Meanwhile, inside one of the tunnels Slark had dug, Draeven shouted hoarsely.
"Elvira!
Run!"
He raised his shovel like a halberd and planted his feet in front of her.
Ahead, four knights appeared, their silver armor gleaming in the dim light.
They were taller than normal men but still shorter than a Nephirid.
Each sat on a hybrid beast that looked like a cross between a dragon and a horse, with eyes that glowed faintly red.
Behind them marched twenty-four soldiers.
Every one of them was a Magus.
The pressure they gave off was thick and heavy, like it made the air harder to breathe.
Draeven's jaw tightened.
He remembered barely surviving against only a few of these enemies.
Now two dozen of them blocked the way.
His grip on the shovel shook until his knuckles turned white.
Hatred boiled in his chest, but he forced it down.
Charging at them blindly would be useless.
The most he could do was buy Elvira some time to escape.
But Elvira did not move.
