The wagon’s interior was a spartan affair. A pair of wooden benches ran the length on either side with iron rings placed at shoulder height three feet apart. Ventilation was provided by barred slits spaced along the floor. Getting on board had been easy enough. The wagons were unguarded, and the creature pulling it seemed to have little interest aside from the duty it had been tasked with.
Orin peered out a window at the wagons going in the opposite direction. For every covered wagon like the one they were riding in, there were two open ones that were heavily laden with food.
“They’re carrying enough to feed an army,” Darla observed. The young woman had to stand on a bench to see out of the slit.
“Perhaps they use these to transport troops,” Gronthil remarked as Rus closed the door behind them.
The hunter looked at the pair and frowned. “It would be best to stay away from the slits. Someone might see.”
“Why would they concentrate their forces in the upper levels?” Darla wondered out loud after sitting down. “Are they under attack?”
“If that was the case, why not lure them in and whittle them down?” Gronthil pointed out as he settled into a bench. “Isn’t that how dungeons usually operate?”
“Perhaps they want to keep them out altogether,” Rus mused.
“It’s my understanding that dungeons draw energy by claiming the lives of delvers,” Gronthil said. “That’s why they entice us with rewards and let just enough claim them to keep more coming. No reason to keep people out altogether.”
“That is the prevailing theory,” Darla said. “But now I’m not so sure.”
The dwarf frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“This dungeon was never particularly difficult,” Darla explained. “Delvers hardly ever died here, which is why it became somewhat of a training dungeon… and yet…”
“It had the power to grow stronger in a dramatic fashion,” Gronthil said, finishing her thought. “Perhaps our original line of thinking was faulty after all.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time the magisters were wrong,” Rus spat. “For all their learning, they do seem to get things a lot of things wrong.”
“Well, if the dungeon feels threatened, I’d say that’s good news for us,” Gronthil remarked. “That means help is on the way and they’re on the upper levels.”
“Perhaps they are preparing to march on the surface,” Rus offered. “Verdant Meadows is but a half day’s walk from the entrance.”
Darla shook her head. “The creatures of this place are bound here. They cannot leave. This has been proven countless times.”
“This place doesn’t seem to like playing by the rules,” Rus pointed out.
“There are rules and there are immutable laws,” Darla said evenly. “Dungeon creatures being unable to leave belongs to the latter.”
The woman paused thoughtfully before shaking her head.
“What is it?” Gronthil ventured.
“It’s just that the gatekeeper…” she began. “A demon…”
“I’ll admit I’m not the most experienced delver, but I’ve never seen one of those in here before,” Rus offered.
“I didn’t see the creature myself, but your descriptions don’t match anything I’ve ever seen in a dungeon either,” Gronthil added.
“From what I’ve heard, creatures like that are encountered very rarely,” Darla said. “And when they are found in dungeons, they are always the Master.”
“Perhaps it is the former master, and this Derlek fellow bent it to his will when he took over,” Gronthil remarked.
“All interesting theories, but all of you are going to have to shut up now,” Orni said after glancing out the window. “We’ve arrived at the encampment.”
The wagon slowed down and the stowaways fell silent. Then, a look of horror crossed Rus’ face, prompting Orin to arch an inquisitive eyebrow.
“The wolves,” the hunter gasped, his voice scarcely a whisper. “What do we do if they sniff us out?”
Orin placed a hand on his sword and replied evenly. “Then we revert to Plan A.”
“You and your one track mind,” Rus smirked before moving deeper into the wagon so that Orin’s bulk was between him and the door.
The warrior shrugged. “It hasn’t gone wrong yet.”
“Just sit still, please,” Gronthil warned when Darla turned around and tried to peer out the slit again. “Our scents might not give us away.”
The dwarf pointed at the rings above them when the princess shot him a quizzical look. “These are or were used to transport prisoners.”
“They didn’t seem shy to kill delvers at the tunnel or the tavern,” Rus pointed out.
“We can discuss this later,” Gronthil hissed. “When we are not in the middle of an enemy camp.”
