Grim Dawn Web Series

Image by Scott Duquette, Copyright Crate Entertainment.

No portion of this work may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Content Warning

This story is graphic. You can expect to find violence, gore, torture, self harm, adult themes including alcohol and smoking. There will not be any sex depicted, although nudity is likely.

About

From the shattered ruins of the prison at Devil's Crossing, through the blood-soaked fields of Homestead, beyond Darkvale Gate, over the snow-capped Asterkarn Mountains, and into the writhing black heart of the Necropolis—experience the brutal world of Grim Dawn as never before in this ongoing web series.

But this isn't just retelling the tale you know. At critical moments, the story stops. The hero stands at a crossroads, weapon in hand, death breathing down their neck. And YOU decide what happens next.

Will they trust the stranger offering aid? Take the dangerous shortcut through Smuggler's Pass? Show mercy to a fallen enemy, or deliver the killing blow? Your votes will forge the path forward, shaping the hero's journey and the allies—or enemies—they make along the way.

Act 1

Prolog

First, there was the sense of falling. Momentum only stopped by the rope around his neck and the tearing of his flesh. The sound of his windpipe crunching, followed by the strain of the hemp and the creaking of wood. He choked, fought to draw breath against the crushing force at his throat.

There were voices, barely audible over the roar of blood in his ears—so many angry voices, and a deep guttural screaming—was that his voice? He tried to scream again; the sound reduced to strangled choking as he clawed at the rope, slowly killing him.

The suffocating burn and the explosion of spots that blotted out all light consumed him. But under the pain was something else. A sense of something moving beneath the skin. He could feel it, like roots that had burrowed into him—tearing free—wrenched up, taking the meat and the muscles with them as they came loose, snapping free from the tips of his fingers, the ends wriggling and twitching beneath the flesh, moving, like worms. The sensation tore and slid its way out of his limbs, pulling into his chest—the pressure so tight, he thought his ribs would crack.

With a strangled cry, the thing inside forced its way up, out of his lungs, into his throat, straining past the length of rope constricting his airway, forcing his clenched jaw open into a violent, vomitous scream—a sudden flash of green as the last tendrils ripped free… and there… hovering before him, a spectral form. A shifting translucence that was both beautiful and terrible in his exultant release of pain.

The spectral form faded as panicked voices brought him back to reality—his gasping struggle for air—orange bursts made him blink and the sound of a gunshot left his ears ringing.

And then the sense of falling once more… into darkness.

Chapter 1: The Awakening

Arms and legs jerking, the man lunged to sit up, gasping as if from a nightmare. The sudden movement carried him off the edge of the small cot, hitting the stone floor in a tangle of limbs, and a threadbare blanket twisted about his legs.

“Go tell the captain our guest is awake,” a feminine voice said. There was the scurrying of tiny feet and two shadows bolted past.

Rubbing at his neck, the man groaned as he stood. The flesh was raw and burning with pain. He glanced around, only to find himself in a cage. A prison cell. Although he doubted it would hold anyone for long. He squinted upwards, brow furrowed in confusion. Most of the ceiling was missing, crumbling stone and exposed beams opened to a cloudy grey sky.

Staggering to the bars, he gripped them to keep from falling. The cell overlooked a central courtyard packed with makeshift tents. A collection of ragged people huddled around campfires—men, women, and children—they were filthy, wearing mud-caked clothing. They stared at nothing, hollow-eyed and shell-shocked, but a few looked up to him with open hatred. What could have happened to these people?

Smoke drifted from the courtyard below, carrying with it the smell of burnt food that almost overpowered the faint stench of sewage. The thought of food made him aware of his hunger, and his belly growled. He put a hand on his bare stomach, then noticed severe scars on his arms and chest; not from recent wounds, but from those of long years of healing. His body was terribly thin, to the point of being gaunt. He felt at his face, finding it hollow and rough with stubble. Some deep part of him was repulsed at the coarse bristles, but he didn’t know why.

About his neck hung a small leather bag, its surface inscribed with strange markings. As he examined it, a fine white grit spilled from the top. Pinching some between his fingers, he found it coarse. It had no smell, but when he tasted it, he found it to be salty.

Movement caught his eye, and he let the bag fall back against his chest. A woman in a dark cloak moved from the shadows beyond the bars. With her hood pulled up, all he could see was her slight build, but there was a presence of strength and incredible power radiating from her.

“I am pleased to see the taint of possession has left you. Having been unconscious for two days, I was not convinced you would survive what was done to you.” The woman in the neighboring cell said. He noticed her door was open, and bolts of cloth hung from the bars to afford her some measure of privacy—not a prisoner, then?

“Wh—” His voice cut off, and he coughed, the pain in his throat like swallowing needles with every swallow and cough.

She held up a hand and said, “My name is Sahdina. For now, try not to speak.” She reached past the bars and placed a tin cup on the cot, a thick brown liquid steaming from within. Once she stepped back, she continued, “You should drink if you can. The medicine in that brew will help ease the pain. And you may wish to put on clothing. I imagine Captain Bourbon will be here momentarily.”

Sahdina gestured to a dresser at the head of the cot where a pile of rough, folded cloth sat. In front of the dresser, a pair of well-worn and dirty boots sat.

He grabbed the salt bag and was about to rip it from his neck when Sahdina spoke, “The salt helps to ward off the spirits that possessed you. But it’s your choice.”

He nodded, left the bag, and took a sniff at the cup, recoiling at the acrid smell that stung his nostrils. Making a face, he glared at the woman, her wry smile just barely visible from under the cowl.

“It’s not poison, though I admit, the flavor is not pleasant. Drink up, the captain comes,” she said, turning and vanishing into the shrouded corner of her cell.

Taking a deep breath, the man sipped the mixture. His face screwed up as the bitter taste burned going down. His face went slack, and he sighed as the burning sensation and pain eased almost immediately. He quickly shut his eyes and chugged the rest of the cup; after another shudder, he set the mug aside and got dressed.

As he pulled on the boots, footsteps from the front of the cell drew his attention. A grizzled man glared through the bars at him—a scar ran across one dead eye, and his beard streaked with grey. He wore a military uniform, covered by a heavy long coat with brass buttons and gold epaulets. Most of his clothes were dirty, bloodstained, and damaged from combat. At his hip was a large, well-used revolver. His gaze was hard, calculating, and after a minute Captain Bourbon said, “You’re not looking too bad for someone back from the dead.”

“What do you mean, dead?” The man’s response was a strained rasp.

The captain’s milky grey eye twitched. “You don’t remember anything, do you? Your name? Where you were born? Your parents? Anything at all?”

The man opened his mouth to answer, but stopped himself. His eyes darted around, desperate, searching, as if the answers could be found on the shattered walls. After a moment, the man’s eyes went wide, and he said, “I… I don’t know.”

The captain gave a slow nod. “Sahdina said this might happen.” They both looked to the adjacent cage, but the woman was not visible, obscured by the hanging bolts of cloth and unnatural shadows that filled that corner of the prison.

He opened the cell door with a set of iron keys on a heavy metal ring and jerked his head for the unknown man to follow him.

“What might happen? Why can’t I—”

“Not here. Follow me and we will speak in my office.” The captain cut him off.

They walked past more cells, each one home to more refugees, some wounded or haunted by too much death. The conditions were squalid, exposed to the elements as the prison roof appeared to be gone, most of it making up the piles of ruin scattered about the cells and courtyard below.

The survivors’ eyes followed him, radiating fear that quickly shifted to hostility when they recognized him. With no memory of who he was or what he’d done, he could only guess at their anger.

At the end of the catwalk, they descended concrete stairs, and made their way along the rubble strewn footpaths. As they passed, angry faces tracking the newcomer, some brave enough to step forward, jaws clenched and muscles straining, as if preparing to attack. The captain’s eyes fell upon them and they held their ground—for now.

They entered through a wooden door with iron banding. Inside, the Captain closed the door and locked it, and the man wondered why he bothered. Like most of the prison, the office had no roof. A gaping hole dominated one wall where something had smashed through, now blocked by makeshift barriers of metal bars and chains. Beyond it, more refugees and soldiers moved about with weary purpose. The room had a fine rug, now soiled with muddy footprints and half buried in rubble.

Despite the destruction, an ornate wine cabinet had survived intact, many slots still filled with dusty bottles. The sight stirred something in him—nostalgia? Relief? He couldn't say why. Nearby stood a weapons rack holding an odd assortment of mismatched arms: blades, cudgels, and firearms. Most appeared poorly made, though he had no idea how he could tell the difference.

