Chapter 5 - The Manor

  Robert froze as the lanky, mummified corpse stalked toward him with a bizarrely unnatural gait. He watched it through the narrow slits of his helm as it flickered in and out of sight with terrifying, jerky speed. “Brukk, a little help here!” he called, lifting his staff and preparing to cast a spell. The walking corpse reached out with a long, emaciated arm, its withered hand snatching Robert’s staff with a sudden jerk that sent him flying forward down the hall.

  Robert yelped as he flew through the air. He crashed headfirst onto the hard black stone floor of the dungeon, Alice’s clumsy helm offering little protection as his skull struck the inner steel. Pushing himself up to all fours, his head spun with dizziness as he tried to regain his bearings in the dimly lit hall. I can’t see a thing in this blasted helm, he thought, but he didn’t dare remove it. The Baron’s telepathic powers were far too great, and all would be lost if he gave in to the call again.

  Shaking off the dizziness, Robert looked up to find the exit to the dungeon now unguarded before him. The chair where the mummy had sat was empty by the arched wooden door. He spun around, expecting the undead to be looming over him, ready to snatch him up and finish what it had started. But a wave of relief washed over him as he saw the slender corpse locked in melee with the orc, who had come to Robert’s aid, or perhaps was simply defending himself from the attacking ghoul, Robert considered.

  The lanky undead, naked except for a tattered cloth around its midriff, was fast for its shape and lack of muscle. It swung a long, skinny arm at Brukk’s head in the narrow hallway, but missed as the orc ducked with surprising speed. The momentum of the strike sent the limb crashing into the opposite wall, shattering the stone. Cursed undead, Robert thought, seeing its unnatural strength as Brukk countered with a slash to its stomach. A dry cloud of dust and leathery flesh flew through the air where the orc’s claws had cut deep, but the creature was unfazed. It struck back with a powerful backhand, sending Brukk flying into the cell he had just emerged from.

  Robert rushed to his feet as the undead turned its attention back toward him. I hate these damned undead, he thought as he dashed for his staff, which had fallen on the hall floor between him and the creature. The undead lumbered forward, and Robert dove through the air, hitting the ground hard as his hands fumbled beneath him, partially blinded by the helm. His fingers closed around the oak just as he felt the creature grasp the back of his cloak. In an instant, he was lifted from the floor. Time seemed to slow as he looked up, meeting the creature’s black, lifeless eyes before his body slammed into the stone ceiling with a sickening crack.

  Robert felt bone crack against the stone, his consciousness spared only by the steel helm that protected the back of his head as pain surged through every part of his body. As he fell back toward the ground, he cast a healing spell on himself, mending the broken bones from the impact. He collided with the stone floor and gasped for breath just as the undead reached for his shoulder, flipping him over and clawing for his helm with a cold dead hand. But before it could grasp him, Brukk intercepted from behind, crashing into the dark gray corpse looming over Robert. Both bodies flew past him, slamming into the stone just beyond his feet.

  Scrambling upward, Robert turned to face the writhing bodies rolling across the tunnel floor. He readied his Holy Bolt, a spell he had rarely used since joining the party, but he remembered its power against the undead. He aimed toward the creature as it rolled on top of the orc, strangling Brukk with its withered hands. Robert’s staff flared with light, and the bolt shot out. Its aim was true until the orc slammed the undead sideways into the wall, its head crashing into the stone. The bolt, still flying, struck the Brukk across the forehead, and he roared in pain.

  [Skill Leveled Up: Holy Bolt (Level 5)]

  “Argh! You shot me in the face!” the orc growled.

  “Bloody hell,” Robert exclaimed, loosing another bolt at the staggered undead.

  The next bolt hit true, splashing against the undead’s right shoulder in a flash of white fire. Its arm tore free, the limb igniting as it fell. The creature stumbled toward Robert, half aflame, as he cast a shield around himself and loosed another bolt. This one struck its leg, severing it clean at the slender thigh. The undead toppled forward, one arm outstretched. Its hand reached for Robert, but the holy barrier burned like fire, and its fingers burst into flame the moment they touched the radiant edge of his shield.

  [Skill Leveled Up: Holy Shield (Level 5)]

  “That bastard is mine!” Brukk roared as he stormed forward, his face still healing from a dark red back to its natural gray from the holy burns around his eyes. He crouched, grabbed the mauled undead sentry, and tore its head from its shoulders. With a grunt, he threw the head to the ground and crushed it beneath his clawed foot, roaring in victory.

