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Chapter 57 Consolidation arc X
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 06:32:40 +0000 UTCPdf and Epub versions below.
This is the first, and perhaps most important, chapter of the Beasts of the Dungeon. It concerns the Hole, the Great Depth, the Dungeon, and its many other names. If you are reading this, you have been granted access to the unrestricted version of the book, and every other variant will begin with a basic introduction concerning our defenses.
The Dungeon is growing worse. The Empire was founded when three Archmages, including our first Emperor, noticed this fact. That each year more monsters poured from its depths, and that each year they ranged further and further into populated areas.
Set aside strife. Set aside jealousy and anger. The Dungeon requires our full focus, our undivided focus, and it is my hope that one day every man and woman will see that as truth. This passage was written in the year 341, New Imperial Calendar, and civil war looms over the horizon. Shall peace talks fail, shall man succumb to its base nature, I fear it will be the last year of humanity.
I beg of you, son of my daughter, blood of my blood, do not let its endless hunger consume humanity’s future.
Excerpt from The Beasts of the Dungeon.
REPLACE WITH LINE BREAK p^o^q REPLACE WITH LINE BREAK
Xathar ran. He liked running. He liked his hooves digging up the dirt, he liked the screams of those he trampled, and he liked the wind in his mane. The War of Four Kings was well underway, and Xathar bellowed a cry of joy as ten million demons clashed over shattered plains.
The sky was fire, the river was dust, the ground was soaked so full of blood it would never again be anything but red. He cried allegiance to Benzic, to the Great Mother, and laughed as Felid claws failed to pierce his hide.
Xathar bit, and the cat demon gurgled blood. His teeth tore through flesh and muscle, but he only took a moment to savor it. The battle was shifting, and a horde was forming.
He liked hordes. Running with a thousand of his own kind, joining ten thousand more, as even Demon Princes flinched at their coming. Whole armies desperate to get out of their way, lest their last moments would be the feeling of an endless crushing tide.
His soul was tugged, and Xathar almost ignored it. Almost ignored the bush mage to continue waging glorious battle instead. But the bush mage was an Archmage now, and Xathar supposed he could rest before the next fight.
There would always be another battle, after all. Always and always.
He let the tug form into a proper contract, body melting away to be reformed elsewhere. He’d heard humans debate the existence of souls, once. The fear of the afterlife. Xathar knew he had a soul. It went to the mortal realm every time he allowed it, constructing a perfect copy of his body, and let him fight without the risk of death.
A little less thrilling, but he hadn’t grown this old by being stupid. Once he was done finding new things to eat he would return, and the battle would have moved on.
Xathar exhaled a great plume of air as he stepped through the portal, finding himself in the throne room of the bush mages’ castle. A rush of smells hit him, from metal and oil to perfume and cloth. Nobles and soldiers and mages, all dressed like peacocks.
Hmmn, I should demand a peacock. It has been far too long since I’ve sampled their flesh.
He trotted forwards, uncaring about the silence. An old man was in the center of the room, grey and bronze and silent. Xathar approached, enjoying the fear, and took a deep sniff of the man’s clothing.
Sweat and ‘odorless’ soap. Plenty of muscle, even at its old age, and the creature seemed intelligent. More so than the average human, though that wasn’t hard.
Xathar huffed, turning away. “You smell of iron-obedience, Vizier.”
Oh yes, he was familiar with their kind. Vistus had complained about them often, and Xathar had once been given a strip of their flesh. Voluntarily, at that, which took all the fun out of eating. He never forgot the smell, however. Their soul-smell.
Oh, the bush mage looked cold. Xather climbed the few stairs until he was close to his summoner, exhaling again to let a plume of breath wash over the Archmage’s face. A hand came up to scratch him, which was pleasant, and Xathar curled up at the fancy chair’s feet after a few long seconds.
Take that, puny humans. I am favored, you are not. I am trusted, you are despised. I am strong, for I can lay down while you stand.
The Vizier seemed to decide a random demon horse appearing, sniffing him then curling up at the foot of a throne was, in fact, not the strangest thing he’d ever seen, and bowed. “The Empress’ servant greets you, King Marcus Sepsimus Lannoy. The Empress’ servant greets you, Queen Elenoir Marsennius.”
“We greet the Empress’ servant,” the bush mage replied. Xathar huffed, smiling at the Vizier. His summoner was cold, colder than usual. This might not be boring after all. “By Imperial decree, our home is your home. Be welcome, Vizier Otman Stravia.”
