Civil War: Rogue Dungeon Book 2 (Chapters 7 - 8)

Chapter 7

Wurgfozz the Sadistic

Before descending, Roark took a moment to loot the corpses of the dead Heroes then distribute his Stat Points. After careful consideration he added 4 points to intelligence, another 4 to Dexterity, then split the last 2 between Strength and Constitution. He carefully examined his Character Page, noticing that both his Greater and Lesser World Stone Authority had increased along with his level. Considering just how valuable Kaz, Zyra, and Mac had been so far, the notion of finding another Greater Vassal was exciting, though Roark would have to choose carefully.

Satisfied, Roark accepted the changes and closed out from his Grimoire. 

With that done, Roark gathered his Honor Guard—Kaz, Zyra, and Macaroni—and headed through the door in the throne room, down the winding stairs to meet with the second floor Overseer. As they reached the bottom of the steps, Mac left Roark’s side to climb up the wall, his colors shifting until he disappeared into the shadowy stone. The Elite Stone Salamander would be hidden in the vaulted ceiling overhead, ready to rain down vengeance on any who might dare attack the three of them.

The torchlit stairway opened onto a sprawling torture chamber. Cages hung from the ceiling, many of them dripping with fresh gore. Others contained grinning skeletons from distinctly nonhuman creatures. Roark guessed most of them to be Troll. Breaking cradles, blackthorn beds, stretching racks, and grime-covered stocks were scattered around the room interspersed with blood-soaked tables. In the far corner stood a raging furnace next to a cartful of dismembered body parts waiting to be burned.

Low-level Thursrs wandered the room while Reavers stalked the shadows like hungry wolves. Several of the Trolls now on the second floor were Lesser Vassals of Roark’s who had migrated down after their first Evolution. Unlike his last visit, when Roark had received a host of hateful, distrustful glowers from the inhabitants, these familiar faces gave him smiles and friendly waves.

Several hallways jutted from this room, but Zyra lead them straight to a heavy metal portcullis on the far side of the space. 

They stepped out into another huge room with an open floor plan. Here pits of lava were the norm; suspended above the pits were flat iron cages on spits, many still containing the remains of burnt corpses. Below each cage, molten rock bubbled and hissed, sending up plumes of white smoke. A quarto of heavy wooden doors studded with brass rivets, lined the far wall. Zyra led the way to the final one, grabbing the rusty handle and leaning her full weight into the dark rotting planks until it creaked open.

From there, they made their way down a twisting passage, festooned with flickering torches, rusty chains, and blood-caked meat hooks. This hallway was a new addition, since he’d last been through. 

As they pushed farther into the second floor, the familiar faces disappeared, replaced by the wary, distrustful glares Roark recalled. He went on high guard, noticing the Reavers clinging to inky pools of shadow and the telltale signs of traps—a trip line here, a spiked plunger there. Neat. Effective. Deadly. 

Eventually, they made it to the throne room proper, which was lit by troughs of flowing lava on each wall and filled with even more devices of torment. Blistering heat rolled off the troughs, and the scent of slag and blood hung heavy in the air. An Elite Reaver and three colossal Brute Thursrs patrolled the chamber, each one studded with sharp bits of rusty metal and staring Roark, Kaz, and Zyra down.

Roark felt a touch of anxiety tingling along his nerves as he remembered his first formal meeting with the former first floor Overseer, Ugoraz the Vile, in excruciating detail. Roark had been beaten within an inch of his life and rudely thrown out on his ear. An unpleasant experience, to say the least. 

This will be different, he reassured himself. He was an Overseer now, and a Jotnar to boot. Calling on the noble baring he’d learned in childhood, Roark straightened to his full seven and a half feet and strutted into the chamber as if it already belonged to him. The wooden clacking sounds of Kaz’s armor followed him, along with a whisper of fabric that was Zyra. 

As they crossed the floor, the throne room guards surrounded them in a loose circle. Roark glanced overhead at the gloomy, shadow-darkened ceiling, hoping Mac was up there somewhere. The orange glow from the lava troughs didn’t penetrate that far, so there was no way to know for sure until trouble broke out.

