“Come on, Charan! We have to save Gella!” Denor shouted at his companion, who was slowing for some inexplicable reason. “Why are you taking so long?”
Charan came to a halt at that question. “I think it might be the hole that merc punched through my chest.”
Denor thought about this for some time. “Yes, I can see why that might slow things down.”
His fellow andronian waved him off. “There’s no time, Darag said there was a cave system up here that bandits used. The footprints lead in that direction. You have to go and save Gella!”
“What about you? Will you be safe?”
Charan gave him an exasperated look. “Denor, I’m like you, I can’t die, or at least I’ll come back to life if I do. Unlike my poor Gella, who is very much a ‘alive just the once’ kind of person!”
Denor scratched his head. “Oh yeah…”
“Get going then! I’ll be fine.”
So Denor finally found himself alone again as he trudged along the path to the caves with the air of a man who had been dealt a bad hand by the universe and had decided to fold the table rather than lose the game. The ancient trees along the way loomed like old judges, their branches heavy with the wisdom of centuries and the gloom of everything they’d seen in that time. It was the sort of place where the sun feared to tread, and today, it seemed the shadows were particularly enthusiastic about their work—casting darkness so thick you could practically trip over it.
Despite this, Denor was no stranger to trudging, especially through the snow, and was able to not only read the tracks in the poor conditions, but keep pace with the abuctor.
The oppressive atmosphere stuck to him like a damp cloak as he marched beneath the twisted boughs, which was an unfortunate coincidence since he was wearing a damp cloak thanks to the snowfall. Ahead, a narrow clearing stretched out like the final pause before something awful happened, and there, the mouth of the cave gaped open—less a welcoming invitation, more of a hungry yawn. He stopped and squinted suspiciously at the oaks standing around, their silence suspiciously loud, as if they were up to something. But no, the clearing was empty, and the area was devoid of any malicious saplings. Good. He was just in time to do what he did best: something tremendously ill-advised.
For a moment, his stomach tightened, and doubt tiptoed through his mind, searching desperately for doors to knock on marked “common sense.” But then, Gella’s face floated to the surface of his thoughts, unbidden and unstoppable. She had only just been rescued from Stantych, and now she had to go and get herself kidnapped again? This was highly inconvenient, and he’d never hear the last of it from Charan if something were to happen to her.
Denor was the sort to dabble in murder, especially if he felt it was warranted. His life so far, with all the invasions and occupations and evil-doers, had shaped him into the kind of soul who could easily entertain the idea, especially when Trunians or Temrit were involved. His childhood had been forged in Andron VII, a place where mercy was as scarce as good parenting.
Too much trauma turns your brain to treacle and fills your head with all sorts of dangerous notions, and since power did that anyway what chance did Denor really have? This merc, on any other day, might’ve been a decent fellow—a bit too murderous himself for comfort, but decent nonetheless. But today, he had kidnapped a friend, and that meant he was in the way, and people in the way of Denor have a funny habit of getting removed.
As he entered the cave, the darkness pressed in, thick and familiar, like it was saying ‘welcome back, Denor! Here’s another underground structure to suffer through!’ He hesitated, a prickling feeling at the back of his neck making him feel as though the place knew him better than it ought. The high, arched ceiling and the stone walls looked oddly recognizable, as if he’d wandered in here in a dream once that he couldn’t recall. He snapped out of it swiftly, Gella needed rescuring, and he wasn’t the sort to let a little thing like an ominous feeling stop him.
The cave wasn’t what you'd call "natural." Nature generally doesn’t go around carving labyrinthine tunnels into solid rock just for fun. No, this was the handiwork of an ancient civilization, or perhaps the Gurruks, a thoroughly unpleasant bunch who were as popular as a wasp at a picnic. Denor had encountered them twice now, once in the swamps with Rodrik and now one had lingered at Darag’s house. He didn’t trust them, on account of their repeatedly trying to eat him. Little did our hero know… actually that could be the entire sentence right there. Anyway, Denor was unaware that legends claimed the Gurruks had dug this cave as part of their last, ill-advised stand against the Andronians, who were much better at winning and had the good manners to write the history books afterward. This land was so thick with myths, it probably couldn’t sneeze without dislodging a few ancient curses.
