“What about the mushrooms?” Corry asked, nervously twisting a ring on his finger.
“The fungaloid ran out of power a while back, I suspect. We’ll have more dangerous fungi in the sanctum, but these are safe. Likely, this is all for show—meant to push us toward the grand feast.”
The cat man fully extended his claws, and he walked in a crouch. Corry trailed close behind him, gripping his dual silver short swords in white-knuckled hands. The pair moved through the piles of mushrooms along the wall, crushing them as they walked.
Marko’s feast room was about to fail on every level.
Logan didn’t want to face off against both of the wary raiders in the sanctum. He was about to get Marko to do something rash when the satyr himself rose from the table, from where he’d been hiding under the food. Watching him emerge from the poisoned banquet was a bizarre, surreal sight.
“Would you be so rude that you’d ignore my feast?” the satyr thundered, his voice bleeding power into the air. He stood on the table, a tall, wild-eyed goat man, his clothes wet with fruit juices and covered in buttercream frosting, cake smearing his hair. Despite that, he looked positively terrifying. A wild fae godling, ready to strike down rude interlopers. He snatched up a goblet and raised it in salute. “But I’ll toast you two. I’ll toast you to your death.” He drained the cup, threw it to the side with a clatter, and drew a thin silver rapier from his sheath. He leapt from the table, his face monstrous with a shadowy power.
He danced forward on expert feet.
The cat man snarled, hate contorting his feline face, and hurled projectile claws of golden light. Marko ducked them and drew both of the raiders forward with a skill Logan wouldn’t have expected.
Then he remembered that Marko had grown up as royalty, and he’d been trained in fencing. He dodged the rogue’s thrust and kept the man between himself and the Ferox, with his wicked, glowing talons. The minute they drew close to the table, the satyr dodged back, and the chandelier came unhooked from the ceiling. It didn’t smash into the table, but descended like a spider on its silver chain, morphing and shifting into a thing of nightmares. It was a mimic, not so different from the purple box that had eaten Logan what felt like years ago and set his feet on this new path.
A single bulging eye appeared in the center above a wide maw filled with a slavering tongue and hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. It moved on eight legs of brass covered in winking jewels and smoking candles. Those eight legs all had sharp, spear-like points, perfect for skewering pesky raiders.
In short order, both the rogue and the cat man were forced to engage with the chandelier as Marko fell back, posting up like a sentinel in the sanctum’s entryway. The satyr started to laugh and jeer at the adventurers, his voice booming. Again, Logan marveled at how Marko changed when he truly accepted his Dark Muse persona.
The rogue dodged back, avoiding the chandelier, but drawing too near to the fountain. It exploded, sending a wave of scalding hot cheese cascading over the unfortunate rogue. He screamed in pain, clutching at his face. He never even saw the mimic close with him before it impaled him on one spidery leg.
The cat man also had the misfortune to catch some of the nacho napalm. It did damage, but then Tearclaw’s entire body glowed, and his burned skin was lost in a blinding light. When the scuttling chandelier hit him like a Mack truck, that light blasted the mimic in a tsunami of Mallus-infused Apothos. Raw force tore the creature apart at the seams, and in seconds, what was left of the creature curled up like a dead spider.
The cat man let out a howl, took hold of the half-destroyed table, and flung it on its side with a flick of powerful arms. He then strode across the sandstone floor, a look of absolute fury painted across his face.
That look was oddly familiar.
Logan’s own guardian form was inside the inner sanctum, waiting. It was clear to him that Treacle’s Calflings and Inga’s ants weren’t going to make it back in time.
Logan watched with a knot in his stomach as Tearclaw stormed toward the inner sanctum. He didn’t give Flynn Corry’s body a second look, which was a mistake. He should’ve picked up those rings. But not Tearclaw—he was a man on a mission.
Marko danced a little jig, laughed, and swept his rapier through the air. “I like a spirited guest! And you’ve turned out to be a reveler after my own heart, kitty cat.”
“Cut the nonsense,” Tearclaw snarled. “The raiders are dead. And I’m here to undo your dungeon, Marko Laskarelis. This charade is over.”
That voice... it couldn’t be ... It was Rockheart’s voice coming from the Ferox warrior-mage.
Logan didn’t have a throat to gulp in fear, but cold terror filled his core.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
YULLIS ROCKHEART STILL had most of his power left, even after the skin-blast that had taken care of the chandelier mimic, though the little maneuver had cost him his reinforced stone skin. Being back at Azure Branch was terribly annoying, but he would make do. Besides, he wouldn’t need much to finish his work. Killing Marko Laskarelis would be easy, and then only the fungaloid would be left. And though Logan had proven to be formidable in some ways, he was no melee monster.
Still, Rockheart would not underestimate them. This dungeon had been a rather pleasant surprise, and some of the flourishes had been deviously unexpected. The decorative mimic, for example, had been a nice touch to the feast table. And Corry would’ve sampled the bread and Opal Truffle butter if Rockheart hadn’t been there to warn him away. But the fun was over, the game played nearly to its end. The Terrible Twelfth had played well, and even though their destruction was assured, it seemed only right to at least tip his hand and show them who they truly faced.
There was a certain honor in it.
He expected Marko’s bravado to crumble at his revelation, but instead, the satyr laughed. A strange fire lit up the horizontal slits of his goat eyes. “Yullie? You don’t mind if I call you Yullie, do you? Well, this is a surprise. You’ve embraced your inner lion, I see. From griffin to cat man! Would you like me to scratch your chin, kitty?”
Why wasn’t this imbecile frightened of him?
Rockheart powered up his talons, making them gleam, before sending them flashing across the room into Marko. The satyr dodged some, but not all, of the glowing claws. At the same moment, Rockheart increased his speed. He blurred forward, powered by a surplus of Mallus Apothos, crossing the threshold of the sanctum in the blink of an eye.
The cavern was full of towering mushrooms and more of the satyr’s mannequins, dripping with various fungal growths. At the center, surrounded by a digestive pit moat, was the pedestal, carved into the semblance of a grand grail, overflowing with wine, while the four gems spun in elegant swirls above.
Rockheart raked his talons down the satyr, sending him flying. The goat boy smashed through a mannequin and made a towering mushroom shake as he slipped to the floor. He lost his rapier in the fall—not that he ever would’ve stood a chance, even with the sword. He was a better duelist than Rockheart had suspected, but the rector prime had hundreds of years of combat training under his belt.
Gore stained Marko’s face—a revolting mixture of blood and cake—but the satyr continued to bray laughter even as he sat sprawled out and mortally wounded. “To think, Yullie, you’d ruin the Azure Dragon Clan’s standing, you’d risk your job to come and kill us yourself. How pathetic! I have no idea what Arketa sees in you! Yes, I know that you and the Hellgazer are an item. That’s convenient. You’re stone, and she can turn people into stone. It’s probably a relationship based around convenience, not passion. I bet, deep down, she gets tired of your cold skin. I’d keep her warm.”