32

“Grimnir’s beard, lad,” said Fawkes, looking at Hunter as if she’d never seen him before. “Aren’t you the surprise tactician?”

“Wait till you see what I can do with an actual full raiding party”, he said, not bothering to hide a smug smile. “Ever heard of the Mixed Unit Tactics handbook for StormQuest IX? I practically wrote the damn thing. Well, not really–it was mostly Packman, to be honest. But I deserved at least a co-author credit.”

The plan was simple, really; they’d move progressively from one corridor or hall to the next, have Biggs and Wedge lure low-dwellers one by one or in small groups, and dispatch them quickly and efficiently before they had the chance to cause much trouble. Some corridors even intersected in halls that had narrow doors, which would make excellent, easily defensible choke points in case something went wrong and they bit off more than they could chew. Fawkes, Fyodor, the Brethren, and Hunter himself were hardly an organized raiding party, but the strategy was still solid.

“It is a decent plan,” Sister Peregrine agreed, impressed, and Brother Aurochs quietly nodded his approval, too. “We shall attempt it, and may the Ancestors grant us the strength to see it through.”

So they did. The first few attempts went smooth; Hunter’s ravens scouted ahead, while the rest of them hid and waited for low-dwellers to wander close, weapons in hand. Fyodor, who was proving to be a far quicker study than any half-feral canine had a right to be, brought up the rear, making sure no nasty surprise caught them unprepared.

Hunter’s Low-Light Vision ability was gradually turning out to be a much better investment of his very limited Inspiration points than he’d initially thought. Paired with the Mental Link he shared with Biggs and Wedge, its effects extended to his familiars as well. What that meant was that the two ravens made for pretty effective scouts, even in the dark of night–or, as the case was, in the dark depths of the Halls Of The Ancestor. So they flew from corridor to corridor, following the path Sister Peregrine had suggested, looking for anything ugly, stinky, and carnivorous. Judging from the excited chatter that suddenly flooded the mental link they shared, it didn’t take them long.

“Okay, boys” he projected through the link. “Try to draw the attention of one of the uglies–but just one, alright? Blast it with Ill Omen and bring it to us.”

The ravens gave him their now customary mental equivalent of “aye-aye sir”, and got right to work. Not ten seconds later, Hunter started getting one notification after the other.

Biggs uses Ill Omen. Biggs curses the Low-Dweller for 7 eldritch damage.

Low-Dweller is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen.

Wedge uses Ill Omen. Wedge curses the Low-Dweller for 9 eldritch damage.

Low-Dweller is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen (x2).

Biggs uses Ill Omen. Biggs curses the Low-Dweller for 8 eldritch damage.

Low-Dweller is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen (x3).

Wedge uses Ill Omen. Wedge curses the Low-Dweller for 7 eldritch damage.

Low-Dweller is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen (x4).

By the time the low-dweller reared its ugly head around the corner, it was already halfway dead and riddled with so many stacks of Curse of Ill Omen it could hardly move. Sister Peregrine stuck the head of her spear through the thing’s eye, and that was that.

Hunter’s Hunters one, Uglies of the Halls zero.

Careful not to draw more than a couple of low-dwellers at a time or make too much noise, they rinsed and repeated until they could safely move to the next position Sister Peregrine pointed out, and then the next. Hunter didn’t even have to do any of the fighting himself. He just orchestrated the whole thing and watched as the low-dwellers fell and his ability ranks increased. Having his familiars spam Ill Omen had got his Conjure Familiar all the way up to 12 and his Augmented Familiar up to 7. He also got a couple of ranks in Low-Light Vision, taking it up to 10. Plus, the low-dwellers also dropped a few pieces of disgusting-looking Warped Flesh and a few strands of Essence of a Low-Dweller, which he proceeded to stuff in his backpack–much to the two Brethren’s astonishment and Fawkes’s chagrin.

Not bad, he thought to himself as he scrolled through the notifications.

Not bad at all.

In fact, Hunter felt more at ease with himself than he’d had in a long time, both in Elderpyre and in the real world. He felt in control. In the few short moments of victory that followed every successful ambush, he basked in that feeling–and in the silent nods and acknowledgement of his very skilled, very deadly comrades.

For once, everything was falling into place.

Of course, all good things eventually come to an end, and the eventual kink in Hunter’s plan came in the form of something bigger, uglier, and stinkier than the average low-dweller. Much more so. Biggs and Wedge were off looking to lure the next in a long line of easy kills, when they spotted it.

