The hobgoblins never had a chance.

It took no small amount of effort and fortune to reach the ledge, but by being patient and scrupulously attentive to where he stepped Harald was able to negotiate the rocky slopes and finally slide out onto the smooth rock. He could just make out the hobgoblins talking gruffly amongst each other below. With the aid of the amulet, he could even make out what they were saying.

But he didn’t want to know.

On some perverse level, it was easier to slaughter them without allowing them to become more than faceless foes. Distinguishing personalities, concerns, names even, would only make this harder.

So Harald inched to the lip of the ledge, just out of sight of the monsters below, and summoned his Goldchops.

They appeared beside him, their heads fat and wickedly sharp, bobbing as ever as if on invisible currents.

Harald didn’t even need to speak. He just willed them to get to work, and over the edge of the rocky outcropping they flew, spinning as they hurled themselves at the hobgoblins.

It wasn’t even remotely fair.

The shouts of alarm became hoarse, guttural cries of panic punctuated by wet, meaty sounds.

Harald peered over the edge.

The Goldchops were just going around and around, cleaving and killing with abandon.

To their credit the hobbos had immediately fallen into some semblance of a shield wall, their discipline overcoming their fear, but it was pointless. The Goldchops just came at them from behind, and in quick order all but their leader had fallen, their blood bright and pouring out over the dry, thirsty gravel.

Harald willed the Goldchops to stop.

It felt too easy to just let them do all the work.

So he activated Dark Vigor, and as the translucent gray flames played across his body, he swung himself over the edge and dropped to fall before the hobgoblin leader, sinking into a deep crouch.

The hobbo stood trembling, his lantern jaw jutting out obstinately, his large pointed ears pointing straight back and flush with his skull. He was large, bulky, and clad in ruined black armor that he’d clearly salvaged from a fallen foe. Paldrons, chest plate, gauntlets, and a chainmail skirt that fell to his knees. But the armor was dented, and a suggestive hole through the cuirass was right over his heart.

Harald rose slowly to standing, feeling alive, feeling so terribly alive, Dark Vigor and the Gold Chops infusing him with strength and vitality. The Depths of the Aching Void fell upon the hobbo captain, causing the monster to step back in dismay. He raised the Dawnblade just as the hobbo leader went to speak, but the monster stilled as Harald activated Abyssal Attunement, causing a flood of liquid blackness to wash up the sword and turn it into a fragment torn from the heart of the abyss itself.

“You’re the cause of the soup shouting,” said the hobbo, as if the final piece had fallen into place. “That amulet. I feel its power.”

“I’m the cause of the soup shouting,” agreed Harald. “I’m here to kill you.”

The hobbo worked his lower jaw from side to side, tongue visible behind the ragged fence of protruding fangs. “Why you stop the axes? Coulda killed me already.”

“I’ve just acquired new powers. I want to test them on you.”

The hobbo grinned as he hunched his shoulders. “You just like me, then. Enjoy playing with your food.”

Harald made a face. “I’m not going to eat you.”

“Not my flesh, no. But my spirit.”

Harald’s expression of disgust became more pronounced. “No, not eating that either.”

“It is the way of the dungeon.” The hobbo raised his weapon, a serrated sword, and drew a second from between his shoulder blades. “All we kill surrenders spirit to be eaten. It is the way.”

“Do you mean the scales?”

The hobbo captain was clearly preparing to attack. He slowly assumed a deeper stance, twin swords at the ready. “It’s why you kill us.”

Harald hesitated. “But you’re here to be killed.”

“Yes,” grinned the hobbo. “Doesn’t mean we like it.”

“Wait,” said Harald, rising slightly from his fighting stance. “You know you’re here to be killed? Were you… born here?”

“Ironok was born in village of Ironvokol, in the Iron Range,” said the hobbo, clearly suspicious of this continued conversation.

“Then how did you get here?”

The hobbo shrugged one massive shoulder. “Appeared here. Pulled by dungeon.”

