Victor of Tucson

Ranish Dar watched Fonroy as he stiffly retreated, walking through the crowded club to the elevator that would take him up to the more private viewing chambers—no doubt on his way to report every word of their conversation to some of the other masters who were too proud to show their faces. Across from him, Lo’ro chuckled as his privacy spell fell back into place with an audible pop, dampening their words. “A little hysterical, wasn’t he? Has he never watched a death match in the colosseum?”

Ranish sighed and shook his head, idly watching Victor embrace his berserk titanic form, openly waiting for the last three challengers to find him. Gods, but he had a hell of a spirit! He turned to Lo’ro. “Not involving their students. Well, let me rephrase that: not unless they were certain their students would win. That’s the problem with Sojourn. Thousands of years of placidity have led to a generation of soft, untested souls. Consider this, Lo’ro: That man’s student, what’s his name? Elandor? How old is he? Seventy-odd years?”

“Something like that. Not more than a hundred, certainly.”

Dar slapped his hand on the table. “Exactly my point! Thank you. You consider him young, yes?”

“Naturally . . .”

“In the world where Victor was born, Elandor would be considered a senior citizen. Think of that! Elandor has had a life of study, mentorship, and dungeon delving. A truly safe, tranquil existence.”

Lo’ro’s eyes narrowed. “Dungeons carry with them quite a risk . . .”

“Fah!” Dar waved his hand dismissively. “In Sojourn? Where every dungeon is mapped and cataloged, and where they're all curated and offered only to appropriately leveled entrants? You could read a dozen encyclopedias on any one of the dungeons available to the citizens of this city. Do you think a pampered nature student like Elandor would go into a dungeon if there were any chance he couldn’t escape? This is likely the first contest he’s entered where there was a true risk of death, however small; you’ve seen how effective the Lifesavers have been.” Lo’ro started to say something, but Dar wasn’t finished. “Let’s not forget he went in with an alliance of rather absurd strength.”

“I begin to see your point. So, you’re saying this is why your boy is different?”

“Exactly. Just this morning, I was reading through the journal I tasked him with writing. That young man has been on the brink of death more times than he wasn’t. He’s been enslaved, tortured, had his Core shattered, and recovered while under the threat of constant death and brutal beatings. He has regularly battled enemies stronger than himself, and each time that he’s felt death’s breath on his neck, he’s fought his way back. I had no doubt he would thrash any one of the entrants in this dungeon, given a face-to-face challenge. The surprise of some of the other masters is telling.”

“So, you think he’ll win?”

“He’ll win this fight, aye, but look.” He pointed at Arona’s viewing window. “The young death caster has more wisdom than her friends, though some might call her cleverness cowardice. I won’t be surprised if she wins the dungeon, but Victor won’t be eliminated, especially as his biggest threat slinks away.”

Lo’ro shifted, smiling. “I know I’m biased in my agreement, but tell me: Why do you consider her the biggest threat?”

“I worked with her master on a project. I’m sure you know him—Vesavo Bonewhisper?”

“Oh, aye. I know him quite well, quite well, indeed. I’m also well acquainted with the young lady pictured there.” Lo’ro gestured to the viewing window where, even now, Arona was slipping away behind the curtain of the waterfall.

“Well, then you know that, unlike other Death Casters, his practice specializes in harnessing and cultivating champion spirits, bringing them forth in constructs of bone and flesh. I’m certain that young woman has some powerful summons she can employ, and, with an enormous Energy pool, she might have been able to wear Victor down. Especially with her two brawny allies.”

“We may never know.” Again, Lo’ro pointed to the viewing window. Arona had slipped into a short stone tunnel and now approached a set of stairs.

“Perhaps not in today’s contest.” Dar smiled, leaning back, interlocking his stout, black fingers on the tabletop.

“Yet you seem smug, even in the face of Arona’s impending victory.”

“Victor’s showing has already confirmed my hopes and won me enough money in the gambling halls to fund a decade of projects. I am not displeased. Moreover, is it not lovely to know a few of the more passionate, active members of the Sojourn political scene have been taken down a notch or three?”

