Tracker Castor Longfeather raised his fist in the air, the signal to stop. The rest of their adventuring party—Stonefist's Sentinels—immediately halted, keeping their tight marching order, even within the confines of the narrow stone corridor.

  The passage stretched out before them, cloaked in a darkness that their continual light stones barely punctured. Moisture bled from the porous rock and phosphorescent, fan-shaped fungi sprouted from cracks in the walls in dense clusters, their blue-green glow unnaturally bright. They exuded a sickly-sweet odour, like honey left to ferment, underlaid by the sharp ozone tang of a lightning strike.

  Lena sighed softly, pleased for a break, no matter how brief. After two days underground, her hips ached from travelling over the uneven, rocky surface and the damp and cold had caused her knuckles to swell. At forty-two, she was older than the rest of the humans in the party by a good fifteen years—and was feeling her age.

  She glanced at her companions, remembering when she'd first joined the Sentinels twenty years ago. Back then, she'd been a brash young mage eager to prove herself, and they'd welcomed her despite her inexperience. Now they were family. She'd celebrated with Thrain when his first grandchild was born, helped Castor track down his long-lost sister, and watched Zahra grow from an uncertain acolyte into a confident cleric.

  Her aching joints made her wonder if, maybe, it was time to part ways with them and make room for a younger, fitter mage. But the thought of leaving made her chest pained her more than her rheumatism. Besides, although she might be getting long in the tooth, she still had plenty to offer.

  “We must be close to the trogs,” Castor whispered to their leader, Thrain, a doughty dwarven fighter, who was directly behind him in the marching order. “I can almost taste their stench. There are ten of the brutes, all warriors.” The tracker pointed to the ground, which apparently had provided him with such knowledge, but all Lena saw was bare rock. “And they have the girl with them.”

  “Elowyn's alive?” Thrain's relief was palpable. “Praise Kaldor.”

  Castor grimaced. “At least, she was when they passed by here earlier.”

  A matching relief flooded through Lena. She had been praying they'd not be returning a corpse to the captured child's distraught parents, but until now, they'd not found any evidence either way. This was another reason she kept adventuring—not just for the thrill of magic and danger, but for moments like this: the chance to do some good.

  “Why do you think they grabbed her?” she asked. She hadn't had many dealings with trogs, but from what she had heard, they usually stayed underground and kept well away from surface dwellers.

  “Let's rescue Elowyn first, and figure out the trogs' motives later,” the ranger replied.

  “What's with you smoothskins?” Ssiltek, their lizardkin rogue, grumbled from behind Lena. “Every time we pause, it's talk, talk, talk. Let's get in there before the trogs realise the girl would make a tasty snack and prep her for their dinner. Her father, Master Trader Pryce, promised to double our reward if we get his precious daughter back to Briarwood alive—but who knows how long she'll stay that way if we stand about yakking.”

  “We need to know the lay of the land before we go charging in,” Thrain cautioned. “Else Elowyn might get caught in the crossfire.” Unlike the lizardkin, their leader cared more about the girl’s life than his belt pouch. “Ssiltek, seeing as you're so keen for action, how about sneaking forward and seeing what you can find out?”

  “I told you, there are ten trogs, all adults,” the tracker huffed. “The tracks don't lie.” The half-elf had been tracking for longer than Lena had been alive, and it irked him whenever someone questioned his skills.

  Their leader motioned the rogue forward. “But we need to know more than that. Like, have they truly stopped just ahead, or is your keen nose mistaken?”

  Castor huffed even louder.

  Ignoring the tracker, Ssiltek pushed his way to the front of the Sentinels, then snuck down the corridor. Within a few paces, he melted from Lena's view. His natural chameleon-like abilities allowed him to blend with his surroundings. That, combined with a lizard folk's innate low light vision, made him the perfect scout in this terrain.

  Lena cast a cantrip to warm her hands while she waited. Immediately, a pleasant heat suffused her fingers. Oh, how she wished she had time to remove her boots and do the same for her toes. Her feet felt as if ice encased them. She settled for the non-magical solution of stamping her feet on the ground as soundless as possible and wriggling her toes—then winced as the action sent pain spiking through her swollen joints.

