This time, the Whetstone Tavern was sitting atop a hill, surrounded on all sides by grass so tall, the stalks rose to Alex’s chest.

The building looked more rundown than before—or so it seemed—with lichen and vines crawling up the walls, and cracks running through the cyclopean stones. Yet, for all the aesthetic differences, it looked no weaker structurally.

And Alex doubted that it was.

“Well, we ain’t in Generasi anymore.” Ripp looked around, pointing out trees in the distance and a small village at the bottom of the hill. The buildings were so squat, and ancient, that their roofs were of earth, and greenery had sprung up on top of them. “Where are we?”

“The answer would mean nothing to you,” the chancellor said, a note of stress in his voice. He was garbed in a rich robe, and also wore rings and bangles that shone in the evening sunlight. “Suffice it to say that we are very, very far from Generasi.”

“Well, I’m not being paid to make maps, so that’ll do,” Ripp shrugged, nodding to four figures outside the tavern. “I guess that’s the rest of us for this little moving demon-feast?”

“Yep.” Alex nodded to three brightly clad mercenaries…and Celsus.

Guntile was the first to spot them, waving cheerily and jumping to her feet. The half-orc mercenary wore a costume of bright red fabric, covered in sparkling multi coloured sequins.

When she moved, it was like a rainbow had come to life. “Right on time, boss.” She said, stretching her shoulders.

Ezerak nodded, leaning against the wall. He was the least clothed of the group, wearing a simple bright orange loincloth of woven silk. The single piece of clothing allowed hundreds of tattoos to be exposed, covering bronzed skin, each depicting a fearsome beast, demon, monster or soldier.

The surface of his body looked as though an entire realm had been painted on his skin, and every image was so lifelike, it seemed they were ready to leap from his flesh and pounce.

It was quite likely that most—if not all—were ready to leap off his flesh.

A fine, curved sword hung from his waist, its hilt encrusted with diamonds.

“Evening commander.” The former king nodded, hoisting a heavy pack onto his back. “I am ready.”

“As am I.” Kyembe took a sip from a waterskin before leaping to his feet. “Let us rescue whatever we are looking for from the demons.”

The half-dark elf was dressed in a bright purple costume, complete with a blue cape that hung to his waist, and a grinning skull mask that wrapped his face. His crimson eyes were terrifying behind the mask’s skeletal eye sockets.

At his waist the ivory hilted, thin-bladed sword hung, and on his index finger, his ring shone.

The last mercenary, armoured and as still as stone, stood near the others.

Celsus wore no costume or uniform, simply sheathed in his usual armour and bearing a mace. The tall man paused, spotting Claygon.

A strange shift rippled through his body language.

Alex eyed him and Kyembe carefully as the two groups met a short distance from the tavern.

“Good to hear everyone’s ready,” Alex said. “We’ve rehearsed our parts, and we know what to do if things go right, and if things go wrong. So, any questions?”

Guntile nodded. “Do we have looting rights? Meaning, if we find treasure besides what you’re looking for, can we grab it?”

Ripp, Kyembe, Celsus and Ezerak all looked at Alex with piercing interest.

“Yeah, go nuts,” he said. “I’m only after one thing; you can take whatever you want…unless I get to it first.”

“You’re a good boss.” Celsus nodded.

“Very good, commander.” Ezerak gave him a thumbs up. “I already like working for you.”

“May our hands find many fortunes.” Kyembe’s deep voice was bright behind his mask.

“And may our pockets get so full, they burst,” Guntile grinned.

“Aye, and let’s hope we live to spend it.” Ripp finished.

The mercenaries nodded to each other.

It seemed they’d hit it off.

A good sign: hopefully heralding good things to come.

“Right, then let us get on with it,” Baelin said. “I must be away soon.” He nodded to Celsus and Claygon. “My friends, I will mark you both with my magic, unless either of you objects.”

The pair were silent, and the archwizard waved a hand, sending a wave of teleportation magic through the air.

A glowing spell-mark appeared on one hand of the golem, and one of the armoured warrior, who carefully examined his.

