Shadowcroft Academy For Dungeons: Year Two, page 5
Chadrigoth had a surprise of his own. From out of his core, he summoned his Soul Cutter—a massive sword made of fire, steel, and pain. He wasn’t just going to cut through Logan’s frail body; armor or not, he was going to chop through the damn fungaloid’s gem. The abyss lord could claim it was an accident, some good-natured bullying that had gotten out of hand. Chadrigoth had almost killed him the year before, on Rockheart’s orders, and this wouldn’t be so different. He would probably get a slap on the wrist, perhaps some points would be taken from his clan—but nothing he couldn’t earn back during the course of the year.
Besides, Shadowcroft Academy valued strength over everything else, and if Murray couldn’t hack it, then “taking care” of him was the right thing to do.
Chadrigoth snarled, raising the sword high. A blur of light stopped him cold.
A pixie with translucent, aquamarine-colored wings, short green hair, and eyes like emeralds—eyes full of rage and hate—appeared before him. Back when he was human, Chadrigoth might’ve done any number of stupid things to try and get a few moments alone with such a beauty, however small—she was only about twelve inches tall. That twelve inches sure was beautiful, however, and there were any number of shape-shifting spells they could use for a quick kiss in a Haven’s Home alleyway.
The pixie was dressed in drab green clothes and big black boots. With a flutter of her wings, she was suddenly surrounded by glowing green pollen.
Her voice boomed like a dragon out of her tiny frame. “What kind of idiocy do we have here? A couple of complete asswipes who ain’t got the good sense of a shoe. Or whatever the shoe stepped in. Students! You both will stand down this minute.”
Chadrigoth reabsorbed Soul Cutter. “Yes, Professor.” Damn, this wasn’t just any pixie. Not by a long shot.
The pixie flew up into Murray’s face. “What about you, fungaloid? You’re holding those swords like you wanna use ’em. You think you’re a tough guy? I heard about you... some hotshot fungus who thought he could level up to S-Class in his first year. You’re a tough guy, huh?”
Two rings on the fungaloid’s hands flashed, and he lost the swords and the armor. What does that third ring do? Chadrigoth wondered idly.
Murray smiled. “Well, Professor, I think Chadrigoth must be the tough guy in this situation. I’m just a casual observer.”
The creepy plaster man helped the satyr to his feet. Chadrigoth glowered. Logan might be willing to downplay the encounter, but he knew Marko wouldn’t shut his dirty goat mouth.
“Yeah, Professor,” the satyr said. “In this situation, the First Cohort are the bullies, and we are the bully-ees.”
The pixie whirled on Marko, tiny hands planted on tiny hips. “That would be the bullied, goat boy. You will not be making up words on my watch. Do you understand me, goat boy?”
Marko snapped a salute. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
That softened the fearsome pixie. “Yes, maggot, that’s right. You’re right to salute me, because I am your superior in every possible way.”
She spun around, with the sweet green pollen following her. She pointed two tiny fingers at both Chadrigoth and the fungaloid. “There will be no fighting in the Golden Serpent Hall. There will be no fighting outside of the arena. If you have a grudge, if you desire to bully the weak, you will do so at the appropriate time, in the appropriate manner. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Chadrigoth thundered. He did not want to get on the pixie’s bad side. He knew exactly who she was and what she was capable of.
“And you, maggot?” she roared at the fungaloid.
Murray glanced at Marko, then at Chadrigoth, a look of wonder in his eyes. “Uh, yes, ma’am.”
“That will not do, maggot!” the pixie professor erupted. “Do you understand me?”
Finally, the fungal clown got it. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
“I am not pleased, fungaloid. I am not pleased at all. By all that is holy in this world, by the Tree of Souls and by its roots, when you are in my class, you had better be far more impressive, or I will make your life a living hell, do you get ME!” She flickered around and stared at the students with such fury that everyone stepped back.
The pixie then went soaring away, a flash of light, here then gone.
Chadrigoth let out a sigh of relief, then shoved the fungaloid. “Nice going, you worm. You just got on the bad side of Zuzanna Zantho.”
Murray winced. “Our Offensive Dungeon Design professor?”