After a few tense minutes, they felt the wagon begin to climb up the hill and Gronthil relaxed visibly before gesturing for the princess to look out of the window.
“It looks like we’re in the clear,” she said, prompting Rus and Gronthil to breathe sighs of relief. “For now at least.”
“I don’t suppose anyone knows where this path takes us?” Orin ventured.
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Rus shook his head. “Forest Lake is as deep as I’ve ever gone.”
“It’s the same for me,” Darla admitted.
Gronthil stroked his beard nervously when the others turned to him. “Now I could be mistaken, but it appears as though we are headed for the Plains.”
“Where does that put us in relation to the castle?” Orin ventured.
“It’s a more meandering route than the one going up the stairs,” Gronthil replied.
Orin cursed softly.
“Well, it can’t be helped,” Rus said. “What’s curious is why the master has closed the more direct route to his castle and opened this one up in its place.”
“Perhaps the fight on the upper levels is going poorly for them,” Darla said hopefully.
“That’s a dangerous line of thinking, Princess,” Gronthil warned. “Even if it were the case, we shouldn’t just hunker down and wait for rescue.”
“I agree,” Rus added.
Soon, the wagon levelled out. Darla took another look out the slit and gasped. “Master Dwarf, I think you should see this.”
“What’s this about?” Gronthil asked, having to stand on tiptoes to see outside. When he did, his eyes widened. “It wasn’t like this when last I was here.”
“Yeah, I seem to be hearing that a lot,” Orin remarked dryly.
“These were once rolling plains,” the dwarf breathed. “Most of it has been converted to farmland. The question is why?”
A chill ran down Orin’s spine when he thought of the answer. “To feed an army. A huge army.”
“Can a Dungeon Master conjure one out of thin air like that?” Gronthil breathed.
The warrior shrugged. “I’m not the dungeon expert.”
“We are approaching some sort of fortified village,” Darla warned after climbing down from the slit.
“Enemies?” Orin asked.
“Greenskins,” Darla replied.
“How many?” he and Rus followed up in unison.
The cleric shook her head. “I couldn’t tell. There were plenty of buildings. There could be an army out there for all we know.”
“I don’t like the look of this place,” Gronthil said as he climbed down from the slit. “I say we try to cruise on past and get out somewhere more secluded.”
“I’ll ride this thing all the way to the castle if that’s where it’s heading,” Orin said.
“It would be nice if it were that simple,” Rus remarked.
Orin’s pulse quickened as the wagon slowed down. A fight was coming. He could sense it. He heard voices outside.
“Hey, this one looks loaded,” one growled.
“I thought we told them Black Dogs we were full up,” another groused. “we don’t have the room to be taking any more prisoners.”
“Just get ‘em out and feed ‘em to the basilisks,” a third ordered. “Do it quickly, we need to get this food out of here or it’ll be the lash for all of us.”
“So it’s a fight after all,” Gronthil breathed as they felt the wagon turn before slowing to a stop.
“Be careful,” Darla warned. “Dungeon creatures that can speak the languages of men are normally in the service of a Dungeon Lord. A powerful enemy may be near.”
“Good,” Orin said as he got to his feet and made his way towards the door at the rear. It was too cramped to draw his sword in the wagon, so he just kept his hand on its hilt.
“Wait, shouldn’t we coordinate a plan?” Gronthil protested as he made way for the warrior.
“Yes, don’t get in my way,” Orin replied.
Soon, the wagon rattled to a stop. The basilisk at the front of the wagon roared irritably, and Orin focused his breathing when he heard footsteps approach the door. When the footsteps stopped, Orin kicked the door open and leapt outside.
He found himself in a dirt square in the heart of a village, surrounded by half a dozen stunned greenskins. Steel flashed, and they died before they could react. Silence reigned over the square as Orin’s companions piled out of the wagon and took in their surroundings. Dozens of shocked eyes stared back at them. These belonged to humans, dwarves and other races Orin didn’t recognize, but one thing was clear. They weren’t denizens of the dungeon. They were…
“Delvers,” Gronthil breathed. “Why are they working the fields…”
“Slave labour?” Rus offered.
