David Sterling Copperblade—otherwise known as Weavelord—walked toward his office through the main Department of Universal Dungeon Efficiency building. He was coming from the Divine Control Room, the DCR, where he’d been going through the data with Perkle Tinkletwerp.
Something was going on with DUDE. Something that shocked him to his very core. He needed to focus on the problem, but he had the Fiscalia that night. It was the end of the fiscal year, which for some reason was in the spring, and they were celebrating the total number of audits they’d done in the past year. Yes, the total Apothos flow numbers were down, but the amount of completed audits were up. It was a time of celebration, or it should’ve been.
The Fiscalia had a special guest speaker/musical guest that night, Ryannis Illudere, and he would be talking about initiatives to bring the truth about Celestial Nodes to people. He would also be playing some songs and dancing. The former dungeoneer was quite the dancer.
Better dancing than elf music. Weavelord had attended one of the Illudere Family Singers reunion concerts, and he’d found it tedious. The songs had way too much flute and harp. Far too much.
As a Spidercrat—part spider, part bureaucrat—Weavelord was very sensitive to vibrations of all kinds, and that included music. The treble parts. The bass parts were fine. And Weavelord preferred drum and bass songs to all other music. Nothing beat a good beat, or so the saying went.
Those flutes and harps just set his teeth on edge. Not that he had teeth anymore. It made his fangs ache. As a Spidercrat, Weavelord enjoyed a liquid diet. He didn’t miss chewing a bit. Drinking every meal, focusing on mostly blood with a little sugar, allowed him to work more.
It was 11:55 a.m. on a Friday, just before lunch. He wanted to eat early, so he was hungry for dinner. The Fiscalia started at six o’clock sharp that evening, at the Black Ledger, in Cogsville, the closest town. The Department had rented out the restaurant’s spacious back courtyard for the event, a fully catered affair, which included entertainment.
Weavelord always found afterwork events annoying. When not working, he just wanted to relax in the basement of his small house in the Cogsville suburbs, drink blood margaritas and maybe play some pinball on an antique machine he’d fixed up. But this year, it was especially vexing. He didn’t want to party. He wanted to work.
They had to figure out the shocking mystery. Someone was stealing Apothos, slowly siphoning it away from dungeon cores on at least three worlds. It might be more.
Tittikaka was one. Another was Clothesvania. Perkle Tinkletwerp, the Gadget Gnome dungeon core that oversaw the DCR, had pointed it out. The gnome had also noticed that at least a portion of the Apothos was being channeled to the practice dungeon in the subbasement, Room 12E to be precise.
Clothesvania was a relatively powerful world and a fashionable one for those who were more interested in clothes than silverware. Paula Ru, a Rot Weaver, protected the Heart Dungeon. Paula said she hadn’t felt the loss of Apothos. Mimi had also maintained that she’d not felt any changes to the energy flow from the Celestial Nodes they guarded. All worlds were connected to the Tree of Souls by Celestial Nodes, which fed them life-giving Apothos. Dungeon guardians protected the Nodes from greedy dungeoneers who wanted to suck the Tree of Souls dry for their own benefit.
Both Paula and Mimi were solid dungeon guardians, and so that made the Apothos embezzlement more shocking and worrisome.
Weavelord wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing by confiding in Calcannis Illudere. Had that been a mistake? Probably. At first, Cal and his team of misfits had been Weavelord’s prime suspects. Then it became clear that they couldn’t have done it. Audit Team Six hadn’t been on Tedium during one of the events, and hence, they weren’t suspects. Also, though Weavelord didn’t like to admit it, that relatively homely elf with the broken nose, dull-colored hair, and somewhat rounded ears had done some amazing things. He’d saved two worlds and resurrected a dungeon core. And he’d actually ascended. Cal was mid-C Class now, which shouldn’t have happened, not to some random elf, who wasn’t actively working on ascending.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
At first, Weavelord thought it was sacrilegious. Then he found it rather cute. Then he was completely intrigued. In a way, it captured Weavelord’s imagination as thoroughly as his first studies into the semi-secret universe of the dungeon guardians.