Chadrigoth shoved the plaster dummy back down to the ground and then thumped Logan’s mushroom cap. “That’s right. You sure do piss off a lot of people around here, Murray, You best watch your back. Lady Elesiel. Magmarty. Let’s go.”
Chadrigoth marched away with his cohort—minus Tet-Akhat, of course—following in his wake.
As the First Cohort walked toward the exit, they passed some moronic ghast in chef’s whites, a dumb fedora, and blinding white shoes that covered his abnormally large feet.
For no reason other than he could, Chadrigoth shoulder checked the ghast and kept right on walking.
Yes, the abyss lord had started off his second year in a foul, foul mood. And woe to everyone who crossed him, because Chadrigoth of the Diabolus Diaboli had plans...
Chapter Five
Logan hit his moldy bed in his new room with a glad heart. He lay on his back, in the gloom, everything cast in a hazy purple light thanks to his Fungal Vision. Around him spun a world of glowing spores, hidden to the human eye. The gleaming particles allowed him to see the outlines of his furniture as well as a view of Loch Endless, where massive monsters of scales and fin glided through murky depths.
His room was chilly and damp. In other words? Perfect. Before he went to sleep, he took a moment to nurture a few of his growing spore colonies. He was going to give Marko and the rest of his friends a little surprise come morning. He drifted off with his mushrooms growing around him in perfect peace. He had a few questions, sure, like who in the hell was Zuzanna Zantho and why had Chadrigoth retreated from her? Also, what was up with that weirdo in the fedora?
After the abyss lord had shouldered him down, Mr. Fedora had taken off, as if his courage had failed him. That night, at dinner, the ghast was back, though, sitting with some other transfer students. And all the while, the strange guy kept throwing shady glances over at Logan and the Terrible Twelfth.
After eating, Marko had taken off to Vralkag with Steve, GK, and Nemoy, the elderly undead merman. The satyr promised not to come in too late. He’d better not. They were going back to their normal school-year routine, and that meant getting up and cultivating early, working on their technique before breakfast. Logan had always said that getting up early was like stealing time. Those early morning hours when everyone else slumbered felt like a magical time without distractions or worries, a time to be wholly in the moment.
Those thoughts whisked Logan off into a deep, restful sleep.
At the crack of dawn, with the waters of Loch Endless still dark, Logan woke to find the fruits of his night’s work. There were a half-dozen sets of beady black eyes staring at him, which felt more than a little eerie. He’d grown a full crop of Skullcap Waddlers, and the slump-shouldered minions were all pressed together in a huddled mass. They were pale, stubby creatures, with stump-like legs, thick arms, and oversized fingers that looked suspiciously like uncooked bratwurst. Their mushroom heads were inky black, like freshly turned graveyard dirt, except for the lighter skull-shaped markings on their caps.
Skullcap was an appropriate name.
There were twenty of them crammed into his room, their bright black eyes blinking in unison. One opened a slit of a mouth. “Master. Orders?”
“Oh, I have orders all right.” Logan stood and stretched. He was almost twice as tall as his conjured henchmen. It was strange. Now that he was awake, he could feel a connection with them—a link from his core to their bodies, and an awareness of them lingering in the back of his head. His bond with them was different than what he routinely experienced with his Spore Wargs, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was or why. He figured he’d learn more in his minions class.
The little guys parted without a word to let him walk past. He opened his door and glanced up the ladder shaft. “We’re going to go wake up Marko. Can you guys climb ladders?”
“Ladders?” one asked.
“Ladders. Ladders. Ladders.” They all agreed, bodies waggling back and forth, heads bobbing happily.
Except one of the minions, slightly taller than the others, cried out in a high-pitched voice, “To the heavens!”
“Shush now,” Logan warned. “I want to surprise Marko.”
They all whispered one word, “Surprise,” except the odd man out, who once again didn’t get it right. He uttered, “Happy Birthday!” in his falsetto.
Logan ushered them out of his room. “Climb up there and wake up Marko. Don’t hurt him. Just swarm him and yell a lot.”
Whispers from the waddlers, “Yell. Yell. Yell.”
