“This is the last bolt I’ll be using,” Viktor said.

  After all, either his plan worked, or it failed and Khenemhotep engulfed the entire courtyard in a maelstrom of dust, which would block his vision and render the ballista useless anyway.

  “Yes, Master,” came the reply from his chief gremlin.

  “You know what you need to do next, right?”

  Kazyk bared his crooked teeth in a grin. “Of course I remember your instructions.”

  “Good,” Viktor said. He reached for the lever and gave it a pull. Once again, the bolt arced back toward the second floor under his guidance.

  Upon returning to the mortuary complex, he found a tangled war zone of cracked limestone, scattered bones, and writhing vegetation. Mandragora’s vines had spread like a plague, their tendrils crawling across every surface and slithering up the stone pillars. The skeletal mages, who had been standing on top of those high platforms to rain down jagged rocks on the adventurers below, had been ripped from their posts and cast to the earth. Their barrage was over.

  Lahmia’s phoenix was still in the sky, though. Where is she? Viktor wondered, before getting his answer almost immediately. There she was, the headless ex-pyromancer herself, riding atop her own creation. Together, she and her great bird were battling Renee in a fierce aerial duel.

  The phoenix came screaming in, wings wide and talons poised, trying to catch the young aeromancer from the side. But the girl was quicker. She ducked, twisted, and spun out of reach, before snapping back up, staff singing through the air, aimed squarely at the undead mage’s exposed ribcage. Lahmia raised one skeletal hand, and sand tore free from her bird’s body, whirling and condensing into jagged spikes. Not quite Khenemhotep’s work, but close enough to kill. She flung the projectiles at Renee, forcing her opponent to abandon her attack, the air hissing where the spikes missed her by a hair’s breadth.

  They kept at it, earth and air clashing above the mortuary complex. Neither mage backed off. Neither was willing to yield the sky.

  Down on the ground, other duels raged across the courtyard.

  Sebekton and Ba’atar, locked in the dance. No words, just steel and fury. Brutal two-handed axe ground against curved greatsword, each blow loud enough to make the earth wince. Despite the Easterner’s impressive stature, he was still a human, which meant matching the Crocodilian’s ferocity in single combat shouldn’t have been possible, unless he had extra help.

  Mandragora’s concoction, then.

  Some sort of strength potion, probably. Viktor recalled what happened to that Lyndorian spy, and wondered if what Ba’atar had consumed had the same side effects. Either way, Sebekton seemed to be having the time of his life, his maw split in a wide, maniacal grin, his tail lashing behind him with excitement. It had been a long time since Viktor had seen the Crocodilian this... thrilled.

  Well, good for him.

  Meanwhile, his other Guardian had also found himself a worthy distraction. At the ancient priest’s command, earthen spears erupted from the ground at irregular intervals, stabbing upward with deadly intent, aimed to impale, to disrupt, to skewer. But Ekon darted through them with frustrating agility, his hand wielding a long fiery whip that blazed through the air, each swing painting a streak of flame in its wake.

  So he’s indeed a pyromancer, huh?

  It was hard to tell who had the upper hand. The fight looked evenly matched, but Viktor had a feeling that neither of them had shown their full hand yet. But that was fine. The bald man kept busy there meant one less obstacle between him and his target.

  The rest of the merry little band was holding the line against the relentless onslaught of tomb guards. The skeletal soldiers had been taking heavy punishment since the beginning of the battle, but of course, the whole point of being dead was that they just didn’t stay down. Every shattered limb, every broken skull was little more than a temporary setback. Again and again, the tomb guards clawed themselves back to their feet after being struck down. They kept pressing forward, unyielding and unforgiving.

  Mandragora’s vines coiled and thrashed, weaving a tangled cage of green that kept the skeletons at bay. Brynhildr stood ready, sword in hand, prepared to strike anything that slipped past the creeping roots. And, behind the two women, cowered Dagnar, whose body was surprisingly whole for someone who had just been skewered, the two massive holes in his clothes the only reminders of the ballista shot. Though he had been freed from the bolt, there was nowhere for him to run, leaving him trapped in this place.

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  And now was the time to take down the cornered rat.

  At Viktor’s command, the ballista bolt he had brought here from the fourth floor plummeted, aimed straight for the Druidess.

  “Incoming!” Brynhildr shouted.

  Of course she saw it. This was the fourth time he had used the trick, after all. The element of surprise was long gone. The warrior woman lunged forward, throwing herself into the bolt’s path to shield Mandragora. Dagnar, on the other hand, did what Dagnar always did. He scurried back like a cockroach fleeing the light.

  Good.

  Brynhildr caught the bolt’s shaft with her gauntleted hands just as its tip barely touched her armor. Then, she snapped it in half. Not that it mattered. That bolt wasn’t meant to kill anyone. It was meant to get their eyes pointing the wrong way, while the real attack came from the opposite direction.

  Since the beginning of the fight, the Tengu had been lurking behind the fake buildings. Now, at Viktor’s signal, the bird-men spread their wings and launched into a silent glide, straight for their mark.

  Dagnar didn’t even have time to scream. One moment, he was scrambling backward, eyes wide with panic. The next, he was airborne. Powerful talons had clamped around him, lifting him off the ground and dragging him into the sky like a sack of meat.

  Brynhildr spun around, but it was too late. By the time her fingers even twitched toward the sword lying in the dust, the Tengu was already gone, and so was her deadweight of a nephew.

  “Duncan!” Her voice was raw enough to bleed.

  There was no reply, of course. Just the distant flap of wings and the fading outline of the Tengu soaring higher and higher, past the peak of the great tomb and beyond. Out of range. Out of reach.

  And, most importantly, out of the twenty-step radius.

  Dagnar was on his own now, stripped of the Golden Apple’s protection. No more miracles to save him. Every wound, every cut, every strike would be real.

  Viktor projected his vision forward, getting close to the Tengu as they crossed to the other side of the complex. There were four of them. Two had hold of their prize, one flew ahead, and the last brought up the rear. One of them had to be Haku, but Viktor couldn’t tell which, as these bird-men all looked so alike. Even the Acolytes of the Deep were not this indistinguishable.

  Dagnar dangled between the avian creatures, limbs flailing like a trapped insect desperate to escape a spider’s web.

  “Let me go!” he whined, twisting and writhing in the grip of the Tengu.

  So they did.

  Viktor couldn’t help but chuckle. Definitely not the wisest choice of words to say to those who were the only ones between you and a long drop.

  Dagnar’s scream ripped through the sky above the great tomb. He plummeted like a stone hurled from the highest cliff, racing to meet the earth below.

  There was no salvation here, no miracle hand to catch him at the last minute.

  With a sickening crack that reverberated through the very bones of the mortuary complex, Dagnar’s body crashed into the ground. Stone shattered, debris exploded outward. When the dust settled, Viktor could make out his target’s sprawled form in the crater.

  Is he dead?

  The Tengu were not done, though. They began to chant, hands brought together. Their palms faced each other but didn’t touch, while the fingers twisted and interlocked in an intricate dance of motion, bending and crossing over one another, weaving into a sequence of enigmatic symbols, each more cryptic than the last.

  Nearby, one of the fake buildings shuddered to life. It creaked and groaned, then lifted off the ground, drifting toward the Tengu, hanging ominously above Dagnar.

  Then, it dropped.

  Guess that’s one way to put those useless rocks to work. Viktor chuckled. Not sure what Khenemhoteop would make of it, but to be fair, the undead priest had already used them to hide his soldiers during the ambush.

  The colossal wreck slammed down, flattening everything beneath with its merciless weight.

  That should be it. Neither the fall nor the smash was survivable. There was no way Dagnar could walk away from this alive.

  And yet... a flicker of unease stirred in Viktor’s mind.

  What should he do now? Order the Tengu to lift the rock and poke at the pulp under it, to confirm with their own eyes that the target had indeed been reduced to meat paste? Or should he—

  The fake building trembled.

  A crack, sharp and deep. A jagged fracture appeared in the center of the solid rock, cleaving it in two. Rubble heaved, then burst apart as a figure launched to the sky from the wreckage.

  What?

  Startled by the figure’s sudden appearance right next to them, the Tengu reeled back. The figure swung their arm wide and drove a punch at a nearby Tengu. The bird-man raised its staff to block, but the fist shattered the wooden shaft effortlessly. It then rammed into the creature’s chest, sending it backward through the air, its wings flailing helplessly as it was flung like a broken doll into the perimeter wall of the complex. There was a thunderous impact. Dust exploded in a blinding cloud as the bird-man’s body sank half-buried in the ruins.

  There was a question that had been gnawing at Viktor’s mind ever since the day he had first crossed paths with Dagnar.

  That sickly-looking man was holding a fragment of his power, he knew that much. But what did “a fragment” actually mean? How much of it did the man truly possess?

  And most important of all, did the man have access to the Supreme Thauma? The apex of his craft, forged to bring the whole world to its knees?

  Now, he had his answer.