  “Are you alright?” their healer Zahra whispered to her, laying a hand on her arm. In the five years since she'd joined the Sentinels, Lena had never seen the young cleric walk past anyone in pain without stopping to help. “I, ah, noticed you're walking stiffly.” Her gaze slid to Lena's hands. “Do you want me to cast something to ease the symptoms?”

  “I'm just a little cold,” Lena lied. The cleric to Sylara was too observant by half, but she shouldn't be wasting her healing magic before the battle had even begun, especially not for so petty a cause. Still, Zahra's concern warmed her more than any cantrip.

  “I'm back.” Ssiltek emerged from the shadows a short while later.

  Zahra jumped, stifling a squeak of surprise. The lizardkin grinned mischievously, his pointed fangs gleaming in the glow of their light stones.

  “I wish you wouldn't do that.” She slapped him on the arm with exasperated affection.

  And yet Lena knew he would be doing it again next time he got the opportunity.

  “There's ten trogs, alright,” the rogue reported. “And yes, they've set up camp.”

  Castor crossed his arms. “Told you so,” he said.

  “The girl's with them.” Ssiltek’s tail twitched in annoyance at the interruption. “They've tied a rope around her ankle and tethered it to a rock, so she can't run off. But she appears unhurt.”

  “Good news,” Thrain murmured.

  “They've bedded down in a small cave, off the main passage,” the rogue continued with another annoyed tail twitch. “There's another exit on the far side of the cavern, but I don't know where it leads. Could be a dead end, or could continue on.”

  Their leader frowned. “Hmmm. That means they have a potential escape route. We'll have to make sure they don't have time to run off with Elowyn, before we can get to her.”

  “Over half of them are asleep,” Ssiltek said. “But two remain on guard, a big bugger and a little one—little for a trog, that is. Another couple of them are awake, but off duty.” He flashed another grin. “Lucky for you lot those glowing fungi are covering the cave walls and, what’s more, they've lit a fire, so there's plenty of light.” Apart from the lizardkin, only Castor had lowlight vision—a shortfall Ssiltek loved to remind them of at any opportunity.

  “Right, here's the plan,” Thrain said. “First, we need to sneak closer.”

  “Sneak? That means move quietly, right?” Ssiltek shot a pointed look at their barbarian fighter, Ragna Bjornsdottir. Last time they'd tried a sneak attack, she had tripped over a root and gone down in a clatter of armour and weapons, costing them the advantage of surprise.

  Ragna's face reddened, but she kept her temper in check with an obvious effort of will. The young barbarian had come a long way since joining them last year. There was a time when such a jibe would have led to drawn weapons.

  Their leader ignored the rogue’s snide aside. “Castor, Ssiltek, and Lena, you'll bring death from afar. When I give the signal, I want you to fire at the big trog, as he's our greatest threat. Once the first volley is over, Ragna and I will rush him, and you lot can shift your focus the trogs nearest the girl as we rush in, so there’s no risk of hitting us or her by accident. No one wants a repeat of the Lucky Beard incident.”

  The lizardkin huffed. “Just because I hit you that one time, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen again.”

  Thrain just raised his hairy dwarven eyebrows. “I’d not risk it, okay? And Elowyn doesn’t have a beard to absorb the worst of the damage.”

  The rest of the Sentinels suppressed grins—all except Ragna, who was too new to have witnessed the infamous incident.

  Their banter washed over Lena as she tried to look calm, but her heart was beating frantically as if she’d just downed two gnomish espressos in quick succession. What was wrong with her? They'd faced worse foes and greater odds. Perhaps being so long below ground was affecting her. It had been ages since she'd accompanied Stonefist's Sentinels on a subterranean job—and now she remembered why. The cold sapped her strength, and the endless days spent in darkness frayed her nerves.

  “Zahra, you've got the most important job,” their leader directed his attention to the cleric of Sylara. “I want you to circle around to Elowyn, while we are distracting the trogs, then get her out of that cavern as quick as you can.”

  “Why not get Lena to cast Fireball or Meteor Storm,” Ssiltek asked, lowering his brow ridges belligerently. “That way, we can take down most of the trogs at once.”

  “We can't risk Elowyn being injured by an area attack spell,” Thrain replied.

