“Scalpers! Proceed!” Ralph said calmly.
The raiders fanned out from the corridor, their eyes as much on the tiles in front of them as on the half-troll who lay in wait. When the last half-orc entered the chamber, Ralph sprang forward. He moved with intention as he blurred toward her; he was moving so fast that I doubted a trap would have triggered, even if I’d installed one in this room.
I’d been calling Ralph a kid, but I now realized he was anything but. Whether it was the magical sword he carried or some kind of pent-up rage, I didn’t know.
When the two titans collided, Ralph swept his blade in a powerful arc, looking to cleave Bertha’s head from her shoulders. The half-troll was equally fast, flooded with the sigil of her Savage Halberd, and she blocked the man’s strike with an almost contemptuous ease. She lifted her foot and kicked Ralph in the gut, sending him sliding over the polished obsidian floor.
The other raiders gathered their nerves and retraced the steps of their new leader. They were still wary of potential traps, but they’d seen Ralph sprint forward without consequence, so they soon became confident. In a matter of seconds, they would surround my half-orc champion, and she would become overwhelmed.
I wanted to save Von Dominus for a final, terrifying encounter, but I still had a few Hellbats up my sleeve. I summoned the last of them from the vents in the ceiling, and they swarmed into the blanketed darkness, their shining red eyes agleam with the promise of blood. One monster found a throat, another the inside of an arm. The injured raiders stumbled into their friends, a few deciding that now was the time to run.
“There’s no loot in here,” a terrified half-orc screamed as the bats tore his comrades to shreds.
A pair of orcs joined him as they fled back through the corridor, and I watched with bloodthirsty glee as my hidden, augmented spikes ripped more of them to pieces, yanking and eviscerating their bloody forms against the floor and ceiling. And still, my Hellbats added to the chaos as they swirled, diving for bared skin, bloody wounds, and for anything that still stood on two legs.
Ralph and Bertha continued to exchange blows, neither inflicting so much as a cut on the other. The half-troll didn’t even look like she was exerting herself whereas Ralph’s muscular body glistened with sweat and his chest heaved with exhaustion. In no hurry, Bertha moved forward, and that berserker grin I loved so much spread wide across her face. As he split the air with a skilled swing, Bertha’s halberd whipped around to intercept it. The shaft of her weapon cracked off his shoulder and he backed off, giving himself distance.
They were locked in a battle that didn’t seem like it would end anytime soon, and there were still nine raiders left. The half-orcs were coated in blood—either their own or that of their compatriots—and they looked pissed. These were the survivors of traps, monsters, and champions. They weren’t so easily killed, nor would they flee from the battle. Despite the obvious odds, they would remain until the last half-orc died.
Now was the time for Von Dominus to make an entrance.
Chapter Twenty-One
The dais shifted and the obsidian turned to liquid. I spawned my elf, and he rose from the glistening black rock like a demon from the deepest pits of hell. His eyes gleamed silver on black, and I reached out, my consciousness animating him like a lightning bolt. My elvish eyes combed over the raiders before me, drinking in their fear and confusion. They knew so little about dungeons and weren’t expecting this avatar in all his vampiric glory.
I couldn’t help a smile of contemptuous pleasure from forming on my face. I’d left my tunic behind after Bertha’s reward, so my chest was bare. But it didn’t matter because it increased the intended effect; I looked like the spawn of hell itself. And I was.
“Welcome to Zagorath.” My voice was smooth and sharp, the tone laced with challenge. I spread my arms wide and gestured at the walls of the First Floor while the raiders were frozen by my appearance. Even Ralph had allowed his two-handed sword to drop, and Bertha hadn’t taken the opportunity to execute him—she was enjoying my display of power far too much. “I trust the Scalpers have enjoyed my hospitality?”
I used the same name Ralph had to address the raiders, and they seemed to quiver at my knowledge of their moniker.
“You are the dungeon,” Ralph said, raising his sword and pointing it at me. Realization touched his face, but his eyes were still filled with a cold hatred promising vengeance.
“Guilty as charged,” I said, my smile widening. “Ralph, isn’t it?”
“You’ll pay for the death of Alaxon,” he snarled.
“The old man? Oh, he was delicious,” I said, chuckling. “Tell me, Ralph. What was he to you? A father? A grandfather? Or just some man who told you that you were the Chosen One, that you were destined for greatness instead of shoveling shit on a farm?”
I had no idea who Ralph even was—these were just guesses. I enjoyed shit-talking him, and I knew from decades of gaming what inciting someone to anger could do to their battle skills. My words were purposeful, an attempt to use his obvious grief to turn him rabid and predictable. From the way his face went livid, it seemed I’d hit more than one pressure point. Perfect.
Ralph stepped forward, took his essence-imbued sword in two hands, and glared at me with an impressive amount of boiling hatred. “Your servants will die. I will bring this abomination to the ground and shatter your core. Everything you have built I will tear down around your head.”
That just made me smile wider, and I took a step down the raised platform in further invitation. “Do your worst, Chosen One.”
My use of his title was the breaking point; Ralph lunged forward but