Orem Leadblade gulped, fingers digging into the earth. His blood continued to drip onto the ground. “Ah beg you, Miss Oreniel. Ah’ll die if ya don’t, and if Ah die, there’s a better chance that ya will, too. That we all will.”
The half-elf sneered but drew a ruby amulet out of her leathers. “You get the blessing of more life, Orem Leadblade. But you’d best keep a civil tongue.”
Lyndagg the Skinner wiped her curved sword off on the dead caterpillar. She came forward and smiled, showing her tusks. “I don’t mind being half human. Most years, I celebrate the Forevergreen Festival twice, so twice the gifts. And I won’t be begging for a healing, half-elf. And the dwarf shouldn’t have begged, either. You should be begging us to protect you. He is right, without us death awaits you. Just how long do you reckon you would last here on your own?”
Ekli lashed out. “I am a servant of the Autumnbrook forest. This roseflower amulet has life itself inside it.”
“It’s a trinket, fit only for a C-Class dumbbell,” Rockheart barked, already tired of the Wood Warden’s dramatics. “If you had half as much cultivated Vita Apothos as you do attitude, you wouldn’t need such silly toys to do your healing. Now silence your tongue before I take the amulet from you and throw you into the pool to join Erejam.”
That got her attention, and she finally shut her mouth, though she didn’t look happy about it.
The rogue cleared his throat before tension could escalate further and pointed at the fungal growths around the entrance.
“Those are Blister Wart. If we had more time, I’d collect some and sell them to surgeons. Once processed, they have formidable healing powers. As it is, we’ll have to be careful passing through this way. Also, with Erejam gone, we’ll need another light source. So far, I can guess three out of four of the dungeon cores we face. There’s the insect creature we just killed, the dark muse, and then of course, some kind of fungus lord. I’m not very partial to mushrooms, myself...” A sly grin slipped across his face. “Though I have to say, I did date this girl who made an amazing Opal Truffle soup.”
Rockheart regarded Corry. He was a smarmy thief, but he was better than the three other bickering dungeoneers.
With the dwarven warrior healed and casting nasty glares at the Wood Warden, they chose a marching order. Lyndagg the Skinner would go first, armed with Ekli’s glowing scimitar for light. Orem, the Earthbinder, would go next, followed by Flynn Corry the thief. Rockheart would take up the rear, walking behind the Ekli the Insufferable, who would have her roseflower amulet out as their second light source.
They were careful not to brush the Blister Wart mushrooms on the walls of the entrance, and soon found themselves in a massive labyrinth of sandstone.
Flynn Corry laughed. “Ah. Well, that makes it clear as the sun at high noon. The fourth dungeon core is obviously a minotaur. Don’t worry... I’ve beaten a labyrinth before.” He paused and scratched at his chin. “Though I don’t suppose anyone has any golden magic thread? It would save us a lot of time and trouble.”
None of them did, which meant they would have to map the warren of passages the old-fashioned way: trial and error.
Onward they pressed, moving slowly through arched tunnelways filled with twists, turns, choke points, and blinds. Strange paintings in a variety of eye-jarring colors tattooed the walls in chaotic arrangements. They were off-putting in the extreme. Some were of mad bull-headed men murdering innocent people in what looked like a wedding. Others were of mushroom people, with fangs and slits for eyes, devouring corpses. Then there was the Dark Muse himself, a goat-headed fiend who made puppets dance under a bloodred moon. Besides being utterly bizarre, the paintings made it hard to focus. The images somehow invoked movement, so it seemed as though the walls were alive.
They turned corner after corner, and Rockheart’s fury increased every time they had to switchback. With only four hours, Logan and his cohort would’ve been hard-pressed to complete a passable dungeon, which meant they were likely stalling. Right now, the Terrible Twelfth were using Erejam’s Apothos and the extra time to finish their dungeon. Were they adding corridors even now?
Again, begrudgingly, he had to admit it was a good strategy. Shrewd.
Another hallway brought the raiders to a dead end. It was full of motionless plaster mannequins, all faceless, standing in various poses, their lifeless hands raised above their heads. Was that in fear? Or were they about to attack? Either way, the sight of those mannequins, motionless in the dark, was disturbing. And, as with the painting in the hallways, it was hard to focus. They all seemed on the verge of springing to life any moment.
“Bloody hell,” Corry whispered, “but I don’t like this place. Everything about it gives me the chills. Liable to have nightmares about this place for months, assuming we survive.” He licked his lips nervously and gave his short blades a twirl. They pressed farther into the room, padding forward on silent feet, giving each of the statues a wide berth in case they proved to be touch sensitive.
“Pretty pictures and silly statues aren’t anything to—” Lyndagg started.
She didn’t finish.
The moment everyone was in the room, surrounded by the army of grave-still mannequins, the statues attacked in force.
This time, Rockheart took a more active role in the battle.
He forced Apothos from his core, cycling it into his limbs and imbuing his claws with the power of both Terra and Mallus Affinity, transforming them into shards of obsidian glass capable of cutting through even stone or steel. Next, he summoned more Apothos and sent it coursing just beneath the surface of his fur-covered skin. He channeled that power with a whisper of will, reinforcing himself with rose quartz in a spell form often called stone-skin. He would be slower now, less dexterous than the generally nimble cat creature, but he would also be far tougher.
That done, he stormed forward, arms and legs churning, effortlessly avoiding sloppy, unwieldly strikes while carving through plaster limbs. In seconds, he’d slashed apart every single one of the mannequins’ sculpted bodies, leaving dusty ruin in his wake.
The thumping music started again, and the piping, and the laughter. The dissonant voice resounded through the halls, eerie and distant. “My friends are dead! And you will be too! You will dance in your coffins, and you will jig in your graves, and when you drink, the wine will pour from the holes in your belly! The wine! The dancing! The singing! Dead, you will be my friends. Once dead, we can be the best of friends.”
More maniacal laughter.
Rockheart saw fear in the eyes of the raiders. Except for Flynn Corry. He was listening closely. “That voice came from this way.”
“No. We can’t trust it,” the rector prime said, shaking his head. “This Dark Muse can use a skill, Ventriloquism, to throw his voice. It’s a lure. I think I know the way.”
Rockheart had kept track of the twists and turns. He’d been teaching dungeon crafting for a long, long time and worked with more than his fair share of minotaurs.
They came to a long hallway, a fresh new corridor, which meant they were on the right track. Here, bright lights glimmered from the floor, illuminating paintings on either wall. Along the left-hand wall were more faceless plaster mannequins, a dozen of them, all standing in front of a hellish mural. In the painting, horned demons tormented the souls of various races—humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs, all burning in a lake of fire. On the right wall, there were clouds and cute chubby cherubs strumming harps. Their faces were innocent. Their wings were perfect. Their appearance welcoming.