  The lizardkin shrugged. “So what if she is? Zahra can heal her.”

  Their leader huffed in exasperation. “Right,” he said, drawing his precious axe, Ironfang. The weapon had been his father's, and his father's before him. Ssiltek liked to joke that the dwarf loved it more than his wife—and given how rarely Thrain returned home, even during the winter months when most adventurers sought shelter from the cold, the lizardkin might not be wrong. “Everyone know what they're doing?”

  They all nodded.

  “Excellent. May Kaldor give us strength.”

  To prepare for the impending combat, Lena cast Mage Armour and Zahra Spirit Shield. The tingle of protective magic settled over Lena's skin like an old friend, the comforting sensation easing some of the tension thrumming through her body.

  The Sentinels crept forward in their usual marching order: Castor at the lead, followed by Thrain. Lena and Zahra—the least armoured and most easily wounded—marched in the middle, then Ssiltek and finally Ragna brought up the rear. The formation was as familiar as a well-worn spell book, crafted through years of trial and error. And no small amount of blood.

  Within a short time, they reached a small side passage that branched off the primary tunnel that the rogue had told them about. Lena's heart thudded against her ribs and her palms grew sweaty, her tension rising once more, as Castor led them off the main path. Get it together, she inwardly chided herself. She was acting like a green journeywoman mage fresh out of training. Yet she couldn't shake a feeling of foreboding.

  The ranger, as usual, showed no such nerves. He padded along silently, his bow in hand and an arrow nocked.

  Now they were closer, the smell of a campfire, the fan-shaped fungi, and the stench of the trogs—an unpleasant melange of rotting fish and stale sweat—caught in her throat, and the low guttural rumble of their speech was just audible.

  Castor made a quick hand motion, his forefinger pointing to his eye then ahead, signalling they were almost in sight of their foes.

  Lena's pulse bolted like a frightened horse as she flexed her swollen hands to prepare for spell-casting. The movement sent sharp pains shooting through her knuckles, making her wince. Perhaps she should have taken up Zahra's offer? But it was too late to change her mind now. Besides, she'd spent two decades building a reputation as the Sentinels' fearless battle mage. She couldn't let them see her weakness now—especially not Ssiltek or Ragna whom she’d caught more than once whispering around the campfire when they’d thought her asleep. She’d overheard then mention her name and the word “liability,” more than enough to give her the gist of what they were gossiping about.

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  The Sentinels turned a corner and the narrow passage widened out into a small cavern. The layout was exactly as the rogue had described: a campfire in the centre of space provided welcome light and revealed a dark passageway leading off the cavern on the far side. Clusters of the rare phosphorescent fungi cloaked the walls and appeared to have completely overtaken what looked like the withered remains of the more common cave mushrooms.

  Several large mounds were arrayed around the fire—trogs who'd covered themselves with what looked like dirt and leaves—was that their version of blankets? A couple of the creatures sat by the fire, staring at a battered gameboard half-covered by black and white oval stones, while two of them stood on guard. The closer trog let out a wracking cough, and its skin was even more pallid than usual. Was it sick? Or did this happen to trogs sometimes when they ventured above ground?

  A young girl sat huddled in on herself near the flames. Her face was dirt-stained and tear-streaked, but her mouth had an obstinate set. She might be a captive, but she wasn't cowed. Something in her defiant posture reminded Lena of herself at that age, back when she'd been just another farmer's daughter expected to make a good marriage but secretly determined to be so much more.

  Elowyn eyes widened in surprise as she spotted the adventurers. As did the nearer sentry. It grunted in alarm and raised a heavy club studded with iron spikes. Something about the sentry's stance nagged at Lena. Despite its raised weapon, it seemed more frightened than aggressive, its yellow eyes darting between the adventurers and the exit tunnel as if calculating an escape route rather than contemplating an assault.

  “We’ve been spotted!” Thrain bellowed. “Attack!”

  Pushing her misgivings away, Lena began chanting, feeling the familiar warmth of magic building in her chest. This was the moment she lived for, when the world narrowed to nothing but the weave of power between her fingers. When she wasn't an aging adventurer struggling with arthritis, but hardened battle mage.

