“How long have I been here?” Rissah asked, and I could tell the question had been weighing on her by her clenched hands.

It was the first time she’d spoken in two hours. Against my expectation, the wraith hadn’t flown off upon being set free. Instead, she quietly took up a position nearby to watch me while I explored.

Not long after starting, I’d discovered a hatch to a rooftop that had been invisible from the ground. The apex of the tower had blended in seamlessly into the cavern above. There was a shaft that led to an upper layer above that, situated some twenty feet above the roof. At one point, a wooden ladder had connected the roof to the greater ossuary, but the creeper vines had long since destroyed it. Fragments of wood lay sprinkled haphazardly around the tower’s rooftop.

Rissah had followed my entourage upward while I harvested the remaining ghoul tongue vines atop the spire, never once offering to help or asking for the mana. Of course, I hadn’t offered, either, because I felt like my good deeds on her behalf had been satisfactory. Really, I was just happy she’d kept out of the way.

The mana they’d provided me was trivial, putting me in a slightly annoyed mood. A disposition that did not last after I had the occasion to relax into the incredible view of the maze from on high. Despite the curvature of the ceiling, I could see more distant groves nestled away in the direction opposite the ancient blood tree. They would be my next target, given that I had already cleared the zombie plants in the other directions of the circle whilst I aimlessly wandered. Only then would I check to see what new amusements lay on the level beyond the tower.

Inconspicuous as the shadowy handmaiden was, her sudden question had startled me from my sightseeing.

I wasn’t sure if she was ready for the answer, caught in a clear existential crisis as she already was. Still, I figured I would have wanted the truth, and I held up three fingers, having no other way to communicate the number on the roof.

“Three years? How stands the empire?” her face looked tense, and the question made me wince. Her sleep must have been considerably deep.

I shook my head and stuck up a thumb, motioning upward. Then I gave her three fingers again.

“Three centuries! Kisharu, preserve me—” she’d stopped, eyes going wide and a little wild after I thumbed up a second time.

She stood there silently for a moment, eyes searching my face in disbelief.

“Three thousand years?”

I nodded in the affirmative.

To my surprise, a devilish grin took hold. “Then I’m truly free? Does the empire stand at all after so long?”

I shook my head, and she astonished me again by dancing in a circle. Finding out her people and nation were dead had made her twirl. Macabre as it was, her having freedom was a beautiful thing. I couldn’t help the grin that stretched across my lips. Rissah truly had been a victim of circumstance, and to that condition few could relate better than I.

Beaming with joy, she spoke of a wish to lay eyes on the sun. “Do you know the way out? Would you take me with you? I will never go underground again for as long as I live.”

I shook my head no, and her crestfallen look almost made me laugh. Not being able to speak led to miscommunication and hilarity. To make her understand, I held up one finger, then shook my head no, then held up a second finger and nodded my head yes.

“Oh, I see. You don’t know the way, but I can—”

I held up a hand to stop her from talking, because a shadow of movement caught my attention. Straining my eyesight, I saw the distinct red robes of the demon cultists I’d encountered before. Slithering in a line like a red snake through the maze. From this distance, I couldn’t get an accurate count, but I estimated there to be at least ten of the cursed bastards.

My skeletal champion was strong, maybe even powerful enough to kill them all, eventually. However, it could only be one place at a time. And, with that many enemies coming at once, it would only be a question of minutes before my adversaries got to me. I didn’t relish giving them the opportunity to do me harm.

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The instinct to flee was strong, but letting them move along unmolested was too big of an ask. Fortunately, I had a few minutes to come up with a plan.

⬲

Algeron forced the cultists forward at a tiring pace through the labyrinth. Rosamund was more exhausted than she’d ever been, but held Mansfield upright with her shoulder, refusing to let him collapse to the icy ground. She knew that if he fell, the cultists would kill him rather than continue dragging him along. After all, they’d done it to three of their own men already.

Why they bothered to keep them alive at all was concerning because she knew what they planned. There was only one thing cultists did with captives: sacrifice.

The cultist's apparent desire to conclude the demon sanctioned mission was the only reason they hadn’t completed their ritual already. Knowing that was to be her fate had lit a fire of determination in her chest.

