“Whether we split up or not, Illumina Pate will guide us and protect us upon this venture!” Feathers offered enthusiastically.
Daggers shrugged. “No, no splitting up. Gods, but you lot really are dumb.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Listen, without me none of you will ever survive, and I need you armor-wearing morons to keep me from getting my skull caved in right and proper. So, we all stick together, and I’ll get my loot the old-fashioned way. When one of you rubes die, I’ll go through your pockets. Now, let’s head out, eh?” He made a get-along-with-it gesture with one hand. “Fighters first now. Don’t be cowardly.”
The barbarian snarled into the face of the rogue. “Arfgar will do this one thing for you, small man, but Arfgar is leader!”
The rogue winced. “Perhaps Arfgar can find some mint. I hope this is a minty dungeon.”
After a bit more bickering and back-and-forth, the party set out as one, following the forking path that angled left. Much to Inga and Logan’s disappointment, Daggers McFinn proved to be an exceptionally competent thief who found their swivel door in a matter of seconds. “See, right there, that’s a trap. If one of us gets too close, the wall swivels out, spikes us, and then Bob’s your uncle, we’re down one dungeoneer.”
“Bob is not uncle!” Arfgar roared. “Uncle is Ymir. Ymir is good uncle!”
Brandybutter shook his head sadly. “This quest, my comrades, doth weary me. I long for the sweet release of death.”
<Sounds like something Treacle would say,> Logan sent.
<Concentrate,> Inga returned, attention entirely fixed on the invaders.
The raiders retreated and started down the hallway, which led away from the trap room. After snaking this way and that, it doubled back and wrapped around to more stairs, which ended in the antechamber. However, Logan knew the final fight might take place in the inner sanctum itself. That would hurt their grade, since the whole point of a dungeon was to keep the raiders away from the pedestal where their gems floated.
He and Inga needed to take out the rogue or the spell-caster since they were the most powerful cultivators in the group. The spell-caster would no doubt deal the most DPS—damage per second—but he was probably also as fragile as a porcelain tea set. He’d make an excellent target, though dispatching Daggers first would open up the rest of the party to the nasty assortment of traps they’d carefully laid out.
Logan grinned, an idea forming in his head. <We can’t waste resources. Since we couldn’t bring the raiders to the trap, I say we bring the trap to the raiders.>
Again, Logan felt like the dungeon was a part of him, an extension of his body like an extra limb. He reached out with his will and undid the secret ceiling in the swivel-wall trap room. With a thought, he reached out to the centipedes waiting within, already covered in Braincap spores. Logan took control of one fungal servant. Slipping into the inhuman body was always strange at first—everything moved wrong and alien thoughts buzzed in the back of his head.
Thankfully, the feeling faded after a moment, and he skittered over to the Gem-Studded Puffballs waiting in the trap room. They were beautiful, amethyst orbs covered in glittering multicolored spikes, resting atop delicate black stems. Deadly treasures that could maim or kill with equal ease. Carefully, so carefully, he calmed the quivering spheres to stop them from exploding. He then moved the centipede under them, transferring the deadly puffballs from the wall to the chitinous back of the bug. This was ultra-risky, but in the end, he got lucky. None exploded.
Inga saw what he was doing. <Yes, wait until they are distracted, and then hit the raiders from behind.>
<That’s exactly what I’m thinking.>
The five would-be heroes entered the minion room at a crawl, the rogue searching for traps while the others scanned for deadly monsters and/or seductive treasure. This was where the adventurers would face Inga’s newest set of minions. They were invisible in the bright light filling the room. Not only did the raiders have their light sources, but a central fountain of gleaming white marble glowed with a blinding light all its own. A red glint topped the tumbling water. Marko had suggested the water feature. The satyr had an uncanny eye for elegant dungeon design.
Above the interlopers, clinging to the ceiling with spindly legs, were dozens of Tsuki Ants, each about the size of a kitten, though no one in their right mind would want one of those nasty little buggers curling up in their lap. In bright light, the ants couldn’t be seen, but in darkness, they would glow with an otherworldly lunar light.
The creatures waited motionless, thanks to Inga’s perfect control. At higher levels, they could become smaller and more plentiful, with diamond-sharp mandibles capable of piercing even spell-enchanted metal. Even at Inga’s level, though, they were difficult to deal with.
Misdirection was everything. When raiders concentrated on the burbling marble fountain, the insects would strike.
Arfgar stood spellbound, watching the fountain gurgling, the light dancing in the water. “Pretty fountain,” he crooned like some giant, armor-clad baby staring at a fancy crib mobile.
“This all seems rather curious to me—” Brandybutter started.
The Tsuki Ants attacked at Inga’s command. They dropped onto the assembled raiders, and while Inga aimed for the rogue and the spell-caster, Arfgar took the brunt of the assault. He danced around, fruitlessly swinging his huge axe with one hand, swatting at the biting creatures with the other, desperately trying to free himself from their deadly mandibles. Once they fell, once they started squirming, the ants could be seen.
With a roar, Arfgar dropped his axe to the floor with a clatter and started to pop the ants with his bare hands. After a moment, he slammed a booted foot down, sending out a massive earthen shock wave that knocked more ants free. The other dungeoneers leapt in to help him. Brandybutter rapid-fired his bow, a look of distaste plastered across his face. Daggers McFinn didn’t draw his bow, but he hardly needed it. The man could move like the wind. He waded across the floor, slashing with his short sword while simultaneously flicking blades of pure Apothos from his off hand, impaling the ants at a dizzying rate. Any time the pinching creatures closed in, he leapt through the air like an acrobat, landing safely behind either Arfgar or Feathers.
Not very heroic, but extremely effective.
The Magnificent Mimsy kept his torch raised even as he conjured blazing violet bolts of power, which he cast with uncanny precision. Ants exploded like fireworks, sending chunks of charbroiled carapace flying. Those pieces of smoking ant peppered both fighters, slashing open bare skin, but Mimsy didn’t seem particularly bothered by that fact and kept right on casting.
Feathers, though, was the real MVP of the party. “Grand phoenix of little plumage, scatter our enemies so we might slay them!” she crowed, head thrown back.
Her cudgel flashed, and a ring of blinding golden energy exploded out from her, not affecting the party members, but violently hurling the ants into a corner of the room. A lance of flame as thick as a telephone pole from the good ol’ Mimsy finished most of them off. Any that happened to escape met their fate at the end of a conjured knife blade or Arfgar’s crushing mitts.
The barbarian ripped the very last ant apart. “By the High Hills of my people, this was too easy. Me want glory, not bugs.”