Victor of Tucson

Darren stood back and listened as Lam and Edeya chatted with Trin and her father. He thought about that, about how he deferred to Lam with her years of experience and superior abilities, and wondered if it would have made the “old” Darren resentful. Didn’t he used to have to be at the center of every conversation? Didn’t he used to think people would judge him if he didn’t speak for whatever group he was a part of? He smiled wryly at the thought, almost like he’d learned a secret, and maybe he had—it felt good to let other people handle things, to not be responsible for everything.

Trin’s father was an imposing fellow. His skin was well-weathered, as though he’d spent much of his time working hard in the sun, but his manicured nails and carefully subtle makeup gave the lie to that impression. His clothes were impossibly fine—a silken suit in shades of brown and gold cut to fit him perfectly. His leather belt and boots were polished to a near-reflective sheen, and his many rings glittered with jewels. Again, Darren thought of his “old” self and how he would have envied Bohn Volpuré for his regal appearance.

“A party of four, dear Trin?” Lord Volpuré asked, arching an eyebrow. “At least I can see that you heeded my advice and sought the friends of that most competent fellow who bested your brother.”

“Yes, four. You said the dungeon would open for as few as three and no more than six.”

“That’s right, dear. I’m just confirming a thing or two.” His eyes, rather hawklike under his sharp brows, glanced over Trin’s three guests, then settled on Lam. “And have you been practicing? You’re familiar with each other’s capabilities?”

Lam nodded. “Yes, Lord Volpuré. Just two days ago, we completed the Grotto, even the tier-one area.”

Trin’s father nodded, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his desk chair. “Yes, yes. Very good. Well, dear Trin, I gave you the pass. Whether your party is ready or not is your decision.” He reached toward a small, gilded brass statuette made in the likeness of a young woman carrying a tray and tapped his golden signet ring against it with a tiny metallic click-click. “I’ll have Efanie open the entrance hall for you.”

“Thank you, father!”

Edeya cleared her throat and stepped up beside Trin. “Sir, would you mind telling us how long it usually takes people to clear the dungeon? I’d like to leave a note for our friends.”

Volpuré frowned and stroked his chin. “Well, it’s called First Clash Coliseum for a reason. The dungeon is a series of coliseum battles, and after each battle, you’re taken to a ready room, where you can rest between bouts. The arena master will permit nearly a full day of rest, but you don’t have to take that long. When you’re ready to fight, you simply report to the gate and strike the gong there. Conversely, if you rest too long, the monstrous gladiator handlers will force you into the arena at spear-point. A word of advice: do not attempt to battle the coliseum personnel.”

“How many rounds are there?” Darren shifted and cleared his throat nervously, embarrassed by his blurted question.

“Good question, young man! The answer is that I don’t know. It seems to have some random component to it. I believe the last people to clear it went through more than twenty rounds.” He looked at Trin. “Do you know the answer more precisely?”

Trin looked down, her dark brows cloaking her eyes in shadow. “No, father. I’m sorry; I don’t know much more about the dungeon than what you told me when you gave me the pass.”

Darren looked more closely at Bohn Volpuré, his perfect suit, refined appearance, and the all-too-familiar disingenuous glint in his eyes. This man was a political creature, and Darren’s gut told him never to trust a word he said. Of course, he wasn’t sure how that might apply to their present circumstance. All they were doing was paying their respects on the way to a dungeon adventure, but he resolved to be wary of Trin’s father if he and his friends continued to associate with the Volpuré family. A gentle tap at the door broke him from his musings, and he turned to see a young woman in a very prim and stylish uniform standing in the open doorway.

“You called, Lord Volpuré?”

“Yes, Efanie, please guide my daughter and her companions to the family dungeon portal and unlock it for them.”

“Certainly.” Efanie, like all of the people Darren had seen in the Volpuréhousehold, was a very human-looking woman, though her upturned nose, delicately pointed ears, and large, amber-tinted eyes gave hints to a more exotic parentage. “Right this way, Lady Trin.” She turned, took a few steps, then paused, waiting for the rest of them.

“Thank you again, Lord Volpuré,” Lam said before following Efanie.

“It’s my pleasure. Say, I wonder, do you suppose I might entice your comrade, Victor, to attend a celebration here upon your successful exit from the dungeon?”

Lam chuckled. “I can’t speak for Victor, but I’ve never known him to turn down a feast.”

“Excellent! My sort of fellow. I’ll send him an invitation.” He looked at Trin, who was already standing near the door. “Did you say he’s staying at Ranish Dar’s lake house?”

