Dungeon Corps: Maze of Menos, page 12
And if that happened, chaos would erupt.
Terion absolutely needed to know. If Sthenos fell, Mnester would angle for a high position in the new reality. He could use the knowledge to help himself, or hurt Terion if needed.
If Sthenos survived such a conflict, Mnester could again use the fact that Terion knew the weapons were stolen to help his situation or give Terion trouble.
And if Zitón died in his quest, Terion knowing the weapons were lost inside the maze could be another tidbit working in Mnester’s favor.
Because whatever happened, if Zitón returned with Opálio Cosmos or not, Mnester intended to be in the best position possible to take advantage of the situation. Regardless.
-+-
At last Zitón felt ready to face his third and final foe in the magic arena. He quaffed a potion of fortitude, made sure the amulet for his sun armor operated properly, drew his moonblade, and entered the mists once more.
It seemed he had spent more time recuperating from the blow Cyclops gave him than from his injuries with Pithikos. He honestly did not know for sure. Time flowed in such strange patterns down here. Perhaps years had passed on the surface. Or only minutes.
But being hit by a tree, even with sun armor, was no fun. This time, he drank the potion of fortitude to provide an even bigger magical buff ahead of time. There seemed little point in rationing his potions at this late stage. He prepared himself for the worse.
He would persevere. He would face the third primary, move on to the last part of the maze, and gain access to the greatest power imaginable.
He walked through the mist with confidence, knowing exactly when the air would clear.
The corpses of his previous opponents disappeared each time. The ground would be clear and ready for battle.
As he stepped out into the arena he stopped, facing his final primary opponent. His heart jumped into his mouth.
“Diamánti!”
Before him stood a large man, standing as tall as a typical elf but with human ears. He looked muscular, with powerful arms and legs.
Instead of flesh, he sparkled. His entire body formed a living diamond.
“Do I know you . . . elf?”
The diamond-man’s voice sounded cold and harsh.
Zitón’s eyes grew wide as he stared at the fabled primary from the dungeon beneath Charis.
“You are Diamánti. I am honored to face you.”
Diamánti looked away from Zitón and glanced around the arena.
He said, “Ah. The Maze of Menos. I have only been here once before.”
His gaze returned to Zitón and his eyes narrowed.
“You made it this far? You don’t look like much.”
The elf nodded, slowly drawing his sword.
Diamánti glanced at the weapon. His sparkling eyes missed nothing.
“A moonblade? That is a good choice to face me. Perhaps you are more formidable than you appear.”
Zitón said nothing but cautiously approached. His nerves tingled with excitement, and he felt his heart would pound its way out of his chest.
Diamánti smiled, with crystal clear lips refracting the dim light. His body sparkled with all the colors of the rainbow as he walked forward, like a living diamond statue of physical perfection.
“I must warn you, fair elf. Five opponents have faced me with moonblades over the centuries. Two of them with the same sword. All died in the Dungeons of Charis.”
Zitón trembled slightly, but he took another step forward, holding the sword in the classic guard position.
Diamánti tsked.
He said, “I understand. The maze has a challenger. The challenge must be met. So be it.”
He walked forward to meet the elf.
Zitón swung, and Diamánti lifted an arm.
The blade clanged against the man’s shiny clear corpus.
Diamánti smiled, his lips catching the light in sparkles.
“I’ve yet to meet a blade that can cut me, you know.”
He reached to grab the moonblade, but Zitón whisked it away quickly, and took a step back.
“Five times an opponent has used a moonblade against me. Why did they think this blade is so special? It must be from lore of old. Things get passed on, after all. But no one knows the blade’s true secret.”
He took another step forward.
Zitón swung again, an awkward strike at the head. It clanged off Diamánti’s ear and he jerked it back before the diamond-man could grasp the blade.
He stepped back again. Diamánti took another step forward.
“I almost grow weary of challengers. Do you know it has been at least 300 years since I last fought someone I felt worthy of dueling me? Even then, he only lasted a few minutes.”
Zitón turned and ran, putting distance between them.
He stopped several feet away, panting.
Diamánti smirked.
“This is pathetic. How did you make it this far? I am your last challenger of the arena, am I not? You did not get here on your own. Did you cheat? No matter. It’s time to end this.”
He took another step forward.
Zitón breathed raggedly, but he struggled to control his words.
He said, “‘A diamond with no twin, can ne’er be cut again. But spirits’ light in clear stones, always shatters gemlike bones.’”
Diamánti tilted his head and stared at the elf.
He said, “Where did you hear that? It sounds like something Sidi̱rourgós would say. He’s the elven smithy who designed that blade, you know.”
Zitón grinned.
“I read it!”
He aimed the moonblade at his opponent, concentrated, and said, “Elef̱théro̱si̱!”
A stream of ectoplasm burst from the sword. A ghostly white line of all the spirits taken by the blade rushed out of it like a hydrant spewing water.
The ethereal burst slammed into the diamond-man and threw him back, filling his clear interior.
He spread his arms wide and screamed.
