Shadowcroft Academy For Dungeons: Year Two, page 35
The Death Warg next to Logan crouched and woofed, baring deadly fangs. And then Logan and the warg and the three Kurrybooboos charged ahead.
It was a suicide run, but Logan wasn’t about to go down without a fight. If Chadrigoth was watching, Logan wanted him to see what a heroic last stand looked like.
From overhead a triangular cherry turnover went spinning end over end and slammed into the Dungeonaut’s chest, exploding in a column of scalding hot cherry filling.
The Dungeonaut bellowed in pure pain.
Logan could relate. He’d eaten a McDonald’s cherry pie once that nearly burned through the top of his mouth and into his brain.
The fragrance of oven-baked goodness wafted through the desert air. Or in this case, the dessert air.
Striding across the sand was what could only be called a Pop-Tart golem, easily as large as the Dungeonaut. An enormous, roided-out Pillsbury Doughboy, equal parts pastry, buttercream frosting, and murder. The creature carried a colossal rolling pin in a hand the size of a dinner plate. Icing covered its chest, thighs, shoulders, and biceps. Not only did the frosting look delicious, but it also worked like armor. An Unleashed Pit Spawn turned on the newcomer and tried to bite it, but the Pop-Tart golem took the blow on its icing. The Spawn’s fangs never got close to piercing its doughy exterior.
Slung across the golem’s ample body was a dough satchel filled to the brim with more of the cherry turnovers. With its free hand, it flung the pastries, wiping out Hellion Imps and Unleashed Spawn one after another. Anything that got in striking range got a taste of the rolling pin, which left a trail of cracked skulls and broken limbs in its wake.
Then the Pop-Tart golem and the Dungeonaut hit each other in a battle of giants.
Meanwhile, poor Mariah was going toe to toe with a deadly Pit Spawn. The waddler had a fist-sized hole in one leg and most of her chest was just... gone. Honestly, Logan had no idea how the little gal was still going. That was one dedicated little minion. The Pit Spawn circled left then darted in like a lightning bolt, fangs closing around what remained of Mariah’s neck. But even in death, the waddler was a champion. She let out one final high-pitched screech and flung the ruby shield to Logan.
He didn’t have an arm to pick it up.
But Melvin did.
The kitchen ghast seized the shield and Captain America’d a Hellion Imp with its edge.
“I hope you’re not lactose intolerant!” Melvin flung what looked to be melted cheese from his outstretched hand. The imp let out a shriek, like it had taken a bite of a Hot Pocket straight out of the microwave. “Because this cheese will give you terrible gas... Oh, and burn your face off!”
Melvin had other tricks up the sleeve of his chef’s whites. He’d come running up leaving behind a trail of donuts that acted like mines. Any imp or spawn that came close triggered the donut bombs, blowing themselves into oblivion.
“Now prepare to see my true might,” Melvin said, tipping his fedora. He dropped into a wide horse stance and reached a hand into the sleeve of his chef’s whites. Somehow, he drew a katana from the folds of white cloth. But not a fancy katana. It looked like the kind of cheap sword someone might buy at the shopping mall. “While you partied in your regal hells,” he said somberly, “I studied the blade, and now you will taste its edge.” He shot forward in a blaze of light. Logan had to admit, he might have looked like a dork incarnate, but man oh man could Melvin fight.
The kitchen ghast waded into battle like a seasoned brawler, flanked by more pastry monsters—only these were like bear cubs with unnaturally large paws sprouting claws from apple filling. Yep, Melvin was wagging war with Bear Claws. They went well with this donut bombs and Pop-Tart golem.
Speaking of which, the Pop-Tart golem opened its chest and jammed half of the Dungeonaut inside its gooey, piping hot center.
Logan’s jaw dropped. “Chocolate,” he muttered. “That’s molten chocolate.”
Melvin sliced off the head of the last Unleashed Pit Spawn, flicked the gore from the edge of his mall katana, then disappeared the weapon back into his sleeves.
The Pop-Tart golem toppled to the ground. It had killed the Dungeonaut in its molten chocolate center, but the Dungeonaut had taken the oversized Pillsbury Doughboy to the grave.
Logan could appreciate the chocolate suicide.
