CHAPTER 1

  “Folks are going missing every day. I’m bloody sick of waiting for something to be done about it!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the table.

  I took the liberty of translating what the trader said, because he’d stuffed a pie in his mouth before speaking. It’d be nice if people finished chewing before they talked. So what if this was a dungeon? We didn’t need to forget our manners.

  Then again, describing it as a dungeon was pretty generous right now. If heroes wandered into my lair today, they’d think they’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.

  The loot chamber, usually home to furious hero-monster battles, boasted a twenty-feet-long oak table. I’d bought it from a carpenter in Yondersun. A flower-pattern cloth was spread over the table. Dozens of mana lamps lined the walls, glowing silver and white so they looked like stars.

  Brecht, my kobold bard, tapped his tambourine and sang songs about disgusting concepts like hope, peace, and love. My blood-soaked loot chamber was a horribly pleasant place today, and I hated it.

  I also hated entertaining. If I didn’t need these traders’ influence in the upcoming Yondersun elections, I’d have been more likely to feed them to my monsters than to feed their bellies.

  “They say a little girl is the latest to go,” said one trader. “Poor lass.”

  A gnome, his chin hair into three oiled forks, nodded. “Vanishing out of thin air, I ‘erd. What a nasty business. Makes you scared to leave your house! Can’t we be left to make money in peace, eh? That’s the tragedy of it all.”

  “And the girl. That’s a tragedy too.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and her. That’s a given, obviously. But think of all the gold we’ll lose if this carries on…”

  “Damn it! If the chiefs were in charge of the sun, we’d have a month of nighttime.”

  “That ain’t everything. Rumors are that corpses are being stolen.”

  “What?”

  “Heard it from a rug merchant. He’d just come back from Hogsfeate, where they’re having to post night guards on graveyards. Some sicko is stealing corpses!”

  “Makes me scared to leave my bloody latrine, never mind my house! And now I find myself in a dungeon, of all places.”

  “I’m sure our friend Beno has a good reason for persuading us to join him here.”

  I listened to them prattle on, and it took every ounce of self-control not to unleash a swarm of deadly hornets on them. Did they never shut up about money? Was all they cared about their stupid coin purses?

  If only I had placed a boulder trap directly above them. One pull of the lever and they’d be splatted into little trader patties. It was nice to dream, but I couldn’t afford to flatten them.

  Not when I had to convince them to help me.

  Of the four influential merchants, only one had stayed silent. Baby Blakemore. A tubby dwarf with huge biceps that could crush an apple with one flex. Which he often did when he had enjoyed too many ales in the Scorched Scorpion tavern. I still didn’t know why they called him Baby. Nobody did. One of my friends, Eric the barbarian, had once met a stone troll called Baby, named so because he had a very particular favorite food. I didn’t think this Baby got his name the same way. Judging from his gut, he looked like he was carrying one.

  He spoke for the first time. “It’s reducing trade, is what it’s doing. Folks won’t travel to a town where they’re just as likely to go missing as to reach the gates. A travesty! A travesty that nobody has done anything about it. Our chiefs…what do they do? Barely lift a finger.”

  I saw a chance for political point-scoring. “You need a man…a being…of action. Someone who was trained to kill and would make the town safer.”

  The other three traders looked uncomfortable.

  Mentioning the word ‘kill’ was a mistake, and a voice in my head confirmed it.

  “I thought we said you wouldn’t draw attention to the fact you’re a bloodthirsty dungeon core? It makes them uncomfortable.”

  The voice was Gulliver’s, who was in an adjoining chamber. He was watching the scene through a core vision projection I had made for him. We were talking using my core hearing and core voice, senses vital for running a chaotic dungeon that usually had dozens of things going on at once.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I need to draw attention away from the fact I’m a killer.”

  “Be more like them. People need something they can empathize with.”

  “Okay. Empathy.”

  I turned my attention back to the traders.