“I believe so—”

“Actually,” Edeya’s sharp voice cut through Trin’s hesitant reply. “He’s currently in a dungeon, doing some kind of task for the council.”

“Ah, yes! Of course, of course!”

Trin narrowed her eyes and held a finger up. “Father, isn’t Arcus—"

“Never mind Arcus!” Volpuré snapped, suddenly irritable. “Suffice it to say, I’m familiar with the task your companion is toiling to complete. Well,” he sighed and shrugged, “we can only hope he’ll make his exit from that unpleasant place in time to celebrate your victory, hmm? Off you go now, good luck!”

Darren followed the others out, sparing one last glance at Trin’s father. He’d already turned to read something in a leather-bound journal—a Farscribe book if he were to guess. He trailed behind the four women, listening to their chatter. Trin seemed significantly more excited than anyone else, and Darren sort of felt sorry for her. He could tell she’d led a sheltered life, and, seeing the pristine, rather sterile nature of their family estate, he couldn’t help comparing her to the child of some of the more prominent politicians he’d worked with back on Earth.

The thought struck a chord in his mind, jarring loose a memory that had been nagging at him, and Darren hurried his steps so he could walk beside Trin. “Didn’t you tell Edeya and me that you sought us out because Victor beat your brother?”

“Um, that’s right, Darren.”

“But your father—” he started to say, but Lam spoke over him, completing his thought.

“Said he sent you to us.”

“He didn’t send me to you! He suggested that any man who could trounce my brother so handily likely had companions worthy of note. I’m the one who figured out who you were and where to find you. Of course, my father wants to take credit—I can’t do anything without guidance as far as he’s concerned.”

“Hush now, Lady Trin,” Efanie said. “Don’t give your guests the wrong impression.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Efanie, why is he like that?”

Darren watched as the smartly dressed woman tilted her head, her ringlets of neatly coiffed hair bouncing as she considered the question. Before she spoke, she gestured to a dimly lit stairwell and started down it. “You’ve never shown much interest in advancement, sweet girl. Your father favors his motivated children; I believe it’s as simple as that.”

“What about Renny? He’s still in the first tier and spends all his days lazing about, waiting for the next party to attend.”

“Well, Renny’s a little special, isn’t he?” To Darren’s surprise, Efanie looked past Trin to wink in the general direction of Lam and Edeya. “Renny’s the only child from Lord Volpuré’s seventh marriage.”

“His favorite wife.” Trin emphasized “favorite” like a curse.

“Well, she died very young, and I don’t think your father had yet had a chance to fall out of love.” Again, Efanie looked at Lam, Edeya, and Darren, this time frowning slightly. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t air our usual banter in front of guests.”

Lam shrugged. “It’s fine. We won’t repeat any of it.”

Trin waved Lam’s assurances away. “Oh, don’t worry about that. Sniping, sarcasm, and making judgments about others are quite the normal, expected behavior in this household. Still, Efanie’s right; I shouldn’t do it in front of guests.”

Darren continued to listen as Efanie lamented her trouble wrangling enough staff for an upcoming feast; apparently, the head chef and his wife—the manor’s head maid—were away with their four children—also employed by Volpuré—for a family reunion. “I’ll have to borrow staff from Lord Arcorage at this rate!”

“I’m sorry, Efanie, but that’s the price you pay for being father’s favor—”

“Here we are!” Efanie announced, pointing to a large archway containing a twelve-foot-high gray metal door. She produced a metal key longer than her hand with teeth pointing in every direction, inserted it into the lock, and twisted it. With half a dozen smooth, well-lubricated clicks, the door unlocked. Pulling it wide, she gestured into the room beyond and said, “Head on through. I need a quick word with Trin.”

Darren followed Lam and Edeya into the chamber but didn’t miss the long look Lam gave Efanie as she pulled Trin to the side. He lost track of any unfolding drama, though, when he saw the strange room. It was spherical in nature, built from large, carved stone blocks, each inlaid with a silvery sigil. At the apex of the chamber, a warm, yellow light shone down on a teleportation pad, or, at least, that’s what Darren thought the metallic, circular platform was. He strode over to it, but before he could step on it, for some reason eager to hear his boots click on the dull gray metal, Edeya grabbed his elbow and hissed, “Woah, Dare.”

“Woah?” He stumbled back a step as she continued to pull on his arm.

“Yeah, woah! We don’t know if it’s all right to step on it. Wait for Trin.”

“Ah, yeah. Of course.” Darren turned and saw Lam walking the room's perimeter, intently studying the sigils in the stone blocks. He looked at Edeya, “Can she read those?”