For a second, Logan couldn’t believe he was alive. He surveyed the sandy battlefield, where his mushroom minions lay intertwined with various demons and pastry monsters.
He turned to the kitchen ghast. “Melvin, how did you know I needed help?”
Melvin giggled. “I noticed Chadrigoth’s old Psuche Powder trick. That kooky abyss lord loves his Psuche Powder. I’m not sure why, since it can knock you off course with the BYE, but other than that, its effects are, shall we say, suspect?”
Logan retrieved his silver swords and the ruby shield and stored them all back into his rings. He kept his armor on, just in case.
Melvin waited for him. Back with the kitchen ghast, there was only one question to ask. “Yeah, but how did you know where to find me, Melvin?”
“Oh, that. Well, Chadrigoth was pretty sneaky, blowing the powder on you. I saw him do it, and I know Bharoosh. As does Chadrigoth. I mean—he sent you to the Dry Desert. Which isn’t exactly the most original name for a desert. By their very nature, deserts are dry. But I digress. I knew he couldn’t have sent you too far—Psuche Powder has a fairly limited range. And since you are a fungoid who needs a moist environment to thrive, this was the only obvious choice given the geographical constraints. So there you have it. Glad I showed up when I did.”
Logan then had to wonder aloud, “So how do we get back?”
Melvin reached into a pocket and pulled out more pastries. “These are Psuche and sweet potato samosas. I don’t have the corresponding sauce, but they’re pretty good on their own. They’ll allow us back into the branches of the Tree of Souls that will take us back to Arborea.”
“You’ve thought of everything.” Logan paused. He had to know where they stood with the kitchen ghast. “Look, Melvin, are you in any way connected to the murders and the attacks in the dungeons of Arborea?”
Melvin frowned, his affable, happy persona disappearing in an instant. He looked hurt. “You know, I’ve tried to be your friend, you and the rest of the Terrible Twelfth, but not only did Inga order my cookbook, which I am not pleased about, but you think I murder dungeons. Like currently am an active murderer. Like right now.”
Logan tried to backtrack. “I said connected... I mean, the runes, and the Bharoosh connection, and...”
Melvin whipped off his fedora and aimed it like a gun at Logan. “Bharoosh is an ancient world. Everyone from heroes like Vilhelm Audax to villains like Billy Scales have spent time here. And yet, you are accusing me. Me. Sure, Logan, actually, I gave Chadrigoth the Psuche Powder and organized this whole thing so I could save you and so you wouldn’t think I would murder you next. But I might as well, right? Because it doesn’t matter.” Melvin dropped Logan’s samosa into the sand.
The kitchen ghast gulped down his own pastry and vanished from sight. Gone in sixty seconds.
Logan picked up his pastry. Was that an admission of guilt? Or was Melvin just justifiably angry? Logan figured it was that last one. His attempts to soften the accusation had failed, and instead he’d just accused the person who had saved his life. And not for the first time either. Melvin was weird and awkward, sure, but the truth was he’d never shown Logan or his friends anything but kindness. And Logan had essentially just kicked sand into his face. He sighed and shook his head.
He owed the kitchen ghast an apology. It was high time he started treating the guy with the same kindness Melvin had shown him. And it was also high time that he put this feud with Chadrigoth to bed. This was the final line in the sand. So to speak.
Logan was going to end the bad blood, one way or another. He wouldd try the official channels first, and if that didn’t work? Well, then he’d take matters into his own hands.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Logan arrived back on Arborea at the BYE portal tree. Only his friends were waiting. They said Melvin had come storming through and then immediately took the DIE back to campus. Chadrigoth and the First Cohort, including Tet, had followed him. Logan was more than a little surprised that Professor Zantho wasn’t buzzing around, waiting to give him a piece of her tiny mind—or see what had happened—but according to Marko, the Fairy Fetch had better things to do with her time than babysit wayward fungaloids who couldn’t even master the basics of BYE travel. Her words.
Logan should’ve felt shocked, but at this point he’d come to respect that sort of response from the administrative staff at Shadowcroft. It was very much a sink or swim educational method. At least they were consistent.
