Dungeon heart 03 hell.., p.1
Dungeon Heart 03 - Hell Gate, page 1
DUNGEON HEART: HELL GATE
DAVID SANCHEZ-PONTON
CONTENTS
Summary
Shadow Alley Press Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
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Books and Reviews
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
SUMMARY
Hell hath come and the horde rides in its shadow!
In the high stakes world of dungeon keeping, the price of success is the avarice of your peers. Smit has defeated those who would take over his home, and all he wants is a bit of peace and quiet with his family. But alas, fate has other plans in store. A demonic lord from the deepest pits of the underworld is ready to unleash every corrupted spirit and demon at her disposal to capture him.
Forced to fight an ancient entity that weaves plans within plans, Smit will have to use all his inventiveness and cunning to lure the demonic horde into a trap. By pushing himself to his core's limit, he might convince others this rock is too tough to crack, but if he fails, an eternity of darkness and servitude awaits.
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CHAPTER ONE
King Vas was an amiable fellow, despite his fierce appearance. His red mane of hair and sharp eyes gave the impression that he was a lion turned man, to the point there were mutterings and rumors about the source of his strength. Some said that he had always been a fierce warrior, so much so that the gods deemed it fit to bless him with strength befitting of his appearance. Others said that he killed a Nymerian lion and ate his heart, which nearly killed him, but granted him some of the beast’s strength. Yet others said that, back in a time when he dove into dungeons with Ikfes and the rest of his adventurer team, he conquered a demon infested dungeon and was blessed by the gods for his deed.
Whatever the case might have been, the only truth of the matter was that within the kingdom, King Vas's combat potential was second only to that of guild master Ikfes. Such was his might that there were some that suspected that he only claimed to have the strength of an A rank adventurer to make the enemy underestimate him in battle, though there was no proof of this. After all, even amongst A rank adventurers, he stood head and shoulders above his peers. He was a man loved, feared, and respected by his kingdom; a fierce man that defended his country like a lion would protect its cubs.
Which is why most people would find the sight of the fierce man wearing fluffy white slippers and a nightcap baffling or even funny. As the king felt no rush to get from the capital to the village of Nam, he had taken his time to set up camp as he liked, in the comfort of his preferred night wear. A handful of servants attended to his needs, fully used to seeing their king in such wear, but it was shocking to some of the members of his royal guard.
Not that anyone dared laugh or tease the king. As surprising as his morning appearance was, wearing a silken night robe, slippers, and night cap, he still carried himself with the aura of a king. As such, despite the off-putting contrast, no one had any doubt that if need be, the king could still single-handedly beat any single member of his royal guard within an inch of their life in a fair fight.
It was a funny thing, being a king. Despite possessing overwhelming force, he was still just one man. One who was required to present himself with a certain level of status when amongst the general populace and other members of the peerage. Maintaining such an image was a tiring, but necessary thing for royalty.
Dressed in this nightwear, the king arose from his simple travel bed. His tent was spacious, though modestly decorated, consisting of a simple bed, a small chest of clothing, a wooden table, and a comfortable chair. Admittedly, this was considered luxurious for just about anyone else camping in the field, but for a king this was a rather modest setup.
“Archimedes... Archimedes!” the king called out loudly, and a second later a small man, perhaps no more than a hundred and sixty centimeters in height, seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Though he was balding at the top of his head and had plump features, the man was dressed pristinely, with black trousers, a prim looking red long-sleeved shirt, and a well-fitting brown overcoat. Even his thin, upwards curling mustache seemed to be meticulously cared for. Not for the first time, the king thought that the man looked a bit like an owl that had taken human form.
“Yes, your majesty!” he said, as he stood at attention, ramrod straight and with his right hand firmly planted on his chest while the other was at his side, completely straight.
“There you are,” the king said as he looked at the man with satisfaction. “Any news?”
The short man shook his head. “None worthy of note, Your Majesty,” Archimedes replied, bowing slightly.
“Hm… Not even from those turncoats?” the king asked.
“No,” Archimedes answered with a sigh, “However, the royal princesses are sparring with members of the royal guard just outside the camp area.”
“I see. Fetch me my travel clothes,” the king said as he started to disrobe in the privacy of his tent. His back was marked by large muscles that told the tale of a man trained from youth to wield weapons and shields in full plate armor. The man was a warrior through and through, and it showed.