  “Quiet down,” Robert urged, glancing past the raging orc to make sure no one had stepped through the dungeon’s entrance.

  “Why? Let them know we come. I am no stealth coward,” Brukk said.

  “Okay, neither am I, I suppose,” Robert replied. “But I’m human. I don’t have your strength or healing abilities.” Well... I suppose I somewhat do, Robert thought, glancing at his staff.

  He cast a healing spell toward Brukk, whose gray face still hadn’t fully mended, but the staff only vibrated in his hand as if resisting. No light came from it.

  What the... Robert thought.

  [System: Magic systems cannot be utilized on some species depending on their native immunities. Orcs are immune to healing magic and cannot be affected by it. Offensive holy spells can still be utilized against them.]

  “It appears I cannot heal you, Brukk. My magic disallows it, unfortunately. All the more reason to be careful going forward,” Robert said.

  “I don’t need your heals, priest. I wouldn’t taint my flesh with them even if they worked,” the orc growled.

  What do these guys have against healers? Robert thought. He considered the Baron’s magic and his own near-fatal reaction to the orc’s blood. Was the blood killing him? he wondered. “Did the Baron try drinking your blood?” he asked the big orc.

  “I don’t know, but the white-masked witch cut one of my fingers off and drained the blood into a vial,” Brukk said, waving an uninjured clawed finger toward Robert. “How did you even end up trapped here? Can the Baron control you with his mind like he did to me and my friends?”

  Brukk spat. “Orcs aren’t affected by the head games of the weak. The masked witch and her minions overwhelmed me after our ship crashed into the swamps somewhere near here. The portal travel to this world disrupted our navigational equipment, sending us into a tailspin.”

  “Did any others survive?” Robert asked.

  “Unlikely. Not all orcs have my healing abilities,” Brukk replied. Robert noticed then that the orc’s face had completely healed.

  “Well, let’s get out of here before Driana returns to find her pet headless. Something tells me she won’t be pleased.”

  With that, Robert and the orc headed for the arched wooden door at the end of the hall. There was no latch to open it, and when Robert pushed against it, the door didn’t budge. Locked from the other side, Robert thought.

  “Maybe we can use one of the tools left in the torture room…” Robert began, but as he spoke, Brukk kicked the door in with a single massive blow. The wood splintered around the hinges as it flew inward and crashed to the ground.

  Robert, dumbfounded by the orc’s sudden violence, looked through the doorway as the dust settled. In front of them, across a large, dimly lit room, stood Driana. She stared at them from another doorway, her eyes as wide with surprise as his. For a long moment, he, the orc, and the necromancer stood frozen, speechless. Then Driana turned and ran, slamming the door behind her. Her petulant screams echoed into the distance.

  “Father, Father, they escaped!”

  “Well, there goes our element of surprise,” Robert sighed.

  “Let’s move before she brings more corpses,” Brukk barked, stepping forward into the next room.

  It’s some kind of study, Robert thought as he moved in behind Brukk, taking in the rich furnishings that decorated the room. A fine resting place for the torturers of this place before returning to their work in the dungeon.

  Behind them, the entire wall was lined with old books, the shelves stretching all the way to the ceiling. On the opposite wall stood two statues of knights clad in metal armor, identical halberds gripped in their hands as they flanked each side of the redwood door Driana had fled through. To their left, beside a large fireplace, towered a two-meter-tall stuffed bear. The fearsome thing had its claws raised in an attack stance, its maw open as if frozen mid-roar. They inched forward through the eerie room, Robert’s eyes wary of the dead beast as they passed.

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  “Hurry up, priest!” Brukk called as he sprinted ahead. The orc reached for the iron latch on the far door when both statues suddenly came to life. Metal groaned as the armored knights swung their halberds inward. One blade struck Brukk’s upper shoulder, the other his lower back. The orc roared, a sound that echoed with both pain and fury.

  Robert froze as both knights yanked their halberds free, black blood spurting from the deep wounds across Brukk’s back. Unsure what to do, with his healing magic useless on orcs, he aimed his staff and fired a Holy Bolt at the left knight, but the holy flame splashed harmlessly across its armor.

  Robert stepped back as the knight he had cast his spell at tore its attention from the orc and lumbered toward him with an awkward gait. The second knight brought its halberd down in an overhand arc toward the wounded Brukk, who had fallen to his knees roaring in pain. But the orc, only partially staggered by the blows, caught the wooden shaft of the weapon in a massive clawed hand. Robert watched as the orc’s eyes began to glow red and a deafening roar filled the room. The knight struggled against the orc’s grasp, trying to pull the halberd free, but Brukk’s grip was too strong. He rose to his full height, and for a moment, Robert thought the orc was actually growing taller as the two battled for control of the weapon.

