Reralt woke to an already-waiting Narro and the Void. They were in the same room as before. The glass window showed them their opponents.

  Harlada looked straight at them from the room across the hall. She appeared to be alone—moodier than usual. The switch to even darker makeup and empty white eyes made it clear she was not the happiest of dimensional shifts of the mage.

  She raised her hand. Two bodiless heads on a chain dangled in front of her in the window. Harlada laughed—a laugh revealing pearly white teeth, filed to points, blood dripping from each one.

  “Looks capable,” Reralt nodded.

  Next to the Harlada-in-dire-need-of-friends stood the useless three they had met before. Leo, Bert and Harlada were eyeing the Goth version of Harlada with fear.

  Reralt waved happily, both to the three as the Lonely Harlada, all stared back at him confused.

  On the other side were three goblins. All of them vaguely resembled the three.

  “That should pose no problem.” Narro examined them. Drool spilled from their mouths; low intelligence shone in their eyes.

  “Don’t underestimate stupidity.” Reralt bumped him, almost insulted.

  The last window was seemingly empty, though a vague distortion occasionally flickered across it.

  “Great.” Narro picked up the Void so she could also see. The cat looked at the window, annoyed, then meowed an angry meow.

  ***

  The maze pulsed.

  MAZE RUN #70844 COMMENCING IN 1 MINUTE.

  “There is something very wrong with this dungeon,” Reralt mused, staring at the blue gem screen.

  Narro, inexperienced in the subtleties of dungeons, frowned. “Why?” He started to puzzle it out. “It doesn’t make sense. A run in the maze—first one progresses. It looks too purposeful. Almost like a sport.”

  “No, just… blue,” Reralt said, like a lecturer at one of the more serious schools. “Why not red? Or green?”

  He took a thinking stance, which made Narro sigh.

  “Orange, maybe.” Reralt now looked the most intelligent he ever had. “Could go for some oranges,” he added, rubbing his belly. “Great, now I’m hungry.”

  Narro looked at the Void. They were thinking exactly the same.

  “So it is probably some kind of arena.” Narro knocked on the stone wall, as if it had all the answers. “For the gods’ entertainment?” he murmured.

  Reralt could be right. It was wrong to bring those kinds of cruel beings back.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  ***

  The doors opened. Narro and Reralt nodded at each other. It was go-time. Time to get the three off-heroes to the stairs, get the Hat, then get Mary and Syril back.

  They moved quickly, with purpose. Reralt in front, Narro behind him yelling directions.

  Down one corridor, across a square, through a door. Reralt took big steps. He only stopped when Narro shouted, “Trap!”

  They were making good progress.

  “Left here!” Narro called, walking briskly behind Reralt while carrying the Void.

  “Here?” Reralt pointed down a passage.

  “Oh—sorry,” he muttered, retracting his hand quickly. It came back bloodied.

  “Narro?” Reralt beckoned him closer.

  A small knife was thrust toward Reralt; he dodged it without even looking. Narro peeked around the corner. Two of the three goblins were trying desperately to stab Reralt. The other one—the female—lay dead on the floor, her eyes poked out.

  Narro looked at Reralt, one brow raised.

  “I said sorry,” Reralt muttered.

  The Void leapt at one goblin, tearing out his throat with her mighty yet tiny claws.

  The last goblin stared at his two dying teammates, sighed, and closed his eyes, waiting for the final thrust.

  Reralt looked at Narro, then handed him the sword.

  “All for one?” he said, gaze deepening.

  “No, wait—one for all,” he corrected himself with a satisfied nod.

  Narro shrugged and drove the sword through the last goblin.

  He did not comment to Reralt how stupidity basically defeated stupidity.

  ***

  They arrived at the rendezvous a minute later.

  “When it’s just a meeting place, call it a meeting place,” Reralt complained. “Stupid French words nobody understands.”

  At roughly the same time, the three off-heroes sprinted across the square they had agreed on—straight past Reralt and Narro then dove into a corner.

  Behind them, a maniacal laugh grew louder and louder.

  “The Lonely Harlada!” Bert yelled, pointing at the hall.

  Slowly—each step like her joints were rebelling against her command—the Lonely Harlada advanced, holding the two heads of dead Leo and dead Bert firmly by their hair. The heads moaned softly.

  Narro felt a chill run deep into his bones. The Void hissed, fur standing straight, tiny nails digging into Narro’s arm.

  Reralt threw his axe.

  Before the Lonely Harlada could object, she had an axe planted squarely in the middle of her face. Red streams of blood ran down. The two heads moaned—surprised, even slightly amused.

  “Think she just needed a hug,” Reralt said, holding out his hand as the axe returned to him. “So cool.”

  He looked back at the four faces—white as ghosts—and one very upset kitty.

  “You didn’t feel that cold taint enter your soul?” Leo asked, adjusting his glasses.

  Reralt blinked. “My boots are insulated, of course.”

  Then he flexed his arms, tossed his hair in the wind, and winked at Harlada—who had no idea where to look.

  “Are you not entertained!” Reralt roared.

  Four humans and one kitty stared at him with open mouths and, in a shared, unspoken decision, collectively chose to ignore the whole thing.