“Oh. So the Fallen Angel… plucked you from Ironvokol, and set you here to wait for raiders?”

The hobgoblin’s heavy brow lowered. “No. I am an Ironok, not the Ironok.”

“There are lots of Ironoks?”

The hobgoblin spat. “Ironok is eternal while dungeon lasts. Kill me now, and I shall return and have my revenge!”

And with that the hobgoblin rushed at him, sweeping both blades around in glittering arcs.

Harald, standing upright, was too nonplussed to even consider parrying. He just waved his blade at the monster and unleashed a Demonic Edge. Terrible power flowed from inside him to burst forth from his abyssal blade, the arc of black energy crashing into Ironok’s midsection just below the edge of his cuirass. The blow was a terrible one, and at close range; Ironok barked out a cry of pain as he was nearly cleaved in half, and crashed to the ground at Harald’s feet.

“Feast,” gurgled the dying captain, eyelids fluttering even as he grinned. “Ironok return… hunt you… down…”

Then he died.

A moment later four Silver Starbursts appeared over the corpse.

“Huh,” said Harald, confused and mystified both. Reflexively he collected the scales, but this time he inspected each one, though he didn’t know what he sought. There was nothing untoward about the Silvers. He placed them in his pouch, and walked around the massacred hobbos, collecting twenty-five more.

An Ironok, not the Ironok. Sam would probably know what that meant, or Nessa. But right now, it was both fascinating and disturbing. The mindless monsters of the first twelve levels had been so simple in comparison, but now that he was killing intelligent monsters… there was clearly more going on here than he understood.

He stood lost in thought till the goblins came rushing around the corner, weapons drawn, shoving and pushing at each other.

For a moment Harald thought they were attacking him, but then he checked himself; they swarmed upon the hobgoblin corpses and set to cutting away armor, slashing open their clothing, eager to get at the meat.

“Hobgob soup!”

“Crackling skin!”

“Make a fire, we need a fire!”

“That’s my foot! I want that foot!”

Harald backed away.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

He could vaguely sense an opportunity here. He could assert his authority, wade in there, bash some heads, and take control. Allow them to eat, then make some spurious claims of greater feasting in the next room. Lead this pack of some twenty or so goblins into the next chamber, and slowly set about amassing a warband with which to conquer the entirety of the 14th Level.

But he didn’t want to.

Not only were the goblins unreliable and utterly chaotic, but watching them turn the hobgoblins into blood and raw meat was nauseating.

No. He preferred to hunt along, to rely only upon his Abilities and wits, on Servitors like Shadowpaw and his Artifacts.

That and watching Ironok’s corpse be savaged was a step too far. Harald faded back into the shadows of the rocky slope, and crept away, trying to decide what to do next.

Leaving the goblins behind, he made his way toward the back of the huge chamber where another massive tunnel led to no doubt a third band of goblins and hobbos. Another battlefield, different from the first two in particulars but overall the same.

Fatigue washed over him as he found a sheltered nook in which to crouch. The pale, gray light here kept Shadow Fortitude from invigorating him, and something about his conversation with Ironok had thrown him off his bloody-minded hunt.

He’d always assumed the monsters in the dungeon were creations of the Fallen Angel. The Seraphite doctrine was that the intensity of divinity gave rise to them in an act of spontaneous conception; just like sufficient heat caused fire, sufficient divinity caused monsters.

A memory returned to him, when he was a little boy and had weekly lessons with Seraphite Japhina.

But why are the monsters bad? He’d asked.

Her smile had been tender. Why do you think they are bad?

They try to kill raiders, don’t they?

They do. Why is that a bad thing?

That had utterly mystified little Harald. Because raiders don’t want to die?

Then why do they go into the Fallen Angel?

To get… scales? To become powerful?

Then, in a way, the monsters are just fulfilling their role, aren’t they? Do we call a bear mother ‘bad’ for defending her cubs?

No?

Then if something is simply fulfilling their function, they aren’t bad, they’re…?

Natural?

