Zagorath. It should have been the beginning, but it’d ended everything.
His dreams. His hopes. Everything.
Without Alaxon, what the fuck was he supposed to do?
He couldn’t return to Cothslar, to their contempt and their belief he was a curse. Anger flooded and coiled inside his body, and he struck the tree. It crunched in response, a tiny crack splitting it, right down the middle. Even without his beloved Dark Reaper, the Infernal Essence coursing through his veins gave him incredible strength. Yet even the sword’s power hadn’t been enough to kill the half-troll or her dungeon master.
As Ralph nestled on the brittle undergrowth, he stubbornly refused to cry. Only a week ago, he would have bawled until his eyes ran dry, but now things were different. He was harder, stronger, and more accustomed to defeat. Yet he still couldn’t rid his ears of the sound of Alaxon’s demise as the false priest’s form was impaled, crushed, and ground into the hard obsidian of the dungeon.
He’d go on to hear that same sound every night before he slept, of that he was sure.
Exhaustion must finally have won because the next thing Ralph heard was a melee of rough voices muttering around him. His eyes sprang open, and he was on his feet in a second, ready to fight, the stone-headed mace gripped tightly in both hands.
Half hidden in the shadows of the rolling dunes and patchy grass, a group of armed warriors halted. Their faces were hidden, but there were nine of them all moving in Ralph’s direction. Curses flooded through his mind, and then, when one of them called out, he gritted his teeth and prepared to fight for his life.
“Where did you find that mace, boy?” a voice called out.
“Why? What does it matter to you?” Ralph demanded, suddenly irked. It was clear they would try to rob him, so he planned on giving the impression he was more trouble than it was worth.
The group stepped closer, and he realized they weren’t some rag-tag pack of half-orcs looking for easy plunder. Studded leather armor, curved blades, and gold earrings glittered in the half-light. These were Sand Pirates, the kind who filled his mother’s stories.
Ralph’s Infernal Essence curled, thrashing at his insides. After absorbing so much of it, he could feel it now in the bodies of the pirates. They were adventurers like the half-orc Scalpers had been. Like he was.
“Because,” said the rasping voice, “It looks awfully similar to one my mate Gavin used to wield. Strange.”
Ralph’s fingers tightened around the mace. “Must be your imagination. I won it fair and square.”
The speaker was an old man, a hard life scored and etched into every line of his face. He almost looked like Alaxon would have done, if the false priest had spent more time killing monsters and less time luring young men with false prophecies. The thought slithered through Ralph’s mind like an insidious force, and suddenly he was furious.
Hatred—at his own weakness, and at Alaxon’s lies and false promises—was boiling in every fraction of his body.
The Sand Pirates surrounded him now in a loose semi-circle. He recognized two half-orcs, but the others looked human. It was difficult to tell under the scarves that kept the dust of their travels from their faces, but their bearing seemed familiar enough to hint at their origins. They seemed disinterested, unmotivated, and as the old man stepped forward, Ralph let a foot slide back into a fighting stance.
He couldn’t kill all of them, but if they wanted his life, they’d be sure to taste the dying wrath of Ralph Kraus the Adventurer.
“You bested Gavin?” the older man rasped.
“No. I found this in a dungeon.”
“A dungeon?” a tall, thin man questioned. “What, here?”
“Shut it, Varrik,” the old man snarled, and the other fell silent.
The old man was clearly the leader, then. Ralph fixed his eyes on him, feeling the hatred boil even hotter. He wanted to rend, tear and destroy, not stand there and banter with this derelict of a man. As his eyes flickered over the others and took in the measure of them, something occurred to him; of course, why hadn’t he realized sooner?
They were better equipped, smarter, and undoubtedly more experienced than the other band of half-breeds with whom he’d faced Zagorath. With them by his side, he was sure he could conquer the dungeon. The sudden realization and the plan’s emergence brought a bright smile to Ralph’s face, his anger calming under the weight of ambition. Hope blossomed in his chest, and his hunger for power reignited like a latent ember transformed into roaring furnace when the wind consumed it.
“So, Gavin is dead,” the old man muttered. “Sounds like his old woman’s message was true—there is a dungeon back in the realm. Old Gavin never was the patient type. What can you tell us about this Zagorath, boy?”
“I’ll only tell you if you promise to return there with me,” Ralph said.
“Ha. I don’t make promises to young whelps like you and let me tell you something: I don’t reckon you even entered this dungeon. I still bet my life you stole that mace from Gavin. It would explain how he got killed by an infant dungeon; without his mace, he would’ve been easy pickings. This all makes me think you’re responsible for his death.”
“Look. I don’t know this Gavin. Like I told you, I grabbed this weapon from the dungeon.”
“You’re barely even old enough to sire children, let alone fight against a dungeon. You think I’m to believe you succeeded where Gavin failed?”
Fury boiled, white-hot and more insistent than ever, but Ralph forced himself to calm down and then untied his jerkin, letting it fall to the ground at his feet. With his eyes still intently watching the twisted old pirate, he used his free hand to tug off his tunic. He turned, just enough for one of them to see his tattoo swirling with Infernal Essence and etched into the
