Chapter 8

Antoine hated traveling through the Way Stone. That he was still hung over only added to his irritation. That he had gained ten pounds since the last time he’d donned his armor, and the leather was a little tight in places, was simply the icing on the cake. It wasn’t enough to affect his mobility, but it might rub him raw in time, and he didn’t have time to visit a leatherworker to have it adjusted. After things calmed down, he’d have to put a new hole in the straps himself.

The court mages stood around the Way Stone, chanting the ritual that would connect to the other end. That bothered him; he disliked placing himself in the power of others, and surrendering himself to the magic ritual was definitely placing himself at the mercy of the mages. If they wanted to, they could send him into the heart of the Wastes or the Wilds. He’d rather trust his own legs, or at least a horse, to get him to his destination, but with a Controller on the loose there was simply no time.

King Fenard stood nearby, watching the ritual with a regal equanimity. Antoine saw right through it. The king was nervous as all hell, and with good reason. A Controller was a grave threat to his kingdom, and his crown. Not that Antoine gave two rotten, dried up mouse turds about the latter. But some of the people of Welsius were good folks, and he’d hate to see them overrun by never-ending monster swarms.

The Vanquisher appeared to be a man in his early thirties. Handsome, with lighter brown hair, his silver eyes betrayed that he was no ordinary man.

“The kingdom will owe you yet another great debt for your intercession,” Fenard was saying, and Antoine realized that the man was intending to make another speech. “The presence of a Controller is both a great opportunity and an existential--”

“You can stow the motivational speech,” he interrupted. “I’m not doing this for you, Ferdy.”

Fenard frowned. “I’m not ten years old any longer, Antoine. Do not call me--”

“You know what they did to the kings of my native country?” Antoine asked. “I think I told you that story, haven’t I? Viva la Revolution.”

Fenard paled. Whether it was anger or fear – that comment could be considered a threat, and a threat from The Vanquisher was no idle thing – Antoine didn’t truly care. He pulled out a stick of the herb he’d got from the witch on Angels Avenue and began chewing it, wishing that it was tobacco. God he missed cigarettes! The herb caused his lip to tingle, and it slowly spread a soft euphoria through his body, helping to diffuse the nervousness he was feeling. He wasn’t certain if the drug was addictive or not, but he had a pouch with him that should last him a month. Hopefully he’d be able to wrap up this matter before he ran out and found out that his second favorite drug of choice caused withdrawals.

Even with the chew calming his nerves, with the waves of magic floating around, it was all that he could do to keep himself from reaching out with his ability and locking the mana in the area down, disrupting the spell mid-cast. He was never skilled with using magic. Disrupting it, however, was as easy as breathing, and he had to consciously restrain himself from doing so.

“Once you’ve secured the Controller --”

“I know what you want me to do, Ferdy,” Antoine said, interrupting the king yet again. “Just because nobody’s talking doesn’t mean you have to repeat yourself to fill the silence, you know. Or relative silence. I’m sure that these mages would prefer that you allow them to concentrate on the spell that’s about to fling me hundreds of kilometers through space. I’d certainly prefer that, since I have some investment in making certain that they get it right.”

King Fenard frowned, but even he could barely chastise The Vanquisher. “Very well. I shall simply wish you godspeed, then.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Antoine said.

A moment later, the spellform activated, and he was ripped off of the platform of the Way Stone. The stone’s method of transference wasn’t exactly teleportation. Antoine entered a ghost world, with many paths in front of him. They were winding and twisted, and only one of them was lit up brightly by the guiding magic that connected him to his destination. Straying from the illuminated path might not be deadly by itself, but it would likely place him in the heart of a hostile dungeon.

Hostile dungeons far outnumbered the tamed ones, after all.

With each step, the mana of the ghost world whipped around him like whitewater through a river’s rapids. It irritated his skin, and he once more had to stop himself from trying to lock it down. He wasn’t certain what would happen if he tried, but probably nothing good. The Ways Between weren’t as fragile as the spellform which brought him here, but the light guiding his past through the twisting shadows was.

Twenty minutes of walking, and he again wished that he’d had time to adjust his armor before setting out. Finally he reached the end of the highlighted path. The portal opened, showing an idyllic village green on the other side, a small gathering of villagers waiting for him. That was a good sign, at least. If they were curious enough to respond to his arrival, then they probably weren’t dealing with swarms of monsters.

He stepped through, sighing in relief to not have the Mana rapids tugging at his perception any more. Cracking his neck, he looked through the villagers, trying to identify anyone who might be in charge. One of them stepped forward, offering a salute.

“I am Horvald Tinnerman, head of militia of Tilluth Valley. How may I serve the crown?” the man said.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“A young man or woman in this village recently awoke the Controller class,” Antoine answered. “Controller is a restricted class; it is illegal for a civilian to possess it. I am here to secure and conscript them into the service of the kingdom.”