“Big ugly!” they projected to Hunter through the mental connection. “Very big, very ugly, close! Coming closer!”

“There’s something big ahead,” he warned the others. “Coming this way.”

Fyodor felt it, too. Up until then, he’d been standing by Hunter, quiet as a church mouse. Now he was pacing up and down, sniffing the air, letting deep, low growls and showing his teeth at the darkness around the corner of the next corridor.

That was when Hunter received a couple fresh notifications, and learned something very, very important about the two feathery idiots he had based his whole plan on; no matter how smart they might seem to be at times, Biggs and Wedge had to be micromanaged. To their defense, they did exactly what they were supposed to; they blasted the big ugly with Ill Omen, and started luring it closer.

You have engaged an elite enemy.

Biggs uses Ill Omen. Biggs curses the Low-Ogre for 8 eldritch damage.

Low-Ogre resists Curse of Ill Omen.

Wedge uses Ill Omen. Wedge curses the Low-Ogre for 9 eldritch damage.

Low-Ogre resists Curse of Ill Omen.

A primal, blood-curdling roar echoed through the Halls as the yet-unseen Low-Ogre barreled after the ravens.

“Back,” a grim-faced Fawkes hissed, taking control of the situation. “Run back to the last intersection. We’ll use the door as a choke point!”

She was right, Hunter realized. It wasn’t just the low-ogre. After that bellowing roar, every last one of the uglies in the Halls would be gunning for them. This was an elite enemy, after all, or so the notification said. It wasn’t uncommon for dungeon mini-bosses to have additional enemies around them, unless they were particularly powerful brutes themselves.

Hunter didn’t know which of the two would be worse.

They’d just started to run back to the intersection when Biggs and Wedge flew around the corner behind them, and the rampaging low-ogre followed. If the low-dwellers were the monstrous combinations of zombified humans and dogs or badgers, then the low-ogre had something definitely gorilla-like added to the mix. It had the same not-exactly-human characteristics, the same tan and blotchy skin, the same tiny, dead eyes. It also had powerful forearms covered in scales and hardened flesh, was built like a dump truck, and was two and a half times as tall as a regular low-dweller–which also meant it had to be about fifteen times as massive. The sheer size of the monstrosity was that of a small damn elephant. And, as if that wasn’t unnerving enough, the low-ogre was carrying two or three corpses over its shoulder. They were the broken bodies of Kannewik, Hunter realized, the dancing Cor undead guardians Sister Peregrine had taken them to see earlier.

Fawkes and the Brethren ran, but Fyodor didn’t. The direwolf stood its ground and barked at the oncoming behemoth, showing his teeth and trembling in fear and excitement. He was either very brave or very dumb. Or, more likely, both. To make matters worse, Sister Peregrine was the one with the torch, and she’d left the hall faster than a cat lapping chain lightning. Hunter’s Low-Light Vision kicked in just in time to see the low-ogre swing a desiccated Kannewik corpse at the direwolf, missing him by a hair’s breadth.

“Fyodor!” Hunter shouted, looking over his shoulder and lagging behind. “Run, you dumb mutt!”

That was a mistake. Following the sound of his voice, the low-ogre’s attention snapped from the direwolf to Hunter. It squinted its tiny eyes, raised the battered corpse above its head as if to take another swing at Fyodor… and launched it straight at Hunter.

The Low-Ogre uses Corpse Fling. The Low-Ogre hits you for 25 bludgeoning damage.

You are now stunned.

The Kannewik mummy hit him squarely in the back, knocking the wind out of him and unceremoniously dropping him on the floor like a sack of potatoes. He hit the dark stone face-first, chipped a tooth, and felt his nose break with a sickening crunch.

You take 2 bludgeoning damage.

You are now bleeding.

The adrenaline flooding his brain numbed most of the pain, but the shock of the impact–both of the impacts–left him fuzzy and disoriented. Which was probably what the low-ogre had aimed for in the first place, pun not intended. He heard Fawkes shout something, then he heard her shoot her pistol–which added an annoying ringing in his ears on top of all the rest of his impediments. Shooting guns indoors was definitely not what movies and bad television had led him to believe. If anything, it was a fast and easy way to get goddamn tinnitus.