At the head of the room, on a throne of human, olm, elf, rog, and Troll skulls, sat a musclebound Level 18 Thursr Behemoth, his name spelled out in white letters floating on an aura of bloody red.

[Wurgfozz the Sadistic]

Wurgfozz was easily twice the size of the Brute Thursrs stalking his chamber, so wide that he overflowed his throne. Like his honor guard, the Behemoth’s enormous body was pincushioned with rusty spikes, the largest shoved through his crooked blue nose.

“Well, well, well,” the Behemoth purred in a voice oddly high-pitched for his size, “if it isn’t the new first floor boss.” He leaned forward in his massive throne, beady eyes fixed unwaveringly on Roark. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Even standing to his full seven and a half feet tall, Roark had to crane his neck to look up at the towering Behemoth.

“A Reaver Shaman and a Hellbender came through here not long ago, didn’t they?” he asked.

“Ah yes, nasty little things bound for the first floor.” The Behemoth nodded, twisting the spike impaled through one large nipple thoughtfully. “Obviously they found you well.”

“Well enough to put down the amphibian and send the shaman running.”

“Bit off more than she could chew, then,” Wurgfozz said. He tapped one hooked black claw on the spike through his nose. “These things happen.” He shrugged beef slab shoulders.

“The one thing we can be sure of is that she didn’t find her way to my floor of her own initiative. She was one of Azibek the Cruel’s agents,” Roark said. “Sent either to spy or assassinate. She came through your floor, so you bear some of the responsibility for allowing her to pass.”

“I see. You can’t catch her, so you think you’ll exact vengeance on me because I don’t run.” Wurgfozz laughed, a high-pitched crowing sound and leaned forward on his throne. “Well, I’ve news for you, Griefer. Running is for the frightened and the weak. I’m neither. I know what you did to Ugoraz the Vile. If you’ve come with a mind to challenge me, dispense with the excuses and let’s have it out.”

“I’m not here to threaten or fight you,” Roark said, spreading his hands. “Just the opposite. I’m here to offer an alliance between our floors, one that will make us both stronger.” He stood up to his full height, filling his voice with a certainty he didn’t feel, as if Wurgfozz the Sadistic’s agreement was already a foregone conclusion and all that was left was to dispense with the formalities. “Your people can share access to our trainers and kitchens, as well as benefit from our leveling strategy in exchange for the second floor refusing passage to any of the Dungeon Lord’s minions.”

Wurgfozz flapped one hand at Roark in a dismissive gesture. “You must not understand how business works down here in the Citadel. The Trolls obey the Overseers and the Overseers obey Azibek. He is the Dungeon Lord. He alone has the authority over us all.”

A muted rumbled of agreement came from Wurgfozz’s Honor Guard.

“No lord has any more authority than his subjects allow him,” Roark replied coolly. “Do you benefit at all from his rule or are you simply trying to survive without being crushed by him?”

“I know your type,” the Behemoth said after a long beat. “You reek of ambition. The fact that you chose the Jotnar path is a clear sign that you intend to take over the dungeon.”

Wurgfozz paused, waiting for Roark to leap to his own defense, to claim he had nothing of the sort in mind. But Roark remained silent, holding the Behemoth’s gaze. He had every intention of taking over this godforsaken Citadel. Any denial would sound like the lie it was and only damage his case and his reputation.

“No,” Wurgfozz the Sadistic said. “I’m not in any hurry to have my throne stolen away by the ambitions of a Troll who couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

It was all deflection, Roark noticed. A multitude of words and accusations not referring to any benefit Wurgfozz received from remaining loyal to Azibek.

“So, let me see if I have this straight. You’ll continue to support a Dungeon Lord who brings you nothing in return for your service,” Roark said, cupping his chin and nodding. He glanced around the empty torture devices scattered about the room, then up at the spike-studded Thursr Behemoth. “That’s a poor choice considering I can get you far more victims than Azibek can.”

