If the simulated raider somehow avoided the pit and killed Inga’s scampering minions, then the mushroom and the moth girl would jump out to finish the job. At this point, the only thing Logan could do was harden himself into a target or spam Pollen at the raider. Inga, though, had other options. Not that Logan knew what those other options were. Chrysalis Swords seemed cool. But what was Metamorphosis? Would she devolve into a giant caterpillar? Or was this more of a Franz Kafka thing? Maybe she’d become a German-speaking Bohemian novelist.
Logan had no idea, and they were running out of time.
Inga walked back to him and surveyed the tiny mushrooms in the alcoves.
<Is that it?> she asked, arching an eyebrow.
<Yeah, I thought they would grow faster.> He walked into the mushroom patch covering the floor of the alcove. His feet were hidden. Nothing else. <You know, I could try putting some Ghoul’s Snare in the stairwell.>
Inga’s eyelids flickered. <And how long will that take? No. Perhaps Braincaps are a better option. They are your level-two spore culture, correct?>
<Yeah, but I don’t know how long those will take either.>
She sighed and shook her head.
<Sorry.> Logan winced. <But no one said this would be easy, Inga. Patience.>
She shrugged it off. <It’s fine. It’s all fine. We’ll manage. But we only have ten minutes left, so we must hurry. We can use my Lunar Aura instead. So long as we don’t move, we’ll be invisible. We’ll stand in the alcove on the right together.>
She hustled in and cast a shimmering silvery dome over them. Logan stood awkwardly, pushed up against one of her thighs. He gripped his small shield and the dagger.
<Now, don’t move,> she sent.
Logan made sure his fungaloid form stood stock-still. With only ten minutes left, it was going to be close. Most likely, the turtle would spit them out. He just hoped the raider would be dead by then.
It was time to see if their impromptu dungeon could hold up against a real foe. Taking a deep breath, Logan sent a thin trickle of Apothos into Brandybutter.
The spectral dungeoneer sprang to life at once.
“Jolly ho, a dungeon!” he exclaimed. “Huzzah! And I’m just the dungeoneer to destroy it by destroying the gem in the inner sanctum. Pip, pip, I daresay it is a good day to steal Apothos from the universe for my own selfish needs.” The guy talked like an Englishman who had left his manor house, his butler, and his accountant to go fox hunting.
Inga sighed. <They’re laying it on a bit thick with this gentleman.>
Brandybutter cast a Find Traps spell at the top of the steps leading down. “Drat, I was sure this narrow staircase would turn into a slide and drop me into a series of well-placed spikes. Well, onward we go. This dungeon won’t plunder itself.”
The Cavalier Mage reached the room and glanced around. His eyes brightened. “What do we have here, now? Opal Truffles? My, my, my. Why, my Nana Beerbutt had a delicious omelet recipe which requires such mushrooms. But no! I must resist the urge to indulge in such delicacies! It is my solemn duty to soldier onward and slay the dungeon core.”
Logan didn’t have breath to hold, but it looked like their trap room was working...
Right up until Brandybutter stopped and frowned. “This feels too easy.”
He slammed his staff on the layer of Mucal Film covering the pit. It promptly turned into a sludgy brown goo dripping from the end of the staff.
The Cavalier Mage gazed down at the centipedes that were already climbing the walls to get to him. “Egad, spikes and centipedes! Avoided the one, but not the other. Perhaps a fireball can clear the way!”
He spun up a spell in the air with his staff and sent an orange orb of death spiraling down into the pit. It landed with the force of a bomb blast, the ground shaking, plumes of gray smoke rolling up along with the smell of fried bug and roasting fungus.
Inga wilted, clearly defeated.
Logan reached out to her. <Don’t worry. We’ll stop him at the last minute. I’ll be the bait. You have your Chrysalis Swords ready.>
<Very well. I shall be ready.>
Logan added several layers of hardened fungi to his skin.
With the centipedes cooked, Brandybutter eased around the side of the pit, heading toward the hallway.
Once the raider passed the pit, Logan waddled out like a three-year-old in a snowsuit two sizes too big. His normally white skin was a dark gray from the hardened layers of chitin. He raised his shield and his dagger as high as he could, which wasn’t much, and belted out his best monster scream. He sounded about as intimidating as the Pillsbury Doughboy.
The Cavalier Mage dropped his staff and drew his sword. “Well, now, a mushroom man and a moth lady. First, I’ll handle you, my fungal friend. You are precious, and yet your cuteness will do nothing to slow the fury of my blade!”
He brought the sword down on Logan, cutting through his thickened skin and hacking off the arm holding the shield. On a backslash, Brandybutter smacked the dagger out of Logan’s hand. The raider then hewed off a leg as well.
Logan lay on the ground, but he still had one good arm. He hooked it around the cavalier’s leg.
Inga leapt into action. Her slender arms were gone, replaced by razor-sharp blades made from silky white metal. From the elbows down, she could have passed for a T-1000 cosplayer, with his liquid metal sword arms. From the elbows up? Eh, not so much. She shot in like a bolt of lightning, wings fluttering madly. She flew in from over the pit and flanked the raider.
“What the devil!” Brandybutter called out.
He tried to step forward, but Logan wasn’t about to let go. Inga landed. She brought one sword arm screaming down, slashing at his exposed face, but he was far too quick. Faster than Logan’s eye could follow, Brandybutter had his rapier free of its scabbard, deflecting the blow with a resounding clang. Inga danced back and forth, as graceful as a ballerina, both arms flying in a flurry of precise cuts, thrusts, and slashes. But despite Logan’s grip, the dungeoneer managed to repel every attack.
Inga was good—way out of Logan’s league—but surprisingly, so was Brandybutter.
If they were going to win, Logan needed to pull his weight, and not just as the dead weight pinning Brandybutter in place. He might be able to reach his fallen dagger, but he didn’t have the limbs to use it, not without letting go. But he did have his new Athlete’s Foot ability, and he was perfectly placed to use it. With a thought he released a gangrenous cloud of green spores, dusting the tops of the dungeoneer’s boots until they looked like sickly powdered donuts. Logan wasn’t sure this would even work since the man’s boots covered his tootsies.
But after only a few seconds he got an answer.
“Blazes all! What is that infernal itching?” Brandybutter started to fidget, trying desperately to shake Logan free.
Inga capitalized on the opening. She feinted, then bounded back at the last second, opening up some space between them. Her left hand morphed and changed as she lifted it, palm up, fingers splayed wide. Pale blue-white light coalesced in the center of her hand for the briefest moment before rocketing out. A lance of pure moonlight shot toward Brandybutter’s face. The dungeoneer was so preoccupied with his itching toes that he noticed the blast half a beat too late. The light slammed into him like a laser beam, slashing skin and blinding him in an instant. Inga charged, driving the tip of her remaining sword arm through his breastplate. She flew back, pulling the Cavalier Mage with her.