  Backing up toward the dungeon entrance as the other knight neared him, Robert searched for a sturdier weapon while the creature’s steel boots clanked against the hardwood floor of the study.

  [System: Remember. Healing spells can affect those who have returned to life.]

  Robert read the words and remembered the burst of fire he had created against the undead horde that had trapped them in the mud back in that cursed forest. Heeding the advice, he cast his Basic Heal spell at the approaching knight, and fire burst from the cracks in its flawless steel armor. The creature staggered, standing still for a moment as if unsure what burned it, then moved forward again, slower this time, its gait heavy and uneven. Robert cast another heal, and this time flames poured from the slits of the knight’s full helm as it collapsed lifeless to the ground.

  Thank you, HUD, Robert thought as he turned back toward Brukk, who now had the other knight on its knees. The orc tore the helm from the undead horror beneath him. Like the guard in the dungeon, this one was mummified, as if it had been stationed there for a millennium, drying out from within.

  Robert walked carefully through the room, giving the burned corpse of the armored knight a wide berth as he made his way toward Brukk, who was definitely larger now, Robert thought. His gray skin had taken on a glossy sheen, and he stood nearly twice Robert’s height. The orc had the last undead knight pinned as it struggled helplessly in its clumsy armor. Brukk glanced briefly at Robert as he approached, his blazing red eyes burning with fury, then looked down and roared. His jaw extended wide before snapping shut around the creature’s head in a sickening chomp. His fanged teeth sank deep into the skull, and with a violent pull, the blackened head tore free like a cork from a bottled jug. Robert recoiled in disgust as Brukk spat the severed head across the room.

  “Could you have not used that skill earlier?” Robert asked.

  “Quiet, priest. I can only do this once a day, and it lasts only a few minutes. We should leave while I still have my strength.”

  “Agreed,” Robert said, moving to open the wooden door Driana had fled through.

  He jiggled the door’s iron handle, but it failed to engage. “Locked,” Robert muttered, just before Brukk pushed him aside. Instead of kicking it down as before, the orc simply charged through it shoulder-first. The door and the wall around it exploded in a shower of splinters and dust, his massive frame leaving a jagged outline in the wreckage. Debris filled the air, stinging Robert’s eyes as it slipped through the slits of his helm.

  Cursed orcs, Robert thought as he coughed through the dust filling his lungs.

  Through the haze, Robert followed the now-shrinking orc into a long hallway that stretched into darkness. Where it led, he didn’t know, but it appeared the white-masked witch had smothered all the torches ahead. Apart from the faint light spilling from the dungeon behind them, the path forward was pitch black.

  “Mind your eyes, Brukk,” he said before casting Holy Light. Their surroundings flared into view under the white glow of Robert’s staff. Ahead, he could make out a long corridor with several closed doors on the right side. More metal statues lined the passage to the left, and he attempted to use HUD to inspect them, in case they were undead lying in wait like before, but no green script flared across his vision.

  [Skill Leveled Up: Holy Light (Level 6)]

  “Can you dim that bloody thing?” the orc growled, shielding his eyes from the bright glare.

  Robert reduced the mana flow to the spell, and the light faded to a softer glow atop his staff. “Sorry,” Robert replied. “Let’s move. We need to check every room for my friends.”

  “Fine,” the orc replied. “Just stay out of my way once the fighting starts, priest.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree with you again, my orc friend,” Robert said, remembering the holy bolt that had struck his reluctant ally in the face.

  Moving forward through the long hallway, they began to inspect each of the three rooms along it one by one. The first room appeared to be some sort of servants’ quarters. A simple bed, neatly made, and a small table were all that furnished it. The next was a storage room stacked with wooden crates. From the doorway, Robert thought they looked filled with old clothing.

  At the last door before the hall cut sharply to the right, Robert paused. From within, he could hear the distant crackle of fire. He dimmed his Holy Light, noticing the flicker of a roaring flame glowing through the gap beneath the door.

  “Someone’s in there,” he whispered to Brukk, who followed closely behind, his heavy steps quieted to match Robert’s.

  Robert pulled the iron latch on the polished redwood door. A strange smell drifted from the room as he slowly pushed it open with a long creak. His eyes went wide behind the helm as a dark shape by the fire took form through the narrow slits. Realization struck, and he shoved the door open fully.

