"Feeling any better, Igor?" asked Baron Varn, squatting beside the brawny lumberjack sprawled on the ground with a wet cloth on his forehead.

  "A bit, Your Grace," muttered the big man, and worked himself up into a sitting position.

  Gekkor handed the sick man a canteen of water.

  "Drink. Remember to stay hydrated, or you'll end up back here in an hour."

  Igor obeyed. He gulped down the water to the last drop and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Gekkor patted him on the shoulder and released him back to the others. The lumberjack walked back to where an entrance of a cyclopean tomb used to be. Now it was sheer rock, some sort of reddish sandstone, nothing else. The ritual Cephal had originally used to get into the structure hadn't worked this time. The workers had been assaulting the rock with pickaxes since sunrise, but it didn't yield an inch.

  And the last vital sign from those in there had come two days ago.

  Gekkor had managed to reach out to the squad with a Sending during their rest at Blackstones Ford. Felicia was unable to receive messages in this way (which was perhaps related to her inability to dream), so the cleric had targeted Shakoth. The answer from the sorceress went like this: Darlac, Dusty, Shakoth, Misha reporting in. Having last rest before boss fight. Down on resources and morale. Need reinforcements. Oh damn, they're coming! General! Wake—

  The words had burnt into the baron's mind like so many embers. He'd been at work along with his men, taking turns besieging the deadfall by the underground river and the rock on the surface, ready to dig himself through with his bare hands, and unable to do so even with the best tools available. They were wasting time, and his helplessness in the face of the mysterious powers ruling the keep was driving him mad.

  Gekkor turned to face him and claim his attention.

  "Captain... dammit. Your Grace, this was the third case of fainting today, and it's not yet noon. I have never seen people come down with heat exhaustion symptoms while there is frost on the ground. Are you sure you don't want to try the deadfall again instead?"

  Maegar Varn scratched the back of his head under his fur hat.

  "To be honest, Gekkor, I'm not sure which approach makes less sense. No pickaxe, not even Cephal's magic can bring this rock down. It looks like sandstone but it holds like granite. And as to that godsdamned heap of debris, no matter how much we haul away, all of it reappears in an hour. I'm running out of ideas."

  "I know what to do!" enthused Willas Gunderson, his deep cleavage showing goosebumps in the cold.

  "Out with it, Chronicler," said the baron dryly. "When obvious methods fail, it's time for less than obvious ones."

  Willas rubbed his gloved hands together, bracing for a nice infodumping session.

  "There is a sort of ritual that Nidalese natives used to practise when they had trouble building a wall that wouldn't collapse overnight. It's called a construction sacrifice. The builders kill someone precious to them, usually a wife or lover, then burn the body and mix the ashes into the mortar."

  The baron frowned.

  "But we are not building anything here, Willas. Also, the only 'wife or lover' I have is in there, behind the deadfall, and I intend to get her out, not sacrifice her. That's why we are here, remember?"

  "I know. However, a deconstruction sacrifice might be in order."

  Gekkor rubbed his forehead.

  "So you're suggesting that we burn someone to ash, sprinkle their remains onto the deadfall, and then it will remain shoveled away? With all respect, Chronicler, this is the dumbest idea I've ever heard."

  "Why?" protested the Chronicler. "A fireball from the Lord Regent, and it's all sorted. In fact, perhaps it doesn't even have to be a person. Maybe a pet will do as well."

  Gekkor paused for a moment to let it sink in. The smirk that was his default expression melted off his face, giving way to bloodthirst. Any perceived threat against his useless elk friend transformed the goofy cleric of the Old Deadeye into a murderous beast.

  "Master Chronicler, if you dare suggest hurting my Whelk, I will curse you into oblivion in the name of Erastil. I will make sure that every single arrow shot within fifty-three feet from you will find its way into your buttcheeks, and any hound within a mile will come to feast upon your flesh, starting with your balls. Understood?"

  "Fine, fine! At least I'm searching for solutions, okay? If you have any better idea, do share!"

  Maegar Varn ran his fingers through his hair by reflex, accidentally sweeping the hat off his head. Annoyed, he caught it mid-air and crumpled it in his fists. If he wanted progress, he had to make a decision.

  "Alright!" he said. "Workers! Put the picks down! Everyone here!"

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  As the workers and advisors collected around him, he cast a reassuring glance at Gekkor. As much as he hated that elk, like everyone else except its owner, he would never risk losing a friend over it.

  "Looks like we got stalled here," he announced. "We'll try the deadfall again. I will need Cephal to cast Bull's Strength and Bear's Endurance on all of us, without exception. Also Haste, refreshed as needed. We will not stop working until the entire deadfall is cleared away. Also, Gekkor, try to contact the squad again, and tell them to start digging from the inside. Perhaps that will do the trick."

  "Do we have any cold iron equipment?" wondered the priest.

  "Not yet," said Cephal. "However, if the fey situation isn't resolved soon, we'll have to look into that."