Still, Hunter had more pressing matters to deal with. It took the low-ogre only a handful of strides to reach him, downed and sprawled on the floor as he was. As the behemoth raised a huge arm to finish the job, however, the menagerie swooped in to save the day. Biggs and Wedge had been pelting it with Ill Omen non-stop, and some of those casts actually managed to bypass the creature’s resistances and inflict a few stacks of Curse of Ill Omen. Seeing how Hunter was about to become a bloody splatter of guts and broken bone of the stone floor, they took things a step further; they dive-bombed straight into the low-ogre’s face and went for its tiny eyes, buying him a couple of precious seconds.

The low-ogre raised a huge hand to shield its face, just in time to miss the snarling mass of fur, fangs, and claws that was Fyodor. The huge direwolf threw all caution and timidity to the wind and used the narrow window of opportunity the ravens’ attacks had just opened to lock his powerful jaws around the low-ogre’s trunk-like calf. The bites themselves didn’t seem to do much to the massive monster’s hard, tan flesh, but it didn’t matter. Fyodor was massive, too, and the sheer spite and ferocity of his attacks were all but enough to pin the low-ogre in place.

Hunter was safe–for now. His head swam, his vision was blurry, his ribs felt like they’d been smashed in by a wrecking ball, and blood flowed freely from his broken nose. He should put some pressure on that, he thought as he picked himself up from the floor, do something to staunch the bleeding. No time. He’d worry about that later. He picked up his glaive, wielded it with both hands, and charged at the low-ogre. He aimed to skewer it somewhere between its chest and its flabby belly. Monster or not, it had to have vital organs–and they had to be somewhere around that area, right?

Right?

Too busy pummeling Fyodor over the head with its fist, the low-ogre did nothing to get out of Hunter’s way. He plunged the glaive straight into the creature’s solar plexus, throwing all his weight behind it. Its blade tore the low-ogre’s flesh wide open, drawing rivulets of blackish blood and vigorously rearranging its chakra by way of sharp force trauma.

Massive Critical! You attack the Low-Ogre for 59 piercing damage.

You stagger the Low-Ogre.

The Low-Ogre is now bleeding.

Your Close Combat has increased to 14.

Your Close Combat has increased to 15.

Your Polearm Mastery has increased to 14.

Your Polearm Mastery has increased to 15.

The huge creature bellowed in pain and clutched the at shaft of the weapon that was still lodged in its torso. Hunter was impressed with himself. Much like in the previous scuffle with that gigantic spider-thing, he didn’t get to land many attacks. When he did, however, he landed them damn hard. Critical hits were less about some chance modifier and more about hitting things where it hurt the most, it looked like. He made a mental note to further look into that sometime later, see whether he could find a way to use it consistently.

Hunter’s little moment of self-congratulation proved to be short, however. Blind with pain and fury, the low-ogre launched a boulder-like fist straight at his head. Hunter ducked to the side, just out of the creature’s reach, but had to let go of the glaive’s shaft–something he instantly regretted as the low-ogre followed through with a backhand that caught him in the shoulder, launching him a good ten feet away.

The Low-Ogre attacks you for 31 bludgeoning damage.

You are now stunned.

Stunned was an understatement. Hunter felt like he’d been hit by a freight train. He tried to catch his breath, but choked on his own blood and started coughing, every cough sending waves of numb pain through his battered ribs. Someone chucked something between him and the low-ogre–a flare, judging from the angry hiss and the bright light that flooded his vision. Then he heard the telltale twang of bowstrings and the whistle of arrows tearing through the stale air, followed by another roar of pain. Hands grabbed him by the armpits and dragged him away from the low-ogre’s reach–Fawkes, Hunter realized. He hadn’t seen nor heard her approach, but given his condition, that wasn’t saying much.

With Hunter safely out of the way, the woman threw herself at the monster, eager to draw blood. Her predator instinct hung around her in an almost palpable aura. Fast as greased lightning, Fawkes fell upon the low-ogre a shadow of black and silver, slashing and cutting and stabbing with cold, murderous efficiency. Fyodor still clung to the hulk’s leg, biting and frothing dark blood at the teeth. Biggs and Wedge flew in circles near the ceiling, pouring the last of their mana into another barrage of Ill Omens. And the Brethren kept looking for every safe opening Fawkes left them, raining a stream of arrows at the low-ogre’s head and shoulders.

For a moment there, Hunter thought the fight was pretty much over. Nothing could withstand that symphony of violence, not even a towering behemoth like that. But just as he was struggling to get up, it happened; the thing that Hunter had worried would happen right from the start. A pack of low-dwellers rushed in the hall, snarling and out for blood, and it all went to hell in a handbasket.