“I don’t think so. She’s just . . . inspecting. Probably an old habit from being a military commander.” She took a breath and looked like she’d say more, but the sound of the huge metal door closing with a clank interrupted her.

“Well, are we ready?” Trin’s smile and enthusiasm were contagious, at least to Darren, and he smiled along with her.

“I am!” he announced.

“Ready—” Edeya began, but then Lam spoke, cutting off anything else she might say.

“What did your father’s chamberlain have to say?”

“Efanie?” Trin’s eyes opened wide, and Darren instinctively expected a lie to come out of her lips next. That’s what people who were going to lie did—repeat or clarify an obvious question before answering. He knew that because he’d often practiced the behavior; it gave a person’s mind a couple of seconds to craft the lie. When Lam only nodded, Trin continued, “Well, it was a little strange, to be honest. She said I was free to use the token my father gave us but that I might want to reconsider. She said it would be safer with a party of six.”

“Is that all?” Lam pressed.

“She said something else a little odd, and not once, but twice.”

“Which was?” This time, Edeya was the one asking, and Darren could hear the exasperation in her voice.

“Simply that my father can end the dungeon run at any moment.”

“Why would she tell you that?”

“I really don’t know.” Despite his earlier misgivings, Darren couldn’t spot any duplicity in Trin’s body language. “She was acting very strangely. I’ve known her a long time; I suppose I should clarify her role here at the manor. She’s part of my family’s personal guard. She was assigned to me as a child and later to my younger sister, Raella.” She smiled and shrugged, stepping onto the teleportation pad and throwing Lam another smile. “That’s why your question threw me off. My father’s chamberlain is an absolute pig of an old lecher.”

Edeya giggled, and Lam smiled, shrugging. “If that’s all, then I’m game to give this dungeon a try despite our smaller-than-optimal party.”

Darren nodded his agreement and stepped beside Trin, grinning as his boots clicked hollowly on the metal disk. Lam and Edeya were right behind him, and then Trin summoned a gilded piece of paper about the size of one of Darren’s old business cards. She held it aloft, and Darren watched as a ribbon of golden Energy surged through the card. In seconds, it was gone, replaced by a cloud of glowing, golden motes.

The motes danced around in the air at the center of the platform and seemed to multiply, growing in density and size. Before Darren knew it, they’d taken on an oval shape that seemed to shimmer and solidify until it looked like a pool of golden liquid hung in the air at the center of the room. “Now we just step into it,” Trin announced, drawing her fancy, basket-hilted rapier with a ring of metal on metal. “Ready?”

“Ready!” they all said in one way or another, and then Trin led the way, stepping through the portal with a liquid ripple. Darren looked from Lam to Edeya, nodded, and, gripping his staff tightly, stepped through the portal.

#

When the light faded from his eyes, Victor found himself standing in the chamber from which the Consuls had sent him into the prison dungeon. This time, the room was much more dimly lit, with only a single amber glow lamp pulsing down onto the teleportation pad. For some reason, he’d snatched Lifedrinker from her harness as he came through, but as he saw the two armor-clad men striding toward him from the doorway, he was glad he had. He gripped Rasso’s rough, cloth shirt and pulled him behind him. The man was like a child to him, easily obscured by his bulk as Victor faced down the approaching figures.

“State your name and business in this chamber!” the armored figure on the left demanded. They were both sizeable warriors—something close to eight feet tall if you counted the plumes on their shiny metal helms. The one who spoke, however, was significantly broader at the shoulders, and his growled demand had the tone Victor recognized as belonging to someone itching for a fight.

“Victor Sandoval. I’m here ‘cause that’s where the pinché recall token dumped me.”

“Recall? You were in the prison?”

“But—” the second warrior—guard, Victor figured—said in a much higher, more feminine voice, only to be cut off as the first guard chopped a hand sideways.

“Silence. Fetch Watch Commander Reythis.” As the woman turned and double-timed it out of the chamber, the remaining guard turned back to Victor. “Stand down. Violence will be met with a lethal response.”

Victor shrugged and put Lifedrinker in her harness. Then he reached back, put a heavy hand around Rasso’s thin neck, and pulled him in front of him. He had a feeling Ronkerz had been cloaking a lot more than he let on. It seemed to Victor that the Council might have considered him lost. Maybe when they saw Arcus’s severed arm return with a token and then registered Arona’s death, they’d decided Victor would soon be dead as well. Considering the time difference, he supposed it wasn’t surprising they weren’t standing around in the chamber waiting for him; if he got hung up for even a week in the dungeon, it would be almost two months on the outside.

