she was still helping Logan, both with ideas and by feeding him more of her Apothos.

But there were still four raiders left to deal with, and the next big test was right around the corner. Using a set of secret passageways, Treacle had dragged the Wood Warden’s body from the hallway all the way back to the digestive pit in the entrance room. Now he was hustling back through the twists and turns, beelining to take his place in the right arm of the labyrinth’s second level. He had to move like the wind, but thankfully the minotaur didn’t get lost because of his special racial ability: Labyrinth Sense.

Treacle’s boss room on the left was closer to the puzzle room stairs than Marko’s feast room outside the sanctum on the right side of the maze. Logan and his cohort didn’t want to juggle two major battles at the same time.

The dwarf and half-orc would have to fight through Treacle’s boss room and then pass through a warren of passages filled with Inga’s minions before eventually arriving at the sanctum. Assuming they made it that far. Meanwhile, it would take a bit for the cat man and the ever-smiling rogue to reach Marko’s feast room. More paintings and mannequins would be there to slow them down, not to mention hallways full to bursting with Logan’s fiendish fungi: Gem-Studded Puffballs, Ghoul’s Snarl, and the Blister Wart. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the Apothos necessary to make the artwork deadly, but the mushrooms were armed and ready. All in all, they would be a delaying tactic.

If all went according to plan, though, Treacle would join them in the feast room for the final fight.

They were trying hard to keep the raiders out of the sanctum.

Treacle’s boss room was more ironwork, only this time, there were paintings of saw blades set in the metal walls. Real saw blades lay behind them. Ghoul’s Snarl covered the floor in vile black patches, and the ground was uneven, making it difficult to walk.

His Ugknot Calflings stood ready, hidden inside the walls and covered in Braincap spores. The Ugknots were miniature, mechanical versions of Treacle. Four feet tall, the little minotaurs balanced on metal hooves and mechanical legs, driven by pistons, cogs, and gears. Pale white mushrooms sprouted from horned bull heads, though, honestly, they looked more machine than animal. Metal plates covered ropy muscles, brass tubes snaked along their backs, and clockwork gears spun merrily away inside of glass-fronted torsos. They carried pint-sized battle-axes, spears, and tridents, perfect for keeping opponents at range.

Their job was to wait until Treacle rose from the floor to show the dwarf warrior and the half-orc knife lady the power of his Internal Alchemy.

<Treacle, are you going to get in your loading chamber in time?> Logan asked.

The minotaur answered in a huff. <Yes, of course, I have a ladder down from the entrance. Almost in position now.>

<The timing should be perfect,> Inga sent. <Orem and Lyndagg have figured out the left side of the labyrinth. They’ll be there in three, two, one…>

The dwarf and the half-orc entered the room carefully. They were clearly on edge and for good reason. Sections of the floor were metal, but others looked like black mold. Logan hoped the pair wouldn’t recognize his Ghoul’s Snare.

The Ugknot Calflings stood tucked away behind swiveling iron panels.

In a flash of electricity, a whooshof steam, and the grinding of gears, the entire room lumbered into mechanical life. A cloud of white steam crept along the floor as Treacle rose from the center of the room. He was a terrifying sight to behold, a monster of muscle, fur, and metal, and instead of a minotaur’s typical battle-axe, he had something a lot more interesting in store.

Goggles snapped out of his face to cover his eyes, and armor appeared right out of his flesh. He flipped up his left arm, and a spiked morning star slid down, sparking with electricity. From Treacle’s right arm, a metal tube, covered in gore, appeared, spitting fire. Yep, his left arm was a combination of morning star and electrified Taser while his right was a legit flamethrower. The fearsome beast stepped forward, razor-edged hooves ringing out against the floor.

More gears churned in the walls, and hidden apertures swiveled open, revealing the Ugknot Calflings. The pint-sized mechanical minotaurs rushed forward, weapons raised and ready to kill.