“Outside voice!” from the squeaky one.
Logan had read somewhere, at some point, that Mariah Carey could hit the highest notes of any popstar. He couldn’t help but think of the squeaky minion as Mariah Carey.
The waddlers clambered up the ladder, which took some doing, because they were so short, their limbs fat and spongy. One opened the door, and the rest piled on. They started shouting the word, “Yell!”
Except for Mariah, who screamed, “Fear, Fire, Foes!”
Marko screeched, “Mother goater! What in the goating goat is going on here? Steve! Stevie! Help me!”
That didn’t sound good. Logan figured he’d flex another new skill. He triggered Pneumacity—one of his two Active Fungal Form abilities. Air swelled in through the gills on his mushroom cap, coursing through his arms and legs in a surge. In an instant, his whole body felt lighter than air and yet, he also was brimming with strength. It was a potent combination. He practically flew up the ladder, bounding from rung to rung with peerless grace and ease, then leapt through the open door.
Marko’s room was twice as large as Logan’s. A fire had burned low in the stone hearth in the corner, and glowing red coals lit the space with gentle light.
Marko’s gem-entrusted robes hung on a coatrack near a baroque throne of gold and red velvet, the one he’d crafted the year before. A leather bandolier holding a trio of magical throwing daggers dangled off the rack—the loot he’d taken from last year’s final. The rest of his belongings were spread out all over the floor without any sort of rhyme or reason. Marko’s bed was a huge, canopied wonder, as ornate as the chair. A few half-made mannequins loitered about in odd poses. Almost as though they’d frozen while dancing to some unheard tune.
Steve had been sleeping in a big easy chair near the window, but the mannequin was up, on his feet, but looking uncertainty at the bed, heaped high with waddlers, Marko squarely in the middle of the mushroom dogpile.
The satyr butted one of them back with his curling horns. Another he grasped by their spongy shoulders. “Mushrooms?” he blurted out. “What in the holy stroganoff is going on, huh?”
Logan strode in. “A little wake-up call. You know, get the day started right. What time did you get to bed?”
Steve grabbed a waddler and picked it up. The little mushroom gazed down at the dummy. “Creepy,” Mariah said in its shrill voice.
“Yell!” Another waddler squealed, madly flailing its arms.
“No hurt,” came another voice as the Skullcap charged the mannequin and launched an utterly ineffective tickle attack.
“That’s enough, guys,” Logan said, surveying the scene with a critical eye. His Skullcaps definitely needed a little work.
Seeing the danger had passed, Marko sank back into the waddler bodies on his bed. “Ugh. I forgot about the waking-up-early-to-improve-ourselves part. Though, gotta say, your minions are rather comfortable. We could make mushroom mattresses and sell them for a king’s ransom.” He paused, pressed his eyes shut, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Do we really have to go cultivate?”
“Same schedule as last year.” Logan took a candle to the fireplace and lit it using the banked coals. Then he helped Marko get ready while Steve and the waddlers looked at each other with suspicion.
Logan figured he’d keep his minions around and show them off to Inga and Treacle, who were probably already waiting in the common room. He certainly didn’t hear any ruckus from them above.
They had to bodily toss the waddlers from Marko’s room to the hallway, since they couldn’t make the jump. Soon they all descended the stairs and stepped out into the fresh morning day. It was still warm, but fall would be bringing a chill to the air soon enough.
Logan felt like a king leading his subjects as they marched down the running track of the Akros Coliseum. The rising sun cast a crimson light across the stone seats rising up around them in a ring. Inga, at the bottom of the eastern seats, was already in her meditative pose. Inga being Inga, she didn’t need the wake-up call. Treacle was there as well, with a sack of hay slung over one shoulder like an enormous duffel bag. He was already chewing, and Logan was glad—that minotaur needed to gain some weight.
Marko trudged over, dragging his feet, eyes squinted, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Okay. I’m here. It’s early. I’m miserable. But I know my misery makes you all so very happy.”
Steve let out a creaky huff and lay down on the bottom row of rock seats. His rusty joints sounded like exhausted sighs.
Inga made the right decision in completely ignoring the satyr. “Logan, your minions are adorable!” She rose and went to one of the waddlers, scratching him under his chin.