“Listen, I dunno why you weren’t expecting me, but I was supposed to get this dude out of the dungeon.” Victor jostled Rasso a little, and the man tried to pull away but found Victor’s grip unyielding. “I don’t have time to mess around. I’ve got places to be. Can I turn him over to you?”

“Wait for the watch commander!”

Victor sighed but shrugged, reaching into his ring to pull out the Farscribe book he shared with Dar. Unlike many standard dungeons, the prison dungeon wouldn’t allow the books to work, but now that he was out, he figured he should let some people know. He started with Dar because he thought he might need his mentor’s support with the council, assuming these guards didn’t let him leave. As quickly as he could, which was quite fast, considering his much-improved dexterity, he scrawled out a note, letting Dar know he was out of the dungeon and had successfully secured Rasso Hine. He also said he’d be visiting the Volpuré estate for a “personal” reason.

Arcus had suggested he not tell anyone what he was going to do, and, though Victor barely trusted the Pyromancer, he’d thought it was good advice. If he told Dar what he was about to do, his “master” might try to intervene, and then Victor would owe him even more. No, if Volpuré wanted to mess with Victor, then Victor would be the one to mess back. He wasn’t an idiot; he wouldn’t try to stand up to a veil walker, but an iron ranker with a steel-seeker bodyguard? “Yeah, I’ll take those odds,” Victor growled, closing the book and sending it back into his ring.

The clatter of running footsteps and clanking armor made him look toward the doorway. “Sir Victor!” a new voice said as the female guard and another man, this one dressed in fine Sojourn livery, strode into the room. “Welcome back, sir. We didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Really?” Victor frowned. “That’s strange, isn’t it? I was gone for a couple of days in there.”

“Verily, sir, but Lord Roil seemed to think it would be quite some time before anyone from your party might emerge. Is this the prisoner, sir?” He strode forward and stared hard at Rasso. “Are you Hine?”

“I am—”

“Come with me! I’m to bring you directly to the council hall. Victor, you should come along; the council is bound to have ques—”

“No.” Victor gave Rasso a shove toward the watch commander, then started toward the door. “I’ve fulfilled my obligation to the City of Sojourn. Pass my regards to the council and let them know they can reach me through Lord Ranish Dar.” As he spoke, Victor’s voice started out clear and strident but ended in a growling snarl. His eyes had flooded with fire, and black smoke drifted from his nostrils. The guards, likely all steel seekers, backed away as he stomped through the doorway. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but his mind had already gone ahead, visualizing his battle with Lord Volpuré’s champion.

If he’d seen his face, if he’d seen the baleful flicker of the magmatic flames roiling behind his irises, or seen his forearms flex as he clenched his fists, or smelled the brimstone in the smoke drifting out of his lungs, or if he’d tasted the blood and murder laced through his aura, then Victor would have understood why three steel seekers backed away, casting long, searching looks into each other's eyes. Those glances seemed to ask, “Is it only me? Am I mad, or should we fear this iron-ranker?”

Of course, Victor didn’t see those glances. He’d dismissed the guards from his mind as he began to play out the upcoming battle in his mind. In a way, he was glad Arcus had counseled him from telling Dar about the fight, and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to be further in Dar’s debt. The truth was that Victor didn’t want anyone to stop him. If he were willing to face that fact and understand his feelings, he might have seen that it was also why he didn’t consider writing in his other Farscribe books. He loved Valla and was eager to see her, but he didn’t want to lose his focus.

“There’s a time for killing and a time for loving, chica,” he grunted, Lifedrinker once more in his hands.

The deepest bonds of love are forged with the blood of battle. Let us kill together! Her crystal-clear reply sounded in his mind, her voice half growl and half purr. Lifedrinker’s reply almost broke him from his pre-battle focus, but rather than let it freak him out, Victor grinned and accepted the honesty of Lifedrinker’s nature.

As he stomped down the steps of the council spire toward the busy street, people hurried out of his way, and he could understand why; he was fully limned in flame, almost like he’d cast Volcanic Fury. Victor summoned Guapo with a surge of rage-attuned Energy. Unbidden, the spell swooped up some of the magma-attuned Energy in his pathways, and Guapo appeared from a cloud of black smoke with a wild, angry whinny, rearing high, kicking his flaming front hooves in the air. Victor leaped onto his back, and, with the directions Arcus had given him firmly in mind, he raced toward the eastern edge of the city, where, a few dozen miles away, the Volpuré estate awaited.