Logan tapped into his connection to the Braincap mushrooms and sent his consciousness into a Calfling with a golden trident. The creature was of a comparable height, but its center of gravity was off thanks to the odd inverted mechanical legs and the hooves. Unlike the countless hours Logan had spent possessing Inga’s centipedes, this was a whole new ball game—a culturally specific reference no one else would understand—and he was extremely unsure on his feet.

He didn’t need to do the bulk of the heavy lifting, though, he reminded himself. That was why Treacle was there. All he needed to do was keep the raiders on their toes, distract them whenever possible, and herd them toward the horned alchemist.

But the raiders were smarter than they looked.

Instead of closing the distance with the ferocious dungeon boss, the dwarf and half-orc launched a barrage of ranged attacks. Lyndagg hurled deadly daggers, while the dwarf smashed his earthen hammer into the floor, which sent a shock wave of energy traveling across the room.

Treacle stumbled forward, blood dripping down his armor, one leg bruised if not broken from the hammer’s shock wave. That Earthbinder was a powerhouse in his own right, and it was high time they did something about him. The minotaur retaliated with a gout of flame aimed at the dwarf, but he was one step ahead. He dropped to a knee and sheltered behind his heavy shield.

Lyndagg went to rush forward, but Logan bolted right to meet her, lashing out with his trident.

The half-orc batted the pronged weapon aside, but Logan wasn’t really wanting to kill her, just push her back a single step. She backpedaled as Logan feinted right then lunged straight in, trident outthrust like a spear.

Her foot landed firmly in a patch of insidious Ghoul’s Snare. Inky-black tendrils burst to life, mindlessly wrapping around her studded leather boots and crawling up her thighs with questing fingers of fungi. She fought and bucked, slashing at the creeping vines, but the more she struggled the more the Ghoul’s Snare spread. A spinning buzz saw erupted out of the wall and bit into her arm with its whirling metal teeth. She let out a growl, fruitlessly trying to raise her sword as Treacle barreled toward her.

The minotaur dropped his head low, goring her through the belly with his horns, then pulled back and removed most of her face with his morning-star arm. The spikes tore through muscle and obliterated bone, and the electricity added enough juice to steam her skull like an Instant Pot.

“By my beard, I shan’t be killed by no cow!” Orem slammed his hammer on the floor again. This time, the shock wave rippled through the entire room. Logan’s Ghoul’s Snare withered from the raw surge of Terra Apothos. Treacle stumbled and dropped to one knee, while the Ugknot Calfling Logan was riding around in toppled to the floor. Its nervous system had collapsed along with most of its spine. A number of Calflings had survived the killing blow, but Logan didn’t much like their chances against the bearded raider.

A saw blade rose from the floor, but the dwarf was angry now, and hell hath no fury like a scared dwarven Earthbinder fighting for his life. Did Shakespeare write that?

Orem carelessly backhanded the blade with his hammer, stopping its spin and making it wobble. It exploded a moment later, the saw debris killing more Calflings.

Treacle got to his feet and sped forward in a blur of metal arms and augmented legs, raising his morning-star arm. The flamethrower was sputtering flames—useless now. He brought the spiked ball screaming down, but Orem sidestepped the attack.

With a mighty yell, the dwarf bashed through one of Treacle’s horns and turned his skull into hammer soup. That was the end of the minotaur. Treacle hit the ground, tongue out, as dead as steak. All the saw blades stopped screeched and stopped spinning.

With a thought, Logan took control of another Calfling—but instead of engaging he rallied the two other remaining minions and pulled them back into their respective hiding spaces. There was no way they would be a match for Orem, and they couldn’t afford to throw away resources needlessly. The gears turned, the doors closed, and the murder room fell quiet.

Orem went to the half-orc’s body and knelt, bowing his head for a beat before making some sacred series of gestures. A blessing of some sort. “Sad for ya, Lyndagg, but Ah still live. And Ah’ll just take your gold, some jewels, a knife or two, and that glowing scimitar. Ah can see pretty well in the dark but not perfectly.” He stood and checked his new gear. “Now, to get out of this madhouse,” he grumbled with a nod.