“Aye.” Lo’ro smiled, his corpse-like skin stretching tight along his facial bones. Just a second later, though, his eyes unfocused, and the smile faded from his expression. “My follower has set eyes upon the Fae girl, Sora Deval. She suffers greatly.”

“Is she alone, then?”

“Aye. She lies in the recovery room of the World Hall, unattended.”

“Will your follower convey her to my estate?”

“Which?”

“The lake house.”

Again, Lo’ro’s eyes unfocused, and then he nodded. “Shevelia is taking her now.”

“Good. I’ll teach Victor how to remove his curse upon her, and then I’ll let him decide whether he’ll help Elandor or not.”

“Is he the only one who can . . .”

“Hah!” Dar chuckled. “Not in the least. A hundred Spirit Casters in this city are qualified, but do you think those pompous fools know that?” Dar pointed one of his thick fingers toward the ceiling, indicating the club's private viewing parlors. He sighed and shrugged. “Given a little research and the right expenditure, I’m sure Elandor will find the care he needs, but it would be good for Victor to put Fonroy Boloviture in his debt.”

“Ah! A two-fold lesson for your prodigy, then.”

Again, Dar folded his hands, and his grin reappeared. Softy, he rumbled, “Exactly. Exactly right, my old friend.”

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#

As the potent mix of magma and rage began to propagate his pathways, flooding into Victor’s body, his vision shifted into pale shades of yellowish sepia. His banner flickered and faded in motes of sparkling golden Energy, and Victor’s need for destruction outweighed every other thought in his mind. He still gripped Brontes’s club, and smoke began to rise from the dense, stone-like wood as his fingers burned into it.

For his part, Brontes seemed to have overcome his stunned surprise at Victor’s ability to shrug off his mental attack and was once again channeling his glory-attuned Energy. Grunting with the effort, he wrapped both hands around the narrow end of his club and pulled, jerking his stout body backward, driving a foot against Victor’s hip. Victor was preoccupied with his fury, only idly gripping the weapon by now, and the giant’s gambit worked; he freed his cudgel and flung himself back, losing his footing in the process.

Victor saw the over-large man stumble away, collapsing onto his butt and scrambling to stand, but something else was distracting him. Something stung at the center of his back, and he could hear a weird, keening, wailing sound almost on the edge of his range of hearing. He still held Lifedrinker in his right hand, but he took his now-empty left hand and reached back over his shoulder, probing for the source of his discomfort. Prodding around, he felt it—something hard jutting from his flesh. Growling in annoyance, he gripped it with his vise-like fingers and tugged. It slid free, and when he held the object before him, a dim, distant part of his mind recognized Valeska’s hatchet.

The metal was white-hot, the wood charred black, and his ears told him it was the source of the wailing sound. If he’d had the capacity to care, he might have wondered if the axe had been suffering from the molten heat of his blood. He didn’t, though; he only knew he was angry at the man before him, and he didn’t want to hold the little weapon, so he threw it at him. It ripped through the air like a missile, smashing into the fur-covered chest of the stout giant, and, as if it were designed for throwing—it was—the smoldering blade sank deeply into his flesh. Brontes grunted in pain, stumbling back further, and then Victor lifted Lifedrinker and did the only thing he had the presence of mind for: He tried to kill the man before him.

Brontes had defended against Victor’s berserking axe attacks before. He’d stood toe to toe with him, using that massive club to intervene in Victor’s hatchet attacks. Earlier, he’d been able to use glory-attuned spells and abilities to distract, daze, and misdirect, but none of that worked for him now. Victor had no eyes for distractions, no mind to be dazed—he saw only a target for the endless waves of hatred and fury boiling in his blood. Perhaps it said something about his Iron Berserk upgrade: It took away the purity of his rage, allowing his other emotions and thoughts to dull its edge. His Volcanic Fury had no such problem.

