Life had been better.

  Orion wasn’t normally one to complain, at least not where anyone could hear—what is life without a little grumbling, after all—but this was a day for the record books.

  Or was it a week? A month? It could not be a year. Best call it a day and move on; no need to waste more brainpower than necessary.

  Words to live by.

  An unfortunately timed roar rudely interrupted his momentary ruminations. I mean, really, some kinda world we live in where a guy can’t tune out mid-battle. Razhik was filled with a wrath Orion had never seen in his friend, and the ranks of goblins were paying the price.

  Babblin the Small’s dead eyes stared up at the Wanderer, lying where the Grokar had fallen, putting its life on the line to keep him safe. The clamor of battle was too much to keep track of. Tens of goblins vied for their blood, enraged at the disappearance of that unreasonably large gobber. Orion’s attention was full up just keeping track of the mundane threats, let alone the deluge of magic missiles.

  Thankfully, Razhik kept the front lines occupied, tearing through them with the voracity of a, well, twenty-foot serpent with a knack for shadow magic. Honestly, the beast was getting pretty creative. Apparently, distance didn’t work the same in the shallows, and Razh managed to divide his assault, two claws raking through separate, unending ranks.

  Orion would have been impressed, if he had time to be anything more than hopelessly overwhelmed. The Grokar were doing an admirable job holding the line, but they were hardly in a favorable position for a last stand. The kid’s plan, if you could really call, “I kidnap the big baddy while you take care of the small fries; back soon,” a plan, was about the best they had.

  It seemed like a great idea on the way up, when Razh was sowing discord in the enemy lines, retreating before anything could seriously retaliate. That would have been a good place to stop, but no. Kid had to go and be a hero, leaving the rest of them to pick up the slack.

  Orion didn’t want to be a hero; never had, never would. Surviving was more than enough for him, and if those adventurers from Spokane weren’t so damn useless, he’d never have had to come here in the first place. Unfortunately, his new patron had other plans, namely, letting rare spawns run rampant while no one had any desire to clear the damn dungeons.

  Useless sad sacks, always grubbing over money and the good life. Not worth the spit on his shoes, in Orion’s humble opinion; but he’d stepped in to clean up their mess before it affected his own, admittedly dull, life.

  At least, that's what he told himself, anyway.

  Damn that girl for making him wake up, see the state of the world, and take a look in the damn dungeon. Could have just stopped there, probably would have bought another couple of decades of peaceful living.

  But no.

  Once they got going, it was damned near impossible to kill that kid’s momentum, and he was just sucked along for the ride. Gods knew Razhik hadn’t had any desire to come here, but then, it was never easy to tell exactly what Razh did want—on a normal day, anyhow.

  Today, he was definitely out for blood.

  He’d narrowly avoided being barbequed, the offending flame ball exploding somewhere in the ranks of goblins behind him—serves them right. Then an arrow, a normal damned arrow, snuck past his senses; He hadn’t seen it through the rain.

  The gods’ cursed rain.

  If Babblin hadn’t stepped in to take the hit while knocking the man prone, well, Orion’s day would have been a lot worse, if not far closer to done. But, in the never-ending series of unfortunate events that was today, the Grokar didn’t take the volley that followed, or the dense beam of red energy that cut him hip to shoulder, as well.

  I never got it, but I guess he is kinda small…compared to these other great toads. Rolling to his feet, he looked at his savior. Thanks for keepin’ me in the fight, there, ya bastard.

  Reaching into his pockets for a fresh bundle of arrows—it wasn’t worth trying to train his muscles to just use the damn storage ring, not until they made it out of this cursed hole—Orion frowned.

  Five bundles left.

  He hadn’t been this close to empty in…he wasn’t sure how long. Wasn’t really a concern of his after he got his handy cloak; he wasn’t some hero who squared off against armies, at least not before today. The fact that gods knew how many of the goblins were illusions didn’t help in the slightest.