  How could I play up the fact I’d be a strong chief, while also being more like them?

  I had to show them two sides. The killer and the…uh…puppy.

  “When I’m not out in the streets of Yondersun feeding the poor…” I began.

  “Feeding the poor?”

  The grimaces on their faces said they found that distasteful.

  Why?

  Ah. They were traders. They didn’t give a crap about the poor.

  I needed to think not just like a person, but as a trader person. A very subtle difference.

  Empathy was hard.

  “I meant, when I am not finding a way to monetize the poor, I am considering ways to deal with our wasteland problem. With the people going missing.”

  At least they’d stopped scowling now. That was more like it.

  “And?” said Baby. “I assume you’ve thought of a solution?”

  “Never assume,” said one trader. “It makes an arse out of you.”

  “Shut up. Core Beno?”

  Here was the problem.

  I didn’t have any idea why people were going missing, or who was causing it.

  I supposed there was always something I could fall back on.

  “I plan to scour the wasteland, find whoever is responsible, and pound them into the dust until they’re a bloodless slab of meat,” I said.

  Silence.

  Shocked faces.

  They wanted a confident chief, but I had overstepped the mark from confident to insane.

  “For Gods’ sakes, Beno,” said Gulliver. “Tone it down! These people are traders. They love money and they hate violence, except when the violence provides a way for them to make money. Pounding things flat doesn’t present a gold-making scheme for them. It just makes them feel sick.”

  “Right. I went too far.”

  “You’re losing them. Look at their expressions.”

  Baby got to his feet. Taking their cue from him, so did the other three. As things stood, they were going to use their influence for another candidate. Maybe Riston, the git. He was one of my rivals, and he was more popular than me. Mostly because he wore a well-styled beard, had a friendly smile, and was a human being and not a dungeon core.

  “I think we’ve heard enough, Beno,” said Baby.

  “You’ve only just eaten the first course.”

  “We are looking for a chief, not a chef. We need someone who will make us richer, not a bloodthirsty maniac.”

  “Maniac?”

  “Your talk of pounding and blood and slabs of meat…” said one trader.

  “I was speaking figuratively, that’s all. If I was chief, my priority would be to make lots of gold. Obviously.”

  “What are you saying?” said Gulliver.

  “Whatever it takes to get these chumps to endorse me,” I answered.

  “You don’t care about gold! Why is being chief so important to you?” said Gulliver.

  “Because the town is right above my dungeon. That means whatever happens up there, affects me, my dungeon, and every monster living in it. At least if I’m a chief, I can look after my interests.”

  “And you’re willing to say anything to get it?”

  “Do you know me at all, Gulliver?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  Baby settled back into his seat. He untied a pouch from his belt, opened it, and took out a coin. He began rolling it across his knuckles.

  “This is the first coin I ever earned,” he said. “When I was six years old.”

  “Touching,” I said. Now that they sat back down, I knew that I had a chance. I just had to play it safe.

  Be more like them. Talk more about money. Talk less about slaughter.

  That shouldn’t be too hard.

  “Now, gentlemen,” I began. “I’ll ask our waiter to fetch the second course. Desert vole thigh roasted in nut butter and garlic. I’m told it’s delicious. Lacking teeth, a tongue, or taste buds, I’ll have to take their word for it.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I scolded myself.

  I had to stop talking about my lack of biological features. I needed to remind the traders of our similarities, not our differences.

  Damn it, my life was easier when I just killed anyone who entered my dungeon!

  “Waiter Tomlin?” I said. “We’d like the second-course plea-”

  A kobold ran into the loot chamber. He wore a white waiter’s uniform that we’d paid a Yondersun seamstress to sew, but the fit was appalling. It must have been hard to create an outfit for a half-lizard half-wolf creature.

  Tomlin’s eyes were ghost-white, and spit flew from his open mouth.

  The traders looked appalled at the sight of him, but really, we’d cleaned him up the best we could.