“Now…” the chancellor said. “I will be transporting everyone to your entry point in the outer labyrinth. The place is a wild one, unguarded by the plane’s more organised forces, but patrolled by predators. Expect a fight upon your entry, unless you are very fortunate. From there, it will be half a day’s walk to the rendezvous point. You will find a carriage supplied by a…friend waiting, containing the rest of your supplies for your performances while also completing the deception that you are an experienced troop of entertainers. It will be equipped with hell-boars serving as both beasts of burden, and the wagon’s guards. Have a brief rest there, but do not linger, from there you will still have another quarter day’s journey to the city and the palace of Kaz-Mowang. If timed right, your arrival for the gala should occur about one hour before his guests, save for the earliest and most eager, of course.”

“Right,” Alex said. “And the maps?”

Baelin took two scrolls from a bag. “These are the most recent maps of the area you’re going to in the outer labyrinths. Keep in mind, the maze changes over time. You must keep to schedule, or these maps will rapidly become obsolete.”

“Right.” Alex nodded. “And the extraction point’s the same place we’ll be entering from?”

“Indeed.” Baelin nodded. “Unfortunately, the plane’s not in so convenient an alignment as to present one that would be closer.”

“That means…” Ripp’s brow furrowed. “If we find ourselves in trouble, we’ll be a day’s travel away from freedom, at least at a human’s pace. If I was on my own, I could get out much faster, though.”

“If we find ourselves needing to make our escape, we must move quickly and quietly, while still foiling any hindrances we encounter.” Kyembe nodded his head thoughtfully as he spoke. “A challenge; if an army of those vile creatures is pursuing us. But, life is full of challenges, is it not?”

“I’d like things to be a bit easier, honestly,” Alex said dryly, though he wasn’t sure how much of that was true. He couldn’t deny the kernel of excitement in a corner of his heart.

A very, very boneheaded corner.

“Remember,” Baelin said. “I will help you if I can, but—in all likelihood—I shall be rather occupied, ensuring that you do not encounter resistance from those beyond your power.”

“Gotchya,” Thundar said. “So that means no goatus ex machina for us? Great. Well, I’m about ready to die, who’s with me?”

Alex and the mercenaries gave half-hearted cheers.

“The only one dying…will be the demons,” Claygon’s voice—sounding like stone grinding on stone—boomed.

Kyembe nodded to him. “I like the way he thinks much better.”

“Let’s hope he’s right,” Ezerak said. “But we all knew what we signed up for, and where we’re going.”

“Very well, then.” The archwizard spread his hands over the party readying to raid the hells. “Let us begin your transportation. I wish all of you luck, fortune and the blessings of any fickle gods that you worship. May your minds be swift, your arms strong, and your magics deadly. May your enemies be slow, cowardly, foolish and weak.”

His goat-like eye focused on Alex. “Good hunting. All of you.”

Two things struck Alex as he stepped through the portal.

The first was the heat.

Cretalikon’s simmering heat enveloped him like a wave, making his eyes tear and parching his nostrils as he entered the domain. He squinted at a pair of panting hellhounds—marked with a band of yellow to identify them—he’d sent through the portal to scout ahead.

The second was the mania-field.

It hit him like a millstone.

Before he could even draw his first muggy breath, his thoughts began racing, focus died, and emotions ran wild. Feelings flit through him, amplified ten-fold: fear, anger, excitement, even anticipation magnified in intensity.

The urge to act was overtaking reason, the desire to scream in terror, shout in triumph and claw at his own self-mocking costume in rage all came together, fraying his nerves.

Alex forced himself to pause and shake his head, fighting for quieting breaths, he whispered affirmations: “You are calm. These are not your feelings. They’re the domains. You are calm. You are calm.”

He gripped the aeld staff, feeling inquisitive emotions. The mania-field seemed not to be affecting it though it emanated waves of curiosity and uneasiness. Maybe because of their other trips down to the hells, it was growing less affected by the field in much the same way Claygon was immune.

“Well, I can’t lose a contest of wills to a tree branch,” Alex muttered, finding calm in his own emotions. As the mania abated, he considered his surroundings.

And whistled.