Lifedrinker answered his molten violence with her own, her blade blazing like a white-hot scythe as she cut the air, ripping massive, smoking gouges in Brontes’s club, making wounds that were slow to close, carving off chunks that might be too much for the club’s ability to self-repair. Just being close to Victor was taking a toll on Brontes; the heat rolling off him was difficult for the giant to bear, and desperate sweat sheened his red, strained face as he struggled to avoid the terrible, powerful, skillful cleaves of that axe. To his credit, Brontes stood up to Victor for more than two dozen seconds before he started looking around, fervently hoping for some sort of intervention.

If Victor could read his mind, he would have heard Brontes vehemently cursing Arona. He would have seen images replaying Valeska’s impotent charge. He would have heard him cursing himself for aligning against Victor rather than listening to Sora when she’d whispered her doubts, suggesting he try to join her and Victor instead. Victor couldn’t hear them, though, nor did he have any desire for it. He was lost in the heat of his rage, in the undeniable urge to deliver punishment to any who stood before him. With each resounding, deadly impact of Lifedrinker on the giant’s club, he bared his teeth in a cruel grimace of pleasure.

His brutal punishment was cathartic, feeding his fury, encouraging his rage, driving him to more and more violence. Everyone who watched the fight could see the writing on the wall: Victor was too much for Brontes to handle. He’d been too much before, even with Valeska’s aid, but now, in this state, seemingly burning with an endless supply of furious fire, he was utterly dominating him.

The fur-covered giant was more than on the defensive; he was in full retreat, seeking an egress, a way to escape Victor’s fiery frenzy. He tried to dash away more than once, but even using the ability to run on glittering glory-infused steps of light, Victor was too fast, and Brontes couldn’t risk showing him his flank. Finally, the frustrated despair was apparent on his face: He’d realized he had no way out other than to embrace the painful penalty of the Lifesaver.

Victor’s breath was short and ragged as he panted his lustful fury, hacking Lifedrinker in precise, deadly strokes. His eyes smoldered, burning like white-hot coals. Smoke and flames licked his lips with each exhalation, and if he hadn’t been reveling in the destructive smashes of his axe against that club, he might have sought to end things faster with a burst of magma-infused breath.

His opponent stumbled back, and his face took on a new expression, one Victor couldn’t read in his current state. After a deep inhalation, Brontes straightened and braced himself, blazing with golden, glittering, glory-attuned Energy as he dug his left hand into his neckline, pulling on a cord from which a tiny charm dangled.

Victor saw the charm, and a corner of his mind knew he didn’t want the giant to activate it. With desperate, frustrated strength, he lifted Lifedrinker high. He hacked her down, seizing the moment to strike when the giant’s cudgel swayed to the side, unable to guard effectively with only one hand guiding it. Lifedrinker, trailing black smoke, screaming through the air, descended toward the side of Brontes’s neck, and Victor’s maddened eyes widened with the anticipation of the blow, eager to see his enemy’s blood flow. Just as her edge sliced the first layer of the giant’s flesh, though, he burst into golden smoke and was gone.

Victor’s eyes flared with fire as he stared at the dissipating smoke. Lifedrinker hung at his side, his hand gripping her handle with enough force to shatter stone. His veins bulged with boiling blood. The wreathing aura of fire that encased his body flared, lifting toward the cavern ceiling like a torch doused with kerosene. His mind was driven blank by the apoplectic agony of his righteous fury. He had been denied, and the world would feel his wrath! Victor arched his back and opened his mouth in a scream of outrage that carried no sound other than the freight train roar of a torrent of fire as he emptied his magma Core in a fountain of streaming white-hot lava.

Simultaneously, he stomped his foot and cast Wake the Earth. As a Herald of the Mountain’s Wrath, Volcanic Fury and Wake the Earth walked hand in hand in his subconscious, instinctive brothers of destruction. It was instinctual, automatic, and there was not a single thought behind it. He poured everything he had into the spell, his wrath having removed any temperance. The ground shook, a ripple of force rolling out from him as the epicenter, and, like a spider’s web, hundreds of cracks tore open on the stone cavern floor, widening as they spread away from him. Stalagmites burst as the cracks went through them. Stalactites fell as the world shook. Stones the size of buildings crashed down in a deafening cacophony of destruction.