According to the old stories that Denor hadn’t read but the narrator fortunately had, the Gurruks had gone full enthusiast and connected the cave to a sprawling network of tunnels beneath the hills. A fine idea at the time, unless you were the one stuck navigating it. Such thoughts flitted around in his head like moths to a flame, jostling for attention with darker, less pleasant ones about what might happen to Gella, as he moved from the outer chamber into a narrow, foreboding tunnel.
The walls of the tunnel had seen better days, but through the gloom, he could just make out faint engravings etched into the stone. Against his better judgment, he flicked on his flashlight—an anachronistic bit of technology in a place that reeked of ancient malice—and leaned closer. The carvings were grotesque, as though someone had asked a particularly deranged artist to sketch their nightmares. And, judging by the results, that someone was definitely not human. Even by Gurruk standards, these ones weren’t winning any beauty contests.
He hastily dimmed the light and pressed on, heading toward a door that looked far too neatly made for anything remotely natural. Beyond it, a cavern yawned, wide and dark, as if the earth had taken a deep breath and never quite exhaled. The chamber was slightly lower than the tunnel he’d emerged from, and that familiar, uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu crept over him, like the universe was leaning in and whispering, ‘Haven't we done this whole underground cave full of danger thing before?’
There was a short flight of stairs leading down to the cavern floor—tiny steps, absurdly small for normal human feet, as though they’d been made for someone much shorter and much more unsettling. The stone was worn smooth from years of use, but those years hadn’t done a thing for their safety rating. An uncoordinated idiot could have a nasty fall here. With a deep breath and a growing sense of dread, he began his descent. And, right on cue—because this was Denor we were talking about—his foot slipped.
The world tilted. There was a brief, frantic moment where his arms flailed about in the universal gesture for ‘this was not the plan,’ before he went tumbling headfirst down the steps. The last thing he heard was a solid thud as the floor met his skull, and then there was darkness.
For all the potential monsters that could have lurked down here, or all the mercenaries he could have been facing, Denor has fallen foul (yet again) of his greatest nemesis of all: gravity.
***
When he came to, the pounding in his head made it clear that consciousness was not doing him any favors. His hand gingerly found a sticky, bloody wound. Excellent, another concussion. He blinked, trying to get his bearings, but found himself in a vast, dusty cave that looked vaguely familiar in the way a recurring nightmare does. He lay at the foot of the staircase, still attached to the tunnel, and with his head still attached to his shoulders, but beyond that, details were a bit fuzzy.
He didn’t know where he was, who he was, or why he’d ended up here, but it looked like the Gurruks weren’t the only ones who’d left something behind in this cave.
At his feet lay something that definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. He bent down and picked it up: a training sword, the kind that struggled to cut bread, never mind foes. Was this his? The blade was broad, darkened by the sort of patina that suggested it had seen more than its fair share of unpleasantness. His fingers curled around the hilt without a second thought, like they’d done it a thousand times. And suddenly, it all came rushing back, memories flooding his mind in orderly fashion, because he didn’t have much mind to work with. Denor of Andron VII. Of course. He knew who that was! He knew who he was! He laughed, because it was either that or scream at the absurdity of it all—a fall knocking his identity loose. But now he remembered.
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“Denor, Denor Kara,” he informed the universe, and rose to his feet unsteadily.
Gella. Oh right, he remembered her too now—fiercely, in fact. Charan had sent him after her, right? She had the infuriating habit of getting kidnapped, and he had the equally infuriating habit of rescuing her.
So he wandered forward, closed his eyes, and informed the rocks: “Tamet wills it!”
Turns out the trickster lord agreed this time. He spotted her shortly after, darting through the cave structure, moving with the grace of a deer that had just remembered it was in wolf territory, panicked and reckless. He pursued, breathing heavily with a mix of concussion and frustration.
“Gella!” he called, but for some reason she didn’t answer. She was somehow running just fast enough to stay ahead, but not quite enough to leave him behind. They raced through the endless tunnels and into the dark, twisted passages, her breath quick and sharp, his following just as urgently. Why wasn’t she stopping?
Then, they broke into a clearing. The mouth of a cave yawned ahead, dark and unwelcoming. Denor’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in her hair. They passed entirely through! Just as Denor halted in confusion, something new and altogether inconvenient entered stage left.
He was Andronian, tall and lanky, and came wandering through the corridors with Gella in tow. His eyes were full of anger, the kind that said, ‘This girl wasn’t supposed to be so annoying.’
“Denor!” Gella sobbed, and Denor’s temper, already a roaring fire, flared into a full-blown inferno. The merc had to be Andronian. Of course. He had never slain one of his own before. Denor's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his young muscles practically humming with fury.