  “What is it, Tomlin?”

  “Heroes are here, Dark Lord!”

  No need for the warning. I sensed them now.

  A party of four heroes had just climbed down the steps into the northernmost chamber of my dungeon. Using my core vision, I scanned the chamber and sized them up.

  A bloke with a massive hammer.

  A guy with a club. He looked like he could crack diamonds between his pecs.

  A skinny archer with a bow almost as big as he was.

  A woman, skin pale as bone. A hood covered most of her face.

  “Heroes?” said a trader. “Heroes are here?”

  “This is a dungeon,” I said. “It happens from time to time. They’re a pain in the arse, but not much of a problem.” I tried to stay casual, but this couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  “We came here for dinner, not to see you fight heroes.”

  This was hardly going to endear me to them, was it? Having to slaughter a bunch of sword swingers? I’d just have to make easy work of it. Pretend it was planned. As a kind of dinnertime show, maybe.

  “It’s time for the entertainment,” I said. “I take it you’d like to watch a fight?”

  “We didn’t come here for…this is inappropriate, Beno.”

  They weren’t buying it. I’d just have to make sure the heroes didn’t reach the loot chamber. Kill them quickly and get on with dinner. A minimum of fuss or disruption.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “My monsters…employees… will take care of everything. The heroes won’t bother us. Now, let’s get down to details. Tell me, if I became chief, what could I offer you that would…”

  Using my ability to split my mind, I focused on the dinner party, while simultaneously plotting the slaughter of the heroes.

  They didn’t look too tough. Mediocre adventurers at best. Much poorer than they pretended to be. The mage’s robe was frayed at the hem, and the archer had been reusing his arrows too many times. The tips were blunt.

  That meant they were poor heroes, which meant they were here for gold, not for the thrill of the fight. That meant they were desperate. My job just became easier, because desperate people blunder into the simplest of traps.

  Armed with my observations, I made a few changes to my dungeon.

  So…a spike pit…just there.

  A pressure plate and falling boulder…here.

  With the traps placed, there was just one more touch.

  What’s a dungeon without a welcoming party?

  “Brecht, Gary, Fight, Death, Kill? Meet our guests in the tunnels. They should be tired and weak by then.”

  “Yes, Dark Lord!”

  Done. With the heroes’ demise secured, I gave my full attention to the traders. While I had arranged some old-fashioned hero slaughter, they’d chattered on and on. Nonstop. Stuff about taxes, levies, the cost of securing raw materials.

  Didn’t they ever shut up? Course, I had enough empathy to realize that actually saying that wouldn’t make me their best friend.

  “Taxes are a necessity, I’m afraid,” I said. I had to be sympathetic to their cause, but I wouldn’t offer false promises. “Yondersun is growing, but it’s still in its cub stage. Too young to properly protect itself.”

  “We’re being taxed up the arse already, Beno. Other candidates are offering cuts. Riston says he’ll make us rich.”

  “The most lethal poison tastes sweet when it’s mixed with honey.”

  “Ah. So that’s why you brought us to dinner, is it?”

  “Ladies and gents. You have to be realistic. Do you really think trade won’t be taxed if someone like Riston becomes chief? I will work with you on taxes, but I won’t lie to you. I am a pillar of integrity. What’s more, I’m a dungeon core. I can keep you safe like nobody else can. While I’m chief, not a single one of our enemies will get within a breath of you.”

  A man charged into the loot chamber and leaped into the center. A colossus of a guy, seven feet tall. He held a giant hammer in his hand.

  “You might have killed my friends, core,” he said, “But Ulruk the Strong will not be defeated!”

  “Ulruk the Strong? Couldn’t you have come up with a more original name?” I asked.

  “Silence!” Ulruk held his hammer in the air. “Behold, the Hammer of Truth! Time for you to meet your maker, core.”