Captain Bourbon stepped to the far side of a heavy desk littered with papers and maps. He dropped heavily into an ornate cushioned chair with a decorative pattern; it seemed out of place in this ruin. He thought it to be something more appropriate for a noble’s sitting room. He wondered about that, how he could know what kind of seating a noble would have. How could he know that, but not know his own name? Captain Bourbon’s words pulled him from his musings.

“Since you appear to have no memories of what happened, I will ignore that for the moment and focus on what I need.” The captain stared at the man standing in front of him, eyes narrow and expression grim. “When you came here, you didn’t have much, just some tattered clothing, and a torn sheaf of parchment addressed to someone named Alarik. For now, I am going to assume that’s your name, unless you object?”

The man furrowed his brow in thought, then shrugged. “No, I don’t know... I suppose Alarik is as good a name as any,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Good.” John said with a nod, setting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers, “Now onto the next order of business. Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a place to stay. Your arrival at Devil’s Crossing resulted in several deaths.”

Eyes wide with worry, Alarik opened his mouth to speak, but the captain held up a hand to stop him.

“I know you don’t remember it, but you were Taken, possessed by the same creatures that have been reanimating the dead. Normally I’d have burned you with the rest of, but we’ve lost too many people already, and I need someone expendable.”

Alarik clenched his jaw, and his eyes darted to the door.

“Feel free,” the captain gestured at the door. “But before you run, you should know, I don’t personally hold you responsible for what happened here. The way I see it, you’re just as much a victim as we are. Unfortunately, not everyone here will see it that way. You’re likely to wake up to find your throat slit.” John leaned back, the soft chair creaking slightly. “Now… I don’t feel right about banishing someone for something they had no control over. At the same time, I can’t let you stay here or my people will revolt. What I can offer is a chance. A chance to prove whose side you’re on. A chance at redemption.”

“I don’t even know what I need redemption of,” Alarik said.

“I could tell you. But I don’t see how it matters. It wasn’t you. Knowing might just make you feel guilty for the actions of that thing that controlled you.”

“What would you have me do?” Alarik said, his raspy voice already sounding better.

“As I said, something has been reanimating our dead. I sent a squad of soldiers to investigate, but it’s been two days, and they haven’t returned. First thing is to find those men. If they’re dead, take their heads so they can’t get up again. I don’t need the folks here to see their friends coming to kill them. And if any of them are alive, get them back here.”

“I dont know my own name… how am I supposed to do all that?”

“That’s not my problem. What you do when your outside is entirely up to you. Run for the hills, hide in a ditch. I don’t care. But if you want to come back here, you're going to need something I want.”

Alarik considered his options and found he had none. “Where should I start looking?”

“Last scout reports had them flooding into Lower Crossing from the road north. There’s a cemetery not far from there. That’s where I sent my men to investigate.”

The captain stood up and walked over to the weapon rack. Pulling a short sword from the array of weapons, he handed it to Alarik hilt first.

“Anything else?” Alarik asked, taking the blade and sliding it a few inches from the sheath, checking the steel. It was dirty, had some rust, but appeared recently sharpened.

“Just one other thing. I need you to finish their job. Find out what is causing the bodies to rise and destroy it.”

“If an entire squad of men failed, what makes you think I can get it done?”

“I don’t. I’m giving you a chance to fix some of the damage that was done here. If you get killed trying, at least I gave you a chance. Which is more than I can say most here will offer you.”

Alarik met John’s eyes and nodded. “Very well. How can I find Burial Hill?”

“Follow the road. You will need to fight your way through Lower Crossing. To the north of town is a small bridge over a creek, and beyond that, Burial Hill. You can’t miss it.”

John walked Alarik out of his office, past the glares and muttering of the survivors, to a large iron gate that was opened by soldiers on either side; the heavy metal squealing as they swung to either side. Even before the pair of iron doors finished opening, Alarik got a strange sense of something. A pull. As if a thread were pulling from his back and drawing his eyes to—he gasped, eyes wide and his breath caught.

Beyond the prison walls, across a cobbled road, and trapped within the burnt-out shell of a small building... something inside glowed with an intensity that defied all reason. A swirling maelstrom of dust and leaves circled a hole in the world. A rippling vortex of light that hung in midair. It was disturbing and impossible. A color that flickered just out of reach of his understanding, and the sound—it set his teeth to grind.

Alarik clenched the sheath of the sword still in his hand. His knuckles popped, and he took a halting step forward. Captain Bourbon put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back, making him stumble. That simple act broke his sight of the thing, and its hold of him. Alarik shook his head and rubbed at his eyes.

The captain appeared to have his eyes deliberately averted, anywhere other than the light. “It helps if you don’t look directly at it,” he said.

“What... what the hell is it?” Alarik asked, his words coming out in thick gasps.

John’s jaw clenched before he said, “We’re not sure. But it’s dangerous. When this all started... monsters poured out of it. Since then, we’ve kept it locked up, just in case.”

Alarik turned his back to the vortex of light. Rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, he looked up to see the sign over the prison doorway and read, ‘Burwitch Prison.’ Once he felt the word stop shifting, he looked back to where the light was heald, trying not to look directly into the glow.

Like the holes in the captain’s office, gaps and damaged sections were fortified with prison bars and barricades, hastily nailed or chained into place. The strange light pulsed and spilled out from the cracks and bars, distorting the world where it touched. As if wood and steel could contain such a power within a shattered structure.

“Come on.” John placed a hand on Alarik’s shoulder, guiding them away from the anomaly.

With a gesture to their left, the captain led him up the cobbled road to a second set of gates. Twisted and bent backwards, they appeared to have suffered a siege. To the sides were the rusted frame of an old metal bed, and a gibbet, salvaged into a spiked mantrap, the sharpened points splayed outward for its new and terrible purpose. The fresh and dried blood on the ends revealed their efficacy.

Nearby, several soldiers stood watch, staring out into the foggy realm beyond the gate, or huddled around a shallow smoking pit. Alarik saw blackened remains among the ash and glowing embers, then caught the wretched stench of burnt meat… and hair.

“Head north. Find my men,” John called out, and when Alarik looked, the captain was already walking back toward the prison.

“Get moving.” One soldier spat, his eyes hard, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword.

“Gods cursed bastard. Shudda let’em swing,” muttered another, his voice thick with a southern accent.

Stepping past the soldiers, he stared out past the barricades; beyond the gates lay a bridge so clogged with bodies, Alarik thought he might be sick. Stealing his nerve, he took the first steps, keeping his gaze up and away from the dead, walking into the fog shrouded village of Lower Crossing.

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Chapter 2: Lower Crossing

Alarik eyed the piles of corpses that clogged the bridge. Someone had moved the bodies, rolling them to the sides to form a narrow path. His feet squelched as they stuck to the half dried blood and he swiped at the flies that took flight as he stepped past. The railing was intricate, thorns and vines of wrought iron, the spikes along the top bent and twisted.

All around him, the smell of death mixed with the stagnant wet smells of the murky waters below. Personal items littered the bridge—clothing, steamer trunks, a pair of spectacles, and a child’s rag doll stained red.

Ahead, he spotted movement and noticed several figures in the mist. Three, no four of them, moving between the nearby buildings. Their motion was halting and unnatural, and he immediately knew… they were not among the living. Stepping off the bridge, the nearest one turned his way; a man with half his face missing released a growling moan before staggering forward, arms raised to claw at Alarik.

Alarik slashed left, taking the creature’s arm as he slipped past the improvised spikes. The undead thing lost track of Alarik, its dull, milky eyes staring at the space he had been. Then its head snapped to the right, and it snarled, breaking the eerie quiet.

The sound drew the others his way. They lurched towards him, their irregular steps slow. Cursing himself, Alarik lunged, the sword sliding through the one-arm’s neck before it crumpled, lifeless.

At a glance, he spotted the next three—a woman in a floral dress covered in blood, another with the head of a pitchfork protruding from his chest, and the last one—Alarik froze… He was in trouble.

A soldier clad in grimy, rusted armor shuffled in the back, complete with shield and sword. From beneath a bent helm, the dead man snarled in Alarik’s direction, a thick black sludge spilling from its mouth.