The old man bowed, and Xathar stopped paying much attention. Boring words meant for human ears, and it was far more fun to stare at the watchers. At the cowardly clothes pretending to be people, never secure enough in their own hide to go around uncovered.
…More mages than usual. Quite a bit more. The bush mages’ Academy was growing in influence, then, and the Royal Court with it. There were still nobles, but they looked hard. Military.
His summoner was filling the court with loyal mages and disciplined soldiers. Building a core of power at the heart of his nation, from where he could strike out at any who defied him.
The bush mage would make a good Demon King.
Most Archmages did, admittedly, but not even Vistus had moved this quickly. Borrowed too much power in his early days, relying on Imperial systems he didn’t control. The bush mage had no such restraints, which was pleasing.
Those who were strong should rule. Humans often preached about silly things like freedom and taxation and military overreach, but those were just words. Meaningless words. In freedom those who were clever controlled all the wealth, becoming kings with different titles.
Taxation was just a form of power projection, like a Demon Prince hanging his entire harem when they had grown bored. Military overreach sounded like human speech for cowardice, being too powerless to defend that which they cared about.
Oh, the Vizier was talking. Something about duties, preparations, pointed questions the bush mage didn’t like. Not that his summoner showed an inch of it, of course, but Xathar knew him.
And Xathar was a very observant horse demon, yes sir, and could smell people’s souls to cut through all the lying-words.
The Imperial flesh-suit had come well prepared. Reminded the bush mage about loans, commerce, previous gifts. Elenoir was growing annoyed, which usually meant Xathar would have something fun to watch, but acting now would be rash.
He huffed, exhaling another great plume of air, and rose. Xathar to the rescue, then.
The Vizier did an admirable job of ignoring his coming, but the man was thrown off. Hadn’t expected Xathar to be this immune to social stigma, most likely, or to have a summoner who cared so little for etiquette.
Not that Xathar said anything, of course. He knew his strength, and being unnerving was enough. Vess was exploiting the man’s hesitation ruthlessly, picking apart flowery arguments Xathar cared nothing for, and it briefly reminded him of the Demon Courts.
A whole different form of war, a Demon Court. Not something he ever found interesting, where masterful plays of alliance and betrayal wove together until the pattern was impossible to follow. Vess wasn’t that, but Xathar could appreciate skill.
So he did his part, sniffing and breathing and even taking a nibble. There was only one uncontrolled reaction from the Vizier, Xathar lightly grazing a ring on his rightmost finger, and no one missed it. No one who mattered.
Yeah, he was a smart demon. A guileful demon.
He was also getting bored, so he moved back to take a nap as the dance of politics played out around him. Bla bla bla, loans, bla bla bla, Dungeon. As if humans were the only ones dealing with world-ending threats.
…Wasn’t there some sort of thing at the bottom of the infinite Hells that was working its way upwards? Xathar remembered hearing something about that a long while ago, though nothing since. Probably not important. It had only eaten a few dozen Demon Kings, anyway.
Either way, the Vizier was making lots of noise, the bush mage was growing increasingly bored, the Queen was slowly drumming the handle of her blade.
The Vizier seemed to get the point, though not before Vess had managed to work in some minor comment about the shapeshifting spy they found—which Otman promptly denied all knowledge of—, and that was that.
Boring after all. A shame, and the stampede would be over by now. They never lasted long, not when some Princeling summoned enough force to wipe it out. And they always did, sooner or later. Usually sooner.
Thankfully, the boring speech part ended relatively quickly. Less thankfully was the fact another session began, but Xathar suffered through it in dignified silence. A few military promotions, mages commended on their work on things Xathar couldn't care less about, then nobles wishing to put forth some complaint or another.
Boring, boring, boring. It took hours, too, which was a combination vile enough Xathar considered bringing it up to an old friend. A torturer friend, and someone who might be very interested in the sheer brutality of this whole act.
Xathar followed when the bush mage finally left, moving through the castle one clop at the time. He had some fun glaring at the staff, even managing to lick a particularly hurried baker, but most of the fun was denied to him.
The bush mage turned, finally seeming to warm a little. “Thanks for your help.”
“Scritches,” Xathar demanded, nudging the Queen aside so he could walk next to his summoner. “Many scritches. It is my right.”
