“Run!” Oren hissed, running back down the tunnel toward them.

They’d continued on, eventually reaching what looked like living spaces with sleeping chambers, kitchens and storage rooms. They found bedding, food and a few cooking implements, but still no valuables. There also weren’t any kobolds. That is, there weren’t until now. Yipping noises echoed from ahead. A lot of yipping noises.

Oren had finally found the enemy.

The others didn’t question him. Instead, they turned and immediately hurried back the way they came. Moments later, they ducked into what turned out to be a storage chamber full of root vegetables, dried mushrooms and greens that Bernt was fairly certain were actually common garden weeds from the surface.

Furin was the last one in, and he gently closed the door behind them before waving everyone else further back into the room. Therion began casting some kind of scrying spell. Bernt recognized the spell, but scrying was something he’d never been talented with himself.

“Oren,” Furin whispered. “Did they see you?”

The thief shrugged. “I don’t think so, maybe?”

“Shush!” Syrah hissed at them both. They could hear footsteps now, and an image resolved in front of Therion, showing the tunnel just outside their door.

Moments later, kobolds poured around the corner. They wore chitin armor and held spears or small daggers. After that came a kobold with scaled wings like those of a dragon. Bernt hadn’t realized that was possible. Could they fly with those? And what was the point of wings on a subterranean species, anyway? That one, though, was carrying a staff—a focus. It was a sorcerer.

He didn’t know what to make of that, but before he could think about it too hard, things got even worse. A bloody and beaten line of humans, dwarves and half-elves emerged, herded along by more of the much smaller spear-wielding kobolds that yipped to each other in excitement as they went. Bernt heard a sharp intake of breath next to him and saw Elyn cover her mouth in surprise. He didn’t recognize the captives, but he knew they had to be from Halfbridge.

Worse, they just kept coming. First five, then ten, and finally fourteen adventurers were prodded along, walking right past them through the tunnel.

That was at least two full parties, and more likely three not-so-full ones.

At the very back, a knot of kobolds was dragging something along the ground—something small. Only when they passed directly in front of the group did Bernt realize what it was. The gnome was grievously injured, hair matted down with blood and clearly unconscious. Still, kobolds leaned in to gouge the poor creature with their claws, giggling.

How could so many adventurers have possibly been beaten, much less captured, by a bunch of kobolds? It just didn’t happen.

By the time the dungeon was opened for clearing, the prime party should have softened it up enough to ensure that serious organized resistance was no longer possible. They would do that by systematically eliminating leaders, cutting lines of communication and directly threatening the dungeon’s “primary.” That was whichever threat gave the dungeon its ranking—in this case, a deep dragon.

Normally, secondary parties could easily establish control, breaking any remaining organized defense and looting the place.

That was not what was happening here.

When the procession of kobolds disappeared down the tunnel, Therion slumped down with a groan, though he kept the scrying window up.

“You were right, Oren. We should have turned back.”

Bernt was watching Therion. He looked defeated, but not worn out. Scrying windows were complex spells. Keeping one open like this should be mentally exhausting. For the first time, Bernt wondered just how much Therion actually outclassed him. He knew they were both graduated mages developing their primary affinity. The way Therion was casting, though, he had to ask himself if the other mage had already managed his first arcane investiture. He hadn’t marked his robes, but that wasn’t unusual for an adventurer—they tended to worry more about their adventuring rank.

Oren was playing with one of his knives nervously, flipping it in his hand and looking around wide-eyed.

“I told you! I said this smelled fishy, didn’t I? This is bad!”

“Oh, stop it!” Elyn interjected. “We managed to hide easily enough, didn’t we? Parties get captured sometimes, it happens! The prime party will sort it out soon, or we could even do it, probably! They’re just kobolds…”

Just as she said that, though, more figures appeared in Therion’s scrying window. Kobolds were escorting another party of prisoners down the tunnel, going the same direction as the first.

“It’s Worov’s party!” Syrah whispered, pointing at the armored dwarf near the front of the group. Bernt’s heart clenched in his chest. Worov was a moderately famous adventurer in Halfbridge. If he remembered correctly, he was a rank 6 heavy axeman—former military. His long beard was matted with blood, though he didn’t look injured otherwise. The others, mostly humans, looked worse.

Furin drew his club and looked like he was about to go out there, but Syrah grabbed his arm and hissed.

“There could be more! We need to get the word out before we try anything.”

Therion nodded toward her, his face pale but expression determined. Once the kobolds were gone again, he cleared his throat.

“If they’re capturing people like Worov, this can’t be a coincidence. I think it’s all a trap. Parties go into the dungeon and find it empty, like we did. So, they go in deeper until the kobolds ambush them and cut off their retreat. I mean, they made the entrance themselves.”

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Oren rolled his eyes. “Great, thanks for the analysis, genius. But how are we going to get back out?”

“The same way we came in,” Therion answered, taking charge. “We didn’t use the proper dungeon entrance. They know we’re in here, but if I’m right, they won’t look for us over there.”

The others exchanged glances, but Bernt didn’t bother. He knew he wasn’t getting a vote this time.

Therion pointed at him.

“Only Bernt and I can open that entrance, so, if we get discovered, we should split up into two groups with one mage each. Are you alright with that, Bernt?”

Right, they might need him. If something happened to Therion. Of course.

Bernt nodded mechanically. This entire situation didn’t feel real. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

“You’ll take Furin and Syrah. If we’re forced to split, your group will keep heading down the marked path, and I’ll scry for a different route for mine.”

Bernt was sure someone was about to object, but nothing happened. Instead, Furin opened the door and stepped back out into the tunnel.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s not wait around.”

***

They moved quickly and quietly, retracing their steps. Still, they didn’t make it more than five minutes before they heard kobolds chattering up ahead.