Alarik stepped into a heavy wide swing, the blade hacking deep into the woman’s neck. The blow sent her sprawling into the side of a nearby house as Pitchfork lunged, grabbing Alarik by the arm. The dead thing tried to bite down, claws and teeth sinking into cloth and flesh.

Alarik screamed, jerking back only to feel the bridge spikes press into his back. Desperate to avoid getting impaled, he roared and shoved the creature back. Pitchfork staggered, then snarled and surged forward.

With both walking corpses closing in, Alarik ducked under the armored dead’s blade, rolled and slashed backwards at Pitchfork’s leg. The leg buckled, sending the corpse falling face first down the slope.

Now with room to maneuver, he took several swings at the soldier; the blade bouncing off armor or getting caught by the shield. Alarik grunted with effort as he hacked, frustration and exhaustion mounting. He pulled his sword back for another swing, then noticed the spikes behind the armored corpse… the same ones he was nearly impaled on.

Snarling, he charged the undead thing, grabbing the edge of the shield and putting his full weight into pushing the soldier back. The walking corpse slammed into the barricade with a bone shaking crunch—impaled on the spikes, the armored corpse growled long and low.

Stepping back, Alarik still had the shield in hand, the soldier’s arm having come off in the struggle; the limb remained stuck in the shield’s grips. He finished the monster off with a quick slash, then dislodged the severed arm before donning the shield. He checked the dead man’s sword, only to find it rusted and bent from misuse.

Checking on Pitchfork, he found the corpse still laying face down—and he backed away in horror. A cluster of disturbing creatures were eating the body. He couldn’t tell if they were bugs or some type of shellfish. The creature’s shell was an iridescent blue-grey color that glistened wetly. The creatures were ripping off chunks of meat with sharp claws and stuffing it into a writhing mass of chittering mandibles. When one spun to face him and clicked its claws threateningly, Alarik backed away before they mistook him for their next meal.

Back on the road he paused, looking back toward the prison, then ahead into the mist-shrouded unknown. With a grunt, he shouldered his pack and continued north.

Alarik made his way past the ruined building, bypassing it when he heard movement from inside. He’d been tempted to check for survivors, but hearing the low gurgled moans, anyone in there was beyond saving. He passed a shop, its sign announcing ‘Coffin’s for Sale’—an ominous omen with all the death surrounding him.

On the far side of the coffin makers, Alarik found more undead. They gathered around a corpse at their feet, twitching with the first signs of unlife. With the blood still fresh, Alarik could see their death was recent. With shield in hand, he made quick work of the slow-moving horrors. He then decapitated the convulsing body before it could fully rise.

A short distance away stood a well. Alarik used the bucket to pull up some water and washed his hands. He wanted a drink, but his mind flooded with horrific thoughts. The image of a rotting carcass floating at the bottom made him shudder, and he stepped away, letting the bucket splash into the inky darkness below.

The sound of metal squeaking slightly caught his attention. Nearby, he spotted the sign for a gunsmith swaying gently in the breeze. The building was ablaze, and he imagined the gunpowder stored there detonated, taking the building and the weapons with it. Alarik could only pray whoever set the match took a lot of the dead with them.

With a gunsmith so close, he suspected the neighbor’s house may have some firearms. Still unsure why, he had a desire to find one, but felt an almost desperate need. Something from before, maybe? He would have to examine these feelings later... assuming he survived.

Forcing the door open, he found a kitchen; a heavy oaken table surrounded by wooden chairs. A wood-burning stove rested against one wall, assorted pots and pans hung from a shelf cluttered with items. Searching through the kitchen, Alarik discovered a clay jug that stunk of moonshine and pulled the cork with his teeth. Taking a swig, he gasped and made a face as the burn warmed his stomach. He then dumped some of the alcohol into his hands, cleaning them as best he could.

A groan from an adjoining room told him he was not alone.

Drawing his sword, he stepped through the doorway. Alarik found a living room, and in the corner, a corpse wearing a tattered dress stumbled towards him. With a bash of his shield, he sent the dead thing falling back. The blade quickly followed and severed its spine, killing the woman once more.

In the middle of the room, a body lay, gun in hand, the dried contents of his skull splattered in a wide V-pattern across the ruined carpet. Alarik stooped, took the pistol from the man’s hand, and noticed a crumpled note in the other. Giving the pistol a quick check—it was a revolver with one round fired. He set it aside and checked the note:

I’m trapped here, I realize now I will die in this house. Margaret, I fear that you are already dead and so it may not be so bad if I am shortly to join you. If by some miracle, you yet live and return here to find this note, please know that I am not angry with you. I’ve never regretted our life together, but now only regret that I lost my temper and spoke unkind words when last we parted.
I hope you will not think me a coward for what I am about to do. They are already in the house. I’ve barricaded myself in this room but it is only a matter of time before they break through. All I can do now is choose the manner in which I face death and I would rather die a man than be changed into one of those horrid things or eaten alive. I will love you always.

With a glance at the dress wearing corpse, Alarik wondered if Margaret had returned? He considered some prayer, or ritual for the dead… but found he knew of none. He thought he should feel something for these people… sadness for the lives lost, maybe? But he felt nothing.—not true, he did feel something. Disgust. A deep sense of revulsion for these pathetic—he shook his head, trying to clear it of those thoughts.

Standing, he searched the room, finding a box of cartridges and a leather satchel in a cabinet. On the mantle over the fireplace, he found several books and a portrait of the dead man with a woman whom he assumed to be Margaret. The undead thing had been so ravaged by decay, he couldn’t say if it was her. Alarik was about to turn away when he spotted something odd—a small ash grey stone on the mantle—the sight of it sparking the hint of a memory.

Picking it up, he murmured, “Enchanted Flint?” His brow furrowed, and he shook his head, not knowing what the words meant.

In the kitchen, Alarik pulled a knife from a butcher’s block. He sat down at the table, staring at the stone in his palm. Without conscious thought, his hand began moving, the knife’s tip etching a symbol into the surface. He watched his own actions with growing unease—what was he doing? Why? His fingers moved with a purpose he didn’t understand, carving lines that felt both foreign and familiar. Some deep instinct guided the blade, bypassing his mind entirely.

With a length of wire, he strapped the stone to the gunstock, resting right where his palm would connect him to the weapon. Then he whispered into the small chunk of flint, strange words he didn’t recognize or understand. They flowed from him, and a fiery red glow emanated from the mark Alarik had made in the stone. There was a slight surge of energy, as if the heat from around him was being drawn into the stone.

What the hell had he just done? And how did he know to do it? He wasn’t sure, but a wolfish grin spread across his face, unbidden. He did not know what this power was, or how to use it, but for the first time since waking up, he thought he might have a chance, and he was eager to find the next pack of monsters.

Back outside, he followed the ruts formed by years of wagon wheels, and caught the smell of smoke and spotted the flicker of a huge bonfire ahead. A flaming barricade blocked the road. Furniture, beds, crates, all piled up and set ablaze. Nearly a dozen corpses were shuffling near the roaring inferno, as if they were moths drawn by the light.

Drawing the revolver, he quickly scanned his surroundings. To his left stood a large building with a sign out front that read ‘Lower Crossing Harbormaster.’ The door was smashed in, and the inside was dark. To his right ran a dirt footpath surrounded by a thicket of trees and bushes, the peak of a roof visible just beyond.

With plenty of escape routes, he cocked back the hammer, took aim and fired.

The revolver roared and flames spit from the barrel. A bolt of white-hot fire lanced the air, hitting a dead woman in a long muddy skirt. Her clothing caught fire. Her flaming form turned to face him, oblivious to the flesh melting off her body; she began walking in his direction. Eyes wide, he was about to fire again when she collapsed into a blackened, smoldering heap.

Now the rest of the undead were shambling his way. With the stench of burning hair thick in his nostrils, he took aim and fired again, another burst of flames erupting from the weapon empowered by the enchanted flint. Another corpse ignited, and he fired again and again, grinning at the flaming effect his stone was producing.

As the walking dead got closer, he slowly backed up, holding his shield up in defense, while firing. The revolver resting on the rim to brace his aim, the bodies dropped, one by one. The last one grabbing at the edge of his shield. As it snarled at him, Alarik lunged forward, shoving the red-hot barrel in its mouth and blowing the back of its skull out in a flaming burst of giblets.

Alarik walked along the trail of blackened corpses, using his sword to ensure they would stay dead. He was about to enter the Harbormaster’s building when he heard a desperate cry from the path to his right.

“HELP… Please! Anyone!”