Good boy. Monsters are the Angel’s trial for all who seek divinity. Those who would win her favor and rise in her esteem must earn it by passing her trials. Every monster in the dungeon, from the lowest rat to the greatest demon, is just a manifestation of the Angel’s love for us all, her generous way of allowing us to earn her approval.

That hadn’t sat right with little Harald, and it still didn’t quite ring true today. There were entire schools of thought dedicated to this matter, academic and theological treatises that Harald had scrupulously avoided due to how boring it had all seemed, but now he wished he’d paid more attention.

Not the Ironok, but an Ironok.

Like a reflection, perhaps, of the original hobgoblin from Ironvokol?

A self-aware reflection? The hobbo had seemed intent on returning from the dead to exact his vengeance.

Would the Fallen Angel restore Ironok to life, then, after Harald left? Much like how pieces would be returned to the chess board after a game’s conclusion?

But then why were the upper levels becoming depopulated? It was common knowledge that the number of monsters had been dropping, making it harder and harder for young raiders to level up against appropriate foes.

Harald raked his fingers through his hair.

Mystery upon mystery.

He exhaled and looked around. He’d not had a satisfying test of his new Abilities, though that was his fault. He’d leaned too heavily on the Goldchops. The smart move, but it meant he’d not really been forced to rely on his new powers for survival.

He could go into another room, and try to fight three hobgoblins at once, make sure they were ready for him.

But the bloodlust had left him. Perhaps it was time to return to the portal and head home. Report his new findings and accomplishments to his friends and see if they could answer his questions.

Harald rose and began making his way back to the entrance.

Only to have a portal appear to one side, an oval of black fire shot through with purple light, dark and malevolent and oppressive.

Harald flinched.

Vorakhar.

A summoning? Why now? Had the demon been watching his progress, and only stepped in when Harald had resolved to depart?

Harald glanced around, then rubbed at his jaw. The matter with House Thornvale was still outstanding. But if Vorakhar decided to drop him in another deep level again…

Still. He couldn’t exactly refuse, could he?

Harald propped the Dawnblade on his shoulder and stepped through.

The darkness claimed him, and he felt himself flit through the void, transferring immediately to Vorakhar’s chambers. He stepped out into the same slate cavern, replete with its waterfall pluming down from a rent in the ragged ceiling, the circular fire-pit, the elegant furniture and all.

The change from the ruined masonry and wan light of the 14th Level was bracing; gone were the distant screams of the goblins, the sense of vast collapse and dusty chaos. Here all was a sophisticated balance between the raw beauty of a natural cavern and the refined taste of exquisite furnishings.

Vorakhar sat in one of the opulent chairs, its frame made of gilded wood, the velvet upholstery lavish. One ankle rested across the other knee, and he wore, as always, a richly tailored suit that did nothing to civilize the predatory gleam in his black eyes.

Come, Harald. Sit. Take a refreshment without incurring any obligation.

The demon was in a good mood. Harald resisted the urge to glance around, and instead moved to the chair across from the small lacquered table between them. He sat, aware that he was no doubt staining the fabric, but realizing that was a stupid thing to be worried about.

Vorakhar tilted his head to one side. You’re doing well, Harald. Third Level. How does it feel?

Harald didn’t want to give the demon the satisfaction. “Fine, I guess.”

Vorakhar’s amusement was obvious. Don’t play coy. I was watching your handiwork on the 13th and 14th Level. Were you not reveling in your power?

And just like that Harald felt ashamed of that glorious bloodlust. “It went to my head, sure.”

Ah, said the demon after considering him. You distance yourself from the gratification. Like a drunkard apologizing for his behavior the night before.

Harald fought to not hunch his shoulders. “What do you want, Vorakhar?”

I have conferred with Silenthros, and have news. But before we speak of such… The demon’s eyes gleamed. You mortals are fascinating. You change until you die of it, but too much, too soon, and you recoil like a hermit crab into its shell. Is this not what you desired? Power? The ability to slay all that opposed you?

Harald shifted in his seat. “Yes.”