A hand rose and did what hands were best for, though Xathar ignored the bush mages’ eye-roll. Finally. “Of course. I wouldn't want you to feel underappreciated, would I?”
“You’re spoiling him,” Elenoir noted. Xathar glared at her, wilting only slightly when her soul brightened with power. Improvement! “Don’t glare at me.”
Xathar huffed, leaning aside so the bush mage could scratch more accurately. “I did not glare. I simply looked upon you. Am I not allowed to look, Queen Elenoir?”
“Easy,” the bush mage soothed. Xathar shot the woman a triumphant look at being chastised, though for some reason the Queen glanced at his summoner appreciatively. “Come along. Vess wishes to talk, and then we’re going to talk to a very old demon, which is why you’re actually here. I’d like for you to observe.”
Neighing softly, and lightly stomping his feet, Xathar budded the bush mage’s shoulder. “I enjoy seeing beings in cages. It reminds me of where I grew up.”
More scritches, which was pleasant and right, and then the Queen left. Xathar watched her go and relaxed marginally, following behind the bush mage as they traveled to one of the chambers.
The bush mage said nothing, but Xathar felt it was his duty to advise the young Archmage. To offer support after his poisoning, which a long conversation with another Venim warhorse had brought into perspective.
“Vess will ask for a favor,” he began, tone kept low. The succubus had many ears, these days, and he was no fool. “You will grant this favor. I would not do this.”
His summoner raised an eyebrow. “And why wouldn't I?”
“She failed,” Xathar explained, nudging the bipedal ape in the shoulder. “It would be good to punish her first. Crucifixion, perhaps, or a four-fold burning by fire. If she is honorable, she will accept the pain in good humor.”
“I’m not torturing Vess, Xathar, and I’m not even going to ask what a four-fold burning is. I understand demons do things differently, but no. Pain does not breed loyalty.”
“Queen Elenoir will be highly displeased if you breed with Vess before herself.”
The bush mage sighed deeply, for some reason. “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. I meant that brutally punishing any mistake isn’t how I want to rule.”
The meeting room was close, so Xathar only huffed quietly. “If you are sure.”
Silence fell, though they never did end up going inside the room. Vess exited it before the bush mage could knock, soul more harried than usual. Marcus didn’t comment on it, the soft man that he was, though Vess at least had the good sense to slow down and explain.
“Several summoning circles were targeted by a group of Brutes,” the succubus explained, glancing down the hallway. “I really don’t have time. It might be tied into a greater push to discover more about the mortal plane, and particularly the Academy. Mind if I make the pitch short?”
The bush mage shrugged. “Sure.”
“Thanks. So, I wanted to ask for a favor. Not for now, I don’t think you’re quite ready yet, but it might make for a good project. A thinking exercise until you’ve grown into your power properly.”
“Hmmn.”
Vess smoothed her dress with one hand, straightening. “Quite. The Hells are vast, and you are a spatial Archmage. I wonder if it might be possible to create what is in effect a pocket dimension. A small home for me in the Hells far, far removed from everything else, to the point any attack would demand centuries of travel.”
“I’m assuming you want some way to still have access to the ‘outside’?”
“Indeed.”
The bush mage titled his head. “Should be possible. A one-way portal, perhaps, engraving my fifth tier spatial spell together with divination. Stability is a problem, as is maintenance, but I’m sure I can think of something. Do you need it soon?”
“No, no,” Vess assured. “Just something I’ve been thinking about.”
“Then I’ll keep it on the back burner, but I don’t see any reason to not do it.”
“Thank you,” the succubus said, and Xathar almost narrowed his eyes. The woman’s soul was… genuine. Flutters of guilt danced at the outskirts, but underneath was curiosity bound together with fondness and fueled by acceptance. Vess cleared her throat as he dug deeper, more and more confused. “I really must go. Can we speak more on it later?”
“Of course.”
Xathar waited until the woman was well past hearing range before turning to the bush mage, leaning forwards to whisper in his ear. “You ensure her loyalty by letting her own guilt drive her onward. Masterful.”
“That’s a very cynical way to put that,” his summoner replied, tone dry. “But yes, in essence. It's otherwise known as friendship. Since that was over quickly, we have an elemental to summon. I’d like your opinion on them.”
“Only if I get to eat some of its flesh.”
The bush mage rolled his replacement-eyes, which was as good as a soul-sworn promise. Xathar followed his summoner without further complaint, lower and lower until the stairways became somewhat cramped for his glorious form. Not made for those who walk on four legs, this part of the castle, despite being the form with vastly superior stability and speed.
