Castor Longfeather raised his fist in the air, the signal to stop. The rest of their adventuring party—Stonefist’s Sentinels—immediately halted, keeping their tight marching order, even within the confines of the narrow stone corridor.
The passage stretched out before them, cloaked in a darkness that the continual light stones they all carried barely punctured. Moisture seeped from the porous rock, phosphorescent fungi sprouted from cracks in the walls, and the earthy scent of decaying leaf vegetation hung in the air.
Lena sighed softly, pleased for a break, no matter how brief. After two days underground, her hips ached from travelling over the uneven, rocky surface and the damp and cold had caused her knuckles to swell. At forty-two, she was older than the rest of the humans in the party by a good fifteen years—and was feeling her age. Maybe it was time to part way with the Sentinels and make way for a younger, fitter mage. But adventuring was all she knew—what else would she do? Besides, she might be getting long in the tooth, but she still had plenty to offer.
“We must be close to the trogs,” Castor whispered to their leader, Thrain, a doughty dwarven fighter, who was directly behind him in the marching order. “I can almost taste their stench. There are ten of the brutes, all warriors.” The tracker pointed to the ground, which apparently had provided him with such knowledge, but all Lena saw was bare rock. “And they have the girl with them.”
“Elowyn’s alive?” Thrain’s relief was palpable. “Praise Kaldor.”
Castor grimaced. “At least, she was when they passed by here a couple of hours ago.”
A matching relief flooded through Lena. She had hoped they’d not be returning a corpse to the captured child’s distraught parents, but until now, they’d not found any evidence either way.
“Why do you think they grabbed her?” she asked. She hadn’t had many dealings with trogs, but from what she had heard, they usually stayed underground and kept well away from surface dwellers.
“Let’s rescue Elowyn first, and figure out the trogs’ motives later,” the ranger replied.
“What’s with you smoothskins?” Ssiltek, their lizardkin rogue, grumbled from behind Lena. “Every time we pause, it’s talk, talk, talk. Let’s get in there before the trogs realise the girl would make a tasty snack and prep her for their dinner. Her father, Master Trader Pryce, promised to double the reward if we get his precious daughter back to Briarwood alive—but who knows how long she’ll stay that way if we stand about yakking.”
“We need to know the lay of the land before we go charging in,” Thrain cautioned. “Else Elowyn might get caught in the crossfire.” Unlike the lizardkin, their leader cared more about the girl’s life than his belt pouch. “Ssiltek, seeing as you’re so keen for action, how about sneaking forward and seeing what you can find out?”
“I told you, there are ten trogs, all adults,” the tracker huffed. “The tracks don’t lie.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Their leader motioned the rogue forward. “But we need to know more than that. Like, have they truly stopped just ahead, or is your keen nose mistaken?”
Castor huffed even louder.
Ignoring the tracker, Ssiltek pushed his way to the front of the Sentinels, then snuck down the corridor. Within a few paces, he melted from Lena’s view. His natural chameleon-like abilities allowed him to blend with his surroundings. That, combined with a lizard folk’s innate low light vision, made him the perfect scout in this terrain.
Lena cast a cantrip to warm her hand while she waited. Immediately, a pleasant heat suffused her fingers. Oh, how she wished she had time to remove her boots and do the same for her toes. Her feet felt as if ice encased them. She settled for the non-magical solution of stamping her feet on the ground as soundless as possible and wriggling her toes.
“Are you alright?” their healer Zahra whispered to her. “I, ah, noticed you’re walking stiffly.” Her gaze slid to Lena’s hands. “I guess being down is triggering your rheumatism. Do you want me to cast something to ease the symptoms?”
“I’m just a little cold,” Lena lied. The cleric to Sylara was too observant by half, and she shouldn’t be wasting her healing magic before the battle had even begun.
Zahra looked like she wanted to say more, but in the end she just nodded, as if accepting Lena’s words.
“I’m back.” Ssiltek emerged from the shadows a short while later.
Zahra jumped, stifling a squeak of surprise. The lizardkin grinned mischievously, his pointed fangs gleaming in the glow of their light stones.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” She slapped him on the arm with exasperated affection.
“There’s ten trogs, alright,” the rogue reported. “And yes, they’ve set up camp.”
Castor crossed his arms. “Told you so,” he huffed.
“The girl’s with them.” Ssiltek ignored the interruption. “They’ve tied a rope around her ankle and tethered it to a rock, so she can’t run off. But she appears unhurt.”
“Good news.” Thrain murmured, then motioned for the rogue to continue.
“They’ve bedded down in a small cave, off the main passage. There’s another exit on the far side of the cavern, but I don’t know where it leads. Could be a dead end, or could continue on.”
Their leader frowned. “Hmmm. That means they have a potential escape route. We’ll have to make sure they don’t have time to run off with Elowyn, before we can get to her.”
