They left for the Hark’akuy base the next morning. It was a day’s journey west of Birchdale, and Calvin wanted to arrive before Waska’s full moon ritual. Still, despite the time constraints, he was thankful for the journey. It would give his cobbled crew some time to integrate.

  The mercenaries passed the time entertaining Edwin and Bob with stories of the adventures they’d gotten up to in the past week. The thieves didn’t express any interest in the stories, but Calvin noticed a particular look in Finzor’s eye on multiple occasions: a look that said, “Ah, yes, these fools will be useful.”

  Terry was fascinated by Pelias and pestered him constantly with questions and stories.

  “Are you a druid?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve got that tattoo.”

  “It’s in memory of my brother. He was a druid.”

  “But isn’t that a family thing?”

  “Not always.”

  “Can you turn into an animal?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have some cool stories of your jobs with Chet— I mean, Calvin?”

  “I couldn’t do them justice.”

  “Oh. That’s okay. I can tell you some.”

  Pelias caught Calvin’s eye. Calvin shook his head.

  “Perhaps another time. I seem to be developing a headache.”

  Terry wilted and fell back to listen to the mercenaries. Arg was in the middle of narrating how he'd come to favor his massive battle-axe over fencing.

  Calvin watched Terry over his shoulder. It hurt to disappoint his old friend, but his stomach twisted and pinched. That pain was much more acute. He put the regret aside and focused on the task at hand. He couldn’t afford to get sentimental. That would jeopardize the mission, likely getting the entire crew tortured and killed by the Hark’akuy.

  The twisting stopped, leaving Calvin to rehearse his plan in peace.

  The next day, Calvin’s crew approached the Hark’akuy base. It was late morning, sunlight filtering green and yellow through the leaves above. The Hark’akuy had carved their base right out of a mountain. The stones of the post-and-lintel entrance were intricately carved with infernal runes made to look like contorted snakes, but the rest of the landscape looked like any other mountainside.

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  Four guards stood at the entrance, their faces and arms bearing patches of black or grey scales. Arrows and daggers flew, and they fell without a sound. Their stunned yellow eyes stared sightlessly up at the canopy, not knowing what had hit them.

  The crew filed into the complex, Bob taking the lead to guide them around traps. The mercenaries brought up the rear, mostly to minimize how much Julius’s noisy armor disrupted the crew’s ability to sneak around.

  The tunnel angled upward as if to be parallel with the mountain’s slope. The walls were rough-hewn stone, except for the decorative path of serpents that swerved along the walls.

  They found a small group of cultists at the first intersection. Catching them by surprise, Calvin’s crew had no trouble dispatching them. But the last one cried out an alarm as he died, alerting the complex to the danger. Working quickly, the crew moved the bodies towards the entrance, then hid to wait for the other cultists to come and investigate.

  Eight cultists came trotting down to the intersection, bearing wary scimitars and confused looks. They stopped in the center of the room, pointing at the blood left on the floor. Calvin and his crew leapt out at them, cutting them down. The helpless cultists shouted in pain as arrows and knives plunged into them.

  They reset the room. A group of ten investigative cultists came next, and they went down just as quickly.

  The crew had almost finished hiding the bodies when the next group came. This one was much larger. Twenty cultists marched into the space, alert to the danger and brandishing their scimitars. They split to reveal another behind them: a man with two long black snakes instead of arms, both hissing and snapping at the intruders. One of Hark’akuy’s Binders.

  “Now, Arg!” Calvin shouted, and the half-orc rushed into the mass of enemies, swinging madly with his giant axe. The real fight ensued. Arrows and daggers flew at the cultists. Eight scimitars slashed at Arg, but they only seemed to scratch him. The rest turned against other members of the crew.

  One of the cultists tried to spit paralyzing venom at Julius, but he blocked it with an armored arm and used the opening against the offender. His sword came down. Warm blood flew like oil from a sizzling pan.

  The Binder stayed where he was. Instead of wading into the battle, he raised his snake arms above everyone’s heads. The snake heads were marked with grey stripes and were as big as his hands should have been. They each spat streams of venom: one at Arg, the other at Edwin. Edwin froze up immediately, his muscles tensing in response to the venom. The cultists turned their attention away from him to help fight the others.

  Arg didn’t stop. Despite the venom hitting him square on the chest, he kept swinging, cutting down the cultists. He had four at his feet already.

  The Binder’s jaw dropped. His eyes went wide. Whether from Arg’s effectiveness or the fact that the venom hadn’t worked on him, the Binder was so alarmed that he turned and ran. Hearing their leader retreat, the cultists tried to follow. Only six escaped.

  The crew took a minute to rest. Calvin fed Edwin some antivenom. Edwin stumbled, then sighed and stretched.

  “That stuff is awesome,” he said, flexing. “It’s like it never happened.”

  “You should have taken it before the fight,” Arg said. “Then it wouldn’t have.”

  “You’re welcome,” Shale said. Calvin chuckled at that, and she smirked.

  She must have given Arg the vial I gave her.

  Footsteps thundered down the hallway, and fifty more cultists poured in, followed by three snake-armed Binders. Calvin took a deep breath. Despite their previous successes, this was not a fight they could win. The time had come.

  He threw up his hands. “We surrender!”