Killer Dungeon (Euphoria Online Book 3) Read online

  Brianna was lounging atop the castle wall, and rose to her feet to wave at the sight of me. Dozens of orcs were patrolling back and forth between the battlements, and another ten stood before the castle gate on the far side of the drawbridge.

  I waved back, then led everyone over the chasm and into the bailey. Brianna had made her way down from the wall by the time I reached her, Shaman Lickit massive by her side, and she stepped up to greet me, eyes wide with curiosity as she regarded the new arrivals.

  Ragnar slowed as he entered the castle, brows rising in surprise and some measure of shock. The others spread out around him, staring at the ruined remnants of the bailey buildings, the cracked curtain wall that surrounded the castle, the battered goblin tower.

  “This isn’t a castle,” said the stout old lady with frizzy upswept hair like the bride of Frankenstein. “This is a ghost. A shell. A mockery.”

  The tattooed valkyrie turned in a slow circle, scowling in dismay. “A death trap, more like. We can’t defend this.”

  Ragnar raised both hands. “Silence, all. This is our home. Yes, it’s fallen on hard times. Yes, it barely looks like we remember it. But this is our home, and we’ll do what we must to defend it, rebuild it, and restore it to its former glory. Now. Chris. Tell us what happened. Where is Jeramy?”

  “I’m Brianna,” said Brianna, stepping forward to place her hand in Ragnar’s. The sheer force of her charisma was like being hit by a truck. I blinked as if I’d just taken a shot of something powerful and gave my head a shake to clear it of her influence.

  “Ragnar Dragonbane,” said he, pausing to assess her as her presence derailed him. “New recruit?”

  “I’m hoping to learn the ropes,” she said. “But Chris has been too busy to give me much time.” She glanced in my direction, but I kept my face studiously neutral.

  “We can’t have that,” said Ragnar. “Perhaps later we could talk?”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Brianna, her voice dripping with overt sensuality. “And can’t wait.”

  “Meditating,” I said loudly, pointing at his tower. “On the fourth floor, which we can’t reach.”

  “Then let’s go wake him the fuck up!” barked a heavyset man with a bristling black mustache and close-set eyes.

  “No, no, not quite so easy as that,” said the dwarf mage Ulfsted. “The fourth floor is Jeramy’s sanctum. None may enter it without his express invitation. You could demolish his tower without revealing its location. If Jeramy is within, we must wait for him to emerge of his own volition.”

  Which he won’t, I nearly added. He’s comatose in the real world. But something held the words back. Perhaps because these were merely avatars controlled by Albertus. Perhaps because that was a secret I wasn’t willing to share with strangers. Either way, the end result was the same, so I let it be.

  “Dread Lord Guthorios defeated Cruel Winter,” I said. “He ransacked the castle and then retreated to Feldgrau, where he now waits.”

  The half-giant lowered his massive brows. “That bastard is in Feldgrau? Then we ought to pay him a visit.”

  Ragnar simply raised his hand again, bidding the half-giant wait, then nodded at me to keep going.

  “Guthorios wants access to what’s beneath the castle,” I said. “There’s a treasure below that he wants for his god, Uxureus. But Jeramy cast a protective ward that keeps him and the undead from going below.”

  “And what happened to us?” the valkyrie demanded. “One moment we were making our plans in the great hall, then – nothing.”

  “Uxureus sent a demon called Xylagothoth to take over the keep. It captured all of you and held you in its web till I defeated it.”

  The valkyrie raised a scornful eyebrow. “You? You defeated it?”

  Lotharia crossed her arms. “Yes. He did.”

  Ragnar studied me and then nodded slowly. “Well, it’s a miracle we can all be grateful for, then. What of Guthorios? Does he know you’re here? Will he attack the castle again?”

  I shook my head. “He won’t attack because we’re working together. In exchange for—”

  But the rest of my words were drowned by shouts of outrage and a deep grumbling roar of anger from the half-giant.

  “Working together?” asked Ragnar, raising his chin as if he’d suddenly smelled something foul. “You’d best explain, and fast.”

