The unlit staircase of the Grindlefecht West Tower seemed to stretch on forever as he stumbled up its dank, dust-strewn steps.

“How much farther?” he asked his companion.

“To the top of the tower, Marcus!” Silas shouted up at him as they peered around the bend in the staircase column. “We must make it through the guard barracks to the adjoining spire. Let us move with haste—I fear our unfortunate dungeon guard will have been discover—”

His voice was stopped by the sudden appearance of two ratguards that had just thrown open a door beside them, eyeballs bulging with the shock of what they’d just found.

“Sh-Shai-Alud! The Shai-Alud has—”

Marcus’s hand flared with green fire that leaped from his fingertips to silence the ratguard. His friend brought his halberd to bear with cries of “By the Unclean!” on his lips as Marcus threw himself at him and jammed his fingers in the ratman’s eyes, searing them clean from their sockets and leaving his face a hollowed-out skull while he kept the creature’s body pressed down under his own.

He’d already taken enough lives down here…what did two more matter?

The rats had come from the guard barracks that were still in a relatively stable state. Evidently, the Western Wing of the keep had managed to weather the explosions.

If the adrenaline of the escape was not overcoming Marcus’s senses at this moment, he might have paused to reflect on how curious it was that this tower in particular, and its adjoining buildings, had been left untouched by the explosions.

Presently, he heard a general shout go up from the bottom of the West Tower, and he stood shakily and began following Silas as the latter scurried to the end of the barracks.

“Hurry, Marcus!” he shouted. “They will be coming for us!”

Marcus wasted no time in staring at his broken foes beneath him. He forced himself to sprint past the barracks tables, flipping them over as he barged through the hall, still grabbing his wrist to still the raging energy coursing through him.

“STOP!”

A voice—a chorus from behind. He knew they had found them.

“ARCHERS! BE FIRING!”

Silas was at the far door as the first volley of crossbow bolts sailed past Marcus’s neck and he fell into a roll, taking up one of the long barrack tables and pressing his back against it.

“Silas!” he barked as he heard the crossbow-rats reload. “What’s happening?”

The Putrefact was fumbling with the door-lock, trying to pick at it with his fumbling claws.

“Silas!”

“They are changing the locks on my spire’s door, Sire!” he shouted back at him. “I must pick the lock with—”

“We don’t have time!” Marcus screamed as the next volley of bolts slammed into his table shield and almost pierced his neck. “Let me burn it.”

“No, Sire!” Silas called over his shoulder. “Focus on our enemies—do not let them gain on us!”

Chancing a look over the lip of his meager defensive position, Marcus saw a squad of ratguards advancing on his position, shields bared, nostrils flaring with murderous intent.

Damn it, he thought, looking past them to the small unit of crossbowmen that had him pinned, readying their weapons to splinter the table apart with the next volley. This time…they’re shooting to kill.

He dragged his hand up over the lip of the table and let fly an arc of scintillating green lightning that instantly sent the ratguard squad flying back into their compatriots, their backs taking the brunt of the crossbow bolts that had just been fired.

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It seemed that there were more uses to this little trick of light in his hand than he’d at first thought. Though, with every new use of the power, he felt his every muscle become weaker and weaker...

“Silas!” he shouted as the ratguard threw the wounded forms of their comrades from them and readied their weapons again.

“Just…a second…longer!” the Putrefact groaned, his fingers working like thin silver picks as they turned each tumbler of the rusted door locks.

“A second’s about all we have!” Marcus shouted back, looking up at the grand chandelier that dominated this room’s ceiling—a testament to dwarven craftsmanship that, like the rest of this place, was about to become just another pile of decorative rubble.

Before the next flurry of bolts struck his table, he sent a spear of lightning towards the chandelier’s anchor and watched it tear free from the ceiling to crash in between both him and the slowly advancing squad at the door.

“Ready, Sire!” Silas squeaked from behind.

Marcus didn’t wait for the dust to settle. He’d seen enough in the rage-filled eyes of the ratguard that had once been his to command as they sent their projectiles flying towards him to know that they had completely turned against him at this point. His friends—his real comrades—they were dead and forgotten. So much for the constancy of rats...

He and Silas slipped through the door without slamming it shut behind them.

“There is no time!” Silas roared as Marcus turned and sent two more arcs of light cascading towards the advancing rats. “Come, Marcus!”

Up the spiral staircase of the West tower spire they lumbered, Silas taking the lead, being careful to check around the narrow column of the staircase lest they have assailants already charging them from above. But it was from below that the threats were coming. Even from within this grim passage of stone, Marcus could hear the shrill cries of the ratguard as they thundered up from below, chainmail and weapons clattering in their hands, paws scampering to capture the human that would bring them glory in the eyes of their King.

When they finally reached the top of the tower, Silas pushed open the ornate metal door and ushered his charge inside, with Marcus sending three more bolts traveling down the staircase to slow their assailants. He watched as the green tendrils shot forth from his hand, ricocheting off the pristine masonry of the Dwarven walls and traveling down the length of the staircase. The anguished wails of the rats below, coupled by the sounds of clattering shields and burning bodies falling like dominoes back down the stairs, told him his aim had been true.

And yet still, he had to stop and collapse as the pain of his new power overcame him yet again. He looked about at the low-ceiling chamber they had just blundered into, filled with meager tables and chairs and a star-shaped imprint etched into the center of the room. At various raised grooves along the six-pointed star were set a series of gray-waxen candles which Silas was presently lighting with haste.

“Silas…” he breathed as he moved to barricade the door with the simple furniture he found in the room. “What do you need?”

“Time, Marcus,” the Putrefact replied. “The summoning ritual is delicate. Not so violent as that which would result from one’s transportation from the Place Beyond, of course. But the experience will be no less jarring for you.”

Marcus grimaced as he rose, beating his twitching right hand against his door-barricade that Silas momentarily paused to regard him as he slumped down beside it.

“Silas,” he wheezed. “Can you do it?”

The ratman smirked down at him. “If the Unclean is willing.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” Marcus snorted as he felt the barricade shudder behind him, knowing the ratguard had made it to the door with murder in their hearts.

And they weren’t alone.

“Stand in the center,” Silas told him hastily. “Breathe deeply. Keep your body as steady as possible. A single limb outside the radius of the summoning sigil is unlikely to remain attached to its bearer.”

*Just another horror before I leave this place. Typical.*

From outside the glass windows, Marcus could hear the scarpering of paws on stone, digging into the grooves in the spire’s brickwork and bearing relentlessly towards their destination.

“Do it, Silas,” Marcus ordered, readying his shaking hand and aiming it, open-palmed, at the window nearest the door. “You have until they take this hand from me.”

The ratman nodded relentlessly. “You are as brave as they say, Marcus Graham.”

The next few seconds passed by in a series of snapshots punctuated by the roaring of Marcus’s lightning. Two ratmen smashed through the windows, teeth flaring and weapons shining in the light that arced towards them.

He got one in the jugular, the lightning coiling around his neck and burning the life out of him almost instantly. The other rat was faster, dropping into a roll to avoid the next attack and managing to enter the circle proper. Marcus threw himself to the ground to avoid the vicious swipe that his assailant aimed at his kneecap and felt his calf open as the blade nicked it.

He crouched low, his hand raised to strike back, still thrumming with the energies that he felt would kill him any minute if he didn’t direct them at another target.

And then he looked into the eyes of the ratman who had maimed him—the ratman who was presently staring right back at him from the other side of the summoning circle, and whose blade was now dripping with Marcus’s fresh blood.

He was looking into the eyes of Skeever Steelclaw.

***

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