“Over half of them are asleep,” Ssiltek said. “But two remain on guard, a big bugger and a little one—little for a trog, that is. Another couple of them are awake, but off duty.” He flashed another grin. “Lucky for you lot, they’ve lit a fire, so there’s plenty of light.” Apart from the lizardkin, only Castor had lowlight vision—a shortfall Ssiltek loved to remind them of at any opportunity.
“Right, here’s the plan,” Thrain said. “First, we need to sneak closer.”
“Sneak? That means move quietly, right?” Ssiltek shot a pointed look at their barbarian fighter, Ragna Bjornsdottir. Last time they’d done a sneak attack, she had tripped over a root and gone down in a clatter of armour and weapons, costing them the advantage of surprise.
Their leader ignored the snide aside. “Castor, Ssiltek, and Lena, you’ll bring death from afar. I want your first attack centred on the big trog, as I assume he’s our greatest threat. Then, Ragna and I will rush him, and you lot can shift your missiles to the trogs nearest the girl.”
Lena nodded, trying to look calm, but she was feeling uncharacteristically jittery. They’d faced worse foes and greater odds. What was wrong with her? Perhaps being so long below ground was affecting her. It had been ages since she’d accompanied Stonefist’s Sentinels on a subterranean job—and now she remembered why she avoided them these days. The cold sapped her strength, and the endless days spent in darkness frayed her nerves.
“Zahra, you’ve got the most important job,” their leader directed his attention to the cleric of Sylara, thankfully oblivious to Lena’s nerves. “I want you to circle around to Elowyn, while we distract the trogs, then get her out of that cavern as quick as you can.”
“Why not get Lena to cast Fireball or Meteor Storm,” Ssiltek asked, lowering his brow ridges belligerently. “That way, we can take down most of the trogs at once.”
“We can’t risk Elowyn being injured with an area attack spell,” Thrain replied.
The lizardkin shrugged. “So what if she is? Zahra can heal her.”
Their leader huffed in exasperation. “Right,” he said, drawing his axe. “Everyone know what they’re doing?”
They all nodded.
“Excellent. May Kaldor give us strength.”
To prepare for the impending combat, Lena cast Mage Armour and Zahra Spirit Shield, then the Sentinel’s crept forward in their usual marching order: Castor at the lead, followed by Thrain. Lena and Zahra—the least armoured and most easily wounded—marched in the middle, then Ssiltek and finally Ragna brought up the rear.
Within a short time, they reached a small side passage that branched off the primary tunnel that the rogue had told them about. Lena’s heart thudded against her ribs and her palms grew sweaty as Castor led them off the main path.
Pull it together, she inwardly chided herself. She was acting like a green journeywoman mage fresh out of training.
The ranger showed no such nerves. He padded along silently, his bow in hand and an arrow nocked.
Now they were closer, the smell of a campfire intermingled with the stench of the trogs—an unpleasant melange of rotting fish and stale sweat—reached her nostrils, and the low guttural rumble of their speech was just audible.
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Castor made a quick hand motion, pointing his forefinger point to his eye then ahead, signalling they were almost in sight of their foes.
Lena’s pulse bolted like a frightened horse as she flexed her swollen hands to prepare for spell-casting. The movement sent sharp pains shooting through her knuckles, making her wince. She should have taken up Zahra’s offer—but it was too late now.
They turned a corner and the narrow passage widened out into a small cavern. The layout was exactly as Ssiltek had described: a campfire in the centre of space provided welcome light and revealed a dark passageway leading off the cavern on the far side. Several large mounds were arrayed around the fire—trogs who’d covered themselves with what looked like dirt and leaves—was that their version of blankets? Two of the creatures sat by the fire, staring at a battered gameboard half-covered by black and white oval stones.
A young girl was huddled in on herself near the flames. Her face was dirt-stained and tear-streaked, but her mouth had an obstinate set. She might be a captive, but she wasn’t cowed.
Elowyn immediately spotted the Sentinels, her eyes widening in surprise. But so did the nearer sentry. It grunted in alarm and raised a heavy club studded with iron spikes.
It was time to attack!
Lena began chanting and Castor tried to get a bead on the larger guard, but the smaller sentry was in the way.
Uttering a low curse, the ranger changed target. He loosed his bowstring, and his arrow thudded into the smaller sentry’s chest. A heartbeat later, Ssiltek’s bullet smacked into its temple. The trog tottered visibly, but didn’t go down.
By the stars, it must be tough. Such blows would fell most foes.
A ball of purple and blue light appeared between Lena’s palms, raising a slight wind that stirred the tendrils of her grey hair. Drawing back her arm, she flung her Magic Missile at the big sentry, now a visible target thanks to her companions’ efforts. A low whimper of pain escaped her as the movement jarred her swollen joints. Her ball of mage fire zipped unerringly across the cavern, then, to her dismay, dissipated in a soft violet glow as it hit the large trog’s armour.
