“Believe me now?” Ralph challenged.
“Well, he’s not lying,” another said, and they all shifted, almost visibly relaxing.
“Is it true?” a half-orc asked. “The dungeon on the peak of Shadow Crag?”
Ralph nodded. “On my life, I swear it is.”
“Your life means nothing at all to me, boy,” the pirate leader snarled. “Save yourself the trouble of swearing by it.”
“Kerril.” Zarrick stepped forward and spoke quietly to the old man, taking him briefly aside. “If he’s right, then we owe it to ourselves to search out this Zagorath. Our sigils are growing weaker by the day. If we don’t find fresh essence soon, our weapons will be useless.”
The old man shoved at his lieutenant, and then spun back, prodding Ralph’s chest with a gnarled hand forged via decades of combat. “You lie!”
“I’ll prove it,” Ralph said, a grim smile crossing his face. “Single combat?”
“You dare?” Kerril’s wind-beaten lips curved upward, and a desire for blood sparked in his eyes.
“Oh, I dare. You’re ancient, old man. And if what your friend there just told me is correct, then every one of your little band wants to see Zagorath for themselves.”
Infernal Essence flooded Ralph with murderous rage and invincible confidence. He wasn’t as strong without the Dark Reaper, but he was still fast. The mace was far heavier a weapon than he was accustomed to, but his muscles had almost doubled in size in a mere week thanks to the powers gained from farming monsters.
“If I win,” Ralph continued, “I’ll take your place among this band and lead them into Zagorath. If you win, you can take this mace from my cold, dead fingers.”
The pirates shifted, sudden excitement flooding through them. They looked to their leader, who just laughed at that and stepped back. He unclasped his cloak, letting it fall to the ground, then he tore his shirt over his head. His chest was thin, leathery, and scarred from years of battle.
“You really think it’ll be that easy?” he cackled. “Well then, boy, it’ll be my pleasure to bury you in these sands. How many do you think I’ve slain?”
“I really don’t care. Why do you think numbers matter? You won’t prevail against me.”
The old man—Kerril—gestured, and one of his men gave him a pair of two-handed swords. Rather than select one of the serrated weapons, Kerril took one in each hand. The blades were old and scratched but they shone with fresh oil. The warlord’s muscles bulged with the effort of wielding two-handed swords in single hands, but he seemed well-practiced as he rotated them. The blades whistled as they spun through the air, and his fellow pirates grinned in expectation.
He stepped forward, and Ralph stepped equally forward to meet him. The others, respecting the ancient tradition, circled them as they drew their own weapons. He’d only ever heard of this in tales at his mother’s bedside, but if he turned to flee, they’d cut him down like a wild beast.
Then, without warning, Kerril raced a few steps ahead, a black blade arcing down to end the fight before it even began. Ralph narrowly managed to parry it and then saw a second blade hissing downward, looking to take advantage of the opening created. Ralph swung to the right as the serrated edge bit and chewed into his face. He barely felt the pain, though, and charged into his opponent, closing the distance with a firm stride.
He pivoted the mace over the edge of Kerril’s weapon, the other man now being forced to back off. The pirate’s second sword slid over his first, looking to scissor Ralph’s precious mace from his grasp and tear it away. Kerril wanted to score an easy kill, but Ralph ripped his weapon free and then swung it. Kerril leaped almost five strides into the air, dodging the weapon before landing deftly on his feet.
The pirate came again, and this time, his blades whirled around for a double-edged killing blow. Ralph used every ounce of his newfound speed to keep the serrated black blades at bay. His opponent had become a whirling dervish of death with an endless supply of energy. Unless Ralph could score a hit, this battle would end swiftly, and not in his favor.
He turned away a strike, ducked the second, then shot a kick at the old man’s gut, just like the move the troll of Zagorath had used. It caught the pirate off-guard, and he grunted, staggering backward. Ralph dodged back as a wicked blade missed his face by a hair’s breadth. Pressing on, Ralph thrust the mace’s head forward. The stone cracked against the pirate’s chest, but the momentum still wasn’t enough to crack bone. Kerril grimaced, and it seemed the attack had at least bruised him.
With a scream of rage, the pirate burst forward, his sword descending. Ralph twisted and shoved his leg up into a forceful kick that caught the pirate in the upper arm and spun him around. His other sword, always hovering, snarled toward Ralph’s neck. The mace found the blade, Ralph grunting and cussing as the impact spread the whole way down the length of his weapon to his hands. The reverberations must have shocked Kerril too, because he tensed up and let loose his grip on the sword’s handle.
The pirates followed them both, keeping the circle in close, watching for any signs of defeat. They cheered at the blood—but cheering for whom, Ralph couldn’t ascertain. It didn’t matter—all that mattered was the old man who stood between Ralph and revenge.
Kerril needed to die.
The bruise on the old man’s chest was quickly growing darker, and it seemed Ralph’s first estimation had been wrong; the bones might actually have been broken by the strike, and from the pirate leader’s heavy breathing, it was likely.
Kerril’s movements were desperate as he brought one of his swords crashing down, looking to split a skull asunder, but Ralph swung to the side and struck gold. The mace smashed into the pirate’s arm, its raw flesh pulverizing before the
