Dragon Mage 053 - The Prisoner (Patreon)

382 days until the Arkon Shield falls

1 day, 22 hours until Dungeon Purge

Dear Wysterl,

Your concerns are noted, but the council deems them unworthy of attention. Need I remind you again of the grave importance of your project? We cannot—I stress, cannot—let the orcs get stronger by profiting off the Human’s Dominion. The very existence of our people is under threat.

Find those dungeons before the orcs do! —Guildmaster Curalox de Merocn.

It had to be a trick.

That was the only explanation that made sense. There weren’t supposed to be any people in a dungeon other than those in the dungeon party itself. Or at least that was what I had learned from the Trials Wiki.

There is no one there, I told myself adamantly. The voice—mumbling incoherently now—argued otherwise.

I shifted from foot to foot. I hadn’t moved from my place at the bottom of the stairs yet. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to. But if someone really was trapped in this room, I had to help them. Didn’t I?

At the very least, I need to investigate.

I sighed. Silencing the inner voice that counseled caution, I took a step into the chamber.

Nothing jumped out at me.

Cursing my irrational fears, I stepped forward again, limping to the center of the room. The unseen person was droning onwards, lost to delirium, I suspected. The speaker did not sound in a good way. Of course, that was assuming someone really was there and that this wasn’t an elaborate trap.

In the center of the room, I orientated myself. The voice was coming from the far-left corner, from one of the metal enclosures. I strode that way. The cages had been stacked upon one another. Each was about five feet tall and made of thick steel bars.

The voice had gone back to groaning. The person—prisoner?—was in the lowest enclosure. I knelt warily before it. A squat, broad-chested humanoid figure was lying on the floor of the cage and moaning piteously. I blinked, uncertain what to make of what I was seeing. The form was too small to be human, at least not a human adult, and the mysterious figure’s bulk was too great for a child.

Another impossibility.

Whoever was in the cage wasn’t human—a blatant violation of the Trials’ rules. The Dominion was still under the Arkon Shield, and until it fell, only humans—and orcs, of course—were allowed outside the cities. And whoever or whatever was in the cage, I was sure it was no orc.

I licked my lips and drew closer to the bars to inspect the form inside more carefully. The stranger was dressed in crimson armor made of intricately forged and interlocked plates. For a second, I thought the armor’s odd color was a result of bloodstains, but a closer look revealed that the plates themselves were ingrained with flecks of scarlet.

At the figure’s feet was an oversized warhammer, also tinged red and inscribed with mysterious runes. A heavy fighter.

Both weapon and armor looked expensive and were not items I expected any human new to Overworld to be able to afford. The stranger himself was filthy and covered in grime. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. The enclosure stank of things best left unmentioned too, leading me to suspect the occupant had been trapped inside for days.

I couldn’t see the prisoner’s face. He—at least I thought it was a he—was curled in a ball with his head bowed and facing away from me. Reaching out with my will, I began to analyze the stranger. But mid-cast, I stopped.

The prisoner was staring at me.

“Are you real?” he gasped.

I stared into a face, too grey and ashen to be attributed to whatever the owner had endured here. It had to be the stranger’s natural coloring. His eyes were grey too and so pale as to be nearly colorless.

An ochre-colored beard bordered his broad face. Once it must have been neat and trim, now it was bedraggled and spotted with dirt. But despite the new lines etched by hardship onto the stranger’s face, he appeared young.

“I am,” I replied softly.

“Will you help me?” the stranger wheezed.

“Who are you?” I asked, avoiding his question and refraining from voicing the dozen others I wanted to.

“Regna Redmayne of the Sweetsong Clan,” he replied. “Please, I need food.” He licked dry and cracked lips. “And water if you have it.”

I hesitated. The stranger’s introduction made little sense to me, and I wanted to interrogate him further on the matter, but that he was in a bad way was obvious. Reaching into the backpack slung over my shoulder, I removed a flask of water and a block of field rations and pushed them through the bars of the cage.

“Thank you,” Regna whispered fervently. Dragging himself upright into a seated position, the prisoner fumbled for the items.

“Easy,” I warned. “Try not to spill the water. I don’t have much.”

Regna nodded and gulped down the contents of the flask before ripping open the wrapping of the field rations and stuffing the food into his mouth too. He had obviously been here long enough to starve, which meant he’d arrived before me.

I couldn’t see how that was possible, though. The Trials had been explicit: I was the first player to enter the dungeon. Which reminds me. Reaching out with my will again, I cast analyze.