Marko, right on cue, hit the dwarf with crazed laughter. “Not a madhouse, my friend, a mad party. Mad, I tell you. Mad! Mad! Mad!”

Orem let out a roar, his face beet red, a vein pulsing in his forehead. Seemed like their handiwork was really starting to get under his skin. Starting to demoralize the man. Which was good. Angry, demoralized people made mistakes, and mistakes on a battlefield resulted in casualties—that was a lesson Logan had paid in blood to learn back in his real life, before Shadowcroft.

<That’s like seventy-five percent fear,> Inga sent, <and thirty percent anger.>

Treacle didn’t agree. <That doesn’t add up.>

Inga was the one to send her sigh. <I was using hyperbole. It was an attempt at mathematical humor.>

<I do not appreciate such inaccuracies,> the minotaur sent back.

Logan tried to focus the troops. <The dwarf is hitting our room, Inga. I’m going to take control of one of your Tsuki Ants.>

<There is no way our little minion room is going to take out that dwarf and his Earthbinding,> Inga complained.

<Never underestimate the power of ants. We have a culturally specific saying where I come from, that I think applies here. All the ants weigh more than all the elephants. Let’s show this joker how dangerous small things in great volume can be.> Logan sent his consciousness questing out and suddenly he found himself upside-down, clinging to the ceiling with stout, segmented legs. This body, though different from his own, was far more familiar than the Ugknot Calfling had been. Not far off from Logan was a blinding light source—equal parts Treacle’s engineering and Inga’s Luna power. Below, Orem entered the room, holding up his bulky shield and squinting against the terrible light.

Big mistake there. Long strings of Blister Wart hung from the ceiling, dangling at eye level. Almost impossible to see in the harsh glare.

The dwarf pushed his shield against the dastardly hanging mushrooms, clearly not realizing what he was brushing up against. The fungi strafed his face and his eyelids.

The effects were immediate. “Ack! Me eyes! Me bleeding eyes!”

Perfect. Logan released his grip on the gritty stone and dropped from the ceiling, landing on the dwarf’s shoulder, conveniently near his unprotected neck. Logan squirmed forward and chomped down using the Tsuki Ant’s formidable mandibles, slicing into the dwarf’s throat. Other ants fell around him like rain, one after another, and the dwarf let out a gurgling scream, batting at the swarming bugs.

Orem did his hammer trick, smashing the ground and sending out a rippling wave of Apothos, shattering the glowing orb overhead in the process and plunging the room into darkness. The shock wave killed most of the ants, but it also brought in the walls, and then, the ceiling came crashing down. An avalanche of sand poured in. This… Now, this admittedly wasn’t part of the plan—they hadn’t known that a blinded dwarf would have a shock-wave hammer, and he’d use it in a room with a thin ceiling, not directly under the first-level labyrinth.

Whether by hook or by crook, in a fight, you took every victory you could come by.

With the powerful Earthbinder dead and buried, it was time to deal with the last two raiders.

Logan recalled his mind from the humble Tsuki Ant and focused his attention on the cat man and the smarmy thief. It was slow going for them, since Flynn Corry couldn’t see, but the cat man could. Tearclaw was leading the thief through the maze, heading for the feast room. The cat man might’ve used his claws as a light source, and the thief had his rings, but both were probably saving their power for the final confrontation. A wise choice, considering what awaited them up ahead. As for the dead Wood Warden’s amulet, that must not have been an option.

<Okay, guys,> Logan sent. <We’re down to two raiders. They’re about to reach the feast room. Marko, are you ready?>

The satyr’s voice blasted his brain. <I’ve never been more ready! I’m going to murder them with both my chandelier and my fountain!>

Logan figured that was the strangest threat that had ever been made in a dungeon, but hopefully it was a threat that proved to be true. They were doing well, but the Tearclaw character was the one to watch. Actually, both the thief and the cat man were surprisingly competent. Almost suspiciously so. Without the other dungeoneers, those two easily avoided the mushroom traps on the Mad Party’s second level.