  How to summarize everything that had happened? “Look. I’m not his ally. I was using him to help cleanse Lotharia. She’d been corrupted by negative energy while we cleared the castle of the ogres and wyvern that had moved in—”

  “Ogres?” The valkyrie smiled condescendingly. “Seriously? And a wyvern, too?”

  “Yes,” I ground out. “I’d show you their carcasses, but the Big Burp goblins ate them all up and turned into these orcs as a result. So I made a deal with Guthorios. He’d cleanse Lotharia if I discovered more about the ward and the way below. Which I had no intention of helping him with. I simply had no options at the time.”

  Ulfsted stroked his great bushy white beard. “Very… mercurial of you, Chris. To work so easily with the very force that destroyed us.”

  Falkon raised a hand. “With all respect, you guys weren’t there. I was, and believe me, Chris and I didn’t have a choice. Guthorios captured us once we lost Lotharia. It was either pretend to work with him or be killed and raised.”

  “Whatever,” said Ragnar with a chop of his hand. “How do things stand now?”

  “We’ve got to head down to Feldgrau and report,” I said. “Or at least, we’re supposed to. But with Lotharia already cleansed, we don’t have to.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Falkon. “Guthorios has a whole town full of advanced undead. If he chooses to come up here and take the castle, we won’t be able to stop him.”

  “You sure about that?” asked Ragnar, sliding one hand into the palm of the other and cracking his knuckles.

  “Yes, sir,” said Falkon. “I got a good sense of his forces. He’d overrun us easily if he wanted to.”

  “Like I said. Death trap.” The valkyrie didn’t seem too bothered by the prospect, however. Instead, she had an anticipatory smile on her face.

  “So we have to go down,” I said. “If only to placate him and keep him at bay while we figure things out.”

  “Very well,” said Ragnar. “Then let us search for our gear. It should have fallen where we were defeated, within the keep. That done, we shall explore the remnants of the castle to learn what we have to work with, then we shall put together a party to descend to Feldgrau to negotiate with this Guthorios. But first, Chris...”

  Something in his tone caused my stomach to clench. I met his stern gaze as best I could. “What?”

  “I need you to turn over your ownership of Castle Winter to me. Now.”

  2

  I froze. Ragnar’s gaze had a weight all of its own. An oppressive combination of bleakness and expectation, as if me handing over my hard-won domains were a foregone conclusion and he was preparing himself for my whining objections, which he’d sweep aside with the authority he’d grown used to wielding ever since he’d passed level thirty or whatever.

  “No,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “No. Castle Winter is mine.” Something was at stake, and while I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, I knew handing over the domain to him would cement my loss on more levels than were obvious. “When I arrived, it was lost to the Cruel Winter guild. A wyvern had taken the top of Jeramy’s tower, and a clan of ogres had moved into the stable. Not one member of Cruel Winter remained.”

  Ragnar crossed his arms and went to speak but I powered on.

  “I’m in Death March mode. I only mention it to prove how serious I am about all this. My friends and I cleared the Iron Throat tower of its spider-dude mage, then we killed the ogres and wyvern. We fought off the Beggars of Solomon, and I defeated the demon that had captured all of you in the keep. I’ve earned this domain, step by step. Now that you’re back you want me to just hand it over to you?” I was shaking from the intensity of my words. “I don’t think so.”

  Falkon and Lotharia exchange worried glances as they subtly shifted their positions so that they flanked me. Brianna was off to the side with Shaman Lickit and his orcs, and I half wished they were massed behind me to lend me weight. Because Ragnar had his twenty companions at his back, most of them no doubt more powerful than me, and he looked completely unimpressed by my words.

  “Chris.” His tone was that of a weary college professor trying to calm a student having a panic attack. “You’ve done well. Nobody here is challenging your contributions to Cruel Winter or the glory you’ve earned. But as far as you’ve come, you’re up against odds you can’t handle. You said yourself Guthorios might attack with his full army if we don’t handle negotiations correctly.”

  “It’s not like you handled his first attack all that well,” I said. “I don’t see how I could do much worse.”

