Shadowcroft Academy For Dungeons: Year Two, page 39
Inga turned a page in her book. Marko adjusted a tuning key and strummed the lute; it made no discernable sound, though Steve winced with a squeak.
The satyr sighed. “You’re right. The acoustics in here are crap. Hey, Logan, Steve and I will be outside in the hall when Shadowcroft wants to see us.” He got up and clopped away. Steve closed the door behind them.
Inga didn’t even look up. She was reading furiously.
Logan and Treacle sat without talking.
Finally, Logan couldn’t take the silence a second longer. “You know, this is some BS. Chadrigoth tries to kill us twice, and I don’t think anyone ever talked to him. And here we are, trying to stop a murderer, and we get in trouble. This is stupid.”
Treacle was neither talking nor chewing cud. He simply sat there in a leather battle skirt and heavy boots, staring at the far wall with a vacant expression.
Logan sighed. “We totally blew it. Maybe we should’ve went to Rockheart. Except we did do that, and he said we needed proof. Should’ve talked to Arketa. Or Professor Toothbyte. I’ve always liked him. He seems relatively normal. For a shark guy. With a hook for a hand. And that weaponized anchor. You know. The new normal.”
Treacle remained unmoving and unresponsive.
Logan persisted. “Don’t worry, Treac. We’ll get out of this. I’ve been in trouble before. There was this one time, in the army, when we—”
The sullen minotaur cut him off, speaking in a low voice so only Logan would hear. “Steve is such a sad thing. I know you all like him, and Marko says he’s funny, but he’s not. He’s lost, alone, a floor boss without a floor. Being around him is so depressing.”
Logan wasn’t sure where this was going. However, Treacle talking was better than Treacle sulking, so Logan kept quiet.
The minotaur spoke without looking at Logan. “I’ve always felt this weight on me, for my whole life. I felt it as a gnome tinkering away with my steam-powered taffy machine, and I’ve felt it here, as a dungeon core trying my best to get by and keep my friends safe. It’s the weight of life, I suppose. I’m surprised others don’t feel it. But I do. Sometimes I like to pretend the weight has made me strong. Other times, I see it as my greatest weakness. A thing that crushes me flat. And yet, I never understood the purpose of it.”
The minotaur finally turned his mild eyes to Logan. “Perhaps the weight doesn’t have a purpose. But we do. Took me a long time to recognize that, but I’ve had a lot of time to reflect this year. Steve is what I used to be, Logan. A tool without a purpose. A monster without a place. But I know my place now. We stop dungeoneers from destroying the Tree of Souls. That is what we are being forged for. This here”—he gestured around the office—“is the crucible built to refine us. We are improving here, and no matter what happens, we must remember that. We will get through this. We will save the school when others might let chaos rule. Because we understand the importance of our purpose. Give someone a purpose, and they can carry any burden.”
Logan felt a lump in his throat.
Treacle chuckled. “I’m glad I’m not like Steve anymore. The poor creature has no purpose other than to dance after Marko. We aren’t that, thank goodness. You know, it reminds me of a story about Aldaleera. Do you know why everyone compares things to Aldaleera?”
“Tell me.” Logan genuinely was curious. It was always Aldaleeran this and Aldaleeran that. It all sounded made up.
Treacle opened a compartment on his arm and used two bratwurst-sized fingers to delicately pull out several stalks of thick dry grass, wrapped together in strands of greener grass. For a second, Logan thought the minotaur would smoke them like a cigar. Instead, Treacle popped them into his mouth and chewed on them like they were several Slim Jims tied together. “Aldaleera was beautiful place, a heaven, if the stories are to be believed. There was all manner of creatures there. Good food, treats, and the chocolate. By gods, the chocolate was known throughout the multiverse as simply the best in all of creation. To think, now I’d rather have my dried grass than all that chocolate.”
There was a great deal of chewing and chuffing that followed.
Logan waited, drumming his fingers on the edge of the bench, but still holding his tongue. He realized that too often, they cut off the minotaur when he tried to talk. Their cohort was full of chatterbugs. Marko was the worst. Logan wasn’t innocent either, though. He’d never been comfortable with the sound of silence.
