A few drops of acid sizzled up on the glowing embers of the campfire in the cold, starlit night of the Tors of Levenies. Baron Maegar Varn, taking the first turn of guard duty, startled out of his skin at the sound, just as Cephal had intended. The old wizard chuckled to himself.

  "Cephal, are you messing with the fire again?" grumbled the baron. "I should have thought so. One would think you'd be doing your best to get a good night's sleep and replenish your spells, instead of scaring the ever-living shit out of me."

  Well, the fact that their squad of six soldiers plus one half-trained bear camped right in the middle of a centaur encampment, who could easily trample them underhoof on the slightest whim, was not exactly conducive to a good night's sleep. Neither were the events of last day. No wonder Maegar was as skittish as a doe, just like Cephal himself.

  Their mission to get Old Stump Village rid of a zombie cyclops infestation had led to a surprising discovery. The harmless-looking village, the existence of which predated the Varnlings' arrival in the Tors by a lot, was home to a dark cult worshipping Charon, the Rider of Death. Accordingly, some of the villagers had welcomed the giant undead with open arms, while others had reacted like normal people: first by panicking, then by running to their ruler for help. Of course, Darlac had been itching to unleash her inner crusader at the hardcore cultists, while Cephal had tried in vain to advocate for them as a valuable source of information, and the baron (predictably) had listened to his dick in making his decision. They had followed the fleeing cultists to this ancient cyclopean tomb guarded by the centaurs, and eliminated them to the last man. However, the centaurs couldn't distinguish between people wearing black robes and people wearing orange-and-blue uniforms (perhaps they were colourblind, or just plain stupid). Trying to minimise bloodshed and diplomacy issues, Darlac had made the squad run a gauntlet through the battlefield to the centaur queen, and it had been close to a miracle that they'd managed to identify themselves before getting turned into pincushions. Which, in turn, had led to the conclusion of a blood covenant between the queen and the baron, pledging their support to each other in eradicating the ancient evil lurking in the tomb. A pledge they were supposed to make good on the next day.

  "You'll have my spells all nice and ready come morning," muttered Cephal under his breath. "Just one more smoke, and I'm turning in."

  "You smoke way too much, friend."

  "A wizard never smokes too much, nor too little. He smokes precisely as much as he needs in order to function. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I don't like this mess Darlac got us in. Not one tiny bit."

  The baron exhaled sharply, almost as if he were smoking himself.

  "Fine, Cephal, open your heart. I'm listening. It's not that I have anything better to do."

  Cephal rummaged in his backpack for a dose of tobacco, and filled his pipe in a leisurely manner. He snapped his fingers for a spark to light it.

  "Here we are," he said, releasing his first loop of smoke, "in the circle of our so-called allies, after promising them to clear this dungeon we have absolutely no information about, apart from that it's... well, ancient and evil. Apart from us three battle-hardened, resourceful, invincible, awesome, stalwart veteran Varnlings, our squad includes an unpredictable bear, a greenhorn cleric and two moderately seasoned soldiers who barely started their elite training. Are you sure it's a good idea to descend into the dungeon with this level of preparations?"

  "I'll be completely honest with you, Cephal. Perhaps we could use a little more time and resources to prepare, but now it's too late for that. Centaurs are not a patient type. If I say we need more time, they will think I'm trying to wiggle out of this, and whatever Darlac says, I don't think that would end well for us."

  "Maybe I could smuggle us out of the encampment with a Dimension Door, and send a message to Kjerdi to bring reinforcements. A Haste spell could help us gain some distance before—"

  "Even if I were willing to cheat our allies," interrupted the baron, "they would catch up with us before Kjerdi even sets out from Varnhold Town. No, Cephal. I've thought this through. We do have a fighting chance. We have just enough information to know what to prepare for. The cultists considered the zombie cyclopes their allies, and what they wanted to unleash from the tomb must be something related. We have Dusty and the bear for meat shields against large enemies, a paladin of Iomedae and a cleric of Pharasma for holy energy, two magic wielders to counter any magic attack, and myself for dealing with traps and treasure chests in my downtime between hamstringing those undead monstrosities. And once we get the ancient evil out of the way, we'll probably have the entire zombie cyclops problem under control, which means we'll be free to explore those dungeons we've left intact until today. I can tell the budget could use a little extra treasure."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Hell, I envy your optimism."