  “I’ve met him lots of times. His name’s Gregar, and he’s a forger at the Dungeon Core Academy. Nice guy. Loves drinking tea. Cup after cup of the stuff, and then he always wonders why he can’t sleep.”

  “Silence, you evil…thing!”

  The traders stood up. One forgot that he’d tucked the tablecloth into his shirt, and when he pulled it, his plate and glass clattered to the floor. The glass smashed, and the hundreds of fragments caught the glow of the mana lamps. They crunched under the trader’s feet as he backed further away.

  “Beno, if this is part of your show, we really don’t…”

  Ulruk pointed at them. “Ah. These are you fellow dungeon demons, are they?” he said.

  “Them? They’re civilians. Leave them out of it.”

  “We’re traders!”

  “Would you like to buy a shirt? Alternatively, I could just…just…give you one for free? Or almost free?”

  “You are all demons!” declared Ulruk. “Demons in gnome skin. You will face the Hammer of Truth!”

  As Ulruk stomped toward us, I reckoned I had two problems.

  One: Ulruk had heroic confidence. Not to be confused with regular confidence. Heroic confidence comes when a hero battles through hundreds of tombs, lairs, and labyrinths without dying. It makes them stupid but dangerous.

  Two: he seemed to be under the impression that the traders were demons in disguise. That put them in danger. In danger at the hands of a stupidly dangerous guy, who was holding a big, dangerous hammer.

  I supposed I had a third problem, too. This Hammer of Truth, whatever the hell that was.

  I used my core vision to speak to my dungeon monsters throughout my lair.

  “What’s going on? You let a hero get to the loot chamber, you fools!”

  “Sorry, Dark Lord! The other three were tough!”

  “Everyone get here, now. Protect the traders.”

  It only took a minute for monsters to flood into the chamber from all sides. I’d wanted to keep them out of the way, knowing how much the traders found monsters distasteful. I really had no choice.

  In came Shadow, my kobold rogue, flanked by the beasts she still referred to as puppies. It had about as much truth to it as describing a dragon as a large lizard. They were starting to look more like wolves, and their food bill alone was insane. But they were trained, and they were lethal. A dungeon core loves both of those things.

  Following her were six kobolds. Five of them were new to the dungeon. I created them to be warriors, to pump up our numbers a little. After training in the dungeon arena they had some muscle definition, and they knew which way up to hold their swords. That was a good start

  The next kobold to leap into the chamber was different.

  “Yip yip!” cried Rusty, my kobold shaman, waving a bone staff in the air, and adorned in a new cape purchased from a Yondersun tailor using his wages.

  Wages. Ugh.

  I had begun paying my monsters wages.

  I had to wonder: what’s next? Paid time off? Served me right for creating a dungeon union.

  Next were Fight, Death, and Kill the fire beetles, scuttling in and twisting their beetle feelers left and right, finally focusing on the hero and his hammer. Flames rushed over their oil black skin.

  Brecht the bard stopped mid-song. He tapped a new rhythm on his tambourine. When his mana fused with his notes, the air took on a frosty, gloomy feel. His Fable of Fear song drifted to the hero’s ears.

  Ulruk laughed. “These are the fearsome monsters waiting in the heart of this foul lair, are they?”

  As happy as I was to hear my dungeon be described as a foul lair - a look I had carefully cultivated - I hated his confidence. I wanted to see his bones smashed to dust.

  The traders backed away some more. “We aren’t monsters, we’re traders, that’s all!”

  “A likely story, demons!”

  Ulruk held his hammer upright and close to his chest, and he adopted an aggressive stance.

  “Time for Ulruk to show you the truth!”

  Kobolds and fire beetles advanced on Ulruk, while Tomlin backed away, getting as far from combat as he could until he hit the wall. He stood there, hands shaking, looking longingly at the tunnel exit but not daring to run toward it. As the most cowardly of my kobolds, it was what I expected from him.

 

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