Treacle swallowed. “That’s going to be good later on. Now, where was I?” He licked his lips. “Right. Aldaleera. The thing about Aldaleera? It was destroyed. Growing up, my mother would say that it was because the children there didn’t eat their sweet sprouts. Which I highly doubt. Since I had a bit of interest about such things, I looked it up. Aldaleera had one big Celestial Node, and it had a very good dungeon core protecting it. But it didn’t matter. Legend says, a single S-Class raider went through it, captured the inner sanctum, and destroyed the whole world. Gone in the blink of an eye. We remember all the wonders of Aldaleera, but the world itself is no more.”
Logan wondered why Treacle was bringing this up now.
The minotaur smiled, his teeth square and blunt like weathered tombstones. “I am sorry for Melvin. Death is a sad thing for the living. For the dead? They continue on in the Tree of Souls, bringing their energy to the universe. But us here? Like I said, we have to remember what’s important. No matter what Shadowcroft says in there, it doesn’t change anything. You need to know that, Logan. We will become powerful dungeons, and we will protect other worlds, all just as magical as Aldaleera in their own way. For in an infinite universe, there are many paradises for us to enjoy.”
The polished wooden door to Shadowcroft’s office creaked open. Chadrigoth, Magmarty, and Lady Elesiel went strutting off, seemingly without a care in the world. Chadrigoth said something snide, Magmarty laughed, and Lady Elesiel was giggling. Liches shouldn’t giggle. They should have hollow, merciless laughs like the echoing halls of a mausoleum. But no. Not the undead elf. It was like she’d just heard some juicy gossip and wanted to scurry off to post smack on her Instagram.
From out in the hall, Chadrigoth bellowed, “Your mannequin is creepy, goat boy.”
“Your face is creepy!” Marko shot back. The satyr and the plaster dummy came walking back into Shadowcroft’s waiting room.
Perfect timing. Shadowcroft stuck his face into the room and shot out a stick finger, pointing at them. “Logan Murray and your Terrible Twelfth. It is your turn now.”
Logan stood, squared his shoulders, and marched in with Treacle towering behind him. Inga, Marko, and Steve followed.
Shadowcroft’s office was a mess. The stained-glass pictures of various forests were dusty, making the light murky. The bookcases were overflowing—it looked like the shelves had been hit with a bad case of literary diarrhea. Swords and statues lay scattered around the room, many toppled onto their sides. Something scampered across the scatter of papers covering Shadowcroft’s desk, quickly disappearing behind a velvety curtain. The end tables where the crystal ballerina and the rose lady had been on Logan’s first visit were both empty. Instead, there were dishes piled there, as well as a single half-eaten cherry turnover.
A sad testament to Melvin’s fate.
Shadowcroft headed for his desk. His steps were slow and tired, his back bent, making him look like a forest-dwelling General Grievous. His mossy beard waved and wobbled with every step. He lowered himself slowly into his stately throne-like chair, then blew grassy hair out of his troubled blue eyes. Even the flowers on his skull drooped. “I suppose we should start by you all trying to defend your actions. Well, start.”
This wasn’t the kindly old headmaster Logan was familiar with. This guy looked beaten down and frayed at the edges. He hadn’t even invited them to sit down. There were four chairs in front of his desk.
Before they could even start, Shadowcroft shot to his feet and glared at them. “I heard you speak of Aldaleera in the waiting room. I saw it, you know, back before this vaunted academy was even a dream. It was better than the legends say. Truly a shining city on a hill. Destroyed in pursuit of Immortality. Perhaps if my masters had listened to me, it would still be casting its light, instead of a burnt-out husk. A dead world. You all have not seen a dead world. I have. Countless times!”
Inga opened her mouth to launch her carefully constructed defense, but Shadowcroft stopped her with a frown and a glare.
“Before you say a word, Inga Thosa Therian, let me make myself perfectly clear.” He leaned forward onto his desk, an angry tree man of epic proportions. “I do not want you to waste my time, nor the time of the professors, with your wild conspiracy theories. I will admit, we have made mistakes. Yes, we have three dead now—all tragic, and all taken before their time.