The desperate cry of someone’s voice was so shocking in this desolate place, Alarik nearly hesitated. He quickly reloaded his pistol and rushed along an overgrown trail. Stepping into the front yard of an overgrown house, Alarik spotted a man running his way. Behind the man, a pack of dog-like creatures tore around the side of the house. The beasts were gaunt, covered in spines along the ridge of their backs, their eyes glowed with malice in the shadowed misty light.

Without pause, Alarik called out, “Run for the prison!” Then shot the lead beast.

Caught in a blast of fire, it yelped and fell back. This caused the dogs to scatter, and Alarik was forced to flee, running for the Harbormasters building. He fired wildly behind him as he ran, the man just ahead of him swerving onto the cobbled stone road.

“Run! And don’t stop” Alarik yelled, spinning and raising his shield, catching a dog, before throwing it to one side and blasting a second one, causing it to fall and screech in pain.

The pack edged forward, weary of the flames. The one to his left was back on its feet, growling and closing in. To his right, the man vanished into the mist.

Alarik held his ground, watching the dog to his left from the corner of his eye—waiting for it to make a move. He didn’t have to wait long.

Digging its claws for purchase, the beast bounded forward, teeth bared. As the lead hound lept for this throat, the rest of the pack charged, snarling and kicking up dirt as they raced forward.

Alarik knew he was in danger, but some unknown memory caused him to hold his ground for the right moment...

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Chapter 3: The Tree

The first beast was airborne now, jaws wide and slavering. With the doorway to the Harbormaster’s behind him, Alarik ducked and rolled backwards, firing a shot into the pack as they crowded into the narrow entryway. The blast sent them sprawling, one hound slamming into the side of the building with a bone-shaking crunch.

Coming up with shield braced, Alarik blocked the entrance. The creatures snarled and snapped but couldn’t get past without taking a bullet. With a grin, he held the doorway, pushing back the dogs, trying to force their way in—then a sound from behind him made his blood run cold.

The shuffling of feet and moans reached him only moments before the stink of rot assailed his nostrils. With a quick glance, he spotted movement in the dim interior. Too dark to see clearly, he picked out smashed furniture, splattered red stains… and corpses materializing from the darkness.

With beasts snapping at his shield, and walking dead at his back, Alarik made the only choice he could. Roaring, he slammed into the pack of dogs, throwing them back, spun and ran for the back of the office and its row of shattered windows. Gritting his teeth, he flung himself at the opening, shield up to ward off the jagged glass.

For a heart-stopping moment, Alarik fell—the rush of leaves and branches blurring past as he struck the limb of a tree, the air in his lungs exploding out with a gasp. The impact jarring his bones and sending the world tumbling. Alarik landed hard, his back slamming into the wet earth. With a groan, he got to one knee, pistol shaking as he aimed it at any potential threats.

In the office above, he heard the snarls of the dogs and the tearing of clothing and flesh. With the immediate danger distracted, he made his way around the Harbormaster’s building, desperate to find his way back to the main road.

Alarik passed a livery and stepped past a town crier’s stage where a makeshift gallows had been erected. There, hanging from the end of a length of chain, was a smoldering torso so charred he couldn’t tell if it was once a man or a woman. His eyes were so fixed on the grisly sight, Alarik didn’t see the figure step out from behind a massive tree. The deep rumbling growl snapped him from his daze—the only thing that saved him.

Instincts brought his shield up as a massive disfigured arm slammed into him, sending him sprawling and rolling across the cobbles. Looking up from the ground, he saw the warped and mutated form of something only vaguely human standing before him. Its flesh was bulbous and swollen, one arm disturbingly large and misshapen, with a hooked bone-like spike jutting from the end. Its face a melted horror to gruesome to look at. Worse, another pack of undead surrounded the hulking brute.

Alarik fired, the pistol roaring in rapid succession—flaming rounds dropped several of the corpses by the time he got to his feet. The terrifying mountain of flesh bellowed an inhuman wail and charged. Alarik’s shield came up just in time to catch the spiked arm. It slammed into him, but this time he was ready and rolled with the blow, coming gun blazing, clicking empty as he eliminated the final walking dead.

With no time to reload, Alarik holstered the pistol and drew his blade, and dodged another swing of the massive arm. Alarik hacked and stabbed at the creature—no blood—just thick, black goo oozing from the wounds.

Alarik stood at the limits of its reach, watching the movements and waiting for the right moment to strike. As the hulking monstrosity hauled back its giant arm, Alarik lunged, bringing his shield up between him and the deadly limb, stabbing forth and driving the tip of the sword deep into its throat. The blade hit bone—slipped—and ripped a serious gash across its neck.

The brute slapped him with its other arm, catching Alarik by surprise. The blow wasn’t hard, but it sent him flying. He landed on his left side, the arm snapping with a sickening crack against the cobbled road. Alarik screamed in pain and staggered to his feet. His arm hung limp, the weight of the shield tugging painfully with every movement.

Casting around for his sword, he found it—still stuck in the thing’s throat. Through waves of agony, he drew the gun with his good hand, flipped the cylinder open. Holding the gun with the gun in the shield’s strap, he clumsily reloaded.

The hulk exhaled a long, growling breath, then started a slow walk at Alarik, picking up speed as it leaned into the charge. Out of time, Alarik grabbed the revolver with his right hand and in one motion, flicked the revolver hard, snapping the cylinder closed and pulled the trigger, dumping a barrage of flaming rounds into the rampaging horror—

It bellowed as it picked up speed, and Alarik’s last shot landed—the monster crashed face first into the road, sliding to a gory stop mere inches from where Alarik stood, smoke curling up from the burnt flesh.

Letting out a long, pained sigh, he took a step and nearly passed out at the grinding of shattered bone in his arm. With a grunt of effort, he holstered the gun and yanked the sword free from the hulk’s neck. Then staggered and swayed, the world fading into shades of red. Alarik looked up to let out a breath, and his heart seized at the sight.

“By the gods,” he gasped, his voice trailing off as he clutched at his throat, feeling the suffocating squeeze of the rope once more. Of all the gods whose names he knew, only one seemed fitting for such carnage—Ch'thon. The dead god.

Above him, Alarik’s eyes locked onto a fresh horror—a massive oak, its branches heavy with corpses, hung—by neck, bound hands, and feet, all left to swing.

Some were missing limbs, several stripped clean by crows—but the most horrible of all—a man, his guts unpooled, fifteen feet to pile up on the ground beneath him. And the sound—an unbearable, persistent hum of flies, swarming and crawling across the bodies. And the near endless rain of maggots that dropped, forming a writhing mess of rotting muck under each ghastly offering.

Even from here, Alarik could hear the soft patter of the wriggling grubs hitting the ground. Choking back bile, he averted his eyes and grimaced through the pain of reloading the revolver as fast as possible.

With pistol raised, he scanned the surrounding buildings. A public house with its door closed sat beyond the nightmarish tree. To his right, a general store with the door hanging off its hinges. Choosing not to be anywhere near the bloody tree, he staggered toward the store, praying there would be fewer walking corpses inside than the public house would have.

After killing two shambling corpses, he searched through the store’s shelves and crates of supplies. Alarik found several boxes of cartridges for his revolver and a bandolier. A nice find, made useless by his inability to use his left arm. Frustrated and ready to return to the prison, he turned to leave when he bumped into a sign that had fallen behind the proprietor’s counter. The sign, an advertisement for a hair tonic, fell to one side, revealing a glass cabinet with several small bottles of undulating red liquid.

His eyes went wide and, as with all his unknown knowledge, instantly knew these to be enchanted drafts. It’s true, they could be fakes, sold by snake-oil hucksters, but if they were the real thing—he opened the case and pulled out a vial. If it was the real thing… he would only need a few drops. Alarik flipped the metal hinge—it popped with a slight hiss. The smell was acrid, medicinal, and a sense of power emanated from within. He knew in an instant—this was the genuine article.

He took a small swig and braced for any discomfort the alchemical brew might trigger. First, there was a warming, as if he had drunk tea or coffee. Then came the itching—every cut, bruise and torn muscle crawled—as if something moved just beneath the flesh. It reminded him of something… some dream he couldn’t quite remember.

Alarik gritted his teeth as the worst of it began, the shifting and grinding as his snapped bone reset, the strange itching sensation making him hold the arm and squeeze his eyes against the maddening effect.