You have done nothing wrong, Harald. You have merely exerted yourself, and enjoyed the exertion. You have slain that which was designed for slaughter, and benefitted accordingly. Why are you now so recalcitrant?

“Designed for slaughter. Interesting you should say that. I was having a chat with a hobgoblin on the 14th. He said he was ‘an Ironos, but not the Ironos.’ What did he mean?”

The demon tapped his chin with one clawed finger. A neat diversion. But I’ll play along as a gesture of goodwill. All denizens of the dungeon are modeled after entities that lived when the Angel fell. Each is imprinted upon her aetherial consciousness, and endlessly recalled to do battle long after their original selves perished in the world. Well. Almost all of them have died. This Ironos once walked the surface world as you do, but he died long ago; his scale-shade persists, however, in a petty form of immortality.

Harald nodded slowly. “A scale-shade. Is that what you are?”

Vorakhar let loose a bark of laughter. Were I other than your fond patron I might strike you down for such a slight! No, little human, I am no scale-shade. I am far, far more, and soon, if all proceeds according to plan, I shall be even more than that. But now, back to you. Have I not gifted you with all you desire?

Harald tongued the inside of his cheek.

I bestowed new life upon you, called forth your very best self, endowed you with an engine of superlative growth, and even aided you in acquiring a wondrous class. What more need I do, Harald, to earn your trust?

“Well, seeing as you’re a demon, I don’t think you’ll ever have that.”

Vorakhar smiled. Plainly spoken. But the day will come when you must declare allegiance, I mean not to some petty human lordling in Flutic. You are my creature in all but heart, and have come to me for aid against House Thornvale and Silenthros’ machinations. You understand that you cannot continue to suckle at my teat without one day accepting that you are mine?

Harald grimaced, but had no answer.

Vorakhar leaned forward. All that you have received, Harald, has come at my behest. Do you think Artifacts and Servitors rain down upon all raiders in equal measure? Do you think your physical self has blossomed in such manner due to your diligent training alone? All that you are, all that you have achieved, you have done so with my blessing. Better yet, I have seen you enjoy the fruits of our friendship. The Harald who hunted on goblins and hobgoblins seemed cut from the same cloth as myself. You have in you the makings of royalty, Harald. Your dreams are yours for the taking, but it is I that have enabled them.

“I’ll ask again,” said Harald, voice hard. “What do you want?”

Gratitude seems too high a request, it seems. Vorakhar sank back into his chair, completely at ease. Perhaps then I’ll settle for honesty. Be honest with yourself, Harald, and not only when you’re cleaving goblins in twain. When you gaze into the mirror, see yourself for what you really are. You’ve done an admirable job of casting aside your former lies and illusions, but still you cling to the most pernicious of them all.

Harald’s heart was pounding. “And which lie is that?”

Vorakhar’s smile was wicked. To voice it would only give it power. You know it in your heart. One day you shall confess it to me, confess it with a laugh that shall warm my wicked heart, and then we truly will be of one purpose, one mind, and seize all that there is to be seized, together.

“Honesty,” said Harald. “That’s all you want.”

Nothing more. But save your self-righteous rebukes and timid denials. I’ve no stomach for petulance. Let us turn instead to your immediate future.

“House Thornvale.”

I met with my dear brother, and he was most amused to learn that his playthings in Flutic had sought to meddle in my affairs. Alas, he is currently at an advantage over me, and thus I could not simply make demands. Instead, we reached an agreement. A means for you to free yourself of House Thornvale’s greed and remain your own man forevermore.

“And what will that require?”

Only a little death, and one, I imagine, that you will have no problem bestowing. You see, Thracos of House Thornvale is your mirror; he carries a Demon Seed of his own, and thus has become a rising star. Alas, he is more advanced than you in every way, which is why Silenthros agreed to my proposition: that you both enter the dungeon at an agreed upon Level, and there hunt each other till only one remains standing.

Vorakhar smiled, showing his fangs. To remain free you need but slay Thracos, dear Harald. Nothing more, nothing less.