A flicker of greedy excitement sparkled in Wurgfozz’s onyx eyes, but was quickly hidden behind a derisive chuckle. “Of course you can,” the Behemoth said. “You’ll feed me. Placate me. Until you are strong enough to challenge me for my throne. And then?” He drew a hooked thumb nail across the layers of double chins concealing his throat. 

“I don’t have the time or inclination to take over every individual floor,” Roark said. “And if I did, a torture chamber is hardly my idea of comfort. You’re not wrong about me, mate. I am a creature of ambition and I want the entire Citadel. Unlike Azibek, however, I don’t want to rule through force and fear. I sincerely believe we can all thrive. We can make these heroes, who think to invade our home, pay dearly. Now, in my experience, it is easier to make friends than it is to conquer enemies. And the more loyal friends I have, the faster I can take this Citadel. If you help me, I’ll pass right over the second floor to the third and let you keep your throne to yourself. Working together, neither of us will need to guard our back for the other’s knife.”

“Hmm.” Wurgfozz twisted his nipple spike again, considering this. “I’ll need a show of good faith if I’m to believe you. Send down three of your level four and five Thursrs for my honor guard to play with.”

“Yeah, that’s never going to happen, mate,” Roark said lightly. “But let me offer you a compromise we can both be happy with. I’ll funnel the next group of heroes down to you. Play with them all you like.”

For several long seconds, the Thursr Behemoth sat without speaking, cracking each one of his thick knuckles as he stared into Roark’s eyes.

“And I get to keep any agents of Azibek’s that we stop on their way up to you,” Wurgfozz demanded.

“They’re yours,” Roark agreed. He would have no need of them, and so much the better if stories began to circulate through the Citadel regarding those who tried to take him out for the Dungeon Lord.

Wurgfozz nodded and sat up straighter in his throne of skulls, gripping the arms with both hands. His raised his strange high-pitched voice until it rang through the throne room. “Let it be known that as long as I, Wurgfozz the Sadistic, am Overseer in this place and our terms are upheld, that the second floor is allied with the first.”

A piece of parchment appeared in Roark’s vision, lined with black text.

[Congratulations! You have forged an alliance with the Trolls of the Second Floor.

Warning: Solidification of this alliance is dependent upon the delivery of (1) group of heroes to Wurgfozz the Sadistic. If you do not deliver (1) group of heroes in the next 11 hours 59 minutes 59 seconds, this alliance will be broken.

To Maintain the Alliance: Allow second floor Trolls access to first floor kitchens, trainers, and strategies; allow Wurgfozz the Sadistic to continue ruling the Second Floor as Overseer.

To Break the Alliance: Challenge Wurgfozz the Sadistic for the position of Second Floor Overseer or fail to deliver (1) group of heroes in the allotted time limit.]

As Roark watched, the seconds in the time limit ticked down. 58 … 57 … 56 …

He dismissed the parchment with a thought. Another notice took its place.

[Congratulations! You have unlocked the Troll Leadership skill! Leadership skills, like all interaction skills, gain Abilities and Experience through character-to-character or alliance-to-alliance interaction.]

Roark closed out of his Grimoire and turned to his Guard. “Time to move, we have heroes to kill, and promises to keep …”
 

Chapter 8

Setbacks

“You Jotnar are all the same,” Zyra teased as they headed down the torchlit staircase to the third floor. “Silver-tongued and full of promises.”

Roark snorted and rolled his eyes. “What can I say, we creatures of ambition have to achieve our ends somehow.”

“Well, you seem to be doing a fine job,” she said. “I can’t remember Wurgfozz stringing more than one sentence together in all the time I lived on the second floor. Not unless he was standing over a helpless victim.” She hopped lightly off the bottom step and led the way into the gloom-filled third floor corridor. “Nice thinking, offering up a group of heroes.”

“It seemed our best option,” Roark replied with a shrug. He followed the hooded Reaver, his attention fixed on the way the midnight blue skin of her shoulders and black of her leathers melted into the shadows. Not a single torch burned in this hallway. “We can spare a few heroes for an alliance like that.”

From behind Roark came a rumbling throat-clear, a sound like rocks and phlegm. It was the closest Kaz could come to a polite interjection. When Roark glanced over his shoulder, the mighty Thursr chef had lifted one claw-tipped finger the size of a sausage.