By the time the feeling had abated, his forehead had broken out in beads of sweat and he had collapsed to his knees, only his tight grip on the shopkeeper’s front counter keeping him upright. Alarik let out a shaky breath and climbed to his feet, gingerly testing his left arm. Sore, but it moved. What was once white-hot agony, now felt like simple muscle strain.

At last, he shuddered and breathed a sigh of relief. Grateful for healing, but recognized the dangers. The several minutes of weakness, disorientation, and near paralysis as the potion worked its magic—he was lucky a walking corpse didn’t happen by while he was in that state.

Without the blinding pain to dull his senses, he found he was terribly famished—painfully so. Alarik searched for food, devouring down a loaf of bread and some jerked meat he discovered in a pantry. It seemed another effect of the medicine was burning the body’s stored energy.

These were clearly not the high-quality ones he had prayed for. Some part of his mind knew that there were superior drafts with lesser effects. Bottles empowered by magical stones, channeling their magic rather than consuming the energy of the person drinking it… but how did he know these things? The holes in his knowledge were baffling.

Taking advantage of the temporarily safe location, Alarik took a moment to examine his thoughts and memories, trying to search for meanings or explanations. To find some memory or thought that might reveal who he once was. But there was nothing. The detached knowledge seemed to only come as he needed it.

He bagged the bottle of healing liquid and strapped on the bandolier, loaded it with cartridges. He considered taking more of the healing vials, but dismissed the notion. It would be far too easy to have the bottles break in his bag. With a shake of his head, he grabbed his shield and, with a resigned sigh, left the store.

Outside, the endless hum of flies could be felt as much as heard. It set his teeth on edge and he shuddered. Giving the hanging tree a wide berth, Alarik walked north, passing a flipped wagon, its grim contents scattered and dashed across the cobbles. Coffins, laden with bodies, sprawled in tangled heaps, the ripe stench of decay choking the air. Just past the desecration, a wooden bridge beckoned him over a quick-flowing stream, and into the thicker mist beyond. On the far side, torches were burning, and he wondered if the captain’s men lit them. Perhaps he was close to finding them?

Hesitating for only a moment, he stretched and rolled his shield arm, then stepped onto the bridge, the planks thumping with a deep, hollow sound. Alarik attempted to step more quietly, but the heels on his boots were firm, making silence impossible. Reaching the other side, he felt something strange. Somewhere, some unknown force tugged at his soul. He couldn’t see it, but sensed the insidious draw of another hole in the world. Like the one in Devils Crossing...

Through a copse of trees, the disturbing glow of aetherial green pierced the thicket, and once more Alarik was drawn to it. Another rift! This time, he resisted the sickening siren’s call, keeping his eyes averted, off-center from the source. Stepping around the curve of the road, another sight drew his attention. Peeking through the mists, the silhouette of Burial Hill sat, its surface festooned with gravestones and tombs older than he could imagine. Here and there, the green glow of more strange energy filtered through the gnarled trees and jutting gravestones. Not another rift like the one down here… something else. Some noxious horror of great power lurked in the misty shadows of that place.

Something moved across the light of the glowing ring, the flicker of shadow pulling his gaze back. He chided himself for so quickly forgetting the lesson of the tree. Moving from the heavy mists, a score of shambling forms staggered his way. Hefting the revolver, Alarik charged.

Pulling the trigger as he closed the distance, bodies exploded with smoking holes and rotting meat blew out in chunks. Round after round, flaming bullets slammed into the walking corpses, his shield bashing any who got too close. Averting his eyes and ignoring the rift, he charged up the path, passing gravestones and smaller tombs. The dead were thick here, and he worried about his ammo. With some regret, he reloaded, then switched to his blade.

With relentless fury, he hacked down a mob of undead when one stood out from the others. The thing’s armor was damaged, splattered with dried blood, and marked with the same emblem used by the men in Devil’s Crossing. Not a good omen for finding any of them alive. Not wishing to desecrate the captain’s men any more than he had to, Alarik fired a single shot into the dead man’s skull. The flaming round exited the back, and the body dropped.

Alarik examined the soldier’s weapon and armor. The man had only been dead for a day… but the armor was disgusting, the split in the abdomen stunk of ruptured bowels, the rot spilling out and fouling everything below the man’s waist. Then he noticed the man’s gloves and hesitated to take them. It felt wrong to rob from the dead, but he dismissed that notion. If his survival was the cost, he’d pay it.

A minute later, Alarik sheathed the man’s sword, a significant upgrade from the one given to him. He took a moment to run a thumb over the layers of scars on his arm, then he pulled on the sturdy leather gloves.

“Alright, let’s see what’s waiting for me up there.”

Return to the Top

Chapter 4: Burial Hill

Fighting his way back up the slope, Alarik hacked down two more walking dead. Passing gravestones and pits where bodies were once buried, he noticed a spectral mist rising from within, illuminated by the same aetherial green glow. Stepping up to the edge of the pit, he gasped at the sight. A large crystal formation grew from the ground, emanating a shimmering light that disrupted the world. The air rippled around it—bending reality with distorting waves flowing out in all directions.

Like the rifts, Alarik knew, this thing was from some other world. There was a strange tuning in the air that he could feel—a vibration that he could almost touch. Without warning, the crystal flashed and a ribbon of green energy whipped out and struck him. The pain was blinding, and he struggled to move. Alarik felt his life being drawn away—sucked out—ripped from his very soul.

His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. Through the agony, he realized this beam had rippled and twisted, writhing like a snake, and yet it passed right through his shield. He had no defense against it.

Alarik strained to raise his revolver. Hand shaking, his muscles screamed as he squeezed the trigger—the gun bucked, and the crystal exploded. A shockwave of force knocked him back. Tombstones shattered, and a cast-iron fence bent under the aetheric blast.

Rolling to his feet, shield up, revolver raised, he scanned for threats but found none. Alarik felt at his chest, feeling no damage, but could tell he was exhausted. Was that thing feeding on his energy? Draining him? His hand found a bulge under his shirt and he clutched it… the bag of salt? Did it protect him? He didn’t know—shook his head and winced, wanting to take a bit of the healing draft; but this place was too dangerous to risk the effects.

Alarik stepped closer to the shattered base, hesitant at first. The glow was gone, but he feared the pain of that draining attack. Seeing several of the crystal shards, he picked one up, searching for that sense of power—that connection. He felt… nothing.

Examining one more closely, although diminished, he saw they still glowed. With a shrug, he took a few. Maybe the captain or the witch might know what they are.

Several minutes later, he reached the top of the hill where more shambling dead lingered. Alarik spotted another cluster of aetherial crystals and had an idea. He would lure the corpses into the radius of the crystal. With a little luck, he might save some ammo.

Alarik took one step forward and was about to draw his gun when he paused. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he got the sense of being watched. With a slow turn of his head, he saw something… a head peering up over the top of a tomb. It was misshapen and bulbous; a single gibbous eye gazed upon him balefully. Was this hideous creature responsible for the dead returning to hunt the living?

“Come on!” Alarik snarled at the thing, raising his shield and banging on it with the flat of his blade.

And that’s when it floated up… into the sky. Just the head…no body, no limbs. A detached mass of flesh, drifting towards him through the mist. There was the sound of flesh ripping, and with a revolting squelch, several folds of flesh split open as more eyes rolled and blinked. A vertical gash appeared, slicing upwards before opening to reveal rows of teeth—jagged and grotesque. The single massive eye glowed with a blue light, and there was a flash of light. A deafening crack split the air as a bolt of electricity struck Alarik.

With a gasp of pain, he felt his arms and legs seize up. Despite the deadly attack, his shield caught most of the lightning, giving him a chance to sheath his sword and quickly draw the revolver.

The gun boomed in his hand, a lance of flame striking the floating orb. The explosion caught Alarik off guard, as did the shower of ruptured gore. Alarik almost didn’t get the shield up in time, ducking just in time to hear the splatter across the surface. He recoiled at the stink of the creature’s viscous fluids filling the air. Gagging and choking on the stench, he held the shield at arm’s length as the ooze dripped from the edge.

The floating eye’s death drew in every corpse on the hill. A shambling small horde stumbled towards him, their gurgling moans growing louder with each step. Time to test his plan. Alarik dodged between two bodies, shield bashed a third, then sprinted for the crystal formation. He made sure to keep well clear of it, not wanting to get paralyzed again, then waited—and grinned.

