Nightmare Keep (Euphoria Online Book 2) Read online

  “You’re really good at this,” said Falkon. “What’s your diplomacy at? Intermediate?”

  Michaela flashed a perfect smile at him. “Intermediate two.”

  He snorted. “Charisma fifteen?”

  Michaela’s smile grew wry. “Close. Sixteen.”

  “Makes sense,” said Falkon. “The apologetic note there was just perfect. Making us feel like you’re secretly on our side. Like you’re a victim yourself in this whole situation. Which—” He paused, eyes widening. “Oh, wow. This is all underscored by your ‘forced recruitment’ story.” A smile of appreciation spread slowly across his face. “Of course, you couldn’t know I’d suss out that you were in Death March mode, but even that only makes your tale more persuasive. Seriously. Good job. I thought I was onto how much you were manipulating us, but I didn’t realize just how much I was still scooping what you were pooping.”

  “Scooping what she was pooping?” I asked.

  Michaela’s smile faded away. “Not everything here is a ploy, Squire Alastoroi, nor everything I say a lie. But if you want to be suspicious of everything, then I shall attempt nothing beyond the bare necessities.”

  “Nice,” said Falkon. “You don’t stop! You kidnap us and force us to meet a Dread Lord, and now somehow you’re actually making me feel guilty by playing the wounded sincerity card? That’s some seriously advanced shit.”

  Emotion flickered in Michaela’s dark eyes – could that have been pain? And then she turned and led the way into Feldgrau.

  “Ease up,” I whispered to Falkon as we fell in.

  “What? C’mon, Intermediate Diplomacy two and charisma sixteen? Don’t tell me it’s working on you?”

  “No, I see what you’re saying. But she’s a player as well. And if she was really playing in Death March mode when she was converted then she’s in the worst situation ever.” I tried to separate manipulation from truth, to tease out diplomacy from honesty, and realized I didn’t know where to draw the line. “Lotharia explained how regular players, once raised, have to decide whether to play as undead or log out and forfeit the rest of their Euphoria session, which is bad enough. But Michaela? She’s screwed. So even if she’s playing us, there’s a chance we could befriend her in truth. And given how few allies we have in here? That might not be a bad move.”

  Falkon stared at the ground for a bit, making frustrated faces, and then blew out his cheeks. “Fine. You’re right. Maybe I was a little harsh there. Or maybe not. Regardless, you’ve got a point. When you’re drowning, you might as well clutch at straws.”

  “Your metaphors are sucking right now,” I said. “Can we can them till you cheer up?”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I’ll let you know when that happens.”

  The ashen ground crunched beneath our boots. Whether it was slender branches or hollow bones I couldn’t tell. The buildings rose up around us, gaunt, faded, windows like hollow eyes. Decaying forms slowed their passage and turned to stare at us. The silence grew powerful, with only the cawing of the crows overhead to break it.

  “It sickens me to see Feldgrau like this,” said Falkon under his breath. “The color gone. The people dead. The life sucked from its core. No matter what comes, I won’t forgive Guthorios this travesty.”

  I wanted a weapon on which to rest my hand, a bastard sword like Falkon’s. To make a gesture to reassure myself, no matter how futile. Skeletons stood swaying as they stared at us, strips of dried flesh still hanging from their bones, skin stretched taut as old parchment over their skulls, wisps of hair hanging like flax. Zombies were even worse, their old features discernible. Sunken eyes, lips pulled back to show dark gums and elongated teeth, hands curled into wretched claws, weeping sores and torn flesh.

  On the skeletal champions strode, led by Michaela, and I noticed a subtle change come over her as we drew deeper into the town. She moved in a more stately manner, placing her feet with elegant care so that she never stumbled, shoulders swept back, chin raised, not looking to either side. Whomever she was, whatever her level, she moved through Feldgrau as if it were beneath her. I didn’t know how that made me feel.