“You came all this way for her?” the merc shouted, his voice full of confusion as he squared off against the boy.
“Give me the girl back!” Denor declared, trying to sound heroic.
The Andronian stopped, and sheathed his weapon. “Sure, you can have her.”
Our hero blinked. “Er… what?”
The mercenary gestured at Gella, who was a snotty sobbing mess on the cave floor. “Have you actually listened to this girl for an extended period of time?”
Denor shrugged. “I sort of drift in and out when she speaks, why?”
“No, seriously, you can have her.”
Denor put his own weapon away, and his clenched muscles didn’t know what to do with themselves now that combat didn’t appear to be breaking out. “Just like that? Okay then, I guess.”
“You’re not going to attack me then?” the mercenary asked, warily testing the waters.
Our hero shrugged. “I’ve got Gella back now, what would be the point?”
“Denor!” Gella shouted, running towards him.
“Yes, hello,” the Andronian briefly acknowledged her, waving her off as she hugged him.
The merc stared on in puzzlement. “I did kill your other friend, do you not remember?”
Denor tried to cast his mind back to earlier in the day. “Oh yeah, right. No, he’ll be fine.”
The mercenary frowned, this wasn’t the expected response. “He’ll recover from a hole in the chest?”
Our hero hit his own chest with his hand. “I did, I’m sure he will as well! We Andronians are made of tough stuff!”
The merc waited patiently, but Denor didn’t look like he was going to include him in this. “I’m Andronian.”
“Yes, and?”
“Well… what about the old man then?” the mercenary asked. “Shouldn’t we fight because he died or something?”
Denor shrugged. “I suppose so, Charan wouldn’t be very happy if I didn’t at least fight.”
Because said mercenary was Andronian, who regarded fighting with each other to be as natural and necessary as breathing, he drew his blade. “Then fight we shall!”
The merc swung the blade around his head with the enthusiasm of someone who didn’t know how this was going to end. The weapon gleamed in the dim light of his raised shield, an unwelcome reminder that even terrible ideas often come from having a little more power than sense.
“Denor, no!” Gella protested in a particularly irritating manner, but he shoved her aside (not unkindly) and drew his own blade.
And then, the fight was on. The mercenary might’ve been taller than Denor, and faster— muchtoo fast for comfort, and more experienced… but Denor… well, this was beginning to look a bit one-sided.
Denor knew the value of brute force, he hacked and stabbed at the merc’s shield with relentless blows, driving him back step by step. The man's chest didn’t so much as raise a breath, as he focused on maintaining his shield strength in the face of this entirely powerless and inconvenient attack. Yet still, despite the inefficacy the boy danced, dodging and swaying like a non-traitorous sapling in a storm, avoiding the inevitable with a skill that was downright irritating.
Granted, the mercenary hadn’t so much as swung his sword yet, but he could have!
Just as Denor was about to double his efforts, a desperate cry from Gella shattered the air. “Rysi! Look out! Alarm! Alert! Beware!”
“I’m Denor, Denor Kara,” Denor helpfully informed Gella, not realising what was going on or how she had forgotten his name. Perhaps she had fallen down the steps too.
“Just stop fighting and look behind you, Denor!”
The moment those words hit the air, Denor noticed something strange. Rysi’s face, already pale from the fight he was inevitably losing to Denor’s clearly superior skills, drained of what little color it had left. It wasn’t the fear of the sword that did it—no, this was something else entirely, the kind of fear reserved for things that hide under beds and in shadowy caves.
Oh, right, they were in a shadowy cave.
“Tamet’s mercy!” Rysi gasped, his voice frantic. “Run, girl, run into the caves! Save yourself!”
But Gella, being Gella, was having none of it. “I won’t leave you!” she cried. “We have to stick together! It’s our only chance!”
Denor watched them, two figures poised at the edge of something far worse than a bad day with a sword. And for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps, just perhaps, he should turn around and find out what it was. There were worse things to worry about than an inconvenient Denor with a sword at this early stage in his career, after all.
His enemy saw her dart past like a pale shadow, flickering briefly in the dim light before vanishing into the cave’s maw. With a desperate cry that was more instinct than strategy, Rysi swung his sword in a wild, ferocious arc that would’ve made a lumberjack proud—and very nearly split Denor’s skull in two. The blow was parried, but it sent Denor reeling, his vision momentarily filled with sparks and bad decisions.