The target is Regna Redmayne, a level 93 dwarven player. He has no Magic, is gifted with Might and Resilience, and has mediocre Craft.

Nonplussed, I gaped at the Trials words floating before me. What they said was too preposterous to believe…

Regna had stopped chewing. His eyes wide, he stared at me. “You are a player?” Before I could answer, he went on. “Of course, you are,” he muttered. “What else could you be?”

I nodded absently, still trying to wrap my mind around the Trials’ response. Despite the blatant impossibility of it, Regna was a player, in a dungeon he shouldn’t be in, and in a Dominion he couldn’t be in. In fact, the least remarkable thing about him was that he was a dwarf!

Regna swallowed the food in his mouth. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I don’t recognize your species.”

I frowned. The dwarf, it seemed, had not analyzed me in turn.

Seeing my look, the prisoner smiled wanly. “In most circles, it is considered impolite to analyze a fellow player without consent.”

“Duly noted,” I murmured. “But go ahead,” I added. There was nothing I could do to stop him anyway.

The dwarf hung his head. “I can’t,” he said.

I stared at the dwarf, mystified by his response. “Why not?”

“It’s a long story,” Regna replied. “And unimportant right now.” He gazed at me pleadingly. “If you don’t mind, can you tell me who you are?”

For a moment, I considered not answering but couldn’t see the harm in doing so. “I’m Jamie. A human.”

“Thank you,” Regna said. His brows crinkled. “A human? What is that?”

I blinked. I never had to explain my species before. “Uh… uhm, someone like me,” I answered. Then added equally unhelpfully. “From Earth. We’ve only recently entered Overworld.”

The dwarf’s look only grew more puzzled.

I waved away his question as unimportant. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll explain later.” I leaned forward. “What I really need to know is: how are you here?”

“Ah,” Regna said weakly before taking another bite. “That, too, is a long story and one I will be happy to tell you once you get me out of this cage. But suffice to say, I never meant to end up in the deadlands.”

I ignored the dwarf’s not-so-subtle suggestion that I set him free. I was not about to do that without understanding the situation better. “Deadlands?” I asked, probing for more information.

“The Dead Dominions,” the dwarf clarified around another mouthful of food.

My eyes narrowed. “What are the Dead Dominions?”

Regna stopped chewing and stared at me. “How can you be in the deadlands and not know what they are?” he asked in surprise.

I said nothing.

The dwarf sighed and explained further. “The Dead Dominions are abandoned domains, ones where the owning species have been utterly destroyed, annihilated down to the smallest babe.” His face grew solemn. “Such domains are relegated to the fringes of Overworld and no longer serve any purpose.” He paused. “Well, other than for use by the Trials as grist to seed its dungeons.”

My consternation grew. What Regna was saying, what his words suggested… It was a notion so farfetched that ordinarily I would’ve dismissed it out of hand, but the dwarf’s very presence—here, where he shouldn’t be—gave credence to it.

“It’s why such areas are avoided,” Regna went on, oblivious to my thoughts. “The Trials provides no warning. If you happen to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and if you are deemed an acceptable subject, then you can be teleported to a dungeon in an eyeblink—” he snapped his fingers—“just like that.” He eyed me carefully. “You see now why we have to get out of here? You don’t want that happening to you, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Good, then free me, and let’s get out of here.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

“What do you mean?” Regna asked, his voice rising an octave.

“We are already in a dungeon,” I said.

The dwarf’s eyes widened, and his face drained of all remaining color. “No!”

✽✽✽

After my pronouncement, the dwarf fell silent. Staring past me, he steadfastly ignored my every attempt to restart the conversation. It didn’t stop him from finishing the ration cubes down to the last crumb, though.

Head bowed, I considered my next move. Despite the strangeness of the situation, I found myself believing the dwarf, mostly because I couldn’t come up with a better explanation for his presence in the dungeon myself. There were still many unanswered questions, and before I decided on my own course, I needed answers to at least some of them.

Even assuming everything the dwarf said was true, I was at a loss about what to do about it. I didn’t know enough of Regna to trust him. And if I couldn’t trust him, I didn’t see how I could free the dwarf. The risk was too great—he was twice my own level after all! What if he was a murderer and deserved to be imprisoned? I just couldn’t take that chance. But to just leave him here… that seemed inhumane too.

“You must be mistaken,” Regna said into the silence.