Moving as swiftly as the wind itself, Archimedes wasted no time in gathering his travel clothes with fluid movements, neatly presenting them to the king as he aided him in dressing. A pair of fine trousers woven from amber spider silk, resistant but light, capable of retaining heat better than cotton. Next, he helped the king put on a white long-sleeved shirt with gold trimming at the neck and sleeves, and on top of that a fine vest of boiled leather. A pair of dwarven-make boots from Colchis ox, sturdy enough to walk hundreds of miles without any signs of wear-and-tear. Lastly, a crimson cape with gold thread trimmings was placed on his shoulders, and a circlet crown, which in reality was more of a band of solid gold with a ruby at its center and two small satellite diamonds at each side.
Once the circlet crown adorned his brow, Archimedes pulled out a hand-held mirror and presented it to the king, who briefly checked himself over. This was not because he was vain per se, but rather because as a king, he had the duty to be presentable at all times. Satisfied with his appearance, the king commanded to be led to his daughters.
It only took minutes to reach his destination. The sounds of clashing metal and, what he assumed, magic spells being fired, announced their location for all that were nearby. Once he arrived, he separated the sparring princesses and knights. He estimated the girls to be at a low B rank in terms of strength individually, perhaps starting to dip their toes in the intermediate B rank category. An impressive achievement given their young age, though still lacking compared to the royal guard.
That said, their synergy was outstanding, so much so that he could not help but to swell with pride. In a few years he wouldn’t be able to spar with the both of them at the same time and win. In a decade they might even be able to fight with him one-on-one and pose a real threat.
He was truly proud of the strong women he was raising. In his books, they were true geniuses, and he didn’t base that only on his fatherly love. Even today he was witnessing the fruits of their hard work before his eyes.
Dianna pressed a knight with her blade, letting loose a flurry of blows that were blocked or deflected with deft movements. Her red hair swirled in the morning air like fire roused by the wind as she danced with her sword, thrusting and slashing with precision. Even with his skill, the knight seemed to focus on Dianna, seeking to strike only when the opportunity presented itself. The roles were reversed in the blink of an eye with a sly counter from the knight, caused by simply angling his sword so that hers would slide right over his own as he closed in, forcing her to overextend. Sensing the danger, Dianna attempted to regain her balance, costing her a fraction of a second, enough for the knight to follow up with a quick flourish of his sword. The knight’s sword twisted as she retracted her sword, aiming at her shoulder. She parried the blow just barely, but the initiative was taken from her, and she found herself on the defensive instead.
Behind the two warriors who waged battle with each other, sorcerers fought from the back lines. Emma, youngest of the king’s daughters, summoned fire and earth to attack the opposing mage, occasionally firing a simple fire spell towards the knight fighting Dianna in an effort to distract him. However, the opposing mage was no slouch, countering her efforts with earth and water spells.
Overall, the king deemed the situation a fairly high-level battle, which made for an excellent show. So much so that he called Archimedes over and had him set a table and chair nearby, so he could have his breakfast while he enjoyed the show. Nothing like a cheese fi lled omelet with roasted sausage, and a honey milk drink to start the day. Granted, it was not the most luxurious meal that could be prepared for a king, but he delighted in the flavor all the same.
By the time he had eaten his fill and drunk to his heart’s content, the girls and their sparring partners concluded their training session. While not the most graceful display he had ever witnessed, he was certainly satisfied by what he witnessed. Standing with a broad smile, the lion of a man stood and clapped appreciatively as his daughters, now covered in dirt and soot, made their way towards him.
“Well fought!” he said with a broad smile, pulling the two girls into a bear hug at the same time. Not one to shy away from displaying his affection for his daughters in front of his men, the king displayed his fierce love for his daughters, doting on them shamelessly. He hardly cared if any other noble or knight found the sight unprofessional or thought of him as displaying his weakness by doing this, for who would try to argue with him in his own kingdom?
“Dad... you are… suffocating us,” Dianna croaked out as she tried to escape the powerful hug. Beside her, Emma squirmed in her father’s grip, wordlessly agreeing with her sister even as her face started turning red from the strain.
“Bahaha!” the king laughed loudly as he released them from his grip. Placing his fists at his hips, the man looked them up and down with a critical eye. “Well done, both of you. Dianna, you are still as overeager as ever. It’s fine to be aggressive, but don’t forget to look out for feints or intentional opportunities created by your opponent! Sir Rennard turned the tables on you with a cleverly disguised trap that put you on the defensive. And Emma, while your magics are powerful, your repertoire is limited. Use it wisely. Mix your attacks more, instead of repeating the same thing over and over.”
“That wouldn’t have happened in a real battle,” Dianna replied sullenly, “I would have aimed to kill and that wouldn’t have mattered.”
