Dragonheart Core

Chapter 72: Cold as Rust

Nicau had been waiting for the call.

He'd jerked awake in the middle of his algae-bed, panting wildly as something hungry tore at his soul, forcing him up, curling his fingers into claws despite their uselessness; then his Name had tugged back. Let him relax. Let him sit down.

The raw fury still lurked, starving, in his chest.

Nicau found himself alone as the other kobolds poured out of the den, hooting and warbling, spears clenched and claws extended. Something called them further into the dungeon, hungering for fresher prey; only Chieftess hesitated, glancing at him as some spark of greater intelligence fought the instruction, but a second later and she disappeared after the threat.

Nicau sat on his algae-bed and controlled his breathing. It was comforting to reach for the mana thrumming through his channels, the little hum of his blessing deep in his chest; anything to ignore the call.

He'd always wondered how the creatures of the dungeon knew how to attack when an invader came. That question had just been very answered.

But the urge faded before too long, breaking down to a mere simmer beneath his skin; as if in the echoes of his own head he could hear war drums, summons to a battle well beyond him, but the clarion trumpet wasn't directly beside his ears. Far more comfortable.

Not that Nicau relaxed, of course. For him to have been summoned at all meant there had been a battle, and even with his new Communer powers, he wasn't feeling up to anything willing to challenge a dungeon. Maybe once he'd strengthened his spear, reinforced it with fire-burning he was still working on successfully showing to the kobolds–

The kobolds who were currently stomping their way back into the den, hissing and jabbing spears at the air, their hunger for battle not satiated. He poked his head out, more than a little cautious but just a fraction more curious.

Chieftess met his eyes, her own golden pair narrowed in frustration. Fight was in water, she seethed. Could not join. Could not even command.

"Ah," he said, more for a lack of anything else to say. "Maybe next–"

Something thrummed in his soul.

He stiffened, and Chieftess alongside him; both of them felt the dungeon's pressure increase, its awareness sharpening to pinpricks around the Name in the depths of his chest. A summoning call.

Gods, Nicau hoped it wasn't for fighting whatever it was on the lower floors. You couldn't grow up in Calarata without learning to swim, but that didn't mean he was good at it.

But he wasn't one to ignore a summons, so he inched his way out of the kobolds' den, waving away Chieftess' concerns, and padded towards where the call came from.

It was in the same place as last time, at the entrance to the lower floors; he could feel the humidity of water against his skin, see faint shapes arching into the tunnel. But no horned serpent came to greet him, no Seros to serve as conduit. Were they injured? Was he supposed to fight?

The dungeon, in lieu of an answer, merely pushed into his head. It sounded… tired, for lack of a better word. Something of its normal timbre and rumble had faded, gaining a rasp instead. Not dead—not anywhere near that, he shoved the thought as far out of the front of his brain as he could—but not at the level it had been before.

What do you know about Underthings?

Nicau frowned.

The word was familiar; he'd heard it before at one of the taverns, something dark that sucked the mood from the room no matter how many drinks had been previously consumed. Only old veterans had spoken of it, those precious few who had survived the Dread Pirate's cull back when Calarata was new and not yet beginning to blossom.

Underthings, not of Aiqith.

"Not much," he admitted, though it took plenty of effort to ever admit failure in the presence of the one who held his soul. "I've, ah, heard the term before."

There was a very pressing silence between them. Nicau winced. "'O great dungeon."

A pleased rumble.

"But what kind of Underthing?"

Another silence, but Nicau could sense that it wasn't directly at him, more at the question; the dungeon's mana twisted in the air. Old. Dangerous. It should not exist.

Nicau's wince deepened. "That, ah, does explain every single Underthing, but if you can give me a, ah, detail or two–"

The dungeon cut him off with the vague imprint of frustration, annoyance at not being able to express itself correctly. Nicau, still rather huddled in fear from an archaic dragon trapped as a stone within a mountain, could relate.

Its mana reached forward, twisting at the stone beneath his feet; Nicau scampered back a few feet as a lump raised from the ground, spiraling upward in a twist of marbled granite. Mana coalesced like mist before a storm, making the stone writhe. A shape emerged.

It came slowly, elongating into a long, bulky figure, almost like a fish; a row of spines jabbed out from the top, impossibly sharp, fins jutting out from each side. Then its head forward; sharp, broad, dangerous. Twin maws opened like a glimpse into the void.

Nicau's stomach dropped to his knees.

"Pitch-shark," he breathed, feeling nerves rumble through his chest. His old street rhyme came back to him, children chanting in unison as they watched the wavering cove while the moon rose.

Black as night, black as death; black as old man's final breath.

Cold as blade, cold as rust; two mouths for the both of us.

A child's rhyme, really. It still sent shivers up his spine.

