As he continued sprinting, the tunnel opened into a chamber that was just a bit too wide and far too ominous for Denor's liking. He spotted Rysi’s pale form darting away, vanishing into the black mouth of yet another corridor with Gella, and then the cave erupted. First, a wild scream that made Denor’s stomach tighten, followed by the unmistakable crash of something—or someone—hitting solid stone. Gella’s frantic cries cut through the darkness, and underneath it all, a chorus of hisses slithered through the air like the cave itself was alive with malice. The etchings on the walls continued their strange undulation, and Denor shot out of the tunnel at full pelt—only to realize, too late, that the cave floor was several feet lower than expected. His feet sailed over the tiny steps, which were of absolutely no help in that situation, and let’s face it, probably would have betrayed his feet anyway given their track record. So instead of falling down another flight, thin air was his staircase and the stone below was just as forgiving as usual, hitting him with what was fast becoming a familiar feeling of stone-to-face.

Sitting up and rubbing his aching head, he recalled all of this with a profound sense of injustice. Life, he thought, had been a lot simpler before he became a secret cave discoverer. He could do without the whole screaming damsels in distress thing too. Perhaps he should give up on this whole adventurer thing and get back to working with sheep. Except that the whole planetary occupation thing was still in full sway whether he was underground or not. That kind of put a dampener on things.

His eyes flicked to the corridor where Rysi and Gella had disappeared, now shrouded in a silence so thick it practically had its finger to its lips. The blackness beyond the entrance was no worse than the previous black and yawning entrances he had passed through, so he best be at it then. Clutching his sword, Denor crossed the wide, still cavern with all the enthusiasm of a man knowing he’d have to deal with Gella at the end of it. Peering into the corridor, he was greeted by nothing but darkness. Very thick darkness. The kind of darkness that made you wonder whether daylight had ever really existed at all.

He stepped cautiously inside, his boots squelching unpleasantly as they hit a patch of something wet. The smell hit him a second later—a sharp, metallic tang that could only mean one of two things. Freshly spilled blood. Or someone had left a portable heater on down here too long, but that seemed highly unlikely given the locale. His nostrils flared, and his grip tightened on the sword. Someone, or something, had recently met an unpleasant end here, and he hoped it was the mercenary.

For a moment, he stood there, heart thudding, the sort of dread creeping over him that makes even the most seasoned warrior consider taking up a quiet, less dangerous hobby—like shepherding. He could turn back. That was an option. There was sunlight somewhere behind him, and, more importantly, a bunch of sheep that needed tending.

But there it was—that insidious gnawing feeling, could he really leave Gella down here forever? He could leave, sure. He could tell Charan about some horror that had dragged Gella and Rysi into the depths. He wouldn’t be Denor Kara if he did that though, he’d be a liar. Whatever had or had not happened to them, he needed to go and find out before returning to his friend.

Resolving to see it through, Denor continued being himself and moved down the corridor, his sword at the ready. What was lurking in this cave, he didn’t know, but every moving image painted them as distinctly inhuman. His free hand trailed the wall for guidance, and that’s when his fingers brushed against something—the carved frame of a door, oddly intricate for such a place. At that very moment, something nearby hissed, not unlike the giant snake from a previous cave, and then it slashed at his thigh with a suddenness that almost sent him sprawling again.

Instinct took over. Denor struck out wildly, his sword swinging in the dark, and to his surprise, it connected. Whatever it was fell with a thud at his feet, and a peculiar silence followed. Breathing heavily, Denor glanced down, though the darkness hid whatever he'd just killed. His leg burned from the shallow wound—it had been cut by something sharp, not clawed or bitten. Whatever had attacked him wasn’t entirely human, but the wound suggested it had a fondness for knives. So it probably wasn’t a snake then, Denor’s brilliant mind deduced.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, unease crawling up his spine. The thing’s voice still echoed in his mind, that hissing tone, cold and utterly unlike any language his translator could parse.

A soft, unpleasant sound—a sort of slithering—filled the air, as if an enthusiastic committee of snakes had decided to hold a parade. Denor, not one to stand on ceremony, plunged forward, his groping hand finding an entrance of sorts. Of course, because the universe has a sense of humor, instead of a nice, level corridor, the floor dropped into a set of laughably tiny steps. His feet, which had been expecting solid ground, expressed their displeasure by sending him into an undignified stumble. He triumphantly managed to catch himself just before his nose became intimately acquainted with the ground and, grasping at the walls, descended cautiously, like a man who suspects the world is actively plotting against him. Which, in this case, wasn’t far from the truth.

That’s right, Denor had finally won a round against gravity! Even if the round had gone to a judge’s decision.

