“Of course,” Chadrigoth replied with a telling smile and a conspiratorial wink.
It was obvious to Rockheart that Prince Chadrigoth of the Eritreus Elite knew exactly what needed to be done and had zero qualms about doing it. Just as it should be. Rockheart didn’t hate Logan and his compatriots, not exactly, but they didn’t belong in the Shadowcroft Academy for Dungeons and certainly not in the Azure Dragon Clan. He was a utilitarian at heart—he worked for the greatest good for the most people—and their removal would be best for everyone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
LOGAN AND THE REST of the Terrible Twelfth walked at the rear of the group. Rockheart had insisted they come last, since they were the most pathetic cohort at the academy. Logan wanted to stay longer, but they had to get back to Arborea.
Logan was ambling with his friends down a straight corridor when he noticed the wall on his right wasn’t made of bloodstained stone. It was a wooden wall with nails and spikes pounded into long planks. It didn’t look right. Logan spewed out more spores, and he saw it was some kind of trap. A second later, his Fungal Vision showed him an invisible wall sliding toward them. That force field was very similar to the ones Chadrigoth could throw.
Logan was too surprised to call out a warning. The invisible wall slammed into Treacle first, throwing the minotaur back. He crashed into both Inga and Marko, who hit the wall next to them. Logan managed to trigger Exoskeleton just in time, the ridges on his body hardening around him. The wall had a central pivot, allowing it to spin. All four stumbled into a room off the main corridor.
They fell in a pile right at the feet of the tank and the cleric. The two dungeoneers must’ve gotten lost and pushed through another false wall. The tank was still wounded from the fallusk attack, and the cleric was dangerously low on Apothos. Logan thought the Terrible Twelfth had a chance, especially since he and Inga had been working so closely together. With that said, the tank and cleric were still B-Class dungeoneers, which meant things could go sideways in a heartbeat.
They needed to work as a team, and unfortunately, Treacle had taken the brunt of invisible attack. He seemed to be unconscious and had somehow managed to fall on top of Marko, who was struggling to get out from under Treacle’s formidable bulk. The satyr wasn’t quipping, so Logan knew things were dire.
Logan had his exoskeleton. Inga, with her Lepidopteral Reflexes, had the instincts of a fly about to get swatted. She was on her feet in seconds.
Damn it. Logan and Inga were going to have to face down the Azure Branch dungeoneers on their own. And since their cores weren’t tucked safely away in an inner sanctum, defeat meant death. If the tank and cleric bested them, the raiders would crack their gems and siphon off their energy, and they would die. No second chances. No respawning. Game over.
There was room enough to fight, though they had to be careful. Every wall was made of the wooden planks, showing the pointy ends of oversized nails so rusty just looking at them would give you tetanus. A skeleton hung on one wall, his shabby wizard robes in tatters.
The cleric’s lantern gave the place a dim light.
The tank snarled and drew her sword. “I thought we cleared this level! I guess we missed this bug and her mushroom boyfriend?”
“We’re just friends!” Inga hissed.
Inga reached out with her right hand, hurling Moonlance. Her left arm transformed into a length of razor-edged quicksilver.
The blinding attack struck the cleric in the face, burning his exposed skin like acid. “Cuthbald damn you!”
The tank charged forward, her face a rictus of hate, her sword aiming to take Logan’s head from his shoulders. Logan pulled free the silver shield he’d earned back during his first dungeon run and summoned a flickering dome of red light. The sword smashed into the energy shield, sending up a fountain of crimson sparks. The attack was a powerhouse, and hairline fissures snaked their way across the energy dome. Chances were the shield couldn’t survive another direct hit like that. Logan needed to act now.
He dismissed the red dome and let his Pollinic Affliction flow. A cloud of yellow spores exploded into the air, and the tank swayed, raising her shield arm and wiping at her face. Her eyes were puffy and red, and her nose was releasing a small river of clear goo.
The cleric was also in the area of attack, and that guy got unlucky. “I can’t see!”
Logan felt like pumping a fist in the air. His blindness attack had worked!
Tears streamed down the cleric’s red, blistering face.
“Damn my allergies!” he wheezed.
The battle was far from won, though. It wasn’t like the tank was simply going to sneeze and run away. She aimed her next attack at Inga, but Logan raised his thickened arm, and that blade chopped into his chitin. It got stuck in his layers of extra-hard fungi.
For once, Logan wasn’t dismembered! Score!
That didn’t last long, though. The tank roared and flung him to the side, clearing her blade. Logan flipped ass over teakettle and smashed into a jagged spike covered in a fine layer of bloodred rust. It bit into his chitin and held him in place.
“Cuthbald give me sight!” the cleric barked. A magical light glowed in his eyes. He could see again, but it seemed Cuthbald didn’t make his followers Claritin-clear, because his face was still cartoonishly swollen.
The tank and Inga were exchanging a flurry of blows, Inga’s blade clashing off the tank’s shield and narrowly turning vicious sword swings. Inga was too busy defending herself to cast any of her spells or get to the insects in her pocket. This was one of the drawbacks of being a dungeon core. Many of their best abilities had to be prepared in advance.
Logan tried to pull himself off the nail, but he couldn’t get free to help Inga. Worse, the cleric of Cuthbald was closing in, which meant the astral moth was about to get double-teamed.
The tank raised her shield, golden ponytail swaying, and waded forward.
The cleric rushed Inga with his mace raised.
A rhythmic clapping echoed off the walls and resounded off the ceiling. The sudden noise, unnaturally loud, made everyone in the room pause.
Marko was on his feet, clapping and keeping time with his tapping hoof even as his goat eyes glowed with spectral black light. He seemed taller, far more menacing, casting fearsome shadows around him like a halo of darkness. Everything about him seemed diabolic suddenly, from the curve of his horns to his leering smile.
And that clapping was oddly mesmerizing.
A stupid look came over the cleric’s face. He stopped and lowered his mace slowly. After a beat, he dropped his weapon altogether and started to clap along. His eyes were blank above his dizzy smile. Unbelievably, he started dancing, poorly. Logan had seen nerdy groomsman at Lord of the Rings-themed weddings with more rhythm.
“By the gods! What is wrong with him?” the tank shouted, then ducked as Inga nearly took off her head with a flawlessly executed pivot and slash.
Logan finally ripped himself off the spike. He staggered into the fighter, using his momentum to push her away from Inga, giving Inga a split second of breathing room.
Inga’s untransformed right hand darted into a leather pouch at her belt, and it came out covered in flies. She flung them into the air, then caught the tank’s next slash on her left sword arm. The flies circled around the tank’s face, biting at exposed skin, burrowing into her eyes and nose, fighting their way into her mouth. They weren’t deadly, but they were distracting as all get-out.