  Castor tried to get a bead on the larger guard, as per the plan, but the smaller sentry was in the way. Uttering a low curse, the ranger changed target. His bowstring twanged and his arrow thudded into the smaller sentry's chest. A heartbeat later, Ssiltek's bullet smacked into its temple. The trog tottered visibly, but didn't go down.

  By the stars, it must be tough. Such solid hits would fell most foes.

  A ball of purple and blue light appeared between Lena's palms, raising a slight wind that stirred the tendrils of her grey hair. Drawing back her arm, she sent her Magic Missile flying toward the big sentry, now a visible target thanks to her companions' efforts. A low whimper of pain escaped her as the movement jarred her swollen joints. Her ball of mage fire zipped unerringly across the cavern, then, to her dismay, dissipated in a soft violet glow as it hit the large trog's armour.

  Blast and mage fire! He had magical protection. Why hadn’t she spotted the telltale shimmer of defensive magic before she cast? Had she been too distracted by her nerves?

  Once the missiles had gone off, Thrain and Ragna raced forward, weapons raised, making a beeline for the larger sentry. Alerted by the flash of the ineffective magic missile, the two game-playing trogs tossed aside the board and snatched up their weapons—one a stone axe, the other a spear tipped with sharpened bone—and were kicking their companions awake.

  “You cried out. Are you hurt?” Castor asked Lena, though his keen eyes remained fixed on the enemy as he nocked another arrow.

  “I'm good,” she shot back, cringing at her lack of self-control.

  As she prepared her next spell, Lena spotted Zahra edging her way around the cave toward the captive girl, who had backed up as far away from the trogs as the rope tethered around her ankle allowed. Good—at least that part of their plan was still on track. The girl's eyes were wide with hope now, fixed on the cleric's approaching form.

  Beside Lena, Castor's bowstring twanged again, while Ssiltek swung his sling above his head in a deadly arc then loosed another bullet. Both missiles smacked into the smaller sentry, one after the other, and it finally went down. Pride welled within Lena. This precision was why the Sentinels had the reputation they did—when the time came, they worked in perfect accord.

  “One down. Nine more to go,” the lizardkin crowed.

  Lena itched to cast Fireball, but the risk to her companions and Elowyn was too great. Besides, the way her hands were throbbing… Snorting in annoyance, she sent her next Magic Missile flying toward the axe-wielding trog who'd been sitting at the game board moments before. Her mage fire exploded into the creature's chest, and he reeled back, crying out in shock and pain.

  That was more like it!

  Her moment of triumph was short-lived. Her victim's large, pale-yellow eyes locked on Lena. He sprinted toward her, his lips curving into a wicked smile, revealing rectangular, chipped teeth.

  Hastily, she wound up another spell. Her Mage Armour wouldn't hold for long against a direct attack—which is why she always avoided hand-to-hand combat. Despite the danger, her blood sang, her earlier tension evaporated. This was why she hadn't retired. For moments like this, when her mind became crystal clear, and you never knew if the next breath would be your last.

  She stretched her hands wide, and a sparking bolt of magical lighting formed between her fingers. The spell's power thrummed through her arms, familiar as an old friend, but painful now in a way it had never been before. Throwing back her arm, she cast the bolt at the advancing trog—only at the last minute her fingers cramped, and the lightning sizzled harmlessly above the creature's head.

  The trog flinched, then its thin-lipped mouth stretched into an even wider grin. Lena's teeth clenched. She'd been banking on her spell to slow her attacker. And she hadn't time to cast another. The trog covered the remaining ground between them in a few long strides, then he swung his axe.

  She dodged to one side to avoid the blow, but her reflexes were too slow—another betrayal by her aging body. Time slowed as the axe arched toward her, and her body tensed in preparation for the weapon’s impact against her glowing Mage Armour.

  Then, at the last possible moment, Castor thrust his long sword between them. Sparks showered down on her as the axe slammed into the ranger’s blade. She scrambled backward, getting as much distance as she could between her and her attacker, shame burning in her chest.

  With a lithe motion, the ranger moved into the spot she'd just vacated, positioning himself between her and the trog. The creature swung again, and the ranger parried. Their weapons locked, and the stronger trog grinned as he bore down on the slender half-elf, forcing him to give ground.

