The sun dawned weakly, and as its light touched the leaning roofs and crippled ruins of the city, they moved out.

Ingvar was at the front of the procession, and his figure alone was enough to deter the rabble of the Cutthroat’s Den, who merely gawked glassy-eyed at the titan as he moved through them. Herman and the cultists were quick to stick close to the northman, and they moved quickly through the ruined outskirts.

Despite having such an imposing figure like Ingvar to assist them, entering the city through the Western Gatehouse was immediately ruled out. Herman, nor the rest of the party, felt particularly keen taking on the Great Oak. Instead, another route had been decided upon, by the hooded cultist from the night before.

“The sewers,” said the cultist, “quick and easy to get into, near the walls.”

Of course, Herman didn’t like the idea either, but what choice did they have? One was suicide, the other only suggested such a thing.

The “entrance” was, as a matter of fact, a blown-out hole in the wall, which to Herman looked as if someone had tried to take down the wall but had instead unwittingly carved into the sewer. The ground was soggy, mired with filth, and the group’s footsteps squelched as they approached the cavity.

“So, this is your way in?” Herman scoffed. “I’ve seen safer looking troll-dens.”

“Quite safe, sellsword, I assure you.” The cultist named Johann said, nodding emphatically. “We simply continue heading east, and the exit shall take us to the docks by the river, and then it’s a simple matter of crossing the bridge.”

The bridge. Well. That would be interesting, Herman thought, if he lived to see it.

“Let us not waste time,” Barked the colossal northerner, suddenly. “Whatever crawls in these tunnels, they will be too craven to attack us with our numbers.”

Herman would remember the northman’s words, and later, he would scorn them, alongside many other things.

Herman was lucky that he’d brought a lantern with him, or else the group would have quickly been lost in the darkness. Though the entrance was lit, the deeper passages were not, and soon the group was plunged into darkness. Herman’s lantern squeaked as he moved it, shunting it ahead of him to keep the dark at bay. He heard Ingvar behind him, clanking like a steam tank, and there was a conversation between the cultists far behind him, but the mercenary couldn’t hear their nattering.

“These tunnels, they reach far. Were they mines, once?” Ingvar suddenly asked, breaking the all-too-fragile silence.

“No, they’re sewers. It’s for filth.” Replied Herman, too focused on the darkness to care for his tone.

“And why would southerners waste so much on this system? Just for waste? It makes no sense.”

“Aye. And because we don’t particularly enjoy living in filth.” Not like some other people, Herman thought, thinking pointedly of the savage Norscans and their ostensible contempt for proper hygiene.

“A waste of time, and thralls. It only leaves you open to an attack from below.”

“Who would strike from underground? Dwarfs?” Herman tried not to think of Ingvar's grisly words. It was true that the Norse favoured thralls and slaves to build their savage homes, saving their strength only for battle.

“The stunted ones, yes. A true warrior uses every opening at his disposal to kill his enemy. It is a lesson we have learned well, unlike your ilk.”

“It is said there are rat-men too, sellsword, and they too dwell under the earth!” Said one of the cultists quickly.

“Rat-men aren’t real, and beastmen live in forests, not sewers. Besides, no dwarf would…”

A sudden CLANG in the darkness cut off Herman’s words. Suddenly, Ingvar shoved Herman back, and stormed forwards with a great and crude battleaxe in his gauntleted fists. Herman quickly followed after the warrior, keeping the source of light near him. The cramped sewer-tunnels had opened into a cistern, and the darkness coiled around the party as they progressed. Water drip-dripped from the high ceiling. They stood still, frozen, listening for anything giving itself away. After a few moments of silence, the large cultist took a fine opportunity to state the obvious.

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“Boss… We’re not alone down ‘ere, are we?”

Johan drew a rapier from the folds of his grey robes, and looked around himself. “We’re being watched. Damn it all.”

“What?” Herman suddenly turned to face the cultist, shunting the light into his face. “You said you’ve been here before. What’s down here?”

“Mutants, sellsword. Those blessed by the Gods make their home here, away from those who would see them destroyed.”

“Will they attack us?” Herman asked.

“I…” The cultist paused for a moment.

“They… They should not, no.”

“Either way,” Interjected Ingvar, “We continue on. If they attack us, it will be their undoing.”

The procession continued their journey through the ruined sewers, and Herman quickly lost track of time. Minutes? Hours? It all began to blur in the mercenary’s mind, alongside swirling memories of sewer passages, shadowy nooks and everything else that began to look the same.

The rare shaft of light that lanced through a distant grid or grate told Herman it was still daytime, and that was what gave him hope, even if the minutes felt like years.

“So, sellsword,” Said one of the cultists from behind. “Where you from?”

“I don’t talk while I’m working,” was Herman’s terse reply. What did the zealot care anyway?

“I’m from Wissenland, myself. Never saw much of it, though. Moved to Wurtbad when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. You ever been to Nuln?”

Herman stopped to give the cultist a look. He was a young man, younger than Herman for certain, yet there was a tiredness to his expression. Dark circles under restless eyes, and a face that was pale, and lean. Like Johann, he was hoodless.

“Why do you care, lad?”

“Dad always told me to know who I might die with. He said when I was older I’d join the army, like he did.”

“Did you?”

“Nah. Ran off east as soon as I could.”

“Just like that?”

“Well… There’s a long and a short version of every story, isn’t there?”

“I suppose you’re right. Your family’s from Nuln, then?”

“Ma was. Said it wreaked havoc on her breathin’, so she went to the country to rest a bit. That’s where she met me Da.”

“Interesting tale.” A holler from further down cut the young cultist off. One for later.

The tunnel led into a small chamber, where a man’s innards and vitae were splayed out across the floor. He had been dead for a few days, Herman could tell that right away, even if it was just by the stench and the dried blood. Johann pinched his nose, and Ingvar was stooped over the corpse, like a boulder standing over a pebble.

“What manner of mutant does that?” Herman said, just barely staving off the need to vomit. He already saw the lad buckle from the smell.

“A big one, clearly.” Said Johann, surprisingly calm. “As is known, Herr Herman, the gods bless their followers with many implements to do their work.”

“Butcher’s work,” said Herman, shaking his head ruefully. Shallya preserve us. We’re going to die down here.

Suddenly, a high-pitched wail rattled through the tunnel. Immediately, Johann pulled out his improvised club.

“They have sensed us. They are coming!”

Herman’s bow, useless in such a dark and cramped environment, was forewent in place of his trusted shortsword. He saw the other cultists pull out their weapons. The young lad he’d spoken to a few moments before pulled out a cruel-looking hatchet, one other drew a rapier, and the hulking mask-wearer pulled out a ragged cleaver.

“Behind me, little ones.” Ingvar’s voice was bloated with self-confidence and mirth, and he chuckled as he assumed his place in the centre of the chamber.