Diamánti burst into a thousand pieces, exploding in a phantasmagorical eruption.
All the spirits scattered, racing up and down and around the magical arena, before most of them floated down into the ground or up into the ceiling.
A few tried to leave and go back toward the mid-corridor, but magic in the place prevented them from going that way. At last they too chose to enter the dirt floor of the arena, heading down into the bowels of the world.
Trembling, Zitón maintained his grin. It felt frozen on his face. On the ground a veritable fortune in diamonds lay scattered about.
But the elf had an even greater prize in mind. He ignored the riches and walked to the other side of the arena, where a simple iron door waited.
His hands shook as he opened it.
He entered the final portion of the maze.
9
Reginald made his way down to Justen’s lair later that evening carrying the lightning bear pelt with him.
Of all Lexa’s servants in her Phanos mansion, Reginald liked Justen the most.
The mage, despite his ghastly appearance with skin stretched so tight across his face that it resembled a painted skull, had a pleasant demeanor and always seemed easy to engage in conversation.
Reginald was fascinated with magic, although he had little to no talent for it. Justen was willing to entertain the lord by explaining various arcane facts. He held long discussions without making Reginald feel like an idiot for not knowing much about his favorite subject.
In addition, unlike Pediford and other servants in the mansion, Justen seemed equally obsequious to both Reginald and Lexa, in the lord’s qualified opinion. All the other servants, he suspected, merely tolerated Reginald. And that rankled him. They held her in much higher regard, from what he could discern, perhaps due to loyalty.
Reginald knocked on the door down in the basement and waited patiently for Justen to open it.
Another thing about the mage: he did not mind late night visits. He seemed to always be awake, no matter the hour.
Justen opened the door and his sunken eyes lit up with delight.
“There you are, milord. I was going to report to you and Lady Lexa on some of my findings with this storm. It seems Platonian in nature, and I fear the cloud will be infested with Neféli. Nasty creatures. I sent a warning to the municipal mages.”
“We saw them! We fought off three on the way home, with help from Dungeon Corps.”
Justen’s eyes widened in their sockets.
“Really? Come in and tell me about it. And what is that pelt you’re holding?”
“Lightning bear. I won’t tell you how much I paid for it at the auction earlier tonight, but it was worth every copper when I wrapped it around myself and charged that cloudy thing. Its bolts just fizzled out on the fur!”
Justen grew visibly intrigued. He rubbed his chin while examining the coat.
“You know, lightning bears are from Platonia, too. They stick to their caves for shelter, but when they’re out foraging for food they can get caught in those storms on occasion. They have a natural defense against lightning. You were indeed fortunate to have this available if you took on one of the Neféli by yourself.”
Reginald made his way inside, following the mage. He sat at the table, ignoring the candles, spell books, and various knickknacks scattered about such as a rat skeleton and a large coin filed down to a razor’s edge on one side.
“What is the cause of all these odd phenomena, Justen? It seems like quite a few strange events are happening these days.”
Justen took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“From what I’m hearing, someone is attempting to solve the Maze of Menos.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, that makes sense. They must be quite successful, then. I understand things get worse the farther one goes down there. It’s been a while since we’ve seen disturbances quite like this.”
Justen nodded. He said, “From what I’ve heard, someone has been successfully, albeit slowly, plodding their way through. Each time they advance, something untoward happens in the realm above. My contacts at court tell me that our friends with Dungeon Lord Percel have gone in after the scoundrel.”
“Oh, really? Is there anything we can do to help?”
Justen smiled at the thought of Reginald heading down into a dungeon. He was fascinated by it all, but the gentleman was not cut out for anything that would be of much use in the depths below. His skills lay in earning money and managing estates. The nobility helped fund Dungeon Corps precisely so they would not have to go down there and fight monsters. It was far better to train outcasts and riffraff for such tasks.
And yet, Reginald seemed truly interested in all things related to magic and dungeon runs. It was almost like a hobby. It reminded Justen of someone who enjoyed talking about farming, but would not last a day out in the fields hard at work.
“I’m afraid there’s little to nothing we can do, milord, except pray. In fact, if they all perish down there it will be almost certainly impossible to recover the party.”
Reginald’s face fell.
He said, “Well, that’s discouraging.”
Justen shrugged and said, “On the other hand, they are an exceptionally good team. They have a strong mage, and a decent cleric. That alone sets them apart from most Dungeon Corps teams. Combine that with Erik, a skilled swordsman, Percel himself who is a dungeon lord, and Toby, who I’m fairly certain is a Hoplitē, one of the elves bred for war. Quite honestly I don’t think I’ve seen or heard of a better team in quite some while.”
“Yes, yes. Quite right. Still, there must be something we can do to help. Some bit of encouragement, if nothing else.”
Justen raised his eyebrows, stretching the tight skin on his forehead.
“Well . . . perhaps we could go visit your estates near Menos. That would put us in proximity of all the action, if nothing else.”
Reginald’s face brightened with the idea.
“I do need to pay a visit to the court. I have some reports to file with the royal registry, and it’s always beneficial to drop in and be seen near the throne room from time to time.”