Down he went, and down some more, as if he was descending straight into the center of the world. Which, knowing his luck, he probably was. But going back was not an option, unless he fancied getting acquainted with whatever was making that charming slithering noise behind him. Just as he was beginning to wonder if he’d accidentally got himself lost forever, a faint, eerie light appeared far below. He should have been grateful, he should have been happy, but there was something entirely off about the luminance. Compelled by either curiosity, stupidity, or the sheer fact that there weren’t many alternatives, he pressed on until the shaft finally opened into yet another chamber—because of course it did.

That was when he stopped, because even Denor can be given pause by some things.

In the middle of the chamber was a black altar. Not just any black altar—this one glowed faintly, as if someone had thought it would be a good idea to rub it with something phosphorescent, which, Denor noted, probably wasn't standard practice in home decoration. It wasn’t the first time he had seen a glowing altar like this either, which said a lot about Denor’s life. It resembled the one he had encountered in the swamps, which meant Gurruks may well have been behind this all along.

Behind the altar, perched on what could only be described as a tasteful arrangement of human skulls, sat a red stone that was gleaming.

Denor should have known that this also bore similarities to something he had witnessed before, but his gaze had shot back to the other thing sharing space with the altar. Chiefly, the two figures tied up on the glowing altar: Gella and Rysi, looking considerably worse for wear. Bloodstained, bedraggled, and, in Rysi’s case, noticeably short on weaponry (though the blood-crusted blade beside the altar suggested he'd been busy earlier). Before them crouched something Denor recognized instantly.

The Gurruk shaman was a creature that was every bit as repulsive as it sounded. The thing barely reached five feet, though its sheer grotesqueness more than compensated for its lack of height. Its body was twisted and deformed in ways that suggested that Mother Nature had not only given up but had also started flipping through the ‘Really Bad Ideas’ section. Its head was far too large for its spindly body, with slack lips that squirmed around a set of yellow fangs. Snakelike hair draped over its face, and its demonic yellow eyes glistened with a nightmarish gleam and were completely blind. The real masterpiece, though, was the skin—scaly, yellow, and mottled in a way that reminded Denor uncomfortably of something you’d find slithering through a swamp. In one hand, it held a stone-tipped spear, and in the other, a hammer of polished flint that, frankly, didn’t look like it was used for any kind of carpentry Denor would want to be involved in.

The creature, seemingly absorbed in its prisoners, hadn’t noticed Denor’s less-than-graceful entrance. He was just considering his next move when a new sound crawled its way into his awareness: a faint, unmistakable rustling coming from above. His blood turned to ice. More of them. The creatures were crawling down the shaft. Slowly. Methodically. Blindly pawing in front of them.

He was trapped. A quick glance around the chamber confirmed it—there was no easy escape. His gaze fell back on Rysi, bound and battered on the altar. Yes, they were enemies. Yes, he would have happily skewered him in any other circumstance and had been trying to until this intrusion. This wasn’t just any other circumstance though.

Sometimes, the universe demanded uneasy alliances, particularly when indescribable horrors were involved.

Denor tightened his grip on his sword. If he was going to get out of this mess, it would have to be with Rysi at his side. After all, while the merc was no Denor Kara, he had shown promise in battle.

As Denor drew closer, the creature beside the altar snapped its head up, fixing him with sightless eyes that clearly indicated that the beast sensed him. But Denor was quicker, sword in hand and thoughts of heroism (or at least survival) filling his head. In a blur of motion, he swung his blade, and before the thing had even managed a proper hiss of indignation, it was on the ground, clutching at its scaly chest as blood spurted like a particularly unfortunate fountain display. Its death scream echoed down the shaft, probably alerting every unsavory denizen of this wretched place to their exact location. Just what they needed.

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Well, at least defeating them was a lot easier than fighting the standard Gurruk.

Without pausing for a breather, Denor hacked through Rysi's bonds on the third attempt with his training sword, dragging the half-dead warrior to his feet with all the urgency of someone who knew that sticking around was the worst possible idea. He turned to Gella, expecting her to flinch away, but no. She just gazed up at him with eyes so wide and pleading they could’ve won prizes at a ‘Most Terrified Damsel’ competition. Rysi, to his credit, decided not to attack Denor. He snatched up his weapon and freed Gella, who immediately latched onto him like a drowning person clutching at a very stabby life raft.

“We can’t go back up,” Rysi barked, shaking off the effects of the altar. “The creatures will be on us any minute. They caught Gella trying to escape, and I wasn’t much use after they mobbed me. They dragged us here for the pleasure of this charming fellow.” He gestured to the dead Gurruk on the floor. “They’ve probably already sent word through the caves—lucky us, we’re the latest item on the sacrificial menu.”