The dwarf’s reply was drowned out by a wail of despair. A scrawny man came running over and stared wide-eyed at Orin. “What have you done?”
“Slain my enemies,” the warrior replied bluntly. “Who do you serve?”
“Let’s have none of that,” Gronthil said sharply as he placed himself between the warrior and the dishevelled old man.
“Don’t you see Flen!” a younger man gasped. His eyes twinkled as he gazed upon Orin in wonder. “The rumours were true! The King Horvald’s army has come to rescue us!”
“But they number so few,” the old man protested.
“A vanguard!” the younger man said. “And a powerful one at that.”
A horn blew a low, mournful note, causing the old man to cower in place. “The Second Master, he comes!”
“Come along,” the younger man said, taking Flen gently by the arm and guiding the old man towards a large shed the other delvers were filing quickly into.
Darla’s face contorted in confusion. “What’s going on?”
“The Second Master is coming,” the young man called over his shoulder. “I’m sure you doughty warriors will make quick work of him, but we need to return to our quarters until you do.”
“That was bizarre,” Gronthil remarked.
“Arrows,” Orin warned.
Dozens of black darts rose into the sky, and Orin raised his sword to cover his head and trusted his armour to protect the rest. To his surprise, instead of taking cover in the wagon, his companions huddled around him.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
Gronthil winked at the warrior. “Just watch.”
As the arrows began to arc down towards them, the dwarf stone shaper began to chant. Just before they fell, he drove his foot into the ground, causing a finger of rock to shoot up. After the arrows had clattered harmlessly off the rock shield, Rus stepped out from behind it and fired his bow. Moments later, a pair greenskins that had been charging through a nearby wheatfield fell over before bursting into flames.
Eight more greenskins leapt over their burning bodies and continued the charge. Rus continued to fire, and Gronthil stepped forward. He stomped his foot causing a pair of rocks the size of a man’s fist to fly up from the ground, which he sent flying using his hammers. The rocks drilled holes in the heads of another two greenskins. Meanwhile, Orin repositioned himself to face another dozen that appeared from the buildings to their rear.
They threw themselves at the warrior without hesitation. Steel flashed, and four fell from a single swing. The others didn’t flinch and pressed their attack, but Orin recovered quickly and felled another three with a second mighty swing. One greenskin got close enough to strike at him with its sword, but the warrior dodged it handily and crushed its skull with a gauntleted fist.
The remaining three were about to attack when a loud roar froze them in place. The others looked up to see that they were surrounded by at least thirty greenskins who were waiting patiently a good twenty yards away.
Orin circled round as a man lumbered out of one of the buildings. He stood almost a head taller than Orin and was covered in thick armour that resembled emerald scales. His skin was jet black, and his eyes were as red as sapphires and glimmered in his bald head that had a sleek shape to it, making it reminiscent of a shark’s. He carried a large shield that was covered in similar scales to his armour in one hand and rested an enormous war hammer on a shoulder.
“Lord Garthan,” he boomed. “You have some nerve, turning on the Master after he granted you his First Seat.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Orin replied bluntly. “But if you tell me how to get to your master, I will let you live.”
The man strode towards Orin and broke into a broad smile, revealing a mouth full of jagged white teeth. “I think it’s time someone put you in your place.”
“I suppose you fancy yourself as just such a person?” Orin ventured.
Orin raised his sword and swung with all his might, prioritising power. He would prove his superiority in the first exchange and show who was being put in their place. His opponent raised his shield, and Orin gritted his teeth, determined to break through it and the man in one fell swoop. The warrior’s eyes widened in surprise when his weapon wouldn’t budge after striking the shield. The man before him had stopped his attack cold.
Moments later, the man’s gauntleted fist struck Orin’s side, crumpling his cuirass and sending the warrior flying. Orin landed in a heap a good distance away. A sharp pain in his side told Orin his ribs were broken as he scrambled to his feet and found his foe looking down at him with his war hammer still resting on his shoulder.
“I am Berlan,” he declared. “And I hold this dungeon’s twelfth seat.”