Blast and mage fire! He had magical protection.
Once the missiles had gone off, Thrain and Magda ran forward, weapons raised, making a beeline for the larger sentry. Alerted by the flash of the ineffective magic missile, the two game-playing trogs tossed aside the board and grabbed their weapons—one a stone axe, the other a spear tipped with sharpened bone—and were kicking their companions awake.
“I heard you cry out. Are you hurt?” Castor asked Lena, although his steel gaze remained fixed on the enemy as he nocked another arrow .
“I’m good,” she shot back, cringing at her lack of self-control.
As she prepared her next spell, Lena spotted Zahra edging her way around the cave and toward the captive girl, who had backed up as far away from the trogs as the rope tethered around her ankle allowed. Good—at least that part of their plan was still on track.
Beside her, Castor’s bowstring twanged again, while Ssiltek swung his sling above his head. Both missiles smacked into the smaller sentry, one after the other, and it finally went down.
One down. Nine more to go.
Lena itched to cast Fireball, but the risk to her companions—and Elowyn —was too great. Snorting in annoyance, she sent her next Magic Missile flying toward the axe-wielding trog, who’d been sitting at the game board moments before. Her mage fire exploded into the creature’s chest, and he reeled back, crying out in shock and pain.
That was more like it!
Her victim’s large, pale-yellow eyes locked on Lena. He sprinted toward her, his jaws gaping, revealing rectangular, chipped teeth.
Hastily, she wound up another spell. Her Mage Armour wouldn’t hold for long against a direct attack—which is why she avoided hand-to-hand combat. Despite the danger, her blood sang, her earlier nerves evaporated. This was why she hadn’t retired. For moments like this, when you never knew if the next breath would be your last.
She stretched her hands wide, and a sparking bolt of magical lighting formed between her fingers. Throwing back her arm, she cast the bolt at the advancing trog—only at the last minute her fingers cramped, and the lightning sizzled harmlessly above the creature’s head.
The trog flinched, then its thin-lipped mouth stretched into a smile when it realised she missed.
Lena’s teeth clenched. She’d been banking on her spell to slow her attacker.
And she’d hadn’t time to cast another.
The trog covered the remaining ground between them in a few long strides, then he swung his axe.
She dodged to one side to avoid the blow, but her reflexes were too slow. She saw the axe arching toward her, and her body tensed as she waited for the weapon to smack into her glowing Mage Armour. Only at the last moment, Castor thrust his long sword between them. Sparks showered down on her as the axe slammed into the blade. She scrambled backward, getting as much distance as she could between her and her attacker.
With a lithe motion, the ranger moved into the spot she’d just vacated, positioning himself between her and the trog. The creature swung again, and the ranger parried. Their weapons locked, and the stronger trog grinned as he bore down on the slender half-elf, forcing him to give ground.
“Firefly!” The simple cantrip flew from her lips and, a heartbeat later, an insect made of fire and light zipped toward the trog’s face. The creature flinched, his attention switching from his attacker to the magical firefly. Taking advantage of the distraction, Castor slid his blade into the creature’s unarmoured belly. The trog slid to the ground, a puzzled expression on his face as the life faded from its eyes.
“Thank you,” she gasped, scrambling back to her feet.
The ranger frowned, panting slightly from the fight. “What happened? Why did your lightning miss?”
Lena grimaced as she began weaving her hands once more. “We all have bad days.” Only she’d been having them more and more often. “Never mind me,” she hissed. “We need to keep the trogs busy, so Zahra and the girl can get away.”
Castor picked up his bow once more and drew another arrow from his quiver.
Meanwhile, across the room, Thrain and Ragna had brought down the big trog in a brief but bloody fight and were pursuing the rest of their trogs, who were fleeing toward the exit on the other side of the cavern. Zahra had sawed through Elowyn’s bonds and was running toward their position, while Ssiltek’s bullets harried the spear-wielding trog, before it could intercept them. A moment later it fell, Castor’s arrow lodged in its eye socket.
Lena let her spell dissipate and her aching hands fell by her sides. Was the combat over? And so swiftly? Thank the stars. Unable to cast her large magics, thanks to her cramping hands, she was more a liability than a help.
The retreating trogs fled from the cavern, and Thrain slowed, lowering his axe—but Ragna, her teeth bared, spittle flying from her lips, ran after them, her massive great sword raised.
“Stop,” their leader bellowed after her, but the barbarian was in the grips of battle frenzy and paid him no heed.
With a grunt of frustration, the dwarf sprinted after Ragna and in moments they were both out of sight.
Castor, Ssiltek, and Lena exchanged a confused glance.