The king’s eyes turned serious at her statement, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He might have doted on them, but was not one to excuse their mistakes, specially not in battle or sparring. “He would have been aiming to do the same in a real battle my dear, and you would be dead. Sir Rennard is not physically the strongest of the royal knights, but he is one of the more clever ones. That little trick he pulled of sliding his sword against yours? Imagine if he had aimed at your throat instead of your shoulder. That slash also did not come at you with full force. If it had been a little stronger and faster, your sword would have caught his counter too late. I am sure you know what would happen then.”
“Hmph,” she said with a pout, crossing her arms. “...Fine. Your words are true. I’ll be more wary in the future.”
Emma giggled as she watched, knowing better than to argue with her father’s advice when it came to battles. As far as fighting went, her father missed very little. He was the reason why she and her sister were so strong at such a young age, after all. He and the other tutors, of course.
“See to it that you do; underestimating a blade master is a dangerous affair,” the king said with a nod. “Now! I assume you two have eaten already, correct? Good. Go, clean yourselves quickly before we get back on the road. Your mother would talk my ear off if she heard that I let you travel in dirty clothes.”
After the girls curtsied and made their way to their tent to get changed, the king stroked his beard, which was slowly growing unruly as the days passed. He would look into getting a barber to trim the thing when he got to Nam, and be more presentable. He couldn’t have himself look like a barbarian outside the battlefield. That was something that his father and mother had taught him at a young age: The image of a king could make or break alliances.
Strolling around the camp while the servants packed away all necessities, the king took the opportunity to breathe in the fresh air of the countryside. It was one of the things he missed of adventuring. Now, as a king, his duties demanded that he spend most of his time at the capital, dealing with myriad issues that came with the responsibility of ruling a country. From repairing a sewage system to diplomatic talks with other countries, the king had to oversee hundreds of issues.
But out here? Out here he was free of that burden, if only for a moment while he strolled around the camp. He was free to lose himself in thought, to reminisce about simpler times, like when he and his team could just wander across the land in search of adventure and glory.
How distant those times seemed now.
Allowing himself to exhale a small sigh, the king smiled slightly, reminding himself that not all was bad. The crown came with many perks, and one of the most notable was raising his children with the best education available. That alone was worth most of the irritating conversations he had to deal with when the nobles tried to carry out their nonsensical schemes for power.
And the food. The gods knew that he loved the food from the royal kitchens.
“Your Majesty?” Archimedes said, appearing from seemingly nowhere. “The preparations are just about complete. We should return to the carriage and be on our way.”
“Hm,” the king replied as he was brought back from his culinary fantasies, merely nodding at Archimedes’s suggestion and following him to the carriage. “And the girls?”
“The princesses have changed and should have boarded the carriage already, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent.”
With the carriage in sight, the king allowed himself to let his musings from earlier fall away, his mind coming to his role as a father and as a king.
A shame to leave such a lovely clearing… he thought to himself with a chuckle, but there is work to be done.
Smit breathed a sigh of relief as he released his meditative state, opening his eyes. It was still odd to him, this new body of his. It was… different to say the least. He could feel that this new body was heavy, yet it did not feel like it was restraining him, nor did he find it overly difficult to wield as he wished. Sometimes, however, when he had to do more delicate movements, such as opening his eyes slowly or moving his fingers carefully, he could distinctly feel a disconnect from what normal movements should be. It was not unlike moving through water, in a sense. Slower than it should be, only by a fraction of a second, and his movements were less precise as well.
These little moments concerned him, for he knew that he could not truly do his best work if his movements were not perfect. Take for instance the forging of a sword with mere iron. Iron, for all intents and purposes, was one of the best materials for forging a blade, as long as you excluded mythical or magical minerals. There were several reasons for this, but one of the most important ones was how many different types of steel could be created out of it, each with its own unique set of properties, strengths, and weaknesses.
These types of steel would dictate how the sword performed and was wielded, and they could be used in different ways and combinations with different forging techniques. For instance, one could make the core out of a softer, more flexible steel to allow it to flex and absorb impact. Using an entirely different piece of harder steel for the edge, allowing it to cut and remain sharp, was one way to forge a good sword. Another method was to fold steel, with heating and cooling treatments for the spine and edge.
To the average person this might sound like an easy thing to do, but it was quite the delicate process. How fast the iron was heated and cooled, what additives were poured in, how the additives were poured in and distributed, how the iron was folded, quenched, retreated, hammered, even the color of the iron as it was heated and cooled was important. These steps were needed just to make a proper blade, and in addition to that, the swordsmith still had to create the guard, handle, pommel, and any decorative pieces attached to it.