With no time to waste, Rysi grabbed Gella’s hand and sprinted for the next tunnel. Denor followed, casting a quick glance back at the chamber just before the corridor bent out of sight. From the shaft, a mob of hideous creatures began to spill into the room like ants at a picnic—except these ants were much less friendly and much more likely to gnaw on your limbs. Plus the picnic supplies of a mound of skulls didn’t look very appetising.

The tunnel sloped upward, which might have been encouraging if not for the fact that tunnels in places like this rarely led anywhere pleasant. Still, after a few moments, they spotted a thin beam of daylight filtering through the gloom. Hope bloomed briefly in their chests, only to be dashed when they realized the light was coming through a crack in the ceiling, far out of reach. It was a cruel joke, really. Behind them, the horde let out a triumphant cry, which only made things worse, as nobody likes a sore winner.

Denor stopped. “Go on, save yourselves,” he said, drawing his sword. “I’ll make my stand here, it can buy you some time, plus you’d be surprised at how long I can last.”

Rysi paused as well, glancing back down the tunnel. “Running won’t do much good. We’ll end up cornered sooner or later. Might as well face them head-on.”

Gella, of course, was not in favor of this plan, but she clung to Rysi all the same, hands wringing as though they could squeeze a better outcome from thin air. “We need to get out of here, not make some last heroic stand!”

Denor nodded. “Stand behind me with Rysi,” he ordered. “I can fight these creatures for ages.” His eyes met Gella’s. “You know I can. Search for an exit on the far wall while I buy you time.”

“So this is it then?” Rysi replied, their hands clasping in a brief but ironclad grip.

“For you maybe, I plan on getting out of here eventually.”

Rysi raised a sceptical eyebrow, but didn’t have chance to comment on Denor’s confidence.

And then the monsters were upon them. They came in a seething mass, all slithering hair, wild eyes, and frothing mouths, a blind nightmare on legs. Denor charged. His sword cut through the air like a scythe, and the first head flew from its shoulders with a pleasing sound, followed by a gory spray that splattered the walls.

“Tamet wills it!” Denor shouted, his voice reverberating off the walls, blood splattering his face. If he was going down, he’d make sure they had to repeatedly kill him before he ended up strapped to an altar.

They came at him in waves, and that peculiar battle madness—unique to his people, and particularly inconvenient at social gatherings—gripped him hard. Denor fought like a man possessed by every ancestor who ever had a bad day, his sword a blur of steel and fury. Every swing cut through flesh and bone with a satisfying squelch, painting the walls in a vivid, if somewhat macabre, purple spray. They were a particularly frail variant of Gurruk, but there were just too many of them. He was soon buried under the sheer weight of flailing limbs, gnashing teeth, and very poor hygiene.

Then, through the chaos, a howl rose above the cacophony—a sound that could only mean one thing: Rysi had picked his moment to strike. The blade whistled over Denor’s head, followed by the splatter of blood and brains, a bit like an extremely violent water feature. With a grunt, Denor staggered to his feet, trampling a few unfortunate writhing bodies beneath him.

"There's a staircase behind us!" Gella’s voice rang out from behind them, more hopeful than seemed appropriate given the situation. "Half hidden in the wall! It must lead to daylight! Up, in the name of Tamet!"

“I’ll cover you with my shield!” Rysi generously offered, somewhat baffled that Denor didn’t have one of his own.

Our blood-soaked hero, despite his reservations at having to deal with another staircase, started the slow, messy retreat. Inch by bloody inch, they backed away, swords carving a path through the horde. The creatures kept groping for them and stabbing at them, climbing over the bodies of their fallen to hack and scream, but Rysi’s sputtering shield held. By the time they reached the shaft, the steps were decorated in a rather grotesque manner with the results of their efforts, the creatures’ screams now edging into manic howls. Still, they fought on, blades flashing, until—quite suddenly—the tide turned, and the creatures retreated, scurrying back down the stairs.

“Why did they stop?” panted Denor, wiping bloody sweat from his brow.

“They’re going to try and flank us,” Rysi gasped, catching on quickly. “Climb up, cut us off from above. Lovely.”

With no time to spare, they dashed up the staircase, feet slipping on the blood-soaked stones, barely keeping upright. As they neared a dark tunnel off to one side, a horrific howl echoed from below, which really wasn’t a good sign.

They stumbled into a winding corridor, faintly lit by the murky gray light filtering in from somewhere up ahead. A low rumble, like the voice of a very large and very irritable stomach, reverberated from deep within the earth. It sounded suspiciously like rushing water. Denor sprinted ahead, but before he knew it, something heavy crashed onto his back, slamming him to the ground with all the grace of a falling anvil. A hammer came down on his skull, sending red stars bursting behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he twisted around, throwing his attacker off and pinning it to the ground, his fingers finding its throat. With a surprisingly easy crunch, he ended it, rolling off the limp body with a groan.