“That definitely wasn’t in the plan,” the ranger asked. “Should we go after them?”
The lizardkin shrugged. “We’ve got the girl.” He pointed to Elowyn. The girl and Zahra had just arrived, the air shimmering around them. The cleric’s Sanctuary spell caused Lena’s gaze to slide away from them as if they weren’t there. “If the boss and that dumb barbarian want to go charging into the darkness, that’s their problem.”
“I better check that headstrong barbarian hasn’t got them into more trouble than they can handle.” Castor nocked another arrow and strode toward the back of the cavern—just as Ragna reappeared and sprinted back towards them, her face ashen.
“Fomorian,” the barbarian bellowed as she sprinted toward them. “Fall back.”
Panic seized Lean by the throat. She’d never encountered one of these monstrous giants from the depths, but knew them by reputation.
“Lena,” Thrain appeared moments after Ragna, his short dwarven legs pumping as he ran for his life. “We need Fireball!”
Eyes widening, she murmured the verbal components as her throbbing hands wove a complex pattern. And an orange-yellow molten ball of flame began forming between her palms, its glow casting strange shadows on the cave wall.
An inhuman bellow blasted out of the archway, and then the Fomorian appeared. The giant underground dweller lumbered into the cavern, its massive form stooping to avoid scraping the ceiling. Its skin was a mottled grey, its hair a tangled mess and, in its gnarled hands, it wielded a colossal club fashioned from a massive tree trunk, studded with jagged shards of metal.
Lena's hands shook as the pain in her joints intensified under the strain of casting the spell. The molten ball of flame between her palms flickered and wavered, causing her insides to spin like a whirlpool.
"By the stars' light, please!" she whispered, trying to steady her hands by mental force alone. But as she prepared to release the spell, a sharp pain shot through her knuckles, causing them to spasm. The Fireball fizzled out in a shower of harmless sparks.
"No!" Lena gasped, panic bubbling through her veins.
The Fomorian let out a guttural roar, its beady eyes locking onto Thrain. Having spotted her spell fail, their leader was charging toward the beast with his axe raised. He was trying to protect the rest of them, the brave fool.
The subterranean giant swung its massive club toward the dwarf with terrifying speed. Thrain tried to dodge, but the weapon caught him square on. The shards of metal scraped down his left arm, severing muscle and sinew, leaving the limb hanging uselessly at his side. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his shoulder.
“Thrain,” Lena screamed, her voice laced with pain. “No!” By the gods, this was all her fault. It should have been her hurt, not him.
“Fall back!” Castor snarled. “We need to get the girl to safety.”
Zahra hesitated a moment, then pushed the white-faced Elowyn at Ssiltek. “Get her out of here.”
The lizardkin didn’t need to be asked a second time. “Come on, lass. Uncle Ssiltek’s is going to find you and him somewhere safe to hide.” Grabbing her hand, he fled back the way they’d come, towing the girl behind him.
Ignoring the danger to herself, the cleric darted over to Thrain. She grabbed him by his unwounded right arm and tried dragging him backwards—only he was too heavy. She couldn’t even budge him. “Come on, you big ugly dwarf,” she pleaded, her eyes wide and panicked. “Pull it together and help me. I can’t get you out of here on my own.”
Castor raced over to join her and grabbed their leader’s other arm as the Fomorian plodded toward them.
Desperate to redeem herself, Lena’s mind raced. Her hands were too cramped to perform a major magic, but the trog hadn’t liked a light flying into its face—and the subterranean giant had reacted to the campfire. Perhaps she could use that against it?
Muttering under her breath, she gestured at the flames, ignoring the dull ache in her fingers. “Flare,” she commanded, pouring all her will into the minor spell. The campfire roared in response, its flames flaring up toward the ceiling, belching sparks.
Roaring in fear, the Fomorian flung up a hand to protect its face from the unexpected heat and light.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Zahra and Castor half-dragged, half-carried Thrain—and his precious axe—back toward the cavern entrance, effort etched on their faces. Lena gaze flicked between them and the subterranean giant, her fingernails digging into her palms. She didn’t know what else she could try if it recovered before the others got away.
But her simple cantrip gave them the time they needed.
Lena waited until the rest of the Sentinels were a safe distance down the small passageway, then darted after them. Her legs were jelly as she backed up, her eyes on the Fomorian the whole time.
A few heartbeats later, the subterranean giant recovered from its fright sufficiently to lumber after them, only it stalled when it reached the exit. Thankfully, its body was too massive to fit into the tight space, no matter how it twisted and struggled. It reared back, then smashed its club into the stony walls beside the narrow entrance, sending chunks of stone flying as it roared in rage and frustration. Stone shards pinged off Lena’s Mage Armour, and she hastily retreated, guilt and remorse weighing down her every step.