  Ragnar’s jaw tightened and the air between us grew heavy with tension. He’s almost level 40, I reminded myself. Easy, easy.

  “It’s not just defending against an assault,” he said, still fighting for patience. “If Cruel Winter is to do more than survive, if we are to grow once more in the force that we once were, then we need to cultivate our domain. We need revive the guild. Recruit laborers to mend the walls, rebuild our infrastructure. We need to negotiate with over a dozen guild centers across Euphoria to reestablish our presence. Hire support staff to bring the castle back to life. Manage new recruits. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. What experience do you have with such matters? Do you honestly think we can risk bungling our first steps when the first impression we give the rest of the world matters so much?”

  “Valid points,” I said. To be honest, his response had knocked me back on my heels. I hadn’t even considered half of those points. “But I’ve got more experience than you think. I’ve been gaming my whole life, and the past three years I was a paladin and an Elite Captain in Golden Dawn.” I paused as confusion flickered across Ragnar’s face. Ah. Right. The AI version of him probably didn’t get those references. “Nevermind. I ran a guild of over three thousand members. Three thousand only because we turned away four out of every five applicants. I’ve handled budgets, trading houses, dozens of castles, negotiated countless PvP – I mean – formal tournaments, and led hundreds of teams to victory.”

  I felt my own confidence coming back. “So yes. I can handle what you’ve laid out. What’s more, I think there’s value in presenting a fresh face to the world as the leadership of Cruel Winter. You were defeated, Ragnar, and the entire guild overthrown on your watch. Everyone who remembers you knows that. Me? I’m a new element. A variable they can’t pin down. Vanatos and his Beggars will have respawned out there somewhere and people will have noticed they were defeated by a new power in Cruel Winter. Word will spread. And when they discover that I’m leading our guild, that I’ve brought it back from the dead, they’ll respect that. They’ll respect me. And because of that, they’ll respect all of us once more.”

  “Oh shit,” said Falkon quietly.

  Ragnar stared at me and every instinct told me to run. If he was more powerful than even Lagash then I had absolutely no chance in hell of defeating him. His crew stirred behind him. They exchange looks. Confusion, anger, shame, and wonder. The Big Burpie orcs sensed the mounting danger and drew their weapons. Brianna stepped silently through their ranks till she was positioned directly across from Ragnar’s flank.

  It was like watching dominos topple. The half-giant noticed the orcs ready themselves and turned to face them. The others around him did the same. Hands went to hips where weapons should have hung. They were unarmed, all of them; and though they faced but orcs, which were relatively low-level threats for this group, they had no weapons, no armor, no staffs of power or rings of magic.

  Ragnar never took his stormy gaze off me. A band of muscle flared into view and then disappeared over and over across the joint of his jaw, but he made no half-hearted attempt to grasp a sword that should have hung from his hip.

  Would he resort to threats? Even unarmed he could kill me. A lunge across the few yards between us and with a single blow he could crush my windpipe. Shatter the front of my face. And while the orcs and my friends might then crush his forces, he’d simply respawn in the highland meadow.

  I’d be dead.

  I forced myself to breathe slowly. The space between us fairly crackled with energy. Then Ragnar nodded. “Very well, Chris. We’ll try it your way for now. I suggest you form a council, however, so that we may advise you on problems and strategies.”

  I wanted to exhale in relief but forced myself to stand firm. “A good idea, Ragnar. Why don’t you pick two of your companions to join us, along with Lotharia, Falkon, and Brianna?”

  Ragnar bowed his head once more. “As you wish, Castellan.”

  The orcs relaxed. The half-giant rolled his shoulders and did the same. The tension bled from the air.

  “Your gear lies on the tables in the keep’s great hall,” I said. “Go ahead and suit up, then come to Jeramy’s tower. We’ll hold our first council meeting in there.”

  A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face. “You know how to enter Jeramy’s tower?”

  “I’m telling you, this isn’t my first rodeo.” And with that, I turned and strode away before I could put my foot in my mouth, leaving the new guild members to make their way across the bailey.