  The Broken Tower rose into view over the last line of sagging and sunken rooftops, a perpetual vortex of buzzards circling slowly counterclockwise over its jagged peak. Only the first three floors remained, but the tower was wide enough to have once supported ten or more; it gave me the impression of Aragorn’s shattered blade from The Lord of the Rings, a shard, a remnant of its former glory.

  We rounded the last corner and stepped out into Feldgrau’s main square, and there I beheld the charnel pit. The stench assaulted me so that I thrust my face into the crook of my elbow, and Falkon hawked and spat in an attempt to get the greasy, disgusting taste out of his mouth. The pit was as large as two tennis courts shoved together, its banks shallow at first then growing ever steeper till they sank into darkness. A darkness in which I could make out rubble and body parts, arms and legs and heads emerging from the dark earth, some unmoving, others twitching as if coming to life.

  I could have used Darkvision right then to get a better look. I didn’t want that to be my first use of my new power, however. Didn’t really want to see what was taking place in the depths of that hellhole.

  The undead had congregated here, as if gathered to witness our entrance into the tower. Their ranks were easily five or six deep, and they had to number in the upper hundreds, if not thousands. My throat grew tight as I followed Michaela around the edge of the pit, trying not to look around wildly at the deadly forces arrayed in every direction. Banshees, lumbering hulks the size of small hills made of dozens of bodies, draugrs slinking everywhere I looked, and worse.

  Six massive steps like lead coffins led up to the tower entrance, which was recessed under a once-glorious archway. Huge rotting doors of black wood banded with iron stood open at their top, and from that doorway came a cool and moldering breeze, like the exhalation of a grave.

  Falkon and I both stopped at the bottom step, held back by some nameless dread. Michaela climbed the steps slowly, then turned, her foot on the highest, to gaze down at us with pensive sympathy. “You’ve come this far. Don’t balk now.”

  I was sweating, I realized. A cold sweat that made me want to shiver under my spider silk shirt. Falkon’s jaw was clenched, his brow lowered. This wasn’t natural. The tower exuded some fear effect. Even gazing at its stones made my stomach churn.

  “All right,” I said, my voice a rasp. “We’ve come this far. Lead on, Michaela. I’ll follow.” And with that, I placed my foot on the first step.

  2

  Our footsteps rang out in the stairwell that led to the second floor, our breaths pluming in the gloom. We’d turned away from the great chamber that filled the ground floor, seen only hints of death and depravity before Michaela had led us up into the dark. This was the first time I didn’t welcome the presence of shadows, so with a breath I activated Darkvision so as to better see where we were being led.

  The darkness swirled as if a stone had been dropped into a pool of ink, and then grew lighter, the edges and shapes hidden within its depths emerging. No color, however; everything appeared in tones of gray, with only faint hints of purple and green. I turned to look down and behind us: the natural light of the morning, filtered as it was in the beginning of the stairwell, looked normal. Interesting.

  Michaela led us around the final curve of the stairs and we emerged onto the second floor. It was one massive chamber, circular and with a high ceiling, the rafters blackened by smoke and fire. Faded war banners hung down the walls between tattered tapestries, and the torn and moldy remains of rugs were laid out over the wooden floor. My eyes, however, were riveted to the figure in the center of the room.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. An imposing throne, perhaps, made from melted swords, or carved from a massive black rock. Something terrible and awesome. Instead, the man sat on a
large wooden chair – imposing, to be sure, but nothing a grandfather might not have relished by any inn’s fireplace. He sat, straight-backed, chin sunk to his chest, eyes closed. Were it not for his lack of breath, I might have thought he slept.

  A crown was bolted to his brow. There was no unifying circlet, but instead each black iron prong was nailed straight to his head, rising up like a forest of cruel knives. Faint tendrils of dried blood ran out from under each prong. He was a large man, or had been in life; his muscles had since wasted away, leaving his imposing frame withered beneath his torn and rusted black scale mail. Huge hands that looked to be all knuckles and sinew clutched at the arms of his chair nails long and dirty and broken.