The portal lay within a great crossroads in the labyrinth, large enough to hold the Research Castle in Greymoor. All around, walls as high as any mortal tower stood—perhaps sixty or seventy feet in height—built of stone burning with raging flame. Rock faces were rough, though climbable…if one fancied turning to charred ash.

As the others appeared through the portal behind him—he had arrived first, as usual—Thundar began muttering his affirmations against the mania-field. Ripp’s breath hissed, the swiftling twitching and shuddering as he fought to control his thoughts. Guntile tapped her stones in a calming rhythm, while Ezerak chanted something low in a foreign tongue.

Celsus and Kyembe showed no reaction to the demon realm; the armoured giant never broke stride and the Spirit Killer was as calm as he’d been in front of the tavern, giving Alex no cause to be concerned about the pair falling under the field’s influence.

His attention turned to the exits: a host of twisting paths led deeper into the maze in all directions, each wide enough for a small army to pass through.

His nostrils flared: though the air was surprisingly fresh, it was tinged with the slightest hint of brimstone, blazing wood, and boiling meat. Alex sweltered in the heat, as far-off sounds reached his ears: a distant battle, cries for help and screams of suffering, a voice locked in utter ecstasy, the frenzied beat of a drum accompanying manic chanting and laughter, loud, hysterical laughter.

Far above, the fire-streaked sky was a roiling sea of orange and red—flame had erased clouds—filled with soaring, darting forms of flying demons. He also recognised the marks of civilization up there: his eyes were drawn to a magical carriage hundreds of feet above, pulled through the sky by a demonic wyvern.

The creature’s fevered screams cut the air.

“Charming,” he muttered.

“Er, boss.” Ripp nodded ahead.

Alex looked at the crossroads.

His hellhounds were tense, snarling at a troop of anthropoids emerging from a passageway. A troop of monkeys. A troop of giant, demonoid simians. Each resembled an enormous baboon—at least eighteen feet tall, by Alex’s estimate—covered in fiery orange fur, with bulls’ horns protruding from either side of their skulls.

And they were in abundance.

The largest dozen or so loped along the ground, with at least that many bounding across the walls, moving through the passage, spreading over flaming stone.

“Diabnirei.” Alex named them. “Primal demons of mockery and anger. They’re the hunters Baelin warned us about.”

“Big bastards,” Thundar commented, readying his mace.

“Orders…father?” Claygon asked.

“Kill them. Leave none alive, they’re persistent so they’ll chase us until the hells end to get revenge.”

“Time to earn your pay, lads and lass.” Ripp’s hands blurred, extracting two hooked knives from his vest.

Ezerak snarled, drawing his blade. Guntile fished a handful of stones from her pouch. Kyembe’s sword seemed to leap into his hand.

A loud crash came as Celsus drew his mace, slamming it against the stone.

A giant demon startled at the sound.

“Oh!” Alex cried. “And try not to mess up your costumes.”

“An extra challenge.” Guntile laughed, seeming to welcome it. “You heard the boss, clean ‘em up, you bastards!”

With the roar of a cyclone thundering from his speakerbox, Claygon charged, leading the others into their first battle in Cretalikon.

Many, many miles away, Baelin stepped from a portal and into the seemingly boundless castle belonging to Ezaliel. Flanking him were two mighty engeli—serving as bodyguards—while all around, enemies watched the archwizard with unconcealed hostility.

Demons and devils snarled at him from each corner of an antechamber, grinding their claws on priceless gold and marble, seeming not to care.

The chancellor met their ‘intimidating’ glares with his own gaze of disdain.

“Apologies, guest of Ezaliel,” a voice crackled.

Before Baelin, a demon suddenly manifested, one of smoke and ash coalescing into a humanoid figure with burning, ember-red eyes and ashen flesh. A fine doublet and hose covered its form, and it bowed; its manner formal.

“Welcome to the halls of my master.” The creature gestured to the nearest passage. “You are awaited.”

“Then let us begin, shall we?” the archwizard said stiffly, playing the part of an irritated diplomat.

From his mind, a call went out: ‘I am here. Be ready to strike.’

Planes away, the powerful consciousness of four archwizards touched his own.

They were poised, ready to unleash hell upon hell.