Rising shakily to his feet, he looked around. Rysi and Gella were nowhere in sight. They’d been ahead of him, probably assuming he was right behind them. Typical, really. Taking a deep breath, Denor pushed onward, but his heart sank as the corridor forked.

“Well, this isn’t very good,” he muttered, choosing the left fork with all the optimism of a man who didn’t want to face an angry horde or get lost. He stumbled through the half-light, legs heavy with exhaustion, blood loss, and possibly the fact that he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in ages. The sound of rushing water grew louder now, filling the air with a constant rumble.

Denor didn’t like the sound of that, as he was painfully aware that he could end up drowning repeatedly.

The faint light above him suggested he wasn’t too far from the surface. That was good. The staircase he found didn’t lead up—it led down. That was bad. As if he needed a further bad sign in a subterranean lair of horrors. Somewhere far behind him, the faint howls of the pack echoed ominously, urging him on into the dark.

Denor plunged down the staircase, literally thanks to his footing giving away yet again, casting him deeper into the bowels of the earth. The walls were slimy now, the air damp, with the occasional cold drip of moisture landing on his head. The roar of water was closer than ever. He pressed on, hopelessness creeping into his bones, but still, he moved forward, driven by the thought of saving Gella. And possibly Rysi, if he had the time. And the inclination.

Then, of course, there were the stairs. Because no epic misadventure through dark and death-filled tunnels was complete without constantly being challenged by copious amounts of unevenly-cut stairs leading. Denor climbed them, albeit at the pace of a man held together more by sheer stubbornness than muscle and bone. His wounds were the sort that would have left a lesser man—one with a more sensible attitude toward mortal danger—face down and regretting life choices. But not Denor. Oh no, he climbed. And climbed. Until daylight, glorious daylight, burst through a crack in the rock, like a promise he didn’t fully trust.

He stepped out onto a ledge bathed in the cool light of the northern sun, which was a bit like being doused in freezing water but marginally more cheerful. The river below roared along, wedged between towering cliffs that looked distinctly unforgiving, like nature’s way of saying, ‘you took a wrong turn’. The ledge itself was close enough to safety that all he had to do was reach out. But Denor, being Denor, was stuck in a very Denor-shaped body and had to carefully calculate this. So, naturally, he prepared to dive across to the ledge, like a man with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

But before he could execute this latest bad idea, something caught his eye. Across the river, on a ledge almost exactly mirroring his own, two figures appeared. One was Rysi, looking as though he'd been through a meat grinder but still holding on to that blood-stained sword like it was his best friend. The other was Gella, who was still doing her best impression of a limpet, much to the mercenary’s annoyance.

They must have chosen the other fork in the corridor. They must’ve found a way through while he, in typical Denor fashion, had managed to take the scenic route under the river. Now they were all stuck, trapped by cliffs that rose like stone walls, daring anyone to be foolish enough to climb. And of course, the only other options were to go back into the aforementioned monster-filled tunnels or plummet straight down into the raging river, which seemed equally enthusiastic about eating them alive.

Rysi, looked up and down the cliffs, clearly judging that his mountaineering skills were not up to this task. Gella clung to him, and though Denor couldn’t hear a word over the roar of the river, he saw them share a sad, knowing smile. The kind of smile that said, ‘Well, we gave it a good go.’ Then they turned, together, towards the ledge's edge.

From the shadows behind Denor, the Gurruks that haunted these caverns began to spill out.

Denor’s hand tightened on his sword hilt until his knuckles ached and his fingernails left bloody imprints. There was only one solution to this problem, but they hadn’t seen it.

“Don’t jump!” Denor called over to them.

The Gurruks drew closer to the sound of his voice.

“Why not?” Rysi asked, glaring in defiance across the river at the monsters at Denor’s back, sending a bolt into the pack.

“There’s a convenient path to your left, just go down that.”

“What about you?” the merc bellowed over the roar of the river below. “There’s no escape your side!”

Denor laughed—a wild, defiant sound.

“Don’t even think about it!” Rysi cried. “Nobody could survive that fall!”

“I’m not nobody,” Denor muttered under his breath.

“What?”

With a final grin, Denor gave Rysi a wink. “I’m not nobody!” He hurled himself off the ledge plunging towards the frothing waters below. “I’m Denor! Denor Kara!” With that he disappeared into the river’s untamable fury, as though the very torrent rose up to swallow him whole.