  His cheeks were sunken, his lips the color of liver, his skin spotted with lesions. Yet there was still something noble to his face, something of the faded glory he might once have wielded in life. And when he opened his chill blue eyes and raised his face to meet our gazes, I had the impression of the sun, seen on a misty morning just over the horizon, shorn of its beams but glorious still.

  “Greetings,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and worn as if from disuse. “Be welcome to the Broken Tower.”

  Michaela walked up to his side and there turned to face us, her expression sober and cold. We’d be getting no help from her.

  I coughed into my fist and stepped forward. “Greetings, Dread Lord.” Somehow, I couldn’t help but be formal. “You wanted an audience?”

  It was eerie how no part of him moved. His shoulders didn’t rise and fall, his chest didn’t expand, his hands and feet didn’t so much as twitch. Everything but his jaw might have been a statue. “Indeed. I have yearned to speak with you since learning of your arrival. Your names?”

  “Chris Meadows,” I said, painfully aware how prosaic it sounded.

  “Squire Falkon Alastoroi.”

  “There was another,” said Guthorios.

  Michaela stirred. “She was corrupted by necrotic energy and escaped into the keep shortly after I arrived.”

  “A pity,” said Guthorios. “But such is fate. Falkon I recall from the original siege. Why have you come here, Chris Meadows?”

  “I—uh—” How to explain a jealous and possibly mad ex to an undead lord? “I was tricked. By a former… lover? I joined the Cruel Winter faction without knowing what I was in for.”

  “Amusing,” said Guthorios. “Did she trick you into your parlous state?”

  “Parlous… state?” I didn’t know what the word meant. Something to do with parlors?

  Falkon leaned in. “He means your Death March status.”

  “Oh. No. That was all me. I’m taking the risk so as to benefit when I leave this place.” Diplomacy: Basic (I) was doing me no favors. That and trying to translate real-world issues into fantasy-speak on the fly.

  “Your soul glitters all the more brightly for it.” Guthorios frowned as he studied me. “Undead created from the likes of you are as powerful as they are rare. Should you enter my service, I promise that you would be raised as a Death Knight if not something greater.”

  “Um, no thanks.” I gave him a sickly smile. “I’m kind of partial to being alive.”

  “So be it. And in truth, I need you living if you are to assist me. Both of you. For years I have sat here, tasked by my god to accomplish a task beyond my reach. But you. You are members of Cruel Winter, and within you burns the divine spark of life. You can help me.” He leaned forward, old sinews creaking. “You will help me.”

  He was just an old dead man seated in a wooden chair, but waves of black magical power rolled off him like cold from a glacier. I fought as hard as I could to hold his gaze, and failed.

  “Not so fast,” said Falkon, and I admired him more than I could ever express for the bold tone in his voice. “We’re not doing anything without a good explanation first.”

  “Of course.” Guthorios sat back in his chair. “It was decreed by my god that Castle Winter must fall, and the treasure hidden in its depths delivered unto him. So we raised a mighty force, tore the dead from their graves by the thousands, and threw them against these mighty walls.”

  His voice sank into a whisper, and I listened, rapt.

  “Our great foe was the archmagus. The treasure, we surmised, was of his creation. He repelled us, but our forces were inexhaustible. His power, great as it was, was not. We broke through, and were poised on the edge of victory when he cast his last and most terrible spell. He placed a ward upon the ground, preventing our kind from delving into the depths and securing his treasure. My god struck him down, but it was too late.”

  Guthorios’ eyes glittered. “Since then, I have bided my time. Our enthusiasm led to our defeat; we slew and raised every person who could have passed his wards while alive. But now here you are. You can pass his wards, for you are members of Cruel Winter. So this I demand of you: to enter the dungeons below the castle and determine the nature of this treasure. Then, that accomplished, you shall bring it to me so that I may deliver it unto my god.”

  Falkon laughed. “Wait. You’re the guy who attacked my home, killed my friends, and ruined everything. You expect me to help you finish the horrors you started? Why the hell would I do that? It would be the ultimate betrayal.”

  I could understand Falkon’s passion. I was only nominally a member of Cruel Winter, and that more by accident than anything else, but to him this had been everything.