  “Holy crap,” said Falkon, hurrying after me. “Chris? Hello? Are you insane?”

  Lotharia fell in on my other side. “I’ve never seen anyone confront Ragnar like that.” She shook her head in wonder. “I guess it helps you have no idea who you were talking to.”

  “Ragnar, level thirty-seven knight,” I said. “He’s probably completed a bunch of epic quests, led the castle for a few years, etcetera, etcetera. I’ve met plenty like him.”

  Brianna joined us as we reached the base of Jeramy’s tower. “I honestly thought we were all dead,” she said. She didn’t sound upset. “Even my old avatar would have had trouble taking someone like Ragnar down.”

  “Two things,” I said, stopping before the door. “One, that’s not the real Ragnar. That’s his avatar being controlled by Albertus, or some sub-AI or virtual intelligence assigned by Albertus. I doubt he’d kill me – it just doesn’t strike me as a move a friendly-aligned NPC would make against a Death March player. I’m too valuable to Albertus for him to kill me out of hand like that.”

  “Well,” said Falkon, seesawing his head from side to side. “A little meta-gamey, but sure, I can see that.”

  “Second, he knows I’m right. I’m riding some kind of flow here that’s swept the guild back into existence. Luck, talent, fortune – I don’t know what. But I’ve got the experience, the dedication, and the momentum to keep carrying Cruel Winter forward. Ragnar can sense that, and he knows that if he killed me, he’d be killing that winning streak too. Jeramy? You home?”

  One second the tower face was blank rock, the next a rectangle was pushed free, swinging out on hinges, stone changing to four glass panes in a wooden frame. It looked like a cottage window, and leaning out on one elbow was a stocky young man, square-jawed and with an unruly thatch of blond hair framing a jovial face. Tattoos curled around his forearms where they emerged from his rolled-up sleeves, and an earring glinted from his left ear.

  “Chris!” His voice was jovial as ever. “You’re still alive! Wonders never cease. What’s going on, man?”

  “We’d like to come inside,” I said, fighting the urge to smile, “and have a whale of a time?”

  “Hey, sure thing. Though it’s high time I changed that password. As soon as I see myself, I’ll remind myself to do so. Until then, come on in!”

  The window changed, its sill dropping to the ground, the glass-paned frames turning into a stout wooden door. I pulled it open and led the others inside.

  Jeramy’s lounge/study was as delightfully chaotic and colorful as always. The huge orrery that hung from the ceiling moved slowly, as if stunned by its own grandeur, planets and comets wheeling around a blazing star, planes of different elements intersecting throughout in the forms of sheets of fire, ice, earth and so on. The glass-fronted bookcases gleamed enticingly, displaying hundreds of fascinating and no doubt incredibly powerful items. A heavy desk was set at an angle at the back, its surface clean and devoid of all objects. A handful of couches and massively overstuffed armchairs faced each other in the center around a small table, in the center of which bubbled a fountain of pink liquid.

  The flock of rainbow-hued flamingoes stood by the staircase, intertwining their necks then unraveling them as if it were a game with which to pass the time.

  I dropped heavily onto one of the couches and placed my feet on the ottoman before it. Ah, soft, velvety luxury. “Worthington?”

  The air shimmered and Jeramy’s butler appeared. He was a robot, bronze-skinned and fashioned in classic art deco lines. He canted his head to one side. “Greetings, Master Meadows. How may I be of assistance?”

  “A beer, please. Some kind of Belgian wheat if you’ve got it. And is Master Jeramy still meditating on the fourth floor?”

  “He is,” said the robot, stepping forward with a frosted glass of golden ale.

  The others sat with various sighs of relief and placed their own orders. I sat and sipped my beer as they exchanged their stories, Brianna regaling us with her charismatic conquest of the Big Burpies and how sweet Shaman Lickit really was once you got past his desire to lick you all over. Lotharia recounted her capture by Xyla and her time spent deep in his consciousness, while Falkon in turn caught her up to speed on everything that had happened since she’d been gone, right up till his death.