  “Firefly!” The simple cantrip flew from her lips and an insect made of fire and light zipped toward the trog's face.

  The creature flinched, his attention switching from his attacker to the magical distraction. Taking advantage of its momentary inattention, Castor slid his blade into the creature's unarmoured belly. The trog slid to the ground, a puzzled expression on his face as the life faded from its eyes.

  “Thank you,” she gasped, scrambling back to her feet.

  The ranger frowned, panting slightly from the fight. “What happened? Why did your lightning miss?” The confusion in his voice cut deep into her faltering confidence.

  Lena grimaced as she began weaving her hands once more, fighting against joints that ground against each other like rusted hinges. “We all have bad days.” Only lately she’d been having more bad days than good. “Never mind me,” she hissed. “We need to keep the trogs busy, so Zahra and Elowyn can get away.”

  Castor picked up his bow once more and drew another arrow from his quiver, but she caught the worried glance he shot her way.

  Meanwhile, across the room, Thrain and Ragna had brought down the big trog in a brief but bloody fight and were pursuing the rest of their foes, who were fleeing toward the exit on the other side of the cavern. Zahra had sawed through the young girl’s bonds and was running toward their position, while Ssiltek's bullets harried the spear-wielding trog before it could intercept them. A moment later it fell, Castor's arrow lodged in its eye socket.

  Lena let her half-formed spell dissipate and her aching hands fell by her sides. Was the combat over? And so swiftly? Thank the stars. Unable to cast her large magics, thanks to her cramping hands, she was more a liability than a help. The realisation was ashes in her mouth.

  As the last of retreating trogs fled the cavern, their action suddenly struck Lena as odd. The trogs had abandoned their captive more easily than she’d expected, but why?

  Thrain slowed, lowering Ironfang, but Ragna, her teeth bared, spittle flying from her lips, ran after their foes.

  “Stop,” their leader yelled, but the barbarian was in the grips of battle frenzy and paid him no heed. With a grunt of frustration, the dwarf sprinted after the barbarian and in moments they were both out of sight.

  Castor, Ssiltek, and Lena exchanged a confused glance. They were all no doubt thinking the same thing: never split the party.

  So much for her earlier thoughts about the Sentinels precision and teamwork. Typical Ragna to be so stupid and reckless. When would she learn some self-control? Lena didn’t voice the thought—criticising other party members was bad for morale and group unity—but she ground her teeth in frustration.

  “That definitely wasn't in the plan,” the ranger said, lowering his bow and easing the tension on the bowstring. “Should we go after them?”

  The lizardkin shrugged. “We've got the girl.” He pointed to Elowyn. She and Zahra had just arrived, the air shimmering around them. The cleric's Sanctuary spell caused Lena's gaze to slide away from them as if they weren't there. “If the boss and that dumb barbarian want to go charging into the darkness, that's their problem.”

  “I better check that our headstrong young Ragna hasn't got them into more trouble than they can handle.” Castor nocked another arrow and strode toward the back of the cavern, just as the barbarian reappeared at the archway leading out of the cave, her face ashen.

  “Fomorian,” Ragna shouted as she sprinted toward them. “Fall back!”

  Panic seized Lena by the throat. She'd never encountered one of these monstrous giants from the depths, but knew them by reputation. Every adventurer did. Even the strongest of warriors knew better than to mess with them.

  “Lena!” Thrain appeared moments after the barbarian, his short dwarven legs pumping as he ran for his life, bellowing out orders. “We need Fireball!”

  She met her leader's desperate eyes and knew she couldn't fail him when the stakes were so high. Wishing she had time to get Zahara to tend her swollen joints first, she murmured the verbal components of her spell as her throbbing hands wove a complex pattern. An orange-yellow molten ball of flame began forming between her palms, its glow casting strange shadows on the cave wall. The familiar warmth of the magic built in her chest, but instead of the usual rush of power, each gesture sent needles of pain through her fingers.

  An inhuman bellow blasted out of the archway, and then the fomorian appeared. The giant underground dweller lumbered into the cavern, its massive form stooping to avoid scraping the ceiling. Its skin was mottled and lichen-coloured, its thin strands of hair a tangled mess and in its gnarled hands, it wielded a colossal club fashioned from a massive tree trunk, studded with jagged shards of metal.