  The room beyond was bare stone, with a massive coffin-sized hearth at its far wall. A roaring fire climbed toward the wide chimney above. Before it, the ghoul in his tattered black robe was tossing a mummified corpse into the flames. It turned at the sound of their entrance, fixing its lifeless black eyes on them. Its eyelids had long since rotted away along with most of its face, yet Robert thought he still saw sadness in that hollow gaze.

  The creature turned away without a word, walking toward the corner of the room where a pile of bodies lay beneath a brown canvas tarp. It lifted the covering and reached down for the next corpse to feed the fire.

  “What is this?” Brukk asked. “Is this how food is prepared in your world?”

  Robert quietly shut the door with his free hand and looked back toward the orc. “No,” he said grimly. “This is how evil is made. The Swamp Baron and his faceless daughter have to be stopped before my friends end up like the corpses in that room. I just hope we’re not already too late.”

  They advanced down the hall and turned sharply right to face two large ornate doors carved with intricate images of frogs. Each door bore a golden handle marking its entrance. Light spilled from the gap beneath them, not the harsh glow of a corpse-fed fire but the soft flicker of candlelight from some chamber within the main manor.

  Robert held his breath, then pushed the doors open.

  “Wonderful of you to join us, Robert of Shearford. A bit earlier than expected, but no worries, we do love a surprise visit. And I see you’ve brought a guest,” said a voice, more youthful and energetic than it had sounded in the dining hall of the manor.

  The Swamp Baron sat atop a red throne on a lit wooden stage at the far end of a grand hall. A playhouse, Robert thought, where the Baron once entertained his guests. The man wore a silk red shirt with black leather pants and matching boots. His green amulet shimmered in the candlelight that illuminated the stage.

  “We’ve come to collect my friends, Baron. Let them go, and we’ll walk out of this house of horrors without violence. You have my word,” Robert shouted across the hall.

  Rows of wooden chairs stretched through the hall before them. Sporadic dead men and women sat as the Baron’s ghastly audience, their lifeless faces fixed toward the stage. They seemed frozen in eternal horror, forced to watch their killer’s final performance, a cruel spectacle meant to haunt them even in death, Robert thought. He inspected them carefully, ensuring none were undead lying in wait.

  “And leave before the grand finale, my young healer?” said the surprisingly youthful Baron.

  Robert stared, remembering the family portrait that had hung across the dining room, the image of an old man surrounded by his kin, a beautiful blonde-haired daughter standing proudly at his side. The man before him now was nothing like the feeble figure from the portrait. This version of the Baron was young, vibrant, and strong.

  Blood magic has its perks, Robert thought.

  A creaking sound echoed from somewhere offstage as Robert and the orc advanced slowly up the center walkway of the playroom. From the Baron’s right, his faceless daughter came into view, dragging a large wooden contraption on wheels. Atop the flat platform stood a thick wooden post with an iron bar fixed across the top, forming a T.

  Hanging upside down by their feet from each end of the bar were Varg and Alice. Both were unconscious, though Alice appeared mostly unharmed. Varg, however, looked like a hollow shell of the warrior he once was. His skin had turned ghostly white, his powerful arms shriveled outward from his sleeveless armor, and his gaunt face twisted in agony as he hung suspended. Blood dripped from a wound across his neck, flowing steadily into a basin below the platform.

  “Bastard!” Robert roared as he raised his staff to cast a heal, but the Baron stood and shouted from his throne.

  “Don’t, healer, unless you want the big man to break his own neck. He does not have your enchanted helm or the orc’s tainted blood. Or perhaps I will have him kill your woman friend while you watch.”

  Robert hesitated, lowering his staff.

  “Why are you parleying with this fiend, human? Let’s rip his head off and be done with this nonsense,” Brukk growled.

  “Let me do the talking,” Robert whispered through gritted teeth as he slowly advanced, closing the distance to the stage.

  “What do you want then, blood mage? My life for theirs?”

  Driana began to laugh at their exchange through her blood-stained mask as she circled the wheeled platform toward Alice, who rocked gently back and forth, suspended upside down. Driana bent close to Alice’s face, grabbing her by the ranger’s dangling hair. Her own blonde hair was tied in a disheveled bun above her head, protruding over the porcelain mask as she spoke up.

  “You are not a moron, healer,” Driana sneered. “You know none of you are ever leaving here alive. The choice you have is whether you enter the void with your souls intact or you become one of my collection.”

  The masked woman drew Alice’s upside-down face closer to hers, inspecting it. “She has such a pretty face, doesn’t she, healer?” Driana asked in a gentler, longing voice. “Perhaps I shall claim it as my own.”