  The tricks he’d picked up in his fight with Maestro did let him see through some of the illusionary fiends, but there was too much happening for him to keep track of every little thing, and his eyes fell for the deception even if his mind told him that it was a trick. The scale of this fight was beyond anything he thought he’d stumble into. Not even in his most drink-addled days had he fallen ass-over-teakettle like this.

  Truly, he’d stepped into the waste pit this time.

  He’d become far too reliant on Anilith’s cheat-like senses. Kid didn’t know how good she had it, especially finding such handy allies like Orion and Razh.

  Damn kid, he thought with a smile. If you don’t make it quick-like, ain’t gonna be no one left to save. Even if I wanted to try an’ retreat, Razh ain’t responded since…well. His eyes drifted back to Babblin’s lifeless orbs.

  The Wanderer rolled to his feet, feeling the lifetime that had passed in the last few moments, his ears ringing. Guess I’m stickin’ to your ‘hold the line’ plan, then. Maybe the Grokar’ll make it to the top if you ain’t gonna make it back. His cloak hung heavy in the rain.

  That damned, endless rain.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Babblin fell, lost, just like Hoaky and the noble Grokar, who came to his group’s aid when their brethren abandoned his friends to death, as if that would have really worked. Another guardian, another friend, was gone. Unlike the goblins they fought, he would never come back.

  Rationally, Razhik was entirely unbothered by the goblins’ advantage, but rationality had nearly deserted him, much as life deserted the weak, pathetic creatures he slaughtered by the score, at least for the moment.

  One.

  Two.

  Twenty.

  One hundred.

  Razhik didn’t bother counting the dead; it wouldn’t do him any good, wouldn’t bring back his small friend, the world forever lessened for the lack of his dry, croaking wit. The roar that tore from his throat was far from Kingly; it was bestial, raw, and dangerous, like those of his wild brethren.

  The Primal King’s body moved of its own volition, tearing his enemies with renewed ferocity. Idly, Razhik realized he was numb…detached. He had the sense of a voice in the back of his mind, but the words escaped him, leaving him a creature of instinct and anger.

  Razhik moved more fervently than ever, performing feats of magic that stretched his understanding of where his abilities' limits lay, but it wasn’t him. Even if Orion asked him, he’d have answered that feats like that should have been impossible, yet he watched two taloned paws reach from the shallows, eviscerating distant cretins as a final justice for Babblin.

  The liquid shadows of the shallows swirled around him, even as he leapt into the mundane, roaring with such strength, any intelligent creature would feel a primal fear born from days when true terrors walked the wide world.

  Today was one such day, for the King’s Wrath was unleashed.

  These piteous creatures could do him no lasting harm. Even as they struck him, leaving wounds that would be grievous in any healer’s estimation, the very storm they summoned rejuvenated him, the rain a panacea for every injury save his grief.

  Finally, after what seemed an interminable time, Orion got back to his feet. A small part of Razhik was aware of his friend’s struggle, while most of his attention remained engrossed in his nigh all-consuming anger. That small, rational part, disconnected from the primal urges that flooded the beast, kept an eye on his surroundings.

  As the man stood, Razhik noticed something unusual. There was an insubstantial wrongness to many of the wounds he left, a lack of depth that only made his anger grow. While his body rampaged, his mind noted an absence of bodies, particularly nearest the yellow-clad elite. As the implications of this connection blossomed, Razhik’s wrath latched onto one fact: eliminating that elite would let him truly bathe his enemies in his righteous fury, unhindered by pesky illusions.

  The elites, unlike their leader, had been content to let their lesser brethren swarm the field. They sat back in relative safety, working their magics as their soldiers died by the dozen. Razhik’s anger bristled at the concept, one anathema to how a King should lead: from the front. Their peril was his peril, and such weak-willed creatures could not oppose him.