“Kaz does have some reservations about that,” he said, his onyx eyes shining with something akin to worry. “Not the sort Gry Feliri writes about in the wonderful tome Cooking with Gry Feliri. Kaz has the other kind of reservations.”

But Roark didn’t get to hear what Kaz’s reservations were.

Just ahead, Zyra gave a startled hiss. “Get lost, parasite! Overseer’s business.”

“Dungeon Lord’s business trumps all,” came a guttural snarl—the sound of an earthquake given voice. An enormous level 13 Brute Thursr emerged from the gloom ahead. He was at least two-hands taller than Kaz, wore matte-black pieces of mismatched armor covered in vicious spikes, and carried an enormous weapon that looked like the bastard child of a meat-cleaver and machete. Jutting horns protruded from his sloped brow, reaching heavenwards, swaying as he lumbering forward like a charging Timber-Bear. 

He raised the weapon high, winding back for a killing blow. Clearly hoping to dispatch Zyra as quickly as possible. 

“Zyra, down!” Roark commanded with a roar as he conjured his Initiate’s Spell Book.

Pinpricks raced across Roark’s hand as the tome appeared, levitating a few inches above his outstretched left palm. Roark had a grand total of six Level 1 Spell Slots, three Level 2 slots, and one level 3 Slot. Most of the spell-slots were empty, however—he found writing tailor-made spells on the spot was the best options, though slower. Still, he had a pair of level one spells, and one level two spell on standby, for instances just such as this. Instances where even an eyeblink could be the difference between life and death. 

With a thought and a flick of his wrist, Roark unleashed a level one Fireball spell. 

A blazing ball of orange, twice the sized of Roark’s closed fist, exploded outward, streaking through the air, narrowly missing Zyra, before slamming into the Brute like a ballista bolt of raw power. The orb exploded, tongues of inferno flame momentarily engulfing the creature, scorching his poorly-maintained armor and charring exposed blue flesh. But the Brute hardly seemed to care. Nor did his health, which dropped only be a sliver. Ignoring the flames completely, the Brute struck. 

The clang of metal on metal rang out as Zyra dropped into a defensive stance and countered the raging Thursr’s enormous, pitted cleaver with her long knife and dagger. He lurched forward, trying to drive an oversized knee into her face, but she danced back with lithe grace, dragging the edge of her blade across his shin—a bright line of red appeared in the weapon’s wake. The Brute let out a roar, but didn’t retreat or slow his assault. 

With a curse, Roark ripped his Slender Rapier free of its sheath and darted forward, ready to add his blade to the fray, but their attacker had chosen the choke point well. This was the same bottleneck they’d nearly been ambushed in on his first trip down to meet the Dungeon Lord. He couldn’t squeeze past Zyra without tangling her up or knocking her off balance, and he couldn’t reach the Brute Thursr she was battling without getting one of her blades in his gut.

Crossbow bolts flew over Zyra’s hood, strangely not aimed at her. A second assailant! A shadowy Reaver, lurking further down the dimly lit hallway. Roark dodged the first and narrowly missed taking the second bolt in his eye.

Luckily, the ranged attack sparked an idea in Roark’s mind. He stowed his spell tome and rapier, trading them out for his Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter. Immediately, a black-leather quiver, bristling with arrows, bounced against his back. Roark slid a Superior Iron Arrow from the quiver with practiced ease, fitting it to the bowstring. He pulled the string taut, taking aim … 

Another bolt fired from beyond Zyra and the cleaver-wielding Thursr sang past Roark’s head. This one stuck in Kaz’s shoulder, just under his wooden pauldron. The mighty chef had his hook swords in hand and was trying to shove his way to the front in spite of the overcrowded quarters. Kaz roared and knocked Roark aside, ruining Roark’s shot, and throwing himself into the battle.

Zyra must have heard Kaz coming, because she disappeared into a puff of inky smoke, allowing the rampaging chef to barrel past her and clash with the meat-slab Brute Thursr. The pair slammed together like boulders, their weapons sending up a spray of sparks in the gloom.