“What do you think?” Therion asked.

Furin swung his club as if to warm up. “Go through. Move fast.”

“He’s right,” Oren said, though he sounded a little reluctant to Bernt. “If we try to avoid them, we’re going to risk getting herded off course. If we punch through, they might not know where to look.”

Elyn’s flute was already up, and before anyone else could say anything, she started playing.

Bernt immediately took back any charitable thoughts he might have had about bards. If the kobolds hadn’t heard them yet, they certainly did now. The tune that came out was calm, with a slow beat and irregular flourishes. The acoustics in the tunnel were actually very nice. In any other setting, it would be relaxing.

He was about to ask her what she could possibly be thinking when Therion’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“As soon as we engage, can you break them up a bit for Oren and Furin? I’ll put up a force barrier behind them to keep any from escaping. Don’t launch anything before we start the fight.”

Bernt considered for a second before he finally nodded. Clearly, they had their own established tactics.

Raising his pyromancer’s wand, he began to cast, weaving mana through it into a complex pattern. He had a moment, so this was a good opportunity to field-test something he’d been working on during his practice sessions in the sewers.

When the kobolds came into view, Bernt quickly realized what Elyn was doing. The ten or so enemies were no longer talking to each other. Instead, they all walked in silence, staring at nothing. They didn’t react to the party at all—at least not at first. At about ten strides, one of the kobolds’ eyes snapped to Furin, who was standing at the front. It cocked its head, as if it were trying to remember something.

Slowly, it stumbled to a stop and raised its spear, other kobolds bumping into it.

But it was too late.

Arcane missiles ripped into the first few kobolds, followed by Furin, who bashed his way through with shield and club.

Then Bernt released his own spell. It looked like a simple fireball at first, roaring over the kobolds’ heads. They flinched away, and he seemed to have missed. Bernt immediately began casting again, preparing for the next part. Suddenly, the first fireball broke apart, expanding into a wide tongue of flame that curled and turned and swept back up the tunnel toward them, right into the kobolds’ rear.

Just before the searing wind could reach their party, Bernt finished his second spell, raising a heat barrier in front of Furin. It was a risky maneuver, but it paid off. Aboveground, the spell wouldn’t have worked—most of the heat would have dissipated before it could reach the enemy. But Bernt had been curious about what was possible in the confined space of the sewers. It was actually a standard fireball spell, combined with some principles of fire shield and basic flame manipulation. It was still clunky and slow to cast, but it worked.

Most of the kobolds were writhing on the ground in agony. A few were already dead, and Oren was currently ramming a knife into one of only two kobolds that had found themselves on the safe side of Bernt’s heat barrier.

The plan had gone perfectly. Then Elyn’s flute music stopped.

Elyn shouted something, but she didn’t get past the first syllable before she was cut off. Bernt turned in time to see her stumble forward. A kobold had clubbed her in the back of the head with the butt of its spear, and more were coming up from behind. She didn’t go down, probably protected by some enchanted item, but she was clearly caught off guard.

Syrah was already on the ground, two kobolds tying up her limp form. At least she wasn’t dead if they were restraining her. More were coming up behind those. Many, many more.

Bernt raised his wand, but then lowered it. What could he do that wouldn’t hit them as well?

Then Furin barreled past him, charging in to face the new threat. As he did, a magic missile blasted past the dwarf, taking out one of the new kobolds.

Right. Bernt began firing small, dense fire darts into the mass of them. They burned through their skin and clothes, and the little monsters shrieked in pain, but he could already see that it wouldn’t be enough. While he was sure that they hurt, they didn’t go through to the muscle tissue and organs at this range.

The darts didn’t kill or properly disable the kobolds, and he couldn’t cast quickly enough to bring down so many even if they did. Fire also had the unfortunate side effect of cauterizing the wounds it caused, so he couldn’t count on any of them bleeding out. They were already pushing Furin back toward them, though he was laying out one kobold after another.

“Bernt! Get moving!” Therion thundered at him from behind. “You need to get word out to the guild!”

A cold fist clenched around Bernt’s stomach. If they had to split, he was supposed to have Furin and Syrah with him. But they were bogged down, fighting for their lives. Furin didn’t look like he would run even if he could.

They needed him.

“It’s too late!” he called back, and he kept casting.

That was when Therion stepped past him and raised a force shield right in front of his nose.

“They’re taking prisoners. We’re going to hold them here, and you’re going to run. We’ll be fine,” Therion explained, voice hard. He really was skilled, Bernt thought, maintaining the shield, casting magic missiles into the kobolds and talking at the same time.

“Move, now!” he snapped.

For a moment, Bernt wavered. He didn’t want to run. He wasn’t a coward. But breaking down Therion’s shield was only going to distract him. As Bernt fought with himself, the arcanist was taking on an even greater burden, raising another shield to divide the oncoming kobolds and take some of the pressure off of Furin.

The choice had been made for him.

He turned and ran.

The way forward was littered with kobold corpses, and he had to slow down a bit to get through them. There was no sign of Oren—the bastard must have made himself scarce instead of helping. Or maybe it was part of a plan. It didn’t matter now.

Bernt stumbled as something sliced into his calf, cutting deep. With a cry, he looked back. One of the kobolds on the ground was glaring at him, holding itself up with one hand as it held a bloody dagger in the other.

Bernt didn’t have time to think of a spell. He reached for the only thing he saw—a kobold spear with a bone haft, lying on the ground just in arm’s reach—and swung it at his attacker.

The injured kobold was in no condition to dodge and crumpled under the blow.

Using the spear as a walking stick, Bernt hobbled off into the darkness, the sounds of his companions fighting ringing in his ears.