  The shadows cared not for such things as shield walls, nor bodies; They would not hinder his passage. Fueled by wrath, the King emerged from behind the sallow, cowardly elite, claiming its life with his maw, even as a dozen invisible attacks pierced him.

  The creature struggled for a moment, the pressure of Razhik’s bite slowly crushing it, even through the masterfully wrought armor it wore. With a final crunch, the wriggling ceased, and holes appeared in the enemy lines as the illusions were banished. The Wrathful Lord spun, throwing off his attackers before he dove triumphantly back into shadow.

  Emerging near his allies, his anger tempered for the moment, Razhik sought a moment’s refuge, needing the rain to staunch his bleeding. A rumbling growl escaped his maw, his bestial side rearing its head against those who would harm his subjects. These were under his protection. This was his territory, and he would not—

  A pained cry sounded behind him, kindling his wrath once more. Turning, he saw Croaky slumped over in death, a hole seared through his chest, dead before he hit the ground as his heart was deleted from existence.

  The last vestiges of sanity fled, and the King was lost to the overwhelming nature of the Beast. The last thing he saw was the elites finally stepping forward to join the fray, before rage consumed him entirely.

  …shit. Orion thought eloquently, watching as Razhik discarded safety. His friend deserted what sense of self-preservation he'd yet held on to, attacking the gobbers with reckless abandon.

  Not sure what’s worse: Razhik’s state, or those monsters steppin’ in. The five—

  Orion grimaced.

  --four of us are in for a world of hurt if somethin’ doesn’t change, an’ soon.

  Razhik slaughtered his enemies indiscriminately, with no strategy to his attacks. Fast as he was, employing his usual ambush tactics from the shadows, the goblins were learning, landing more and more counters against his friend's assault. The damage was accumulating, and Orion knew his friend couldn’t keep this up, even if his body gave out before his anger.

  Worse still, Razhik hadn’t recovered from the last fight, and he couldn’t keep burning through resources at the rate he was. It was only a matter of time before he took a lethal hit, crippled himself, or succumbed to mana exhaustion.

  Before that happened, Orion had a job to do. Loath as he was to admit it, taking out the Elites was up to him. Razhik, well, he’d done enough, and the Grokar had their hands full playing defense. Without the illusions, the damage they’d done to the enemy army was clear. Now, the situation only looked mostly hopeless.

  It wasn’t much, but it was an honest improvement.

  Four bundles, eh, Orion thought, loading his quiver with fresh ammunition. Better hope it’s enough. Gotta at least take out that purple-caped bastard, or we’re all takin’ the fast track underground.

  “Mistress of Chance, if you’re watchin’, might be I could use a hand. Not that I’m sayin’ I can’t handle it or anythin’.”

  While Razhik wreaked havoc on the enemy soldiers, drawing their ire and painting himself a massive target in turn, Orion devoted himself to his task, holding nothing back. Arrow after arrow fled his bow, only to be cut from the sky by the beast and its minions. The whole damned squad shared that affinity, to some degree, but the Wanderer couldn’t afford to be outdone.

  Locking on to his target, he fired again and again, every missile intercepted, every angle he could think of thwarted. His arrows dwindled.

  Four bundles became three, became two.

  When his penultimate bundle was nearly spent, a burst of inspiration greeted him. It was a long shot, but at that point, so was survival.

  Orion was nothing if not a gambling man, though, and he was ready to go all in.

  With all the mental force he could muster, he shouted, RAZHIK!

  He took his shot, aiming straight down, still locked onto his target.

  By whatever twist of Fate, Razhik finally heard him. The arrow disappeared into the shadows at Orion’s feet, materializing behind the violet elite, flying upwards at an impossible angle with uncanny accuracy, sliding through the gap beneath the beast’s helmet, and penetrating deep into the back of its neck.

  Life no longer held claim to the bag of meat that slumped in defeat.

  The ghost of a smile threatened to grace the man’s face.

  There just might be hope, yet, he thought, and then Froaky fell.