Along the way to his office, the Spidercrat walked by the big filing warehouse and the main staircase that led down to the basement and subbasement. He passed by the reception area, where Ethel waved at him. he waved back. Ethel, the receptionist and his administrative assistant, was a pseudo banshee, and while she didn’t get the blue skin, she did get the blue hair. And a voice that sounded like she’d been yelling at kids for hours on end.
He paused by the breakroom. Inside were several dungeon cores, though while mortally wounded, could still function. Karl, Daphne, and Fullgeers powered the refrigerator, the sink, and the coffee machine respectively. They were former dungeon accountants, hurt during an audit, who hadn’t wanted to return to the Tree of Souls. Instead, they chose to work for the Department in other ways. For them, there was no retirement. Talk about golden handcuffs. They were quirky, but heroic in their own way.
Quirky and heroic—that described so many aspects of the dungeon guardian universe.
Connie, the Water Cooler, had requested a vacation to Arborea, to visit her alma mater, the Shadowcroft Academy for Dungeons, and so she had left them. That was a relief. She was a horrible gossip.
Weavelord had asked her in a roundabout way about the Apothos embezzlement, but she didn’t know a thing. That very day, Weavelord signed the RFPTO952, or Request for Personal Time Off form, to get her out of the office. He didn’t need some random dungeon core around spreading rumors.
He had to admire her, though. Connie had worked for thousands of years in her own dungeon, protecting the Tree of Souls. When she’d lost that world due to a Decaisy Apocalypse on an adjacent planet, it had broken her spirit. She then bounced around the government agencies connected to the Council of Dungeons, working here and there. She remained a hero, though.
Weavelord’s own father had emphasized the importance of the dungeons in keeping worlds alive, but Mr. Copperblade was only a casual fan. For a young Dave Copperblade, the world of the dungeon cores became an obsession. At the time, the most famous guardian of all had been Magnus Elvis Maverick, and Weavelord had followed every aspect of Magnus’s career.
The Spidercrat had wanted to become a dungeon himself, but he’d put that on hold after he met the love of his life, Lorelei, and they started a family. But even then, the idea of gaining power and protecting Celestial Nodes never failed to fascinate him.
His ungrateful daughter—Gwenivere Copperblade a.k.a. Gwen—still didn’t appreciate the sacrifices he’d made her. She probably never would. At least they were on the same side. For now.
Weavelord moved on from the breakroom, walked past the cubicle farm, and down a short hallway to his office. He had a waiting area outside of his office, and he’d put a mirror on one of the walls. He checked himself—he was wearing his red power tie, which was a very powerful magical item, and provided him with the rest of his suit—khaki slacks, white shirt, houndstooth suit coat with a very functional pattern of brown, light blue, and maroon lines. The magical tie would’ve provided him with brown leather wingtips, but Weavelord didn’t have traditional human feet. He had eight sensitive paws, known as tarsus. As such, he didn’t need shoes.
He did need glasses, however, and he had several pairs of magical glasses covering several pairs of eyes. He looked good, though he was a little concerned about his thinning hair. It wasn’t like he’d ever get married again, and even dating seemed like a waste of time, when his work was important. Still, he wanted to retain a professional level of attractiveness.
He soon found himself sitting in his comfortable chair, which had a little booster seat for him. Surrounding him were stacks of unfiled TAP— Total Apothos Potential—reports. Webs decorated the filing cabinets of his cramped office. It smelled like bureaucracy— Aldaleeran asbestos, industrial grade printer ink, and the cheap, cold coffee. Either Helga Kneebash or Barbara Starmyst had left behind a scented candle, but he was never going to be burn it. No, it might interfere with the subtle fragrances of his office, a bouquet he enjoyed immensely.
An audio crystal, covered in papers, flashed and Ethel’s secretarial voice rattled out of it. “Mr. Weavelord, sir, Audit Team One wanted to know if they could move their appointment this afternoon. They wanted more time to get ready for the Fiscalia tonight.”
“No, Ethel, I need to see them today.”
Weavelord felt the anger. He’d told Amorfo it was important. They had to talk today.
They had to get to the bottom of the Apothos embezzlement, and quickly, before someone on the Council of Dungeons heard about it.
If that happened, Weavelord might get fired, and he couldn’t have that. Never. Losing his dream job just might kill him.