“But I think, perhaps, you four need a little perspective. Nightfall University has lost twenty-six students this year. Twenty-six. Their headmistress, Lolozi Webbs, would consider that a successful year. Perspective. In case you are not aware, being a dungeon is dangerous, but not being a dungeon is even more so. You are worried about three lives. I am worried about trillions. A dead world means just that—all life gone, all people gone, all silenced. Preventing that is the work of this institution.”
Marko, unbelievably, raised his hand, as if he were in an elementary school math class, and he knew the answer to a problem that involved multiplying fractions.
Shadowcroft ignored him. The flowers on the tree man’s grassy scalp stood rigid with anger. “We are nearing the end of the year. We have finals to prepare for. There are a great many points yet to tally for the clan competition. I have hundreds of students taking thousands of tests, and there is the interschool tournament for our third-years we have to deal. Thank the Tree of Souls and all her fruits that we aren’t holding the tournament here this year. Next year, we will be hosting, and I had high hopes that the First Cohort and the Terrible Twelfth would represent us well, but now, I am not so certain.
“Instead of investigating the murders, shouldn’t you be preparing for your finals? Professor Zantho will not go easy on you, yet you hardly seem concerned about your most pressing duty—protecting the Tree of Souls. Which brings up another point. I need every dungeon on Arborea functioning for finals. We are a dungeon academy, and yes, I’ve kept the three closed so we might try to unravel the mystery, and I know about the runes, and the Will yum yum yum ghan chanting, and all of that. I have looked into it. Professor Arketa and even Yullis Rockheart have looked into it, and there is nothing going on.”
Marko stood with his hand up. Steve joined him, squeaking up his own hand.
Something scampered across the floor near Logan’s foot, and he felt a keen pinch on his ankle. He looked down, but nothing was there. What the heck?
Shadowcroft stood straight and towered over them, his mossy beard swinging. “Fine, Laskarelis. What is your question?”
Marko and Steve dropped their hands. “Well, you said we’d start by us defending our actions. I can’t defend our actions. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on. But Inga has a good handle on what we’re doing.”
Shadowcroft softened, smiled, and his teeth were a bit yellow, a bit more wooden than Logan would’ve thought. “Yes, Mr. Laskarelis. I’m afraid I am a bit overwrought. Sit. We can discuss this with a bit more civility.”
Logan sat, a little surprised that it was Marko that had de-escalated the situation.
Inga cleared her throat, suddenly looking a bit unsure of herself. She craved the approval of professors, and Shadowcroft was the professor of all professors. Dealing with his anger and disappointment would not be easy for Inga. But she steeled herself and launched into their evidence anyway. Carefully she laid out their theories—all the clues and signs, meticulously detailed—then explained the reason why they were in the Submerged Hell in the first place.
Shadowcroft nodded along, listening, but as he listened his skull flowers drooped. He wasn’t angry anymore, but he looked more deflated than ever.
Whatever was scampering around the office kept taking bites out of Logan. It was so painful, Logan eventually sat cross-legged in his chair.
Marko was the next target, and the satyr would emit a random yelp every now and again.
Inga finished off her case. “So, in conclusion, I believe these murders aren’t random and neither are the locations. Believe it or not, we saw the Crystal Tiger manifest out of Melvin’s Apothos. I believe that the Four Celestials sacrificed themselves to trap something powerful beneath Arborea, and I believe someone is trying to tap into that power. I don’t know what their endgame is, but I know it’s not good for us and it’s not good for the Tree of Souls. There is only one more seal to go. One more death. If we don’t stop whoever is behind this, something terrible is going to happen. And yes, worlds might die. It is possible that Arborea could go the way of Aldaleera. You don’t want that to happen. We don’t want that to happen.”
“Ouch!” Marko slapped at his leg. “Wish I was hooves all the way to the knee,” he grumbled under his breath.