  If Guthorios was impressed by my friend’s outrage, he gave no sign. “Of course it is repellant for you to help your enemy complete the destruction of that which you once loved. But such is your fate. You have no choice. You must do this. My god wills it.”

  “Well, you can tell your god to shove—”

  I stepped forward, hand extended to cut off my friend before he got us both killed. “Dread Lord. You’re going to have to work with us here. Give us a reason to help you. If Jeramy thought it best to hide this treasure from your god, then I’m pretty sure he had a good reason for it. You had to know we wouldn’t agree. So what were you planning to offer?”

  Guthorios turned to consider me, his blue eyes burning. “I can end your life with but a thought. Your divine spark shall be quenched, and never again shall it burn. You must do as I say or you shall die forevermore.”

  “Persuasive,” I said, throat tightening up. “Pretty persuasive. But that won’t work on my friend here. He’ll just respawn or, worst-case scenario, ditch his Falkon avatar and go play something else.”

  “Chris—” began Falkon, but I cut him off.

  “Plus, you didn’t know I was so committed to this life.” I stared at Guthorios, hating how little I could read his undead face. “So you couldn’t have counted on using that against me. What were you going to offer us?”

  To my surprise, Michaela was the one who answered. “My lord can cleanse your friend of her necrotic corruption. You can save her by helping us.”

  I thought of Lotharia, hidden in the keep. “That’s a step in the right direction.”

  “You are correct,” said Guthorios, and now he stood, rising to his full height, joints creaking. He had to be nearly seven feet tall. His rusted black scale male glinted in the faint light coming through the windows, and in it he looked like nothing so much as the ghost of a departed black dragon. “This was my inducement: an appeal to your curiosity. I know you think me and mine the villains of this world, and I cannot fault you. Our essence is inimical to your kind. We are born from your death. But in this matter, we do not act along a moral line as you understand it. My god’s goals here are not evil. We had cause to attack the archmagus, for he in turn was not good. Not as you are prone to understanding that term.”

  “Jeramy was one of ours,” said Falkon. “He was hilarious, awesome, and yes, a good guy. Why should I take your word over my own experiences?”

  “The archmagus was a complex man. He had many sides. Any who r
ise to such exalted levels of power must by definition be more profound than you comprehend. I tell you this, Squire Alastoroi: the archmagus harbored ambitions that imperiled all of Euphoria. We moved against him to stay his hand. He was not your true friend.”

  The Dread Lord’s words hung in the air like the peals of a bell. I glanced sidelong at Falkon, who was clenching and unclenching his jaw.

  “I do not expect your immediate faith. Instead, I expect you to agree to my request out of an immediate desire to live. No doubt you will ultimately lie to me so as to escape my clutches. Such is to be expected. However, I challenge you to conduct your own investigations. You must rescue your friend, must you not? The entrance to the dungeons lies within the keep. Explore. Investigate. Test my words. See if you do not uncover evidence to support my claims. Then, when you bring me your friend for cleansing, we shall visit this quest anew. Fair?”

  He had our number. I had absolutely no intention of dying inside this chamber, and was completely prepared to lie to get out. However, Falkon’s class was based on his being chivalrous; it was coded into his essence. Before he could put his foot in his mouth, I gave a tight smile.

  “Fair. We agree at this point only to return with Lotharia for healing, at which point we’ll revisit this conversation in light of anything new we’ve discovered. Right, Falkon?”

  “Fine. I can agree to that much.”

  “Then we are agreed,” said Guthorios. “I shall lend you Michaela’s aid for your endeavors within the keep. The perils you shall face therein are too great for you to assail alone.”

  “Told you,” said Michaela.

  “Sure, great,” I said. “But if she’s coming with us, she has to agree to do what we say. I don’t want her going rogue or choosing to do stuff we’d never agree to.”

  “Wait a second,” said Michaela.

  “You wish to have command over her?” Guthorios didn’t sound upset. “So be it. Michaela, you are to obey all reasonable orders pertaining to the infiltration of the keep and extraction of their friend.”