Xathar slowed further once they arrived at one of the cells, taking a sniff and recoiling slightly. A summoning seal had been inscribed on the floor, which wasn’t so recoil-worthy, but the walls… Thousands of seals, each reinforcing the central binding.
Even a Demon Prince would need a few minutes to break through that.
His summoner walked inside without a care in the world, greeting the other human as Xathar cautiously poked his head inside. “Barry. Is it ready?”
“I’m just checking over the last details, but it looks good.” The other summoner nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. “This wasn’t cheap, but the binding should hold. One thousand one hundred and four constricting seals, made by my apprentices over the last few days, alongside a central power vacuum. Should any part of the ritual be damaged, or should the being get past the shielding, they will be gone within a tenth of a second.”
The bush mage smiled. “Very good. Once I’m done with it it's all yours, as promised.”
‘Barry’ left, though Xathar found it more accurate to call him the Jailer. He made sure to keep an eye on the summoner until he was gone, settling down slowly in an empty part of the room. The bush mage was busy inspecting the headache-inducing number of runes, and Xathar was pretty sure the man was just pretending after the first half hour, but fine. He’d nap.
Before he could, the bush mage clapped his hands. “Xathar, please keep quiet until I’m done, but feel free to grumble afterwards. If you give me a highly accurate description of his soul, I’ll make sure you get another bear to hunt the next time I’ll summon you.”
Xathar perked up, watching far more intently as the bush mage completed the summoning seal. Just one more rune in the center, really, and Xathar recognized it as an identifier. By how the whole thing smelled, the being would be coming here whether they liked it or not.
A little heavy handed, especially for the bush mage, so Xathar supposed it was important. Either way, once the identifier was in place and his summoner checked things over one last time, the circle was activated.
Quite the disappointment for all that buildup, Xathar found. Just a rush of displaced air, the crackling of lightning, and then a decently old elemental appearing in place. It lashed out a few times, hitting nothing but translucent shields, before settling down with a seething smell to his soul.
“I apologize about your abrupt summoning,” the bush mage began. “Am I right in assuming you can speak my language?”
The lightning elemental glared, creating a face out of the cloud of energy. “Why am I here, magus?”
“To answer a few questions I have about Archmage Balthazar. You were contracted to him for a while, correct?”
The answer was silence, and Xathar noted how cautious the elemental’s soul became. Silence and silence, before finally an answer. “I was bound not to speak of my work there, and breaking a pact forged with an Archmage is not wise.”
“Balthazar is dead,” the bush mage pointed out calmly. “Has been for centuries, which means your pact is null and void. I’m very much alive, and willing to keep you here if needed.”
The elemental barked out a crackling laugh. “Keep me then, magus. I will sleep for a dozen of your generations and wait until this place is nothing but crumbling stone. I do not care.”
“Ah, my apologies. I misspoke.” The bush mage bowed slightly. “Let me rephrase; please answer my questions, or I will study the School of Life until I master the temporal runic formations inscribed there, build them into this chamber, and keep you here for a subjective hundred million years in absolute isolation. Or, if you prefer, we could have a short conversation about a long dead man, and you can return home within the hour.”
Silence again, before the elemental glanced at Xathar himself. “Who are you, magus?”
“No one you would care about, but I do have the dubious honor of being an Archmage myself.”
The elemental sighed, the sound like distant thunder, and pressed a crudely formed hand against the shield keeping him in place. “You bargain crudely, self-proclaimed Archmage. Why should I believe you?”
“You probably shouldn’t,” the bush mage said, shrugging. “But I have your identifier, which was gifted to me by Archmage Vistus. And yes, I bargain crudely. Tell me then, is there anything you wish for the information?”
Nothing. Silence. Xathar rolled his eyes. Elementals were a stuck-up bunch to start with, and lightning elementals in particular cared for little humans that could offer. But the threat of isolation was not half-bad, so when it was a choice between angering a dead man or a living one…
The elemental grunted. “What do you wish to know?”
“Let’s start simple. What did you do for Balthazar?”
“I was one of two dozen of my kind that gave life to his experiments. We made metal dance, ‘powered’ puppets of glass and lead and wire. We were given the title of ‘chargers’.”
The bush mage smiled, and Xathar settled down for what he suspected was going to be a long, long conversation.