Mariah let out a series of shrieks. “Attraction! Exhilaration! Titillation!”
“Impressive vocabulary,” she murmured, sparing the very extra mushroom a light pat on the head.
Logan wasn’t sure he wanted adorable minions, but he begrudgingly admitted the little guys were cute in a skullcap kind of way. They weren’t nearly as unsettling as Inga’s centipede armies or her Spike Flies, and they wouldn’t be striking fear into the heart like Marko’s disturbing mimics. But as long as they got the job done, that was all that really mattered.
Treacle swallowed noisily. “Okay, then, you have minions. Very nice. Can we get on with this? Marko was right. Our misery makes you happy, which is why you keep me around.”
“Not true, Treac,” Logan countered. “We keep you around for your bubbly personality.”
That brought a cow-eyed eye roll. Treacle made a move-it-along motion with one hand.
A disgruntled Marko plopped down in the Iceblade grass, wincing a bit as he adjusted his legs beneath him. The Iceblade grass was misery: a swaying forest of blue razor blades meant to help reinforce external meridian cultivation. “Ouch. I’ll never get used to that little pinch on my soft parts. You can sleep for the both of us, Steve.”
Logan, Inga, and Treacle joined the satyr, taking up meditative poses of their own. Logan folded his legs and sat, lotus style, opening his Apothos channels and circulating energy out from his core, through his limbs, and along the surface of his skin, reinforcing his body against the razor-sharp grass. Meanwhile, the waddlers gathered around the sleeping mannequin like Sunday morning congregants, glassy black eyes alive and interested.
It was quiet as Logan and his cohort focused on their breathing, drawing in the vast amounts of Apothos floating around in the coliseum. It was a powerful place. All thirteen meta-energies filled the air—Ignis. Magma. Corrosivus. Toxicus. Fulgur. Glacies. Terra. Aqua. Mallus. Luminosus. Umbra. Vita. Morta.
Memorizing all of the energies hadn’t been easy, since three of the words started with the letter “M.”
However, Inga had come up with a baffling mnemonic that was surprisingly effective—I make coffee and tea for Grandfather Tiberius and make lemonade under the Velveeta moon.
Apparently, Velveeta was the goddess of dairy products on some planet, though it might be safer to call her the goddess of delicious almost-dairy products perfect for queso dip. A little salsa, a little Velveeta, and you’re in chip heaven.
The Terrible Twelfth all pulled from different types of power.
Inga processed Vita and Luminosus energies, life and light, which made sense, since she was so attuned to the physical and astral planes of existence.
Treacle was all about Fulgur and Mallus—a combination of metals and raw kinetic energy fueled the lightning-based minotaur machinist.
Marko used Aqua and Umbra to power his core. As a Dark Muse, he was as malleable as water and as mysterious as the shadows.
Logan breathed deeply, savoring a rush of Morta and Toxicus energies. Those weren’t necessarily the happiest of the meta-energies, but death and poison served the Tree of Souls, as all things did. Just as Logan did. The waddlers, who were swinging their thick feet on the stone bleachers, were created from such power.
Any cultivator could harness and absorb any Apothos type, but that energy then needed to be processed in the core and converted into the primary strand of energy the cultivator utilized. For Logan, stripping out elemental Ignis affinity could take days and was a relatively painful process, since the energy was diametrically opposed to his race type. But even for something more benign, like Luminosus, the process was slow and rather cumbersome. That held true for dungeons and dungeoneers alike. That was also why greedy dungeoneers preferred dungeons attached to the Tree of Souls’ nodes that radiated the right type of Apothos for them to cultivate without needing to convert it into something else.
Logan, though, had a trick up his sleeve. With his fungaloid Digestive ability, Logan could process meta-energies instantly and without burning off too much of the Apothos itself. As a C-Class cultivator, his digestion pit instantly converted 60% of all Apothos of his Elemental Affinity into pure Apothos. Instantly. That was the key. And if Logan used Symbiosis to join with another core, their affinities augmented his own, dramatically increasing the pool of Apothos he could draw from. Just one more reason to have friends.
