Extract from The Forgotten Five - Levelling up Together, Book One

Are you afraid of the dark?

Perfect.

Now follow me into this oversized rabbit hole, though if you’re expecting anything as innocent as a tea party at the end of it, temper those expectations.

You first notice the peculiar glow: four light spots floating like will-o’-the-wisps in a low, earthy tunnel. The walls and ceiling drip with the memories of countless rainy seasons. Roots dangle, resembling the skeletal fingers of some long-forgotten giant, swaying ever so slightly as if alive. Underfoot, the mud smacks and squelches in protest at being disturbed.

The four travellers move cautiously, their voices reduced to whispers. There is no banter, no songs.

“Do we even know the right direction?” whispers Lady Minelira, squinting into the dim light and feeling very much disadvantaged.

“Don’t worry, my love,” replies Vaelior, the elf. His voice is soft and melodious, the kind of voice you trust with poetry but not necessarily with your confessions. “I’m certain the directions would not have been given to us if they were wrong.”

“Well, I don’t know,” mutters Beryl, the dwarf. “That giant stick insect back there might have sent us into a trap. Did you see its face? It doesn’t even blink. Creepy.”

“Oh, come on, darling,” says Digram, adjusting his pack with a grunt. “You saw Kol. He doesn’t look like an untrustworthy tree to me.”

“And what does an untrustworthy tree look like?” asks Beryl, scratching her beard and glancing over her shoulder as if expecting the forest to come after them.

“My people never have much of a quarrel with trees,” Digram says. “We only use fallen ones and collect dead branches for the fire. We’re literally doing them a service, cremating their dead.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Minelira.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No,” she says, with a glint of amusement. “To lie and to not tell the truth are not the same thing.”

“Shhhh . . .” Digram interrupts her and freezes mid-step, his ears twitching. The others immediately stop, instinctively listening to the silence that suddenly feels much louder than before.

“What is it, Diggie?” whispers Beryl.

“I think I hear something . . .” he murmurs. “Though it might just be my stomach. The last time it made a noise like that was after I ate a bad turnip. Darling, what was in your pie last night?”

“Gravel,” Beryl shoots back, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be daft, Diggie. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The tension eases, and they resume their careful pace, until Digram stops again, crouching by the wall.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to a small leathery sack lying on the ground. It’s covered in dirt, and no one else has noticed it.

“If it’s your stomach again, I’m leaving you here,” says Vaelior, not bothering to turn around.

But Digram doesn’t reply. Instead, he crouches lower. “Hey, Beryl, bring your light over here. This . . . thing doesn’t seem to like my fiery torch.”

The others gather around, their lights illuminating the object in question: a leathery, bulbous sack about the size of a coin pouch pulsing slightly. It resembles a transparent butterfly’s chrysalis, though something inside visibly struggles to break free.

“Looks like a rat,” mutters Beryl, leaning closer. “Or a very angry crab trying to crawl out of a tight trap.”

“Careful!” warns Vaelior, his voice tinged with alarm. “Don’t touch it — it could be dangerous!”

“It’s just a crab!” says Digram dismissively. “What’s it going to do, pinch me to death?”

“No crab I’ve ever seen glows like that,” Minelira muses.

The sack bursts open with a wet, squelching sound, and the creature within, something between a hairless rat and a scorpion, though with an extra pinch of nightmare for flavour, breaks free. Its twisted and sharp forelimbs stretch upwards as if grasping for an invisible sky. If you are expecting a menacing hiss or the chirp of breaks of the mine rail, you’d be disappointed. The creature turns its eyeless head towards the group, and although it makes no sound, the air around it seems to vibrate with an unsettling whine.

“Oh, that’s definitely not a crab,” Digram whispers, leaning back.

“No,” Beryl confirms grimly. “That’s worse.”

No one knows why, but they all raise their heads and look up, following the yellow beam of Lady Minelira’s lantern. What they see makes Digram’s torch falter in his grip.

Only a metre above the head of the tallest of them, the tunnel ceiling now appears alive. The faint outlines of dozens — no, hundreds — of leathery sacs bulge above them, each one twitching faintly. The dim light reveals wriggling forms inside, shapes moving and squirming as though testing the strength of their prisons. It seems as if a rain of disgusting newborn abominations is about to fall upon them.

“Well,” says Digram, his tone somehow remaining dry even as his hand finds the hilt of his dagger. “I think we’ve stumbled into a nursery. And, for the record, I am not volunteering as a babysitter.”

“And I say it’s time to move,” Minelira replies, lowering her lantern and leading the way down the corridor. Unlike other palace women, she is unafraid of mice, wasps, spiders, trolls or orcs. But she is scared of unfamiliar and unpredictable dangers, if not to the point of squealing, then coolly increasing the distance between them and her smooth dark skin.

“You heard the lady,” Beryl growls, turning on her heel. “Let’s move before these . . . things start falling.”

Digram hesitates, glancing back at the lone creature. “I mean, what are the odds all of them hatch at once? Right? Maybe it’s a slow-drip sort of situation.”

The first sac above them ripples violently, its leathery skin splitting as a claw, disturbingly similar to the one below, slices through.

“For the love of mushrooms — run!” Digram yelps, abandoning all pretence of bravery as he bolts after Minelira.

The group breaks into a swift run, their lights bobbing wildly...