Logan quickly told his friends what happened—his encounter with Chadrigoth’s minions, Melvin saving his bacon, and then the uncomfortable conversation that had followed. He also told them his plans to go to Rockheart. Maybe Professor Zantho wouldn’t do anything about the obvious murder attempt, but Rockheart was solidly in his corner these days. He might do something.
Inga immediately wanted to join him, and Logan thought that might be a good idea—it would be good to have backup.
In the meantime, Marko and Treacle would hit the dinner hall and try to patch things up with Melvin. He could be anywhere on Arborea, but if there was one thing the kitchen ghast enjoyed it was food, so chances were high they would find him eating away his woes.
Plans made, Logan and Inga made a beeline for the practice field. Since it was the end of the day, they found the well-dressed gargoyle griffin at the Akros Coliseum, putting away practice equipment in the shed where Logan had slept over the summer. It was a little shocking, but Professor Moonbow Rainsap was helping him. Professor Rainsap’s biceps bulged as he lifted a big battle-ax and set it onto a rack near the shed. The sun gleamed off his blond hair and rainbow scales. A leather vest, taken from someone who hadn’t survived 1969’s Summer of Love, covered his upper human part.
Rainsap glided around on his snake tail like oil sliding over water.
Logan was also surprised to see Professor Bartholomew Nekhbet there doing some power walking around the running track that surrounded the Iceblade grass. Nekhbet was going to have to spend a lot of time on that track to get rid of his neck wattle. Or maybe have it look slimmer? Could you lose wattle weight? He idly wondered what Inga would have to say about that—he knew for a fact that she was very fond of flappy skin folds. One of his best features, she’d said on more than one occasion.
Logan thought he would be talking to Rockheart alone. But maybe having a witness would be better. Logan had swung by Shadowcroft’s office a few times over the year, but the headmaster was never present, which made sense considering Shadowcroft worked all the time to keep the school up and running. Were the various errands more important than dead students at his school? Logan wouldn’t have thought so, but the Ashvattha Multiverse was a big place and full of danger.
Logan and Inga hurried over to the shed.
Professor Nekhbet raised a five-pound weight as he power walked by. “Hello, Miss Therian. Hello to you, Mr. Murray.” Without waiting for a response, the vulture-headed professor kept right on power walking.
Inga blinked, and her mouth fell open. “Was Bart sweating? I think he was sweating.” She fanned her face as if she were the one overheating. “He definitely had a healthy glow to him.”
Logan was too focused to worry about Inga’s crush on the universe’s most boring teacher. Or to wonder if bird people could sweat at all.
He grabbed her shoulder and steered her over to where Rockheart was sorting through a collection of arrows and crossbow bolts. “Have you two come here to work harder? We’ve been behind the Crystal Tiger clan since midterms ended. I am not happy. I am not happy at all.”
Inga cocked her head, frowning. “Professor Rockheart, I’ve done the math, and this year, all of the clans are neck and neck. We will not truly be able to discern a winner until after the Winnowing, our O.D.D. finals, the interschool competition, and the final senior dungeon evaluations have been turned in. Let’s stay hopeful.”
The gargoyle looked like he might vomit pebbles. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? You all know what you need to do. Today was your field trip to see Ji-Soo, was it not? She is truly horrifying, but you wouldn’t have appreciated the experience last year. Kyvandry Spencer is the only way to start. She is a bit like fine wine in that way—she takes age to appreciate.”
Professor Rainsap hefted a slashed-up dummy onto his shoulder. “I agree with what you said about the clan competition, Ms. Therian.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Inga seemed unimpressed with the beefcake naga. Her eyes were still on the power-walking bird professor wogging around the track.
Rainsap nodded. “As for Ji-Soo. Yes, Kyvandry Spencer is fearsome, but I’d rather face him and his abattoir ogres than that Demonic Fox Fiend and her teddy bears any day of the week. Ji-Soo has almost complete control over her Apothos. Truly a wonder.”
Rockheart grunted but didn’t even throw a single look over at Rainsap. It was clear the two had to work together, but they didn’t like it.
“Professor Rockheart,” Logan said, “I’ll get straight to the point. Chadrigoth used Psuche Powder to knock me out of the BYE and attempted to kill me with his minions.”