  "Then let's hope we can make do with what we have," said the baron. "Get to work!"

  After the entire team, from leaders to workers, laboured through the rest of the day and into the night, they succeeded in clearing a passage into the building. The trapped squad couldn't join the effort, as Gekkor's Sending attempt was unsuccessful. The workers remained outside, ready to step in if the breach in the wall began to fill up with debris again. The baron, barely able to walk after a whole day's shoveling, entered with Cephal, Willas and the three Varnlings who had usually constituted General Darlac's honour guard. He silently prayed to Desna to save them all from getting entombed in there.

  "Phew!" said the Chronicler, dropping his weight down on the first chair he noticed.

  "Willas, no!" screamed the baron and Cephal in unison. The Bruiser chuckled, until Tehara softly slapped him on the neck with her tail.

  "Why? If there were any mimics here, the General must have killed them already, right?... Right?" The Chronicler started to tremble. "Um... what do I do now?"

  The nerve of a bow sang, and an arrow pierced the upholstery and frame of another chair, about ten yards away from Willas's seat. On cue, a ray of heat burst forth from Cephal's hand, one that should have set the chair ablaze. However, instead of catching fire, the poor piece of furniture melted into a puddle of sizzling, acidic slime.

  "An ooze," said the baron. "Congratulations, Willas, you've chosen the safe chair and won some more time to live. However, remember that here in Lostlarn Keep anything, I repeat, anything can be a mimic, an ooze, or some sort of fey fuckery. This stands for people as well."

  Whimpering, Willas jumped to his feet, trying to put the largest possible distance between himself and any object in the room.

  "If Darlac and the others are still here," remarked Tehara softly, "there's no way they haven't heard this ruckus."

  For a few moments, they stood still and listened. The halls remained silent. No footsteps, no voices.

  "Felicia?" called the baron.

  No answer came.

  "Shall we risk to open that treasure chest?" asked Tehara, breaking the silence. As a former pirate, she had a sixth sense for sniffing out valuables.

  Gekkor released another arrow, just in case, making sure that the chest was, indeed, a chest. The baron flipped out his lockpick and opened its lock in a minute. He rummaged in thousand-year-old, badly preserved rags that crumbled to dust between his fingers, and pulled out a longbow, in perfect shape, its horn cold to the touch. He held it out towards the cleric.

  "Here you go, Gekkor. A present from people long gone by."

  The priest took it, running his hands along the weapon.

  "Thanks, Your Grace. How come Darlac didn't claim this beauty?"

  "She has no lockpicker on her squad," said the wizard. "You know, the only one was—"

  He shut his mouth under the baron's glare, but his smirk remained. Willas was quick to fill the awkward silence with some much-needed scholarly exposition.

  "Composite longbow, about five centuries old, from the Wave-Patterned-Bowl culture of Iobaria, probably related to a moon-worshipping centaur tribe. A masterpiece of centaur handicraft, this is one of the very few known composite longbow models that can be fired without a nocked arrow. Actually, fired might be the wrong word. More like iced, considering that it shoots cold energy bolts instead of arrows."

  "That might come in handy," said Tehara.

  "Maybe I could even use it in combination with normal arrows and deal increased damage," mused Gekkor.

  "Now that you say," remarked Cephal, "I'll be damned if this isn't the centaur queen's bow. I clearly remember that I saw a cultist die from an icicle in his eyesocket. And that icicle seemed to be made of frozen blood and eyeball goo."

  Willas shuddered as the brand-new nightmare material settled into his subconscious.

  The baron's shoulders sagged. That meant Aecora Silverfire, the centaur queen Felicia had facilitated an alliance with, was dead. Probably the rest of the centaurs were as well, except the guards left in front of the fake tomb, who had departed right after the rescue team's arrival. There went Felicia's hope to recruit the most unusual cavalry in the history of the River Kingdoms.

  "Let's search through these rooms," he said, "for clues on our friends' whereabouts. However, mind the mimics. We must approach every single chest carefully, ready to attack."

  "Very smart," muttered Tehara, as the group crept across the marble floor towards the next door, staying carefully in the middle. "A good way to keep us from searching for cover in case we get shot at."

  "I see you're getting into the Lostlarn Keep mood, Tehara," said Cephal. He held his staff ready to cast or hit, and despite his smirk, his knuckles were visibly white.

  The baron sighed inside. Ten minutes into the dungeon, and everyone was already on edge, including himself. He flinched disproportionately when a bolt of freezing cold whistled past his right ear and hit the door in front of him. The door didn't react, if not for the icicles forming on the snout of the lion's head relief decorating one of its panels. He turned back to glare at Gekkor, then walked up to the door and set to work, dabbing some weapon oil onto the hinges and into the lock structure. He waited for a few moments, then pressed down the handle and slowly pushed the door inwards. It opened without a single creak, and the baron froze at what he saw inside.