I jerked my head upwards, relieved that he had started talking again. “I’m not. We are in a dungeon.” I didn’t want to spook the dwarf any further, but I couldn’t lie about this and besides, he would realize the truth himself soon enough.

Regna didn’t so much as glance at me.

“Why don’t you tell me what is troubling you?” I encouraged. I could tell from Regna’s still-too-pale face and the trembling hands that something was wrong. I knew why the dwarf’s presence here perturbed me, but what I didn’t know yet was why it frightened Regna.

“Because if you’re right, I’m doomed,” the dwarf muttered.

My eyebrows flew up. “Why?”

My question seemed to shake Regna out of his stupor. He turned his head to stare at me. “You must be wrong,” he insisted again. “You’re what? A Trainee?” he guessed.

I nodded, wanting to keep him talking.

Regna clambered to his feet and casually rested his weapon on his shoulder. The dwarf was just under five feet tall, but clad in a mountain of armor and wielding a hefty warhammer, he still cut an impressive figure.

“No offense, human, but you’re only a babe by the Trials standards,” Regna continued. “Where is your chief? I must speak to him.”

The food and water had clearly done wonders for the dwarf, and he looked a far cry from the half-starved wretch he’d been a little while ago. Regna’s attitude had cooled noticeably, too; his earlier gratitude all but gone.

“My chief?” I asked, ignoring the insult.

Regna waved his hands. “Your leader—captain, king, lord—whatever you call him.”

“I have no chief,” I answered, sinking down into a more comfortable position before the cage. I had the feeling this was going to be a much longer conversation than I anticipated.

The dwarf, looming above me—and from his expression feeling suddenly foolish for it—eyed me suspiciously. “You’re here by yourself?”

I nodded.

“You say you are alone and expect me to believe we are in a dungeon?” Regna laughed. “No one is foolish enough to attempt a dungeon on his own.”

I bit back an angry retort. “My party is dead.” It was a bald-faced lie, but for the dwarf, it was likely more palatable than the truth.

The mockery in Regna’s face fled. “I am sorry,” he said quietly.

I flushed at the dwarf’s sympathy—undeserved as it was—but ignored my spurt of shame at the lie. “Tell me what is bothering you,” I tried again.

Regna didn’t answer immediately. Pacing about the confines of his cage, he took time to gather his thoughts. “You said your people are new entrants to the Trials, didn’t you?” he asked eventually.

I nodded.

“That explains your ignorance,” he remarked. Before I could respond to that, he went on. “How much do you know about dungeons?”

I smiled tightly. “Enough to know you shouldn’t be here. The only players that can be in a dungeon are those from a dungeon party.”

“You’re not wrong, not entirely. That is the general rule,” Regna said. “But there are exceptions—me for one—and rest assured that for whatever reason I am here, it is not to participate in your dungeon run.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

Regna swung to face me. “I didn’t come here of my own volition. The Trials put me here, as it did all the other dungeon’s creatures. Don’t you understand what that means?”

I gaped at him in horror. “You’re not suggesting you are part of the dungeon now, are you?”

Regna closed his eyes. “I am.”

“B-but—but that’s impossible!” I sputtered. “You are a player; you must have free will!”

Regna sighed. “Not anymore. I gave up my right to that when I entered the deadlands.” He smiled crookedly. “People avoid the Dead Dominions for good reason. The Trials takes great pains to warn you of the risks whenever you enter one of those domains.”

“So why did you go there?”

“I had no choice.”

I threw him a hard look. “Explain.”

Regna stared at me measuringly before answering. “I belong—belonged—to a powerful family back home. Our enemies captured me, for what purpose I am not entirely sure. Perhaps to kill me, or maybe to ransom me, or perhaps simply to torment my father.” He gestured to the crates on the opposite wall. “The filth dumped me here with their contraband, but I got the feeling that my accommodations here were only meant to be temporary.”

I glanced at the boxes in question. “Contraband?”

Regna thumped his chest. “Do you know what this is?”

I shook my head.

“It’s zelium,” he replied. “One of the rarest metals in Overworld. And you know who the biggest supplier and trader is?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “The Sweetsong Clan,” he said.

I scratched my chin. “So these enemies of yours, they were stealing ore from your clan?”

Regna spat. “Not just zelium. They were trading in slaves too.”

My gaze fell on the empty row of cages, and my lips twisted as I finally understood their purpose. “And I suppose the thieves used the deadlands to store their… contraband because no one would think to look there?”