  Lena's hands shook as the pain in her joints intensified under the strain of casting the spell. The molten ball of flame between her palms flickered and wavered, causing her insides to spin like a whirlpool. Zahra whispered prayers to Sylara in her own tongue, while Castor tensed beside her, an arrow nocked. She could practically feel both their doubts, and it sapped her strength and self-confidence.

  “By the stars' light, please!” she whispered, trying to steady her hands by mental force alone. But as she prepared to release the spell, a sharp pain shot through her knuckles, causing them to spasm. The fireball fizzled out in a shower of harmless sparks, taking with it two decades of certainty about who she was and what she could do.

  “No!” Lena gasped, panic bubbling through her veins.

  The fomorian let out a guttural roar, its beady eyes locking onto Thrain. Having spotted her spell fail, their leader was charging toward the beast with Ironfang raised. He was trying to protect the rest of them, the brave fool, just like he always did.

  The subterranean giant swung its massive club toward the dwarf with surprising speed. Thrain tried to dodge, but the weapon caught him square on. The shards of metal scraped down his left arm, severing muscle and sinew, leaving the limb hanging uselessly at his side. Bellowing in agony, he collapsed to the ground, clutching his ruined shoulder.

  “No!” Lena screamed. This was all her fault. She was supposed to provide cover for their leader to escape, not watch helplessly as he fell protecting them all from her shortcomings.

  “Fall back!” Castor snarled. “We need to get the girl to safety.”

  Zahra hesitated a moment, then pushed the white-faced Elowyn at Ssiltek. Even in crisis, the young cleric thought of others first. “Get her out of here.”

  The lizardkin didn't need to be asked a second time. “Let’s go, lass. Uncle Ssiltek is going to find you and him somewhere safe to hide.” Grabbing her hand, he fled back the way they'd come, towing the girl behind him.

  Ignoring the danger to herself, the cleric darted over to Thrain. She grabbed him by his unwounded right arm and tried dragging him backwards—only she couldn’t budge him. “Come on, you big ugly dwarf,” she pleaded, her eyes wide and panicked. “Pull it together and help me. You’re too heavy for me to get out of here on my own.”

  Castor raced over to help her as the fomorian plodded toward them, raising its club once more.

  Desperate to redeem herself, Lena's mind raced. Her hands were too cramped to perform her major magics, but her magical firefly had panicked the trog earlier—and the subterranean giant had reacted to the campfire. Perhaps she could use that against it?

  Muttering under her breath, she gestured at the flames, ignoring the dull ache in her fingers. She didn't need complex gestures for this. It was a spell any journeywoman mage could cast. “Flare,” she commanded, pouring all her love for her companions into the simple cantrip.

  The campfire roared in response, its flames flaring up toward the ceiling, belching sparks in a superheated column. Roaring in fear, the fomorian flung up a hand to protect its light-sensitive eyes from the unexpected heat and light. Lena was light-headed with relief. Never had she needed a simple spell so much—or had it work so perfectly.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Zahra and Castor half-dragged, half-carried Thrain—and his precious axe—back toward the cavern entrance, effort etched on their faces. Lena's gaze flicked between them and the subterranean giant, her fingernails digging into her palms. She didn't know what else she could do if it recovered before the others got away.

  But her spell had given them the time they needed.

  Lena waited until the rest of the Sentinels were a safe distance down the small passageway, then darted after them. Her legs were jelly as she backed up, her eyes on the fomorian the whole time.

  A few heartbeats later, the subterranean giant recovered from its fright sufficiently to lumber after them, only it stalled when it reached the exit. Thankfully, its body was too massive to fit into the tight space, no matter how it twisted and struggled.

  It reared back, then smashed its club into the stony walls beside the narrow entrance, sending chunks of stone flying as it roared in rage and frustration. Stone shards pinged off Lena's Mage Armour as she hastily retreated.

  Praise the stars, they would live to fight another day—but she had almost cost them everything. Ssiltek and Ragna's whispered words echoed in her mind. They were right—she had become a liability.