Alarik whistled and called insults, drawing the rotting mass ever closer. As they pressed in, he kicked a few back and killed one, delaying for as long as possible as dozens of them packed in. With the horde upon him, he fired a single round into the shard, detonating it. The blast was deafening, but this time he was prepared and braced his shield. The undead were scattered, their bodies ripped apart and cast a dozen feet, splinters of crystal slicing through them like tiny arrows. Limbs and parts were still raining down when Alarik dared to peek out from behind the cover of his shield.

With a grin, he began walking, using his blade to dispatch the few remaining corpses that still moved. There was the sound of an iron gate to his left and Alarik spun with shield up, drawing his revolver in a quick move. He froze when he saw a soldier stagger out from a tomb’s gate and collapse.

“Thanks be!” the man cried out, pushing himself up to hands and knees. “We’ve been trapped in there for days.”

“Git up, Keenstead.” A second man barked, appearing from within the tomb. Alarik walked past the downed man and met Alarik’s gaze. “And you are?”

“Alarik. John Bourbon sent me to find you.”

The soldier looked around as if expecting to see someone else here. “Alone? Where’s the rest of your squad?”

“John didn’t have anyone else, so he just sent me.”

Taking a step forward and stabbing a finger at Alarik, he said, “That’s Captain Bourbon. Show some respect to a superior officer.” He made a downward motion with his eyes to a badge on his breastplate.

Alarik ignored it, leaned to one side to stare past the man. He noticed Keenstead help a third man with a savaged leg. The man winced with each step as he limped out of the tomb. Bringing his attention back to the sergeant, Alarik inspected the insignia—a sergeant. With a polite smile, he said, “I’m not in the army.”

“Why the hell not? You seem fit. Look around, these are the end times. We need every able-bodied man fighting to save as many as we can.” The sergeant said, his volume rising close to yelling.

Alarik was spared answering when the pair of soldiers reached them and he caught the look of fear in their eyes. Alarik didn’t think it was from their ordeal. Both men’s eyes darted furtively between him and the sergeant.

Alarik was getting a strong urge to punch this man, but he smiled and gestured back the way he came. “The path back to Devils Crossing should be clear. You can get your wounded back to camp… Sergeant.”

The two soldiers gave their thanks and started walking when the sergeant barked, “And just where the hell do you think you are going?” He stepped into Alarik’s way and glared at him.

“The Captain… gave me a job. Find his men—dead or alive. Find the thing raising the dead—and kill it.” Alarik narrowed his eyes and leaned in close, “Since you are alive, the first half of my job is done. Now, if you will excuse me.” He nodded to the two soldiers and went to intercept a few undead making their way up from a hole in the ground some distance away.

“Keenstead, help Barns get back to Devil’s Crossing.” The sergeant said, snarling, “I’m going to make sure the job gets done.”

Alarik heard the exchange, and called back to the men, “Just past the bridge, there’s a general store. You can find some bottles of enchanted medicine behind the counter.” Alarik could have shared his, but he didn’t want the sergeant to get the bright idea to confiscate it.

“Why didn’t you bring any with you?” The sergeant groused, catching up with Alarik.

“I did. I used it all up getting here.” Alarik lied.

“You should have brought more.”

Alarik ignored the angry man, dispatching the few walking dead with his blade before descending into a pit lined with empty coffins, the panels rotten with putrefaction. He knew the bodies must be close. The familiar buzz of fly-swarm grew as he descended. Stepping around the exposed roots of an excavated tree, he saw them—the corpses—men, women and children; lining the pathway down, stacked like cordwood. Their pale, lifeless flesh teeming with flies and maggots. Alarik heard the sergeant retch behind him.

Here and there, the corpses of horses and dogs stood out to him. Alarik had not seen reanimated animals—was that even possible? He dismissed the thought as he reached the bottom, and both men had to cover their mouths from the stench and flies. Black clouds of flies erupted around them, spinning in a nauseating dance. Stumbling and coughing, he squinted and clawed at the pests swarming his face.

Through watering eyes, he found a passageway, an earthen hole that burrowed into the side of the hillside. The opening wasn’t the pitch black he expected. Beyond the threshold, something glowed with pale, sickly green light.

Desperate to get clear of the swarm, Alarik forced his way through. As soon as he reached the cool darkness, the flies abandoned him. He coughed and spat, continuing to rub his face, sure he could still feel them on him. In his hair. His mouth. A moment later, the clatter of armor echoed behind him as the sergeant fell through, gasping, and fought to get his helmet off.

Alarik let the man struggle as he took a few steps and absorbed his surroundings. A cave of rough stone, the walls and ceiling showing the encroaching roots of trees and vegetation tunneling in from all angles. Here and there, coffins jutted from the walls and even from the ceiling above, eroded and fallen to crash into the cave floor. From his vantage, Alarik could see they were upon a raised ledge, the bottom of the cavern, some thirty feet below. The green shimmer of crystalline formations lighting the cave in a strange hue.

To his left a natural bridge appeared well worn, the people of Lower Crossing having used this place as a mausoleum for decades, perhaps centuries. Here and there, Alarik could see shapes through the green luminescence, and make out the faint sounds of scraping. He narrowed his eyes, just able to spot the forms of people along the walls… digging?

Alarik strained his eyes to see into the misty gloom of the cavern, when something to his left caught his attention. There was an ungainly movement, the sudden lurching of a silhouette, thin, yet frighteningly tall. He quickly crouched behind a rock and glanced back to check on the man who followed him.

The sergeant was still getting to his feet after vomiting again, his armor clanking on the stone. Alarik hissed at him and pressed a finger to his lips. The man froze for a moment, then stood up straight and scowled down at Alarik and growled in a low tone, “I don’t take orders from you.”

Walking up to the edge, he put his hands on his hips and rested a foot on a raised rock as if he were a noble, posing for a painting. Alarik was about to berate the buffoon when another thought brought him up short. A distraction would make reaching that creature infinitely easier. This peasant has been nothing but rude and arrogant since he saved him. The man should be down on all fours praising him—grateful to be allowed to live. The fool can learn that his place—is far beneath his betters.

Without a word, Alarik moved quietly behind the man, raising his hands to give the sergeant a solid shove. Shaking his head to dismiss the notion, he stepped away. Dismayed at the thoughts that had flowed into his mind so easily. Alarik backed away farther and rubbed his face with one hand. Where had those thoughts come from? He swallowed hard and struggled to breathe.

Noticing the movement, the sergeant turned to glare at him, then narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

Alarik shook his head and waved off the question. “We need to create a distraction. I’m positive I saw something big moving through the shadows over there.” He pointed to their left, unable to see the monstrous form through the gloom.

“As long as we don’t see anymore of those floating heads, I can deal with the dead,” the man said, drawing his sword and hefting his shield.

“I have not seen one down here, but there are a lot of undead. They're not that tough, even with the two of us... we may have trouble.” Alarik said, facing the man and trying to get him to listen. “Those crystals explode when you hit them. We could wipe out a score of the dead by luring them close and shooting one.”

The sergeant scoffed, “I’m unsurprised someone like you would stoop to such base tactics… coward.” then he turned to walk the pathway down.

Alarik narrowed his eyes at the man’s back, then followed, letting the loudmouth take all the risk out front.

Return to the Top

Chapter 5: Kyzogg

They passed wagons laden with corpses, smashed and more desiccated coffins. The path curved, descending to a lower chamber. The ground excavated and bodies removed from their resting places to be dumped in unceremonious piles.

A central pillar dominated the space, adorned with inscriptions and carvings. Cracks ran through the surface, destroying the markings of what Alarik suspected was some ancient, long-forgotten language. Once more, he felt a faint sense of energy, this time emanating from the pillar. He wanted to step closer, to feel that power, but he stopped himself, knowing the danger of this place.

There were more bodies here as well, heaped into disorderly piles, absent of the clouds of flies. Alarik silently thanked whatever gods were watching for that small mercy. He considered that as they passed another corpse mound. The walking dead were free of both flies and maggots… was that some effect of the power reanimating them? About to inspect a body more closely, he noticed the sergeant approaching the pillar. Alarik still had not asked the man’s name, and at this point, cared little to know it. He watched the sergeant in curiosity, but also kept a wary eye out for movement from the darkness. They had not seen the undead on the path down here, which made him extremely nervous.

As the soldier reached out to touch the inscriptions, a rasping voice echoed out from the gloom, “How kind of you to bring an offering of flesh. It is so rare I get to work with an unblemished canvas.“

The sergeant quickly fell back, shield up, head panning for the source of the speaker. “Who’s there? Show yourself, demon!”