She had a plan.

The night before, she’d stolen a wooden fork off the plate of one of the more insane cultists. A man whose skin looked like tar and had a penchant for cursing at unseen presences. The others didn’t care for him very much, and his deteriorated mental condition made stealing his utensil a breeze. She’d pretended to take a piss near the area he slept, then tripped over her own feet. Given how tired they all were, her clumsiness was believable. The best part was the nutty cultist hadn’t even noticed its absence and just ate his food off his plate like an animal.

Under the hug of Mansfield’s arms, Rosamund picked steadily at the ropes around her wrists with the fork when no one was looking. The going was slow, but in the hours of marching, she’d already made considerable progress at fraying the cord. She was fully confident in giving them the slip now. All she needed was the right distraction.

The courtyard gave the entire group pause, even Algeron. Evil radiated off a twisted black tower that looked like it belonged to a being from another world. A tree the color of blood had indecipherable hieroglyphs carved into its weeping trunk and a canopy of branches that looked like sinew with boney thorns.

Algeron let out a boisterous laugh that sounded false to Rosamund’s ears. Zu-Rakan ruins were intimidating to everyone, even demon bum-suckers.

“We came here seeking vengeance and found treasure along with it! Truly, our great lord Alrinath is without equal.” That imbecilic observation done with Algeron’s started forward again, crushing the snow beneath his black hooves.

As they approached, two big double doors swung open from inside the tower, as if in greeting. From within the darkness, blood colored lamps flared to life, revealing the lanky figure of that weird zombie.

The skull masked creature had a sly grin on his face, and held out his arms with his palms upward. A challenge if there ever was one.

Rosamund didn’t need to be a rogue to know something was off. The eccentric was enjoying himself. But what really bothered her was that he didn’t seem to move as jerkily as he had before. His casual expression was too smooth. The zombie didn't look like a zombie at all anymore—just a pale-skinned man in a creepy mask. That horrific skeletal champion was nowhere in sight, either.

Algeron took the challenge in stride. Bellowing out a greeting from across the courtyard. “Oran Farrow! You were a fool to cross Lord Alrinath. Your petty demon master gave you up with barely any sacrifice. Shal’Kagor was happy to betray you.” Practically shouting the last part, Algeron grinned in savage satisfaction.

Rosamund felt the world spin below her at the revelation. That man was her family!? And he was an undead demon cultist? How was such a thing even possible? It had been years since she’d thought about Oran. They’d never been close, being years apart, and he’d fallen out with the main family quite a while ago. All the resources that the patriarch had dumped on his wastrel son had made him too ashamed to stick his spoiled nose up in public.

As if he were listening to her inner turmoil, the zombie made a hissing sound, his mouth opening wide to reveal two rows of perfect pearly teeth.

It took the still living people a moment to realize that he was laughing. Algeron’s grand admission about Oran’s demonic master back-stabbing him had made him bend over in hissing mirth.

Rosamund found the scene deeply disturbing.

Algeron growled like a beast, evidently unused to being mocked, wrong, or both. “Come forth and face your doom,” yelled the soul-strained cultist, unsheathing a massive two-handed sword from across his back.

The zombie, no, her cousin, merely slammed the two doors shut again. Then there was the telltale sound of a bar being dropped in place.

All were silent at the unexpected direction the battle had taken.

“You coward!” Algeron shouted, running forward to slam his shoulder into the enchanted wood. The door rebuffed the armored cultist for his efforts, bouncing back several feet. Gritting his fanged teeth in anger, the cult leader ordered his men to take out the obstruction.

Rosamund gave Mansfield an imploring look, saying soon. Mansfield nodded his head and gave her a tight-lipped smile. His frostbitten hand had turned completely black, and she was deeply worried after his health. She wasn’t even sure he would be strong enough for the journey ahead. There was no chance of her being able to carry the mage, much less drag him and fight monsters. Still, she had to try.

Together, they collapsed to the ground in apparent exhaustion. Though, being fair, there wasn’t much acting on their part. The woman cultist that stood over them didn’t say a word, or even glance at them, at that.

Rosamund went to work.