Treacle piped up. <Logan, there are three Ugknot Calflings left thanks to you. Should I send them to the inner sanctum for the final fight, or should we drag the dwarf and the half-orc up to the digestive pit in the entrance?>

It was a critical decision. Logan made his choice. <Let’s assume Marko’s feast room will at least slow the raiders down. Get those bodies to the upper pit. We’ll use the Apothos for my grand surprise.>

The minotaur responded morosely. <It’s very hopeful. I find hope distasteful. But we’ll do it your way.>

<The dwarf didn’t get all my Tsuki Ants,> Inga sent. <They’re digging out the body now, and then I’ll send them to the feast room.>

Now ­that was overly optimistic. The whole dungeon might be undone by the time the translucent insects trundled into the sanctum. They were powerful thanks to their sheer numbers, but they weren’t particularly fast.

Tearclaw and Flynn Corry rounded the last bend, which dumped them out into the feast room. And what a room. Marko had really come through with his interior design—the mannequins, paintings, music, and riddles had tied everything together. But they all paled in comparison to the feast. The banquet table was an ornate carved monstrosity of opulence, easily large enough to seat thirty guests. And covering the table was enough food to feed a small army.

Silver dishes of fruit—golden Lalini, vine-ripened Dragonwelsh, star-shaped tangerines—and endless varieties of cheese. There were baskets full of warm, fresh-baked bread, fried peppers, bowls filled with soups, and platters heaped high with fish, succulent ribs, wine-glazed pheasant, watercress lobster, and, of course, opal truffle everything. Sauces, pies, bakes. It was a foodie’s dream, though the piece de resistance was the tiered silver fountain, which dribbled molten cheese into a central, steaming basin.

It was a nacho cheese fountain, yes, but it was so much more.

Candles flickered on the table, casting uncertain light on the food, every bit of it alluring. And poisoned. More candles flickered from the huge crystal chandelier up top. There were other varieties of mushrooms in the room, of course, decorating the corners and the walls.

Corry approached the table as though drawn there against his will. “Well, if you’re hungry, there’s enough food for us, Tearclaw. Or do you prefer kibble?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Tearclaw glanced around. “Turning the SandScream into this? Impressive. The four dungeon cores have worked together, and of course, it’s the troublesome fungaloid’s digestive ability that is powering most of this. That… and the cores of the astral moth and the minotaur.”

The way the cat man, wearing those atrocious red pants, was talking made Logan pause. It was like he was grading them or something. And how did he know Inga was an astral moth? He’d fought her as a heavy metal caterpillar.

Something was strange… off…

“I’m just going to have a little bite.” The rogue eyed a fresh loaf of bread, a stick of butter, and some very stylish butter knives.

“No, no you’re not.”

The cat man sniffed, to his left… to his right. “The food is spelled. It also happens to be near to bursting with poison.” He pointed to the archway connecting the feast room to the inner sanctum. “There, across the room, is our quarry. The pedestal will contain the four gemstones. It would be easy to walk directly there, too easy. This room is trapped. We’ll stay near the walls because I don’t trust that damned table.”

“What about the mushrooms?” Corry asked, nervously twisting a ring on his finger.

“The fungaloid ran out of power a while back, I suspect. We’ll have more dangerous fungi in the sanctum, but these are safe. Likely, this is all for show—meant to push us toward the grand feast.”

The cat man fully extended his claws, and he walked in a crouch, with Corry trailing close behind him, covered in his stylish black leather and holding the silver short swords in white-knuckled hands. The pair moved through the piles of mushrooms along the wall, crushing them as they walked.

The other raiders might’ve gone directly for the food, but this last pair was too smart for that.

