"Listen to me, you sniveling dogs!" he bellowed. "I see the fear in your eyes! I smell the piss on your breeches! You think this is the end? You think you can just lie down and die like your useless brothers in there?"
He spat on the floor, a thick glob of phlegm landing in a patch of dark blood. "I was wrong. I told you to run. I told you to forget it. But that was the talk of a tired old man. I'm not tired anymore."
His hand tightened on the hilt of his axe, knuckles turning white. "Every single coin, every gem, every gold bar we earned through blood and filth, has been taken! Taken by some… thing… that thinks it can crawl out of a hole in the ground and steal from us!"
He gestured vaguely towards the Withering Jungle. "That creature doesn't know us. It doesn't know that we don't just take from others. We are the ones who take!"
Then he pointed his axe at the men. "So you have two choices! You can keep crying like little bitches until you starve or are eaten by wolves! Or… you can pick up your fucking weapons, wipe your snotty faces, and follow me!"
His eyes burned with a cold, hard fire. "We are going to Nazas. We are going to that fucking dungeon. And we are going to get back what is ours! Every last coin! Every last piece! And when we do, we'll be richer than ever before! And the thing that did this… we will flay it alive and feast on its heart! So who's with me?"
The veteran's speech hung in the air, a raw, desperate gospel for broken men. At first, no one moved. No one breathed. The weight of his words, of the promise of vengeance and wealth, was too much to process.
They looked at the empty vault, then back at the grim set to the old man's jaw, then at each other. Fear was still a cold knot in their guts, but a new fire, small and hungry, had been kindled behind their eyes.
One bandit, a burly man with a braided beard, was the first to move. He slowly raised his hand, his fist clenched tight.
"I'm in," the burly bandit growled, his voice low and steady. "They took my share. I want it back. And I want to see that thing bleed."
The man next to him, still pale from shock, swallowed hard and nodded. "Aye," he whispered, his voice finding strength. "We take back what's ours."
Then another, the one who had found the goblin, followed suit. A third bandit, tears still drying on his cheeks, hesitantly lifted his arm. Soon, another joined, and then another. In a matter of seconds, a sea of raised fists filled the treasury, a silent pledge to the bloody cause.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, growing from a whisper to a low, determined chant. They were no longer victims. They were predators again. The grief was gone, replaced by a cold, hard fury.
The old man watched them, a cruel smile stretching his lips for the first time. "Good," he snarled. "Now, find your weapons. Check your armor. We leave in an hour."
As one, the bandits surged into motion, their despair now forged into purpose. They were not heroes or adventurers but thieves, killers and rapists, and they were going to claim what was rightfully theirs, torn from the corpse of whatever monster thought it could steal from them. The plan was simple, a mantra repeated in their minds as they marched: in and out, two hours. A quick, brutal smash-and-grab.
That was what they thought.
But the reality of a dungeon is often cruel and heartless, a monster that devours hope as readily as it devours flesh.
-
-
-
-
'Where am I?' the thought tumbled inside the dizzying head of a bandit as he struggled to sit up. The air smelled of ozone and burned rock. He blinked, trying to clear the swimming spots from his vision.
'My leg is stuck,' he groaned, looking down groggily. Another bandit was lying on top of his leg, a twisted heap of leather and flesh. The man's eyes stared wide, reflecting the flickering torchlight.
'Get the fuck off me,' he tried to push the corpse away, but his arms felt heavy, useless. His ears rang like a blacksmith's hammer.
Slowly, the ringing faded, replaced by a symphony of sounds: the high-pitched screams, the frantic scuffling of boots on stone.
He saw silhouettes running in different directions, their torchlight throwing long, dancing shadows on the walls. Some ran toward the sound of commotion, others fled blindly back.
It felt like an hour had passed, but the sun hadn't risen.
'What the hell are they doing?' the thought slurred in his mind. 'Is the camp being attacked? Is it morning already?' The confusion was thick and suffocating. He finally managed to pull his trapped leg free, a wave of fresh pain washing over him. A small, weak voice, like a mosquito's buzz, sounded near his ear.
"…hey… hey, you alright?"
He slowly turned his head toward the voice. Through his hazy vision, the grim, bloodied face of the old veteran bandit slowly swam into focus. The old man's beard was matted with red, one of his eyes was swollen shut. He held his axe in a white-knuckled grip.
"Yo… why are you looking for me so soon in the morning?" the struggling bandit asked, his voice a raspy whisper.
"What the fuck are you babbling about? Get up! We have to run! Now!" the old veteran yelled, shoving the younger bandit hard in the shoulder.
The rough handling, combined with the desperate urgency in the veteran's voice, shattered the last of the bandit's stupor. The flow of memory came rushing back, a torrent of images and sensations that made his head ache.
He remembered the march. They had moved through the Withering Jungle with confidence, their earlier despair forged into a single-minded focus. The journey had been smooth, almost, with only a few easily-dispatched beasts blocking their path.
They had reached the entrance tunnel and taken a short rest, checking their gear, their courage growing with every passing minute. They were nearly fifty strong, a well-armed force of cutthroats and killers. Then they had stepped inside. The air was humid and thick, dimly lit by torches.
It was just a dungeon they thought.
An abandoned place they thought.
The most dangerous enemies they expected to encounter were goblins, weak and cowardly things that they could easily cut down.
They had all thought that. And they had all been terribly, horribly wrong.
-
-
-
-
The silence of the dungeon was the first lie. The second came when the rearmost bandit took a step forward to peer into the gloom ahead.
A sharp click echoed, unnaturally loud in the damp air. It was the sound of a trigger. Then came the thwip-thwip-thwip of multiple bowstrings releasing in unison. A storm of arrows shot from concealed slits in the walls.
Three bandits at the front of the line never even had time to scream. They were jerked off their feet, slammed into the far wall, and pinned there like porcupines. Their bodies twitched for a moment, limbs contorting, before hanging limp like a grisly new decoration for the stone.
A collective gasp went through the band.
"What the fuck?!" one of them cried out, his voice cracking with terror.
"Arrows! It's a fucking trap!" another yelled, his hand flying to his own throat.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to infect them. They all instinctively backed away from the lethal corridor, trying to retreat the way they came. But their boots slid in a thin layer of grime.
"Shit, we're trapped!" a bandit at the back shouted. "The entrance is gone!"
They turned to see that the heavy stone door they had entered through had swung shut without a sound, sealing them in the tomb-like dark.
"It's sealed!" another confirmed, his voice a raw whisper. "We're stuck in here!"
A wave of claustrophobia washed over the trapped men. The torchlight seemed to grow weaker, the shadows deeper. The old veteran pushed his way to the front, his face a mask of grim fury, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of fear.
"Stay calm, you fools!" he barked, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction. "Don't bunch up! Spread out and… and watch your feet!"
"My brother…" a bandit whispered, staring at one of the impaled bodies on the wall. "His throat… it's…"