Roark took aim again, watching carefully for an opening. Wouldn’t do to shoot Kaz in the back.

Just beyond the battling Thursrs, a flicker of white ringlets drew Roark’s eye. Zyra. She spun with her dagger and long knife, paring off a handful of the Brute’s red bar. As the Brute turned to swing his cleaver at her, Kaz darted in low and sliced him across the gut. And there, in that moment, the Brute’s head and throat were exposed. Vulnerable. Roark took advantage of the opening, firing an arrow into the Brute’s neck. The shot landed true, but the tough bastard’s health was still seven-eighths full.

A ululating battle cry echoed off the stone walls and a sinewy level 15 Dread Reaver flipped over Kaz and the Brute Thursr, landing on her feet less than a pace away from Roark. Creamy blue skin instead of Zyra’s velvety midnight, but with the same spill of white hair. And instead of assassin’s leathers, she wore inky black scale-mail, studded with fragments of yellowed bones and covered with glowing azure runes of power. 

Roark promptly backpedaled toward the stairs, launching one arrow after another at her. The first and second landed, one in her breast and the other in her ribs. The third missed, clattering down the passageway, but the fourth slammed into her thigh. Still she sprinted at Roark, one arm raised, an ebony wand in hand. The tip glowed icy blue and the air around them crackled. With a muttered word, the wand flashed and an ice javelin shot his way.

Roark reacted on instinct, thrusting out his left hand, casting Infernal Shield. The new filigreed vial appeared once more in the right-hand corner of his vision, a trickle of the purple liquid inside draining away as the violet barrier shimmered around him. The ice javelin crashed into the shield and shattered with a sound like a wine bottle exploding in a fireplace. The Dread Reaver fired another and another from her ebony wand, each javelin splintering against the barrier, as she advanced on Roark.

Roark put his back to the stone wall and nocked another arrow, aiming it at her heart, ready to take her out the moment his shield dropped.

Then from overhead, Mac leapt down onto the sinewy Dread Reaver. She rolled and kicked the Elite Salamander off, but Mac scurried back to his feet and sunk his fangs into her leg. The Dread Reaver’s red bar flashed green. Poisoned by Mac’s venom. The Dread Reaver cursed and fired an ice javelin at Mac. Suddenly, the salamander’s body was covered in a blue-white glow and he slowed to a pitiful crawl.

Roark dropped the Infernal shield, the violet light winking out like a snuffed candle, and fired at the Dread Reaver. The arrow caught her in the gut, but only shaved off the barest sliver of her Health. Clearly, this line of attack simply wasn’t working. He stowed the bow in his inventory, quickly swapping it out for his Spell Book and his sleek rapier once more. He thrust the book forward, preparing to launch his last level 1 Fireball spell when Kaz’s shout of dismay drew his attention, “Roark, look out!” 

Somehow the Brute had managed to get around Kaz, and now the deadly Troll was heading for Roark. The creature broke into a lumbering run, and even though Kaz was hacking at the huge Thursr’s back, the Brute wasn’t paying him any mind. His beady eyes were locked on Roark, his lips pulled back in a determined grimace.

Damn it all!

Short on options, Roark triggered his only prewritten Level 2 Spell, Stun. The air compressed suddenly, then erupted outward, accompanied by a violent flash of light, which hurled the Dread Reaver into the wall. She crumpled, alive, but temporarily dazed. The Brute, unfortunately, managed to remain standing, though he blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear his vision, while he swayed drunkenly. Kaz rushed in from behind, furiously slashing his hooked swords at the enemy Thursr’s hamstrings, frantically working to cripple the creature. 

“We’ve got more company!” Zyra shouted, materializing in a flash of black smoke. She wasn’t alone—a pair of Elite Reavers had come out to play. The three of them danced and flickered in and out of the shadow. But the Elite Reavers didn’t seem as interested in taking Zyra out as they did in getting past her—which probably explained why she was still alive. She cut them off at every turn, catching them as soon as they stepped out of the smoke and darkness. But Roark knew she couldn’t buy time forever …

Fed up, one ran backward away from Zyra while the other kept her whirling, spinning, and fighting. The runner pulled a crossbow and aimed at Roark.