Marko’s feast room was about to fail on every level.

Logan didn’t want to face off against both of the cagey raiders in the sanctum. He was about to get Marko to do something rash when the satyr himself rose from the table, from where he’d been hiding under the food. Watching him emerge from the poisoned banquet was a bizarre, surreal sight.

“Would you be so rude that you’d ignore my feast?” the satyr thundered, his voice bleeding power into the air. He stood on the table, a tall, wild-eyed goat man, his clothes wet with fruit juices and covered in buttercream frosting, cake smearing his hair. Despite that, he looked positively terrifying. A wild fae godling, ready to strike down rude interlopers. He snatched up a goblet and raised it in salute. “But I’ll toast you two. I’ll toast you to your death.” He drained the cup, threw it to the side with a clatter, and drew a thin silver rapier from his sheath. He leapt from the table, his face monstrous with a shadowy power.

He danced forward on expert feet.

The cat man snarled, hate contorting his feline face, and hurled claws of golden light. Marko ducked them and drew both of the raiders forward with a skill Logan wouldn’t have expected.

Then he remembered—Marko had grown up as royalty, and he’d been trained in fencing. He dodged the rogue’s thrust and kept the man between him and the ferox, with his wicked, glowing talons. The minute they drew close to the table, the satyr dodged back, and the chandelier came unhooked from the ceiling. It didn’t smash into the table, but descended like a spider on its silver chain, morphing and shifting into a thing of nightmares. Literally. It was a mimic, not so different from the purple box that had eaten Logan what felt like years ago and set his feet on this new path.

A single bulging eye appeared in the center along with a wide maw filled with a slavering tongue and hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. It moved on eight legs of brass covered with winking jewels and smoking candles. Those eight legs all had sharp, spear-like points, perfect for skewering pesky raiders.

In short order, both the rogue and the cat man were forced to engage with the chandelier as Marko fell back, posting up like a sentinel in the sanctum’s entryway. The satyr started to laugh and jeer at the adventurers, his voice booming. Again, Logan remembered how Marko changed when he truly accepted his Dark Muse persona.

The rogue dodged back, avoiding the chandelier, but drawing too near to the fountain. It exploded, sending a wave of scalding hot cheese cascading over the unfortunate rogue. He screamed in pain, clutching at his face—he never even saw the mimic before it impaled him on one spidery leg.

The cat man also had the misfortune to catch some of the nacho napalm. It did damage, but then Tearclaw’s entire body glowed, and his burned skin was lost in a blinding light. When the scuttling chandelier hit him like a Mack truck, that light blasted the mimic in a tsunami of Mallus-infused Apothos. Raw force tore the creature apart at the seams, and in seconds what was left of the creature curled up like a dead spider.

The cat man let out a howl, took hold of the half-destroyed table, and flung it on its side with a flick of powerful arms. He then strode across the sandstone floor, a look of absolute fury painted across his face.

That look was oddly familiar—Logan recognized it from his Dungeon Core Calisthenics class.

Logan’s own guardian form was inside the inner sanctum, waiting. It was clear to him that Treacle’s Calflings and Inga’s ants weren’t going to make it back in time.

Logan watched with a knot in his stomach as Tearclaw stormed toward the inner sanctum. He didn’t give Flynn Corry’s body a second look, which was a mistake. He should’ve picked up those rings. But not Tearclaw—he seemed like a man on a mission. Hell-bent on the destruction of this dungeon and nothing else.

Marko danced a little jig, laughed, and swept his rapier through the air. “I like a spirited guest! And you’ve turned out to be a reveler after my own heart, kitty cat.”

“Cut the nonsense,” Tearclaw snarled. “The raiders are dead. And I’m here to undo your dungeon, Marko Laskarelis. This charade is over.”

That voice… it couldn’t be … It was Rockheart’s voice coming from the Ferox warrior-mage.

Logan didn’t have a throat to gulp in fear, but cold terror filled his core.