Chapter 8 - The Thirst For Experience

Elite Warlock Xenixala of Xendor, known to the Elves as ‘The Graceful One’, known to the Treefolk as ‘The One Who Walks’ and known to the Gnomes as ‘Oh No It’s Her’, flicked her wrist and sent another frostbolt towards a walking skeleton. Bones shattered in a blaze of ice. The ancient stones of the dungeon fell silent.

It was obviously a dungeon because of all the chains on the walls, so at one point it must have held prisoners. That meant this was a proper dungeon, not a crypt, temple or warren that people called a dungeon, but an actual, “throw you in a dark hole” kind of dungeon. The real deal. Unfortunately, proper dungeons only ever contained skeletons. Ex-residents, as Xenixala liked to think of them. Once they’d rotted off enough flesh, it was only a matter of time before they slipped through their manacles and started wandering the corridors.

Xenixala sighed and looked down at the spellbook in her arms. ‘Sorry, Wordsworth, not much for you to do here. It’s all just boring undead.’

‘That’s alright,’ said Wordsworth, pages flapping as he spoke. Having a spellbook as a magical companion was her own work of genius. Most witches went for a cat or owl or something else mundane, whereas Wordsworth helped her power her magic to limits most spellcasters could only dream of. Simple cantrips like frostbolt spells, however, were very much beneath him.

Crawling through this dungeon had been utter tedium. The only adversaries were the walking dead, who were pitifully easy to defeat. For some reason that she never fully understood, they were incredibly weak to frost based magic, which meant that using any other tactic besides a frostbolt spell was a complete waste of time.

Something clattered. A skeleton appeared, shambling around the corner, coated in wisps of ancient cloth, dead eyes and rusted sword. Its jaw rattled in a comical fashion. The deluded creature was probably trying to be menacing.

Another flick of the wrist, another frostbolt, another pile of bones. A familiar tingle flowed into her. Experience, the life force of adventuring. Although these skeletons were far too weak to give her much. She was far too Experienced already for it to make any difference, so the increase in her power would be negligible. She would never be the most Experienced adventurer at this rate.

Professor Mogg’s words rang in her head. ‘If you’re not the best, Xenixala. You are the worst.’

She strolled over and scuffed at the remains with her heel. There were a few copper pieces, but otherwise nothing. She bent down and pocketed them, wondering which bit of bone had contained the loot. Perhaps they were already on the floor when the bones fell on top of them.

If she found anything good in this dungeon, she could sell it to Adventurer’s Supply. All she needed was money for more Elixir. Of course, the jackpot would be finding more Elixir, but they went stale after a few weeks, and Holy Mole only knew how long they’d have been down in a place like this.

Exploring dungeons was much more fun with a party. She could berate them and watch them get stabbed while she could relax. Now she had to do all the menial chores of adventuring. Rummage through drawers for loot, draw the little map to stop you from getting lost, keep an eye out for traps. It was tedious and exhausting. She needed some companions. Basically, meat and muscle who could carry everything and distract all the dangerous creatures.

The problem was, she got through parties like a dragon got through virgins. Once they realised how much she used them, they sent her on her way. Even the evil parties couldn’t handle her. Although they usually weren’t as evil as they claimed to be. Sure, they dressed in black and were a bit mean to shop keepers, but when it came to actual torture to get a quest done nice and quick, they rarely had the stomach for it. Panella, Gronk and Jimmy had managed four dungeons with her, a new record.

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A casket twinkled in the candlelight at the end of the room. Finally, a chance for decent loot. Caskets were always hidden at the end of a dungeon and would invariably contain the most valuable stuff. This also meant that this particularly boring dungeon was finally finished.

She licked her lips, strode over to the casket and pulled at the handle.

‘Oh!’ the handle cried in alarm, its hinges formed a crude mouth. ‘If my contents you want to take, first a riddle you must break.’

Xenixala rolled her eyes. Riddles in dungeons were almost as bad as the button puzzles. Clearly whoever designed dungeon defences these days had had a damaged childhood. ‘What is it?’

The handle twisted upwards into a self-satisfied kind of smile. ‘No beginning nor end have I, yet the longer you look, the more I die.’

‘Light, time, darkness,’ Xenixala listed, ‘Nothing, a favour, a sponge, man, time, a piece of string, a river, water, time, and uhh… a mirror, or ageing.’

The handle clicked and turned.

‘Excellent,’ said Xenixala. ‘Well, which answer was it?’

‘You cheated,’ said the handle. ‘You ruined my fun, so I’m not going to tell you. Do you know how long I’ve waited to tell someone my riddle, all alone in the darkness?’

She sighed and opened the casket. ‘Does it look like I care?’

The Treasure of Ylalanaks glinted before her in the torchlight. It appeared to be some kind of bracelet.

‘Bingo,’ she said, taking the artefact.

She could finally get out of that stinking cave.

* * *

Xenixala knocked on the door of Ylalanaks Manor. She waited, tapping her feet in time to the evening's cricket chirps. The manor had probably once been the pride and joy of this lesser lord, but the half-shattered windows and ivy coated walls now said otherwise.

The door creaked open and an old man poked his head out. The light from inside bathed the porch. ‘What do you want?’ he said, eyeing her up and down. He was thin and wearing his nightgown.

‘Are you Lord Ylalanaks?’

‘I am. What’s it to you?’

‘I’ve got your family heirloom.’

‘Not interested, good day.’ Lord Ylalanaks tried to shut the door, but Xenixala forced it open with a wave of her hand. Lord Ylalanaks backed away into the house. ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ he stammered.

Xenixala stepped inside the sparsely furnished home. ‘You owe me two hundred gold for this piece of junk.’ She held up The Treasure of Ylalanaks and waved the map she’d found. ‘See? It says right here on the map.’

‘Please,’ said Lord Ylalanaks, tears in his eyes. ‘I can’t afford to pay for another reward, I’m begging you.’

Xenixala paused. ‘What do you mean, another reward?’

Lord Ylalanaks gestured to a pile of golden bracelets beside the door. Each identical to the one in her hand.

‘Why does your family have so many heirlooms?’ Xenixala asked.

‘It doesn’t!’ said Lord Ylalanaks. ‘There was my great-great-grandmother’s bracelet, but it got stolen years ago. Now someone’s been making copies to hide in dungeons and leaving maps to find them.’

Xenixala pondered this. ‘That’s all very well, but I do still want my reward.’

‘You’re just like all the other adventurers,’ he spat, as if adventurers were an insult. ‘You don’t care what you do as long as you get your reward and more quests. It’s not as if I stand a chance at fighting you off. So if you want to rob me, go ahead. I don’t have anything left to give.’

Xenixala eyed the food and tableware laid out for dinner behind him.

‘The Doom Bank’s already been round,’ he continued. ‘They demand I pay inheritance taxes on all these useless family heirlooms, King’s orders. They’re going to take my home!’ Lord Ylalanaks collapsed to the floor, bowed his head and gently sobbed. ‘I’m ruined…’

Xenixala decided to leave, being sure to grab a few candlesticks and a wheel of cheese on the way out. It was better than nothing, and you never know when a candlestick or some cheese could come in handy.

Probably at a dinner party.