They were greeted on the fifth level not by dampness and rustling, but by a sepulchral, oppressive silence. The air was dry and dusty, smelling of ozone and hot metal. The walls here were not rough stone, but polished basalt slabs, covered with faded silver inlays.
The squad was a pitiful sight. Six halberds had been left behind on the upper levels as splinters, the leather armor of half the men was slashed with scratches. Valos himself, his face smeared with soot and sweat, felt his weakening legs trembling.
«Here it is, my great adventure. I feel like a hero. If a hero is an exhausted mutt clawing its way through a sewer.»
It was at that moment they entered the hall. And it blinded them.
The light of their torches reflected in thousands of blue-white facets. Boulders, veins, and scatterings of the shimmering mineral covered everything around. This was mithril. Unconcealed, purest wealth.
— Gods... — someone behind him breathed out.
— Stop!
The swordsman was already in a fighting stance, his gaze fixed on the center of the hall. There, on a low pedestal, stood a full suit of plate armor of magnificent craftsmanship. It was empty. The helmet, with its crest shaped like a serpent's head, stared at them with empty eye sockets, shining with the same cold light as the mithril around it.
— Another exhibit? — one of the mercenaries muttered uncertainly.
In response, the armor turned its head. Silently, smoothly. Then it stepped off the pedestal. The metal didn't creak — it rustled, like scales.
And then it scattered. With a deafening clatter, the helmet, pauldrons, gauntlets, breastplate, greaves, and sabatons flew apart in different directions, and then, tracing deadly arcs through the air, launched their attack.
Hell began.
Corvus was magnificent. His sword traced intricate patterns in the air, deflecting the pieces flying at him. The blade screeched against the enchanted steel, sending up showers of sparks. He deflected the helmet's strike, parried the gauntlet's blade attacks. But there was too much armor. While he was fencing with three pieces, the breastplate slammed into his back, sending the swordsman to his knees. The greaves clamped onto his leg.
— Grab it! — Valos shouted, his voice cracking. He wasn't a hero, but his mind, honed by years of investigating insurance fraud, was working overtime, seeking weak points in the most insane situation. — Don't break it! Grab it, damn it!
His desperate cry had an effect. Several of the most desperate mercenaries, forgetting their fear, rushed forward. They fell upon the pieces of armor like a pack of hungry dogs. Two grabbed the bucking breastplate, pressing it to the floor. Another piled onto the greaves. Three men were thrown back by the helmet, but four more latched onto it.
— Drag them! Upward! — Valos commanded, running to Corvus himself and helping him up. — Everyone! Retreat! There's enough loot for everyone!
The journey back turned into a surreal spectacle. Twelve men, winded and bloodied, were carrying, dragging, and hauling six furiously thrashing pieces of plate armor. The air filled with clanging, swearing, and grinding.
— And what now with this? — Corvus asked hoarsely, leaning on his sword. His back ached, and a massive bruise was blooming on his leg.
— And now, my dear bodyguard, we're going to do a big laundry. With sacred fire, — Valos wiped his face. — Fire and Light, become purifying flames... Sounds good, doesn't it? And in the meantime... — he turned to the men who had crowded around the batch of mithril they had procured. — Lads, you've just become very wealthy men. Take this up to the surface. And deliver these two letters to my father.
The men, exhausted but intoxicated by sudden wealth, nodded and reached for the shimmering metal.
Valos waited until the last of them disappeared into the tunnel, and only then leaned against the wall, releasing the tension. They were alone — he, Corvus, and the yawning darkness leading deeper into the dungeon.
— You took a risk, my lord. They could have run off with the mithril.
— Craftsmen, maybe. Mercenaries never. They know a steady income is better than a one-time score, — Valos smirked. — And this mithril is their ticket to a future where they're not poor sellswords, but veterans who saved the kingdom. I'll make sure of it. Or, at least, I'll promise it beautifully.
He looked toward where they had taken the armor.
— And this... this is our ticket to the dwarves. They'll appreciate such a curious trophy. Besides mithril and beer, they don't need anything else, right?
Corvus silently raised one white eyebrow.
— Almost nothing, my lord. Almost.
— Well, that's just fine. And now, — Valos straightened up and glanced into the dark passage leading to the sixth level, — while our lads are bargaining with the short-legged folk, let's see what else these snake-people left us that's interesting. Hopefully, there's something we don't have to drag out, but can just pocket.
The path to saving the estate was open. And Valos felt not just relief, but a gnawing anticipation.