“Demon?” The voice laughed, “I am not of the void.”

A fiery green glow in the background shifted, then lurched, before a towering shape emerged from the misty dark. The sergeant cursed and backed away as a walking nightmare stepped into the light on disproportionate legs, one foot twisted inward, forcing it to limp. The torso, disturbingly gaunt. Gangly arms hung at awkward angles, far too long, and tipped in razor-sharp claws. Jutting up from the thing’s back, a cluster of glowing emerald crystals. Worst of all was the heads… two of them. There was no neck, only a pair of sunken skulls covered in stretched flesh to reveal a rictus grin; the left skull was smaller, unmoving and vestigial. The one on the right had eyes that burned with aether fire and a malevolence that pierced Alarik’s soul.

“Ulzuin wept!” The sergeant moaned.

“Steady,” Alarik whispered to the man, not wanting him to panic or flee, while fighting his own fear of doing the same. He swallowed hard, and said much louder, “Who are you?”

“I have been known by many names. Across many worlds.” He scratched his bald pate with the back of clawed fingers, the rasping sound making Alarik wince. “Hmmm…here, in this place, you may call me… Kyzogg.”

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“I feel this to be obvious? No?” The creature gestured around it, both arms extending wide and grinned, showing a maw of broken teeth. “Body, flesh and bone. My work requires these things… one moment, and I’ll show you.”

There was a deep, resonant murmur, as if Kyzogg were muttering under his breath. The sound vibrated through Alarik’s bones, as if he could feel something ripping free and piercing the veil. Tendrils of aetherial energy flowed from Kyzogg into the corpse piles around them. The air prickled with electricity and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. All at once, some of the limbs began twitching, the mounds shifted and bodies tumbled as corpses rose to their feet. Within seconds, they had become surrounded.

“I believe this will be of particular interest...” Kyzogg said, reaching back to grasp a glowing shard from his back. With a snapping crunch and the tinkling of glass, it broke free. Without hesitation, Kyzogg stabbed the crystal into the nearest walking dead. The wound ruptured, spawning a cluster of smaller crystals. Skin cracked and split, spreading outward as green spectral energy surged forth. From somewhere within, the corpse began to glow, radiating verdant light from its eyes and mouth, aetherial flames sparking and bursting from the cracks in the blackening flesh.

“No, no, nooo!” the sergeant said, his voice cracking as he staggered backwards.

“Sergeant!” Alarik barked, trying to snap the man from his mounting panic. “We are surrounded. If we run, we die.”

“Dying is inevitable, I’m afraid, and alas, we are out of time. My work beckons, so please, do not struggle. I would be displeased if your flesh were to become… damaged.” Kyzogg said, walking towards them, his deep grating voice drawing the words out with each laborious step.

Alarik noticed, despite the length of the creature’s legs, they were pigeon-toed, one bulbous and turned inward, making its gait slow.

“We’re going to die…” the sergeant moaned, his sword arm dipping slightly.

“Fight man! Focus on staying alive, don’t let them surround us,” Alarik shouted, hacking into one corpse, then cutting the leg out from another.

The sudden crash of battle seemed to snap the soldier from his paralyzed state. He lept forward and swept the rotten corpse of a man aside, with a powerful slam. If he weren’t already dead, Alarik thought that might have killed him.

Alarik’s blade took the first undead’s head clean off—the body crumpled. Green light flashed, and he barely got his shield up as the shard-cursed horror lunged, aetheric claws raking deep gouges through wood and metal. He thrust his sword through the glowing monstrosity and jerked back. Nothing—the thing kept coming. Cursing, he threw up his shield as it attacked again. From his peripheral vision, he saw the sergeant finishing another corpse.

As the body dropped, the sergeant sees Alarik holding off the savage attack. With shield raised, he charged, slamming full force into the creature, driving it into the wall, the body exploding into green embers and ashen chunks.

“Wonderful,” the dry rasp of Kyzogg echoed from beyond the pillar. “From your flesh, I shall build a masterpiece.”

Switching to his pistol, Alarik shot the reanimator, a flaming burst of smoke exploding from horror’s chest.

“Yes, yes… do your worst.” Kyzogg laughed, throwing his arms out wide, the glow of energy flowing into the piles, where more bodies began twitching.

“Kill them before they rise!” Alarik shouted, shooting the two nearest ones, then seeing he had a moment of space, reloaded the revolver.

A corpse just getting to its feet crumpled as the sergeant’s blade took its head. “This is impossible! We need to retreat!” he roared.

“Escape?” Kyzogg said, breaking off another crystal and plunging it into the chest of a corpse. “No…escape will not be possible.”

This time the aether cursed thing went for the sergeant, moving fast, leaping, ignoring the slash of the man’s sword, then clawing at shield and armor. With the force and weight thrown at him, the man fell back, landing with a grunt and a cry.

Alarik gritted his teeth, tempted to leave the arshole to his fate. He shook that idea off, giving the monster a kick, sending it sprawling. A bark from the revolver ruptured its head, and it collapsed, dead once more.

Turning back to face Kyzogg, Alarik despaired... another pack of the dead were already up and shuffling towards them. The reanimator held another crystal in his hand and stabbed down to make another of those glowing abominations. They should run, echoed in his mind.

Gritting his teeth and raising his gun, Alarik screamed, “Nooo!”

The barrel flashed red and the flaming shot struck the corpse, right where the crystal protruded from its chest. Instantly, the undead ruptured like rotten fruit, everything above the rib cage vaporized. Meat and gore rained down an instant before Kyzogg’s scream split the air. The horror staggered back, pulling his hand away—his arm was missing, only a ragged bone hanging below the elbow.

Staggering, green flames surged up, spilling out of the monster. He bellowed, “What have you done? I was being gentle… I was being kind. This is what my generosity has earned me. Now… your pain will last… an eternity.”

As he reached up and snatched another crystal, Alarik’s revolver boomed, robbing the reanimator of the nearest undead. The body toppled, with a smoking crater in the chest. Kyzogg grinned and laughed, a malicious spark of green in his flaming eyes, then threw the crystal at the sergeant. The man was hacking and slashing at a horde of the dead. He never saw the glowing shard land.

THOOOOM! The blast vaporized the mass of corpses attacking him. Shards scattered in all directions, the sergeant was blasted off his feet, crashing into a nearby wall, where he rolled and lay still, armor battered and smoking. The walls shook and dust rained down from the hill above.

There were a dozen undead moving towards him, but only a few between Alarik and the reanimator. He raised the barrel and fired, charging forward as he squeezed the trigger. Bodies burst into flames and dropped, or were slammed by his shield as he blasted rounds into Kyzogg’s body. Black holes tore open, spilling burnt blood and gore. The monster staggered, swung his remaining claw, and caught Alarik on the shield, knocking it to the side and slashing across Alarik’s chest.

He rolled, wincing at the pain, feeling hot blood soak his shirt. He holstered the revolver, drawing the blade and slicing off the arms of a corpse that got too close.

“Awww… no more fire? A pity!” Kyzogg crooned. The monster’s tone was mocking, but its body was ravaged. Flesh blackened and cracked, showing green flames burning from some internal forge. Globs of oozing dark crimson goo hissed and popped, splattering to the ground.

“No more fire.” Alarik snarled, and he charged.

He blocked a swipe from Kyzogg, the impact on his shield staggered him, then hacked at the monster’s leg, the blade digging deep. Another rake of the clawed hand knocked Alarik back, and he slashed with his blade in return, chopping two fingers from Kyzogg’s remaining hand.

The claw pulled back, and as Alarik watched it, a foot shot forward, driving Alarik into the dirt. The world spun and he could feel the horde of walking corpses moving in from all around. He pushed himself up to a knee and spit blood before looking up at Kyzogg.

“And here, at the last, your fragile life ends,” the nightmare said, raising that bloated foot up to crush him like a bug.

With a grin, Alarik rolled forward, dodging under the stomp, coming up behind the reanimator with revolver in hand, aimed at the crystal on Kyzogg’s back. “I saved one round… just for you.”

He raised his shield and fired. There was a brilliant flash of green and the cluster shattered, the detonation deafening. The blast wave knocked Alarik back to slam into a pile of bodies, rolling and crashing into the far wall. A score of undead were torn asunder as green crystal shards blasted through their flesh, leaving little but dismembered and flayed chunks. Dust and debris fell from the roof of Burial Hill as coffins and bodies shook loose and smashed down with thunderous impacts.