“That wasn’t aimed at you, idiot!” the man presumably called Rysi said.
By the time Denor regained his footing, the merc had already bolted after the girl, disappearing into the cave’s darkness like someone who had just realized that his unintentional recipient might not realise the blow wasn’t meant for him.
“Huh, I should probably follow them and definitely not look behind me.” Denor stated to nobody in particular. “Come back here and fight me!”
Denor let loose a roar that would have brought applause from a particularly angry thunderstorm, and with all the fury he could muster, he charged after them, not caring if Rysi was lying in wait, his blade ready to make an unpleasant acquaintance with his head. As he stormed into the cavern, his eyes darted around. The chamber was empty save for a scrap of Gella’s clothing fluttering through a doorway in the back wall, like a ghost teasing him with her retreat.
***
He sprinted after it, only to skid to a halt as a blade whistled out of the shadows, missing his head by less than a hair’s breadth. Rysi had found the perfect spot to make things difficult, standing in a narrow corridor where Denor, couldn’t get close without risking another near-beheading. It was the worst kind of tactical advantage, the sort that gave Denor a headache worse than Rysi’s blade ever could.
“Keep running, you idiot! That attack wasn’t aimed at you!”
Rage boiled within him, hot and blinding, and the sight of Gella’s slender form lingering behind Rysi—oh, that drove him to the edge! The mercenary had kidnapped her again! And even worse, he had laid an ambush!
He attacked with the fury of an Aurox, jabbing and pelting the man’s shield with his practice blade, waiting for the moment when Rysi would overextend himself, one wild lunge and then—well, then Denor would lop his arm off. In this confined space, he could only use the point of his sword, which was as frustrating as eating soup with a fork. Denor liked the edge—the edge got things done. But unless he landed a decisive strike, neither he nor Gella was leaving this cave as anything more than an interesting collection of bones.
Gella, clearly catching on to this unspoken predicament, began whispering urgently to Rysi about finding another way out. Rysi, to his credit—or lack thereof—fiercely forbade it. But, as was often the case with Gella, she wasn’t in the habit of waiting for permission. She turned and ran, vanishing into the dark tunnel beyond, leaving Rysi and Denor to their dance of death.
“Stop fighting me, you idiot! I’m on your side! We have bigger problems!”
Denor’s rage went from simmer to full boil. Now he was in a frenzy, desperate to finish Rysi before Gella got herself lost forever. He lunged with renewed fury, almost meeting his end as Rysi’s blade narrowly missed turning his skull into a conversation piece. But then, from the depths of the cave, there came a scream. Not just any scream—a terrible, soul-freezing sound that echoed through the cavern like it had been waiting there for centuries. Rysi’s face went ashen, and for a moment, Denor could almost feel sorry for the poor lad.
“We’re too late! Run” Rysi, suddenly forgetting all about swords, whirled around and bolted after the scream, shouting Gella’s name with the desperation of someone who knows things are about to go very, very wrong.
Huh, the bad guy knew Gella’s name. That was weird, usually the standard mercenary wouldn’t care.
From somewhere far below, as if the earth itself had decided to join in the fun, came Gella’s answering cry—mixed with a strange, hissing noise that raised the hair on Denor’s neck. Silence followed, broken only by the sound of Rysi’s frenzied screams, fading deeper into the bowels of the earth.
They weren’t alone here. Something more dangerous than their petty squabble called this place its home. Had the mercenary been trying to warn him before? No, surely not.
Denor hesitated for the briefest of moments, then threw himself into the tunnel, chasing Rysi with reckless abandon. Oddly, his mind was now less focused on driving a sword into the mercenary’s back and more on whatever horror had Gella in its clutches.
As he ran, the tunnel walls in his periphery seemed to come alive with monstrous images scrawled in ancient, trembling hands. He realized with a growing chill that this was no ordinary cave. Something was following him as he raced after the others. Thoughts of Gurruks flooded his mind, and with them came the darker, older stories. Stories of things that had lived here long before the Andronians, things that had crawled into these caverns when the world was still young and never quite left.
Like a big giant snake. Gella wouldn’t like to encounter one of those. That had been really awful.
It struck him then—the fear that must have driven Gella further into this forsaken place. The Gurruks were the least of their worries. Denor ran faster, his newly-thrumming heart purring like a kitten stuck in his ribcage, no longer sure what he was pursuing but absolutely certain he wouldn’t like what he found.