“Perhaps Lady Lexa would enjoy another visit to meet the queen.”
“Yes. Yes, now you’re thinking, Justen. I’ll talk it over with her tonight.”
Reginald stood up from the table abruptly, pushing his chair back.
“I’ll go discuss it with her right now, see how she feels about making a trip to Menos.”
Before he left, he turned back to the pelt, still on the table.
“I say, could you do anything with that? Or perhaps you know a tailor who could fashion something from it?”
Justen stared at the rare and valuable magical fur, and nodded.
“Yes, I believe I can have something quite useful made out of it. And if you decide not to keep it, I imagine you could sell it for more than whatever you paid for it when I’m done.”
-+-
Another morning dawned on Phanos, the City of Torches. A sleepy watchman in Grimuald Cemetery observed a Dungeon Corps team traipsing by, heading down into the upper ossuary leading to the crypts.
The three dwarves in front marched side by side, looking ready to fight.
The young mage following seemed much more sure of herself today than the last time the watchman noticed her. She seemed darker now, as if shadows gathered around her more closely than before.
The vampire bringing up the rear smiled at him while hiding his fangs. He closed his parasol as they walked into the gloomy area near the back of the cemetery, where the ground angled downward into the depths below.
“I wanna kill something besides rats today,” Druthers grumbled.
Already, sweat beaded on his bald head above the fiery red circlet of hair over his ears. He had clamored to march to the cemetery right after breakfast.
Seymour said, “I don’t mind rats.”
He hefted his crossbow, which was cocked and ready to fire. It just needed a quarrel. He smiled at Druthers through a rich, brown beard festooned with white silk ribbons.
“They’re good target practice,” he said.
“Druthers is right,” Balt opined, with his much shorter, and far darker beard than the other two. “We’ll never gain much experience if all we kill down here are rats, day after day.”
All three cast glances over their shoulders, a little too casually, to try and gauge Choster’s reaction.
The vampire smiled, again not showing his fangs.
He said, “The problem with going deeper is, the farther down you go the more unpredictable things can get. But, since you all want to tackle something a little more challenging, lets go to the lowest unlocked level and run a patrol there. Maybe something will be amiss. We’ll check the grate to the entrance for the lower levels. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something has broken through.”
This cheered the dwarves up considerably, and they marched ahead with renewed vigor.
Even Esmerelda, who had been rather quiet the entire morning, seemed cheered by the prospect of facing something more dangerous than their usual fare.
They rounded a bend and ran into a large mischief of rats and alpha rats.
Seymour shot his crossbow while Esmer cast Death Bolt. Druthers ran forward with his short sword and slashed away. Balt followed with his daggers.
Choster stood back and watched, making sure nobody got badly hurt. He gauged their reaction times and teamwork, ready to step in if things spiraled out of control.
Within minutes, the dwarves and the mage decimated the rats. They quickly looted the carcasses.
“I have to admit,” Balt said, rifling through a small enchanted sack wrapped around the neck of one of the animals, “packrats are worth the time. Easy to kill. Usually have at least two or three gold coins on them.”
He pulled out a ring with a large ruby attached to it and held it up to Esmerelda’s light globe.
He said, “And every now and then they’ll have something like this. What do y’think, Choster? Is this worth 20 gold? More?”
“I’ve seen them fetch 30 at auction. The quartermaster will know more, and give us a fair price.”
“That old skinflint!” Druthers said. “I know he’s cheated us!”
“On the contrary,” Choster said. “He treats all teams equally well. He does not pocket any personal profits off our winnings. All teams are awarded according to what they bring in. We did quite well on that lightning bear pelt, for instance.”
The talk of their recent surge in income brightened Druthers’s mood.
He said, “Aye. Our accounts are over 400 gold each, now.”
“We hit 4,000 or so,” Balt said, “then maybe we can think about going home.”
This led to a long discussion about how much hypothetical gold would really be needed before each of them felt comfortable about returning to Dwarland.
The conversation continued as they looted the last of the dead rats, then made their way deeper into the crypts.
The discussion morphed into an argument over how much gold was in the dwarven royal treasury.
“I’m tellin’ y’, it’s at least 50,000 gold,” Seymour said with an air of authority.
“Bah. More like a million,” Druthers said.
“A million gold coins?” Balt said with a tone of incredulity in his voice. “No way! There’s not that much gold in existence, let alone coins!”
“It does not have to all be in coins, y’ idiot,” Druthers snapped. “Diamonds and gems and armor and weapons and such can be assessed as worth so many gold coins!”
“But we’re talking about the treasury! Not all the king’s possessions!”
The argument continued as they headed farther down, interrupted once by a stray zombie. Esmerelda shot Death Bolt, but found it had little effect. The creature was already dead, practically speaking. The dwarves dispatched it by blade, cutting it up and chopping into the skull repeatedly.
“A simple headshot will do to dispatch zombies,” Choster informed them, once they were done.
Balt conducted the disgusting task of looting the corpse, and expressed disappointment in only finding a couple silver coins.