“What does that mean?” A man next to Harvold challenged. “You can’t arrest someone simply for having the wrong class!”

“I’m not here to argue,” Antoine informed him, wishing that he could solve this situation simply by bashing heads together, but that would likely cause the villagers to circle the wagons and protect their own. “I’m not saying that the Controller has committed any crimes. They are not being accused of wrongdoing. If anything, it’s the opposite, the king wants them in his service. An untrained Controller is a danger to everyone around them.”

The man who had protested frowned at that, but Harvold put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from speaking further. “What will become of the boy who awoke the class?”

“Assuming they cooperate with me, they’ll be trained on how to use it and raised to the rank of Royal Knight,” Antoine answered. That was the carrot, at least. The stick was that if they didn’t cooperate, they’d be imprisoned in a gilded cage for the rest of their life, never allowed to level or use their skills.

“Will you swear by the gods and the World Core that you mean the boy no harm?” Harvold questioned.

“I harbor no ill will to the Controller,” Antoine answered, which wasn’t exactly what he’d been asked. The Militiaman didn’t seem to notice the difference, however.

“The boy’s name is Tom Weaver,” Harvold informed him. “And the truth is, he’s missing. Another boy earned the Warrior class yesterday, and last night the two of them vanished from their beds. I thought --”

“Where is the nearest dungeon,” Antoine said immediately, his expression stern.

“By foot, it’s about an hour to the north,” Harvold answered. “It’s a very low level affair. I myself thought that might have been their destination, but I wasn’t too worried about it. The Warrior lad is strong enough to deal with the Burrowers of the dungeon by himself.”

Antoine cursed. He was too late after all.

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The argument was going nowhere. Tom wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t give them the Core, not even for a second to see if it would unlock Jessica’s status. He was becoming increasingly agitated and paranoid. Suddenly his head snapped in a seemingly random direction, his lips compressing into a fine line.

“Someone is coming for me,” he whispered. “They’re going to kill me. They’re afraid of me, so they’re going to kill me.”

“No, no they’re not,” Jessica assured him. “Tom, try to think clearly. That thing is clearly affecting you somehow. It’s making you paranoid.”

“Get your head out of your ass, Tom,” Sevin scolded, less patient with his friend’s descent into madness than the girl who’d never met them before an hour ago. “It’s time to go home.”

“No,” Tom said. “No, I won’t go. This is where I belong. I must protect it.”

Raising the Core Stone into the air, he began rapidly Spawning new creatures. Six Burrowers and five Rock Spiders appeared in the blink of an eye. Sevin lowered his spear, which caused Tom to turn on him.

“You, you’re one of them!” Tom accused. “You killed my minions. You don’t belong!”

“Tom, stop this! It’s time to leave!” Sevin shouted, but the creatures charged him.

Sevin skewered the leading Burrower easily enough, but the others pushed him back. Shedding the blood of one of the Spawned beasts seemed to enrage the rest of them, including the ones that had previously fought alongside him in clearing the dungeon. They swarmed around him menacingly, forcing him back, away from his friend. Sevin jabbed and thrust, trying to keep them back with his spear.

In the center of the swarm was the oversized Burrower Enforcer. Sevin cursed, as he knew he wouldn’t be able to kill that, even if he could take the rest of the swarm. He was still reluctant to retreat, a part of him determined to push through the monsters and beat some sense into his friend.

“Intruders,” Tom was muttering. “They don’t belong here.”

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in this. He looked at Jessica, wearing his shirt and Tom’s cloak, and she shook his head. “We can’t get through to him. We need help. It’s time to go find some.”

She was right, as much as Sevin hated to admit it. They were in over their heads. Reluctantly, he grabbed her hand, turned, and ran back out the way they came.

“We need to get the Militia,” he said. “Harvold will know what to do. It’s that stone. He started acting funny almost as soon as he touched it. He’s normally not like this. You’ll see, he’s a good guy.”

Jessica didn’t say any more as she followed along behind him, grateful for how smooth the stone passageway was as they made their way out to the surface. If there had been rubble or sharp stones, the journey to the surface would have been much more painful to her bare feet. She wondered if she shouldn’t be more upset by the situation. She’d been summoned to another world by a teenage dungeon master who was currently losing his marbles, after all. Yet she was strangely calm.

“I think the dungeon is influencing him,” she said. “It’s been getting worse, and he finally snapped. Maybe he’ll change back if you can get him to the surface, but you’ll have to kill all of his monsters to do that. And it won’t be easy if he can keep spawning more like that.”

They dashed through the halls and rooms of the Dungeon. Abruptly the walls in front of them moved, sliding shut and blocking off the way out.

“Dammit,” Sevin cursed.

“You can’t escape,” Tom’s voice called, echoing through the dungeon. Jessica looked about, but the boy hadn’t followed them. Rather, the dungeon itself was echoing his voice. “Intruders must pay!”

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