“And yet here you are, alive and well,” the rector prime replied flatly, “so I’m not sure what the issue is precisely.”
“Well, the murder attempt,” Logan said slowly. “That sort of seems like it has to be breaking some sort of school rule, right? I mean, students can’t just go around killing students without repercussions, right?”
“I mean, it’s not exactly what we like to see,” Professor Rainsap said with a shrug, “but sometimes when a storm sweeps across the ocean, the waves battle the wind, before both are consumed by the rainbow light of reality. The sun murders the sea. The sea bleeds rain. The rain replenishes all life. But then the wind comes to tickle life, and life laughs before the day ends and the eternal darkness begins.”
Logan squinted at the naga professor, trying to follow his bizarre chain of logic and figure out what in the heck he was even talking about.
“So are murder attempts okay or not?” Logan asked again.
“As my colleague stated,” Rockheart said, “it’s not exactly what we like to see. Students are a valuable asset, after all, especially the more powerful ones. Last year I wouldn’t have lost an ounce of sleep over your death—I actively sought it. But then, you were a nothing. Your potential was so low that losing it was a net gain. That has changed. You have proven yourself time and again. Both Shadowcroft and myself would be displeased at your destruction. But...” He shrugged. “Competition weeds out those who don’t deserve to survive. That is the heart of Cemoyre’s Constant: only the fit survive. You survived the attempt and now are stronger for it. I imagine you will not be caught off guard by Psuche Powder again.”
Anger burned inside Logan’s chest, and he balled his squat hands into tight fists.
“But surely, Professor, there must be something we can do about it,” Inga said, seeming to sense Logan’s frustration. “This isn’t even the first time Chadrigoth has made such an attempt. Why just last year he attempted to kill not just Logan, but all of the Terrible Twelfth—which surely would’ve been a great loss to the academy.”
“But you survived,” Rockheart said. “All of you. And that very murder attempt pushed you to your utmost limits. That nefarious act was the catalyst for a glorious transformation. Hardship and danger push us to excel, that is part of our core philosophy.”
“I see how it is,” Logan growled. “Well next time you see Chadrigoth, Professor, please kindly pass along a message from me. If he takes another poke at me or my friends, I will. Kill. Him. I’ll turn the whole damned Azure Dragon dormitory into my own personal fungal dungeon, and I’ll feed him and anyone else who helps him right into a digestion pit. You let him know that for me.”
“Now that is the fighting spirit!” Rockheart said, offering an exceedingly rare smile. He turned to the naga. “You should’ve seen him last year, Rainsap. This little fungaloid wasn’t half the core he’s grown into being. Threatening murder in front of faculty? It takes some salt, I’ll tell you what. He’s come so far!”
Inga crossed her arms. “And since Logan and I are bound together, we’ll be working together. I’d much rather save the murder for dungeoneers. Please, talk to Chadrigoth.”
Rockheart exploded into hearty laughter and dropped his armful of bolts and arrows. “Why should I? There is nothing better than a committed enemy. It will keep you on your toes, force you to work when you won’t want to, and drive you. Lest you die.”
Professor Rainsap set the practice dummy down and considered Logan and Inga thoughtfully. “Unlike my colleague, I would urge caution. Many of the facility here at Shadowcroft are a little indifferent toward the death of students, but I can assure you the Council of Dungeons and the Arcandor Initiative are not. Even aside from the ethical considerations, purposely killing a fellow dungeon core will place you firmly in their sights, and that is a thing you very much don’t want. There was that one snake lord dungeon a few years back, a bad egg. He survived Shadowcroft and even graduated, only to fall on the bad side of an Arcandor.” Rainsap paused and glanced at Rockheart. “Was that Zantho or Ji-Soo that did him in?”
“Neither,” growled Rockheart. “It was Clint Steelsack. He was the one with the unfortunate poncho and the ridiculous hat. You know the one I’m talking about. Carried those ghastly crossbows. His whole ensemble was hideous.”
“I’d forgotten about Clint... Too bad about him. I always liked that guy.”
“Indeed. Everyone liked Clint. He was a stand-up dungeon despite his numerous fashion faux pas.” Rockheart went back to sorting arrows.