Alarik crawled to his feet, using the wall to brace himself. Through the smoke, he saw a blackened skeleton remained where Kyzogg once stood. Among the greasy soot, a faint glow emanated from within the pile of ash. Groaning to bend over and investigate, Alarik found Kyzogg’s skull. The bone scorched black, but carved with intricate runes that still glowed with faint power. He slipped the horrifying thing into his satchel—proof of the monster’s defeat—then staggered to the sergeant.

The man was a bloody ruin, his armor dented and pierced by crystal splinters in a dozen places. Kneeling down, Alarik rolled him over to hear a moan of pain and labored breathing. With a sneer, he hesitated, shook his head and said, “I should let you die down here.”

With a heavy sigh, Alarik took out his bottle and poured out a single drop of the magic brew into the man’s mouth. As the sergeant’s body began spasming, Alarik quickly stowed the potion, still not wanting the man to know he had it. Within a few minutes, he was sitting up, gasping for breath and groaning in pain. Several shards were still lodged in his flesh. Alarik made a face, wondering if he should have pulled those out before applying the medicine.

“Whappen…” the sergeant’s words were a mashed up jumble, spilling out with a mouth full of blood.

Alarik gestured to the pile of Kyzogg ash and said, “It’s dead, Sergeant.”

Climbing to his feet, the soldier gasped for breath, plucked a green sliver of glass from his cheek and said, “My name is Sergeant Geoff Mainville.”

Not looking, Alarik said, “I didn’t ask.” then led the way, staggering for the ramp, up and out of the hole.

Return to the Top

Chapter 6: The Return

With their injuries, it took time to descend from the slope of the hill. Navigating the tombstones and pathways guarded by wrought iron fences, they reached the shimmering rift, and Alarik once more felt a powerful tug at the middle of his back—as if some invisible string were hooked into his spine and drawn toward the strange vortex of light and otherworldly sound. As they got closer, the urge became an overwhelming need to touch the cursed thing.

When they were a few dozen feet from the rift, another sensation came over him. Alarik shook his head, trying to clear his blurring vision, but there was something else as well—a feeling underneath it all—another thread, linked to him somehow. He remained still, staring at the swirling leaves, listening to the hum that thrummed through his bones, searching for what that connection could mean.

Holding out a hand, Alarik moved it back and forth through the air, as if swishing it through water. There was an almost tangible quality to the space around the rift—waves of pulsing energy that could be felt. As he became familiar with the sensation, his heartbeat slowed, his panic abating. And that's when it happened. The beat of his heart and the pulse of the rift came into alignment, the world calmed, and Alarik could follow the path of the threads.

They were straight glowing lines in his mind. One from him to the vortex, and the other… it led from the terrifying swirling thing to the south—not far, perhaps a few miles at most. “It’s the other rift!” Alarik murmured.

He could feel it... the one in the prison. Focusing on that thread, the image of Devil's Crossing formed in his mind, the rift shimmered, then stilled. There was still the pull of wind and swirl of debris, but the rippling energy stilled. Its color muted and shapes began to form. Ramshackle boards roughly hammered into place, prison bars, chains—movement through the gaps of makeshift barricades. People! Soldiers were standing before an iron gate of intricate scrollwork, and through the hole in the roof he read the sign that hung above them, "Burrwitch Prison."

Instantly, Alarik understood. These were gateways. Doors between spaces. If they stepped though right now, they would arrive back in Devil's Crossing in a matter of seconds.

As he stepped toward it, Sergeant Mainville grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Are you touched, man? Don’t get too close.”

When Alarik looked back, the rift had returned to its normal appearance. With the concentration broken, the connection was lost, and he was left with the bone-shaking hum of energy and unnerving colors from beyond their reality.

While they skirted the edge of the vortex, Alarik tried to get some answers, but Geoff knew little. He only spoke of the creatures appearing, attacking everywhere and destroying everything. Seeing the man's face grow red with anger, then screw up in grief, Alarik let it drop.

Averting their eyes from the tree, they stopped at the general store, searching for any remaining bottles of the enchanted medicine, only to find it ransacked. They rested, catching their breath and Alarik shared the dried meat he found here, what felt like days ago, but was only hours earlier. He wondered if Keenstead and Barnes were the looters, and if they made it back to Devil’s Crossing.

Despite having never seen the sun through the thick fog, the darkness of night was creeping in. The once pearlescent mists had shifted to dark murky greys. The silhouettes of buildings and trees reduced to vague charcoal smudges in swirling gloom. Thankfully, they saw little in the way of undead or other threats on their return trip, and the few they did encounter, Alarik quickly dispatched them with blasts of fire-infused bullets. Passing the Harbormaster’s building, he knew they were close, and he let out a sigh of relief. As they staggered from the mist and towards the bridge, they heard shouts of alarm from the guards. “More dead at the gates.”

Alarik opened his mouth to call out to the men, but gunfire sent him diving for cover. A round bounced off the sergeant’s pauldron before he dove into the mud as well.

“Curse your mothers, and damn your eyes!” the sergeant bellowed.

“Who’s out there?” came the quavering tone of someone young and scared.

“Sergeant Geoff Mainville!”

“Those are our men! Go! Get them inside… Now!” The gravelly voice of John Bourbon cut through the darkening fog.

Within moments, armed and armored soldiers surrounded them, shields and spears raised to form a protective wall against the murky fog. Rough hands pulled Alarik to his feet, and both men were hurried back inside the walls of Burrwitch Prison. They were brought to a battered wooden bench where blankets were tossed over their shoulders.

“You look like hell!” the captain said, glancing between the two. “Rest a moment. I’ll have Sahdina fix you some of her brew.” With that, he walked off, climbing the stairs to the second floor walkway.

The sergeant gave Alarik a sideways glance, and both men stared at each other. Geoff broke eye contact first, his mouth twitching as if he were trying to say something. Eventually, he turned away, silent.

Ten minutes later, they held a mug filled with the witch’s vile, bitter medicine. Alarik didn’t hesitate, downed it all in one gulp, then grimaced and shook his head as his face twisted involuntarily.

“Sergeant,” the captain began, “It’s good to have you back. Some of your men returned some hours ago. After their story… we feared the worst for you.”

“Thank you, Sir. I… I might not have made it back… if not for him.” His words were hesitant, and he didn’t look at Alarik, just a slight, grudging tilt of the head in his direction.

With a nod of thanks to Alarik, the captain said, “Go get some rest Sergeant. I’m going to need you when you’re better.”

“Yes, Captain!” Geoff gave John a salute and as he turned, he nodded at Alarik, then walked into the cluster of tents to find a bunk.

Eyeing Alarik for a long moment, John said, “Based on your state, I take it you found the source?”

Alarik let out a weary sigh as he stood, already feeling the witch’s magic soothing the aches and pains.

“Let’s speak in private.” he said, leading Alarik back to his office. Inside, he saw the same wreck of a room. Alarik wasn't sure how long the captain had been here, and wondered if the man had any intention of cleaning the place up.

John pulled a bottle from the wine cabinet and sat down, pouring a liquor the color of burnt amber into a mug. He pushed it to Alarik’s side of the table, exampined a chipped cup, and sniffed at the contents before tossing the dark liquid inside to spatter in the corner and pouring himself a generous helping of whisky.

Sitting down, the captain said, “Most of my men made it back, and a scavenger I sent out yesterday came back. Said someone saved his ass. I assume that was you?”

Enjoying the smoky, nutty aroma of the alcohol, Alarik just nodded.

“I’m grateful. I also received a report that the number of dead has already begun to thin out. You said you found what was creating them?”

Alarik took a small tentative sip the mug, letting the liquid dissolve on his tongue. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavor of figs, cherries, oak, and spices, all accented under a layer of smoky burnt wood. Meeting the captain’s steely gaze, he reached into the satchel and pulled out the skull.

Setting it down on the man’s desk, Alarik said, “It was some...thing. Called himself Kyzogg.”

“A creature did this? Disturbing…” John’s eyes narrowed, examining the grisly trophy. His gaze flicked over the strange glowing symbols, as if searching for some meaning or combination that would make sense of it all.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair and took a swig from his mug without noticing the aroma or flavor. At this, Alarik’s eye twitched with annoyance and he clenched his jaw. He got the sudden urge to yell at the man for being a savage, to demand he appreