[Half of the mortuary complex has been destroyed, Master.]

  What the...!?

  “How the hell did that happen?” Viktor demanded.

  [That bald man... the one called Ekon. He has cast a strange spell. There was fire, then ice, then an explosion.]

  Of course he has. Ekon, huh? Viktor had suspected he would be a nuisance. Now, it seemed, the pyromancer from the South had proved to be every bit as troublesome as he had anticipated.

  “How are Sebekton and Khenemhotep?”

  [They are unharmed. The tomb guards, however, have been decimated.]

  Then it was fine. Those skeletons were expendable, after all. Khenemhotep could fix them, or failing that, simply make new ones. The dead could be raised. Again, and again. Which was the whole point, wasn’t it?

  “And what of the adventurers?”

  [The three remaining members of that party were now making their way out of the complex, heading for the desert’s exit. They followed the path that mage had just carved open. What are your orders, Master?]

  “Have Sebekton return to the third floor,” Viktor said. The second floor’s scorching desert was hardly an ideal environment for the Crocodilian to engage in a prolonged fight, and he had fought long enough. “Tell Khenemhotep to unleash his sandstorm to slow down their retreat. After that, watch them from a distance. Don’t do anything else unless they’re about to reunite with Brynhildr and her nephew.”

  [Understood.]

  This Ekon wielded a strange and dangerous power, so unnecessarily confronting him again was unwise. Viktor’s one and only target was Dagnar. As long as the others didn’t get in the way, there was no need for any conflict.

  And now, that target was trembling, nearly on the verge of wetting his pants as he stared up at the towering Cyclops looming over him, its single eye fixed on his every move.

  Behind the creature, Brynhildr let out a pained groan as she pressed herself against the cracked stone wall. With trembling hands, she fumbled into the pouch at her belt and pulled out one of the healing potions Mandragora had given her earlier, draining it down her throat in a single gulp.

  “Come here, Duncan!” she barked as she struggled to haul herself upright. “Come to me.”

  “You’re fucking mad, you dumb bitch!” the man whined like a kicked dog. “My power has expired, and it won’t trigger again today. If that thing catches me now, I’m dead meat.”

  “The Golden Apple, Duncan. You know the effect. We’re close enough now that any damage you take will be transferred to me instead. You won’t get hurt.”

  “But...”

  “Listen, don’t you understand the situation we’re in? I don’t know why, but clearly the dungeon is after you. It’s trying to kill you, Duncan. You have to get out of here now. If you stay where you are, it’ll get you eventually.”

  Dagnar stood frozen for a breath. Then, he bolted, screaming like a pig on the butcher’s table. The Cyclops reacted immediately, its massive left arm sweeping down to snatch the man, but Dagnar dived under the grasping fingers and hit the ground rolling. Or crawling, rather.

  Above him, the one-eyed brute roared in frustration. It raised its club high into the air, then brought it crashing down, straight at Dagnar’s exposed back. The stone floor cracked and cratered, a choking cloud of dust and pebbles exploding into the air.

  Dagnar gasped.

  Brynhildr screamed in pain.

  The warrior woman crumpled to her knees, blood bursting from her mouth as the blow meant for her nephew was redirected to her instead. But she already had the second potion in hand. She bit the cork off and choked it down, grimacing as if the concoction were burning its way through her insides.

  As the Cyclops lifted its club in triumph, Dagnar scrambled away through the settling dust. His aunt staggered forward, caught him under the arm, and helped him to his feet. The brute paused, its single eye squinting in confusion at the man who should have been reduced to a smear on the floor.

  The two used that opportunity to flee through the exit. As she turned, Brynhildr cast a lingering glance at her sword—the Reliquary—lying on the floor, just out of reach. Her jaw tightened as she decided to leave it behind. They sprinted and disappeared up the stairs, leaving the baffled creature behind.

  Well, that was the problem with using a Cyclops as an assassin. Its massive size and lumbering clumsiness were simply not suited for the task, and its lack of intelligence only compounded the issue. Still, despite its shortcomings, the creature had accomplished its mission well enough. Brynhildr had lost one of her precious Reliquaries and burned through two healing potions. She was down to one, and that was assuming she hadn’t already used it when that bolt gutted her nephew. Also, their conversation just now had confirmed that Dagnar was completely out of juice. The only thing left standing between him and death was Brynhildr herself. So if the warrior woman fell, he would inevitably follow.

  Once they got to the first floor, they were going to be greeted by a nasty welcome party. A horde of gnolls, goblins, and spiders had already gathered near the staircase, waiting to ambush the weary pair. Viktor didn’t really like the idea of winning by sheer numbers, but this time he would take it. The woman was battered, exhausted, unarmed, and very low on healing supplies. There was simply no way she could fight through such an army on her own.

  Or so he thought.

  Brynhildr seized a goblin as its spear glanced off her armor, snapping its neck with a sickening crack. She threw the corpse at a charging gnoll, then lunged forward herself as the creature staggered. She grabbed its wrist, bone crunching under her gauntleted grip. The gnoll howled in pain as she wrenched its rusty falchion free and drove it into its collarbone. She planted her boot on the creature’s side, dislodging the weapon in a spray of gore, and turned just in time to see another gnoll closing in with a spiked mace. Brynhildr sidestepped the strike, then swung her blade and hacked through its arm mid-swing. She snatched the mace before it touched the ground, spun, and crushed the gnoll’s skull, bone shards peppering her cheeks.

  With two weapons in her hands, Brynhildr carved a bloody path. The falchion cleaved a goblin’s jaw, its tongue flopping into the dirt. The mace smashed into the gnoll’s chest, ribs splintering like shattered porcelain. Blood soaked her hands, but her grip only grew firmer.

  The Dread Spiders sent their silk hissing through the air, but Brynhildr danced through the chaos, weaving between her enemies with agility that defied belief. The sticky silk, meant to ensnare her, now instead entangled goblins and gnolls. With a grunt, she dropped her mace, reached down, and grabbed a limp corpse. The lifeless body became her shield as she charged toward the spiders. The creatures reared back, but the warrior woman was relentless. She hurled the corpse at the nearest spider, then drove the blade into its abdomen, the dull edge tearing through its chitin with brutal force. Inchor sprayed across her face and armor, but she pressed on. The falchion became a blur of silver, moving from one spider to the next. A chorus of hisses and screams echoed in the air as the spiders fell, their grotesque bodies writhing in their death throes. Brynhildr stood amidst the carnage, her chest rising and falling heavily, her entire body dripping with the gore of her fallen foes.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  So this is the Butcheress of Lyndor, huh?

  After all, this was a woman who, according to Yvonne, was always in the thick of battle, hacking her way through countless enemies, suffering countless wounds in the process, yet always emerging upright, soaked in blood, hers and her foes’ alike, and somehow still breathing. And that was before they had even handed her a Reliquary.

  But was that the only reason for this savagery?

  She fought more fiercely now than she had during the battle with the tomb guards. And as she carved her way through the horde, the more injuries she sustained, the more ferocious she grew.

  Was it... desperation?

  Was it because she believed that every second she wasted was a second closer to her nephew’s death? That if she fell now, it would mean the end for him. A mother, driven by rage, tore through the depths of hell to pull her child to safety, heedless of the cost to herself.

  Motherly love, huh?

  A shame, really. Since that love was wasted on someone who didn’t deserve it.

  He could have kept throwing minions at the warrior woman. He still had plenty to spare, and willpower or not, there was a hard limit to what a human body could endure. Sooner or later, she would succumb under the weight of those wounds. But there was nothing he hated more than the senseless squandering of resources. He was not going to burn through them just because he lacked imagination.

  “Celeste, have them fall back. Let’s try a different approach.”

  [Understood.]

  Brynhildr’s eyes narrowed, watching with suspicion as the horde began to retreat. But she knew staying put wasn’t an option. She had no choice but to move forward. So, gritting her teeth, she grabbed Dagnar’s wrist with her blood-slick fingers and sprinted through the maze. She winced at every step, blood gushing from a dozen holes, but her pace didn’t slow down even one bit.

  They reached the final corridor. The exit loomed ahead, salvation just within their grasp.

  But—

  Between them and freedom, something waited. The last obstacle.

  Goblins.

  Not the normal ones, of course. These were the mutated goblins, their bellies grotesquely bloated, veins bulging like writhing worms beneath their skin, sickly green fumes oozing from their pores as they moved. They were suicide units, specialized to kill melee combatants. Even if Brynhildr could cut them all down, the blasts of noxious gas would engulf both her and her nephew. Either they would get killed on the spot, or die slowly in an agonizing crawl through the tunnel. The ending was the same.

  The warrior woman stopped dead in her tracks.

  “What are you waiting for?” Dagnar snapped. “Just kill them!”

  “I’m not so sure about it... Something is wrong with these goblins.”

  She had never seen them before, so she didn’t know what they were capable of, but her instinct, the same instinct that had seen her through countless battles, must be screaming at her right now. These things were not meant to be fought. They were meant to be avoided.

  Not that it mattered, though. If she didn’t come to them, then they would come to her. At Celeste’s order, the goblins began to advance.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Kill them! Kill—”

  Brynhildr grabbed her nephew by the collar, and heaved him off the ground. Before he could finish his sentence, before he could even understand what was going on, she threw him.

  What?

  The sack of meat flew over the goblins with a shrill, panicked scream, limbs flailing pathetically. He landed hard, hitting the ground in a graceless sprawl near the exit at the end of the corridor.

  “Run, Duncan! Just run!” Brynhildr roared. “Don’t worry about me!”

  And to the surprise of absolute no one, the man did exactly that. He scrambled across the threshold, not glancing back. Not even once.

  Brynhildr watched him go. And for the briefest moment, a trace of sadness passed through her eyes. She had told him to run, yes, but seeing him flee without any hesitation, without a shred of concern for her fate, it had to be painful. But then, those eyes hardened as she turned to face the goblins.

  She cleaved the first goblin cleanly in two, its flesh parting like the skin of an overripe fruit, belching a cloud of green vapor. The fumes seared her eyes, and she staggered back, choking, but the second minion was already upon her. She crushed its skull in a single blow, and another explosion followed. The deadly mist clung to her skin, her knuckles marred by blisters. She swung wildly, blind now, tears streaming down her face. A third goblin burst open, drenching her in hot, sticky bile. The poison seeped into her wounds, eating through her body, melted leather and fabric fusing themselves to her flesh. Her screams came out as gurgles, her lips blackening, and she collapsed to her knees, clawing at her throat.

  There’s no need to see the rest, Viktor thought. This woman had been an adversary, an obstacle he needed to remove, a nuisance who had disrupted his plan. But watching her convulse in agony, dying an undignified death, was just pointless.

  So he blinked his eyes open, and he found Kazyk standing before him, waiting.

  “How’s the situation, Master?” asked the gremlin boss.

  Viktor gave a shrug. “The warrior woman is dead. But her nephew, our real target, has managed to escape from the dungeon.”

  Kazyk grinned. “A pity.”

  “A pity, indeed. I have to admit, I underestimated Brynhildr. I didn’t expect her to fight that fiercely, to push herself so far beyond the limits. So that’s the power of love, huh? A force more dangerous than any blade or spell. It can mess up even the most meticulously prepared plan. And that’s why...”

  The gremlin’s grin only grew wider. “...we need a second plan,” he said. “Just in case the first plan fails.”

  “Exactly. A contingency is always essential.” Viktor extended his hand. “Give it to me.”

  “Yes, Master,” Kakyz said as he produced from his pouches a small bag and an object. The bag, though modest in size, felt heavy as Viktor took it in his left hand, while his right closed around the other item.

  “Celeste, teleport me out.”

  [Yes, Master.]

  The world twisted and shifted, then settled into a blinding white. A sudden chill made him sneeze. He was outside now.

  He had always asked Celeste to teleport him to the dungeon from his room, so that when it was time to go home, she could bring him straight back to safety. But today was different. Today, he had walked himself out here, following the Imperial Road, crossing over the stone bridge, just so he could be exactly where he wanted the moment he reappeared.

  This was the very spot he had stood five weeks ago, after killing that bandit and going south through the tree-infested ruins to reach the river. Before him now wound the Voskryn, and on the opposite bank was the paved road Gideon had ordered to construct, the path every adventurer would take when coming or going from his dungeon.

  Soon, Dagnar would appear there, running desperately along that road, right before his eyes.

  He opened the bag, and a metallic clatter rang out as the contents shifted and knocked against one another. He pulled out one of them, a pebble-sized ball of solid iron. Cold, heavy in his palm. Good.

  He could see Dagnar now. The silhouette was small, but that pathetic posture, those scrambling movements, that raw desperation oozing from every motion made—it was undeniably him. All of his protection had been stripped away. One more good hit, and he was dead.

  Viktor placed the iron ball into the pouch. He looped the cord a few times, spinning it slowly at first, then gradually increasing the speed, letting it whirl faster and faster, the loaded projectile inside carving circular paths through the air.

  Spin, spin, spin. Then, release. Easy enough.

  What he had in his hand was a simple sling. A crude, cheap tool he had made himself. A primitive weapon, but a weapon nonetheless. Something that could kill if it was in the right hand.

  Of course, the last part—in the right hand—was the most crucial factor. Throwing a rock was easy; the hard part was actually hitting something. Two weeks ago, during that silly contest he had with Lucian and Lloyd, he had missed every damned shot. That was what happened when someone inexperienced attempted to wield this weapon.

  But accuracy was not a problem today.

  After he had fired that last bolt, Celeste and Kazyk had transferred the power of the ballista into this sling. It was a Reliquary now. Which meant the iron pebble he had just launched into the sky would land where he dictated.

  And he had decided the crown of that man’s skull would be a very nice spot.

  Dagnar dropped instantly the moment the projectile struck. The man was too far away to make out the details, but his head must have been crumpled inward like eggshells crushed under a boot. The iron ball must have punched through the scalp, then lodged itself deep into the brain along with splintered bone shards and matted hair.

  Viktor reached toward the bag, fingers brushing the next iron pebble. One more shot to make sure the job was done, to make the corpse extra dead.

  But then, he stopped himself.

  There was no need for a second strike. He had already had his confirmation.

  The best kind of confirmation.

  One down. Five more to go.

  How are you liking the story so far? I hope you’re enjoying it.

  So, on Wednesday, I'll post Chapter 107 and the epilogue of Book 2.

  Then, on Friday, I'll post the prologue of Book 3 and Chapter 108.