Logan caught a glimpse of their attackers. It was Shadowcroft’s little rose woman, with a red bud for a head and thorny stalks for a body. The petals composing her face split to show a mouthful of jagged fangs. And the rose woman wasn’t alone. Behind her ran a tiny crystal ballerina carrying a glimmering sword the length of a pencil. Both disappeared into a pile of books.
Shadowcroft closed his eyes and rubbed at one temple.
“Sometimes you are too smart for your own good, Inga Thosa Therian. And the rest of you only encourage her. I never intended to reveal any of this, but it is obvious you aren’t going to quit. The truth is, I was here, on Arborea, when it was first created. It wasn’t the Four Celestial Ancestors who forged this place, but rather one. The Onyx Tortoise. My teacher. He called out to me, near death. He’d cracked his gem fighting against William of the Scales. He was dying.
“Yes, there was vestigial energy left from the battle—you can’t kill an S-Class dungeoneer without there being consequences. And I suspect that William of the Scales was even more than we know. I believe he was an Immortal Crown cultivator, one step removed from divinity itself. But, in the end, William of the Scales was killed, three ancestors were dead by his hand, and the last of our ancestors, wounded. So very gravely wounded. It wasn’t just his gem, it was his mind. It would never be as keen as it once was.”
Something clicked into place inside Logan’s head. The Onyx Tortoise had his gem core shattered, but had been too powerful to die. The Threshing Turtle had a cracked gem, yet was still powerful enough to run the Threshing and even power the Tartarucha Cells, which was a gargantuan task.
Shadowcroft opened his eyes and saw that Logan knew the truth.
The headmaster spoke in a quiet, fragile voice. “This discussion, about the origin of Arborea, about what happened, is painful for me. Yes, the Onyx Tortoise anchored the realm to the four Cardinal Dungeons. That is why they are special. But there is nothing hidden there. There is no great power source, and even if there were, why would it matter? Let us say that your theory is correct and that unlocking these runes will allow some dungeon to harness the residual power that helped shape Arborea. Is that really such a terrible thing if it results in a powerful dungeon better able to defend the Tree of Souls? Is that not why we are here?”
“Sure,” Treacle grunted. “Aside from a little murder, what’s the harm?”
Shadowcroft narrowed his eyes. “The Arcandor Initiative deals with murderous dungeons. If you are correct and the threat was real, Professor Zantho already would’ve taken care of it. And if not her, then Ji-Soo.”
Inga wasn’t about to give up. “But the Will yum yum yum ghan chant suggests that William of the Scales might still be alive and trapped here in some form. Can’t you even entertain the possibility of the idea?”
Marko grinned. “Good ol’ Billy Scales. Back from the dead and ready to party.”
Shadowcroft slammed his hand onto his desk. “William of the Scales is dead!” He lowered his voice again. “He is dead. My master, the Onyx Tortoise himself, confirmed this with me minutes after Arborea was created.”
Again, Shadowcroft and Logan exchanged glances.
“You don’t want anyone to know,” Logan said gently, “that Zhen Ikgix, the venerable Threshing Turtle, was once an ancestor. That’s why you haven’t been poking into any of this.”
The rose woman and the crystal ballerina appeared again, near Treacle, but the minotaur was ready for them. He opened an arm compartment, took out a series of rings, and let them fall. They immediately turned into miniature cow-headed automatons with saw blades for hands and electricity crackling across the horns. They marched around Treacle’s feet, keeping guard. Treacle’s minute minions fought a tiny battle with the rose woman and the crystal ballerina. Both went scurrying away before they could be hurt too badly by the minotaur’s creations.
Shadowcroft didn’t even notice. He rose from his desk, and the skull flowers were standing straight up once more. The headmaster tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but his words still popped and cracked. “Yes. And this is why I want you to stop. This is why I’m going to open all the dungeons, and we will return to normal. You are right, Mr. Murray. I don’t want anyone to know. I’ve kept this secret for ten thousand years, and I will keep it for another ten thousand. Until worlds are dying. Until the threat is real. The Onyx Tortoise should be venerated as the best of the ancestors, not pitied for becoming... for becoming what he is now. You students only see him at his best. You don’t know how he can be. At his worst.”