“They were.” Regna chuckled darkly. “But now that the Trials has claimed this keep, the only way in and out now is through the dungeon’s obelisk.” Regna smiled humorlessly. “The only good thing about all this is that those bastards have lost their hideout.”

I spent a moment thinking about what Regna had said. It made for an interesting tale, and if the dwarf was to be believed, he had undoubtedly been dealt an unfair hand. “If you were brought to the deadlands against your will, none of this is your fault. Why should the Trials punish you?”

Regna chuckled darkly. “Fault? What matters fault to the Trials? Only the laws matter to it, nothing else.”

I fell silent at that; I certainly couldn’t disagree with his assertion. “Alright,” I said eventually. “That might explain how you’ve come to be in the dungeon. What I still don’t get is how you can be in the Human Dominion.”

Regna stared at me in confusion. “We are not in your people’s domain.”

“But I entered here from a—” I broke off, realizing what he meant. “The dungeon’s portal teleported me to the deadlands, didn’t it?”

“Correct,” he replied. “All dungeons are located in the Dead Dominions, but they don’t form part of the deadlands proper. The dungeons are isolated, closed-off regions separated from the rest of the deadlands by impenetrable shields.”

I nodded. Things were beginning to make sense. I glanced at the dwarf. I still didn’t know what to make of him, though. If he was part of the dungeon, did that make him my enemy? I decided to broach the matter directly. “What should I do with you now?”

Regna held my gaze. “There is only one thing you can do: kill me.”

I gaped at him. That was not the response I was expecting. “Why?”

“I told you,” the dwarf said patiently. “My life is forfeit already, and I don’t fancy being a dungeon creature.” He shuddered. “Or enduring whatever other punishment the Trials has in store for me.”

“What do you mean, ‘or?’ Hasn’t the Trials told you your fate yet?”

“It hasn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m cut-off from the Trials in here,” Regna admitted.

“Cut-off?” I stared at him in shock. “How?”

“There is a null field around this cage. It dampens both spirit and mana.”

Curiosity piqued, and wondering why I hadn’t thought to do so before, I opened my magesight. Sure enough, I saw that the cage was wreathed by a complex weave of mana whose entire purpose I couldn’t even guess at. One function was immediately apparent, though. The inside of the cage was opaque to my magesight. It was as if Regna didn’t even exist in there. “It’s some sort of concealment ward?” I guessed.

The dwarf grunted. “Amongst other things. The field also prevents me from accessing my core or using any of my abilities.”

Rising to my feet, I walked around the cage, studying the ward’s weaves again.

“So, will you help me, human?” Regna asked. “You’ve done me a good turn already, sharing your food and water. Will you do another and slay me? It will be a cleaner death.”

I stopped my pacing and shook my head, more in confusion than refusal of Regna’s request. “Why give up? By your own admission, you don’t even know yet why the Trials brought you here. Perhaps it is not what you fear.” I paused. “Is every player abducted by the Trials from the deadlands made into a dungeon creature?”

“Not every,” Regna admitted reluctantly, “but most are. And those that aren’t usually face an—”

“Then there is hope,” I interrupted. Folding my arms, I leaned back and studied the dwarf. “Why not join me? Help me clear the dungeon. Then together, we can figure out a way to get you out of here.”

Regna stared at me. “You don’t know much about the Trials, do you?”

“My understanding is… lacking a bit,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t mean—”

The dwarf snorted, not unkindly. “The Trials laws are harsh and unbending. Whatever fate it has planned for me, it will not be kind—and likely worse than death.” His expression turned morose. “Better I die here and now.”

I studied the dwarf for a drawn-out moment. His face betrayed no hint of doubt. He truly believes dying is the better recourse. “Are you sure?” I pressed.

“I am,” Regna replied stiffly.

He had made up his mind already, I saw. And who was I to question his wishes? With a sigh, I stepped up to the cage. So be it. Regna’s fate was his own to resolve.

Setting my hands to the metal padlock—it too had a reddish hue—I summoned dragonfire into being. It took longer than I expected for flare to burn through the lock, but eventually, the metal pooled on the ground in a steaming puddle.

I looked up to find the dwarf staring wide-eyed at my hands. I waited until his gaze met mine again. “I cannot do as you ask, Regna,” I said softly. I handed him one of my daggers, hilt first. “But your fate is our own to decide. If you’re determined to take your life, use this.”

Mutely, the dwarf took the dagger. I turned around and hobbled away. “Goodbye, Regna.”