Not one of them seemed to care a whit about their own health so long as they managed to take him out. Which could only mean these were more friendly assassins, courtesy of Azibek. Dungeon Lord’s business indeed.

Roark tore his eyes away from Zyra. There was nothing he could do for her at the moment, and the Dread Reaver his Stun spell had thrown into the wall was back on her feet. Roark launched his last Fireball spell at her at the same moment as she fired another ice javelin. He dodged her attack, only to come up face-to-face with the Brute Thursr.

“Noooo!” Kaz cried, still chopping at the Brute’s back. “Run, Roark!”

But the Brute brought down his cleaver in a vicious overhand swing. Roark wasn’t fast enough to dodge it completely; he managed to turn just enough to take the notched blade on his shoulder rather than across his face.

The purple vial in the corner of his eye was instantly replaced by his red Health vial. It dropped by a quarter while the spell book hoovering above his left hand flickered and disappeared, banished back to his inventory. A message flashed: 

[Your left arm has been damaged! You cannot wield two-handed weapons, equip spellbooks, or cast Infernal spells until it is healed! Duration: 45 seconds or until you drink a Healing potion.]

“Seven hells,” Roark coughed, scrambling back as he brought his rapier up.

An ice javelin lanced him through the back of the thigh, courtesy of the Dread Reaver. His Health vial flashed blue and another handful of red disappeared.

[You are suffering from frostbite! Movement speed reduced by 30% for the next 30 seconds.]

Almost before this notice had vanished, a crossbow bolt lodged itself in Roark’s gut, followed quickly by a second in his chest. He tried to cast Infernal Shield again, but as he raised his left hand, another notice popped up, offering him a bleak reminder of his terrible situation.

[You cannot perform this action! Your left arm has been damaged! You cannot wield two-handed weapons, equip spellbooks, or cast Infernal spells until it is healed! Duration: 36 seconds or until you drink a Healing potion.]

With only one hand, he couldn’t even reach into his Inventory for a Modest Health Potion—not while he tried to defend himself from the Brute’s hacking blade with his rapier. And even that was futile with Frostbite slowing his accustomed speed and grace to a clumsy crawl. The Brute Thursr continued to hack and slice at him without pause, emptying Roark’s red filigreed vial by the bucketful. From behind, the Dread Reaver fired her ice javelins, slowing him even further and stealing away his Health bit by bit.

Meanwhile, the archer Reaver beyond Zyra shot another pair of bolts. One pierced Zyra’s bicep. The other struck home in Roark’s kidney, slicing off another quarter of his health.

Roark swung his rapier at the Brute Thursr, but the pain was making his arms and legs weakand his attacks ungainly and ineffectual. The Brute avoided it easily, then lunged back in, taking an upward swing at Roark’s head, meaning to decapitate him. Roark just barely managed to duck, and the Brute’s cleaver tore off Roark’s ear instead. Pain lanced through his head, white and hot and angry. 

In the corner of his vision, the filigreed Health vial flashed out a warning. Peril is imminent, it seemed to scream. 

Roark couldn’t access his spells. He couldn’t hope to match any of his attackers at the slow slog he’d been relegated to. He was badly outnumbered. And he was going to die if he didn’t drink a Modest Health Potion. But in the time it would take to pull one from his Inventory, he would be dead as well … His entire body was a battleground of throbbing, stabbing pain so intense he could barely lift the Slender Rapier to even the simplest of guards, and no matter what he did, he was going to die.

The Brute Thursr gave a guttural cry as Kaz’s twin hook swords scissored his massive head from his broad shoulders. It landed on the floor in front of Roark with a wet plop, spatters of Troll blood dotting Roark’s leathers.

The split second of satisfaction Roark felt at the sight of the Brute’s astonished expression disappeared a moment later when a crossbow bolt and an ice javelin simultaneously skewered Roark from opposite directions.

The last bit of red drained from his Health vial, and Roark von Graf died. Again.