Through it all, Victor howled. His initial burst of magma had done much to paint the world in hues of orange and red. The fire of his breath Core was hot enough to melt stone and had a liquid quality that clung to the surfaces it touched, continuing to burn as the world came apart around him. He screamed and frothed, and the world exploded and fell, and through it all, Victor’s ire burned, his mind utterly gone in the face of it.

#

Arona watched as Shol-pan, the first spirit she’d ever harnessed, finished killing the bridge trolls. She could see the stairs to the sixth level on the other side, and she hadn’t minded the opportunity to let some frustration out. Valeska was out. That meant Brontes was left to stop or slow the stranger. “Victor, I suppose,” she muttered, facing the fact that everyone would know his name soon enough. And if Brontes failed? How quickly would Victor catch her? She’d hoped the fifth level would be the final one, that she could wrap things up quickly before he had a chance to pursue. It didn’t seem likely, however. Not with the speed with which Valeska had fallen.

Shol-pan glided back to her, trailing lines of blood from his long, spectral claws—a trail of gore leading to the two dead trolls. “Mistress.” He bowed, staring at her through his weird, ice-blue eyes, waiting for praise, dismissal, or a new task.

“Well done, Shol-pan. You grow ever stronger; I am pleased.” She stood and started over the bridge, pondering the bodies, contemplating the removal of a bone or three for later use. “No time, I suppose.” Was she being overcautious? It could take Victor hours to find the stairs in that great cavern, assuming he beat Brontes . . .

***Brontes Ironhide has been rescued from certain death and removed from the dungeon. Two entrants remain. Prepare for an Energy infusion.***

“Damn it!” she hissed, breaking into a jog toward the distant stair. She’d just cleared the stone span when the ground lurched, and the dungeon’s diffuse, pale light flickered and winked out. Arona stumbled, falling to her hands and knees, scuffing her palms on the rough stone. Her eyes flared with cold Energy, turning the darkness to twilight, and she looked around, mouth partially open, wondering what could have caused the dungeon to react in such a way. Another faint tremor vibrated the stone under her hands, and, to her shock, the bridge split with a thunderous crack, and the near side slipped into the chasm. Arona scrambled forward, putting more distance between herself and the abyss.

“Mistress . . .” Shol-pan hissed, his semi-corporeal blue form glowing in the dark as he swooped near.

“Hush!” she hissed, scrambling to her feet and stooping to pick up Balefrost where she’d dropped him. The polished bone in her hand comforted her as her brain scrambled for an explanation. Leaning on the staff, its hard end pressed against the stone, she felt the vibrations continuing, and her grasping mind couldn’t fathom what it could mean. Suddenly, the sourceless, simulated daylight flickered on again, nearly dazzling her Ghost Sight-enhanced eyes.

***Attention: This dungeon’s dimensional bonds are being strained, requiring an ongoing Energy infusion to maintain. All entrants will be removed to allow the owners an opportunity to provide Energy, facilitating repairs. The remaining entrants will be awarded a chest as though they have cleared their current level. No penalty will be applied to the entrants removed due to this emergency. No outstanding Energy infusions will be awarded.***

Arona frowned, studying the words to ensure she understood. There wouldn’t be an award for the elimination of Brontes, Valeska, Sora, or Elandor. The city of Sojourn would be on the hook for the repairs, and she would get a chest for this level. “And no penalty, Shol-pan. I’ll take that. Again, I am pleased.”

“Your pleasure brings me joy, Mistress.”

Arona started to make a quip about him being incapable of joy when the world flared with white light. The ground seemed to shift under her feet, and as her vision recovered, she found herself stumbling onto the teleportation platform in the World Hall Annex, where they’d all gathered to enter the dungeon. Three gray-robed attendants rushed forward, but two of them stopped beside the enormous, steaming, dust-and-blood-covered form in front of her—Victor.

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