  "My optimism usually proves to be the right way of viewing things."

  Just this once, Cephal refrained from listing the times when Maegar's optimism had proved to be the wrong way of viewing things. After all, they had always pulled it off somehow, and those almost-failures made for great stories to tell afterwards. And if any of the others had been eavesdropping, it was better for them to think the baron had a steady grip on the situation. Let them sleep peacefully, trusting their ruler, without a care in the world.

  Except maybe Darlac. By the sound of the constant rustling noises coming from her tent, she wasn't sleeping well. Or at all.

  "Darlac?" said Cephal softly, careful not to wake the others. "I know you're awake. Come offer your two coppers."

  Both men's eyes locked onto the rightmost tent. The rustling continued, but no answer came, except moans of struggle.

  "Felicia? You okay in there?"

  "That's what you get for too much crusading during the day," smirked the wizard. "You can't stop, not even in your dreams."

  Maegar turned so pale that his face could pass for the moon.

  "You know she cannot dream, right?"

  "Huh?"

  "The last time she had a dream was when she was a small kid. Something's meddling with her brain!"

  Cephal quickly conjured a globe of light and attached it to the baron's head.

  "Go check on her. I'll keep watch for you."

  The baron crawled into Darlac's tent. The rustling intensified, and Cephal saw the tarp bulge out at different spots, hinting at frantic activity inside. He hoped very much he wasn't watching something he shouldn't.

  Until the tent collapsed.

  Once Cephal was done laughing, he conjured a strong Mage Hand, and used it to raise the tarp and let the trapped couple crawl out. When he saw Darlac's face, though, the next bout of laughter died in his throat. The aasimar's skin around her eyes as well as her eyelids were marred by scratches, some of them deep enough to bleed.

  "What the hell," he muttered. "Fleas don't bite people's eyes, or do they?"

  He retracted the Mage Hand, allowing the baron to fight his way out of the tarp on his own, and hurried to check on Darlac from closer up. She was still groggy and trembling from the experience.

  "Not fleas," she muttered, lowering her gaze. "It just... felt like a good idea to remove my eyeballs. To make the maggots go away, or something."

  Cephal shuddered. It was a good thing Darlac kept her fingernails short. All that hassle about knuckle push-ups had paid off at the end of the day.

  The baron finally found his way out of the collapsed tent and got to his feet, mustering an admirable amount of dignity under the given circumstances.

  "I suppose," he said, dusting off himself, "I don't have to make further arguments as to why we must eradicate that ancient evil, whatever it is. It has apparently made its opening move to acknowledge our presence here. The battle is on. There's no turning back."

  Cephal shook his head in disbelief. Wekky, their halfling cleric, had promised that his evening ritual would keep them safe from undead influence. Now either Wekky had overestimated his own abilities, or this was something else than undead influence. Which, again, begged the question whether they had prepared for the right kind of enemy.

  "I think I've had enough sleep for tonight," mumbled Darlac. "I can keep watch."

  "No, love," said the baron. "I need you well-rested tomorrow. You can stay here with me for a little longer, then we'll wake Dusty to relieve us and go to sleep together. You'll be safe in my arms."

  "Unless she decides to chase the maggots away with your eyeballs," smirked the wizard. "Fine, fine! I'll see myself out. No need to look daggers at me."

  "It's about time," muttered Darlac. "Put on some warding or a blindfold, Cephal. Perhaps it will come for you next."

  The wizard beat the ash out of his pipe, bade goodnight to his friends with reassuring handshakes, and retreated to his tent with his spellbook, wondering what to change about the spells he planned to prepare. If only he knew what to expect.