"They're said to live in the cove," he said. "Or– somewhere. People only see them when the Dread Pirate comes."

Oh gods, had one come in? How much damage had it done? Even one of the smaller ones could shred ships, slaughter adventurers–

The dungeon angled a brush of mana against him. One did. I won.

Nicau blinked.

It had won against a pitch-shark.

He exhaled, smoothing over the front of his clothes. Some dark element of his soul quieted, certainly not gone but lessened for the moment. A touch of doubt slipped underneath a laugh that sounded suspiciously like Romei's.

Maybe he had thrown his lot with the winning team.

-

I pondered the truly uncomfortable message I'd been left with as my latest creatures shook off their evolution and opened new eyes.

The crowned cobras were nearly twelve feet long, coiling around themselves in spiraling patterns of grey-blue diamonds. Ribs around their heads seemed to writhe, flexing out in facsimiles of a raised crest—or crown, I supposed, if the name was accurate—as they watched their surroundings with careful black eyes. Still a mated pair, if the way they ignored each other upon evolving was accurate.

Though it may be surprising, snakes were not the over-affectionate hatchlings that mammals tended to be in their courtships. Their truce often lasted only until they had laid their eggs.

I would, however, be heavily implying that it would be great if they could not kill each other immediately. Ranged combatants were beyond rare in my halls, and having more would only be fantastic. At least until they either laid enough eggs; then they could go off and kill each other to their heart's content. Being evolved creatures meant it was too expensive to just wait for their schema instead of trying to let them repopulate on their own.

It was difficult work, managing a dungeon.

I sent them both below, winding through the secret tunnels as they headed to the fourth floor; I'd start them there, where they had room enough to grow and a not-insignificant serpentine army to grow. My horned serpent needed some range to her bite; hopefully she'd approve of my offering.

She was so close to evolution. Truly, I couldn't wait to see what she'd become. It was going to be beyond reckoning.

In the same vein, nine new shardrunner spiders opened their eyes.

They were slow, cantankerous things right from the start, easily tripled in size with massive, swollen legs and a bulbous body; maybe the "runner" in their name was hyperbole. They were a deep, glittering black, trace lines of grey and red throughout, mere remnants of their previous form. All of them were armed with twin mandibles; one smaller set, tucked near the back, and one enormous pair extending forward like a greater crab's claws, poised to chisel earthen materials from their surroundings to spin into silk.

Very interesting.

Those I sent right down to the fourth floor, skittering through a freshly-carved tunnel. Already they were lumbering, moving stiffly as their limbs cluttered together in the narrow space; but they answered the summoning call of mana on lower layers.

I flew down faster and sprinkled some more iron veins around the place, especially in the stone jungle at the center. Eventually I would need more materials for them to work with; what about the seaglass that the merrow used? Where they took sand and heated it with both boiling water and special mana, leading to a rustproof but shatterable material? That certainly had merit. Although did it take a special type of sand? So far I had just been shredding limestone down to its barest pieces, making more silt than sand.

I could send Nicau out for it. That would be fine.

For now, I let the shardrunner spiders filter their way into that final room, skittering around as they investigated their new land I had so graciously given them. Though they were large, I had hopes they wouldn't be wanting to challenge the mage ratkin and her underlings, nor the horned serpent.

I dropped a few more families of burrowing rats throughout just in case.

But then they were situated, exploring this new land; the crowned cobras finally made it to the bottom, flicking pale tongues out as they examined this land. Already in their thoughts I could hear the horned serpent's call, the urge to join her army.

Already I could see how they would fit into my fourth floor. Maybe not permanently; I wanted those crowned cobras in a large area, where their range actually meant something while still giving them cover to hide behind. Maybe on the future Skylands, if I gave them some boulders or such to hide behind for a true surprise attack.

Interesting. Something to consider later.

But for now I flew back, letting my points of awareness truly examine my halls in turn. Their danger lurked not so much beneath the surface but present and active, ready to hunt, ready to truly destroy whoever dared invade. And that was just the floor, not even those within it.

My creatures were strong.

I knew that. It wasn't so much a fact as a law of the universe; I had cradled these monsters since their birth and they were strong. Their claws jagged, their magic developed, their minds sharp. Mostly.

Those that had invaded me had seen enough glances that they had to understand that they were strong. That there was power in my halls.

And that was without knowing that it housed the soul of a dragon.

I bristled, letting my mana sharpen as it spread through my floors; creatures paused and looked up, eyes bright, claws hungry. The three patrons I kept close to my heart thrummed with power, Rhoborh's redwood strength, Mayalle's fang-like depths, Nuvja's cloying darkness. Two Names, glaring and powerful, their holders ready for whatever dangers would come.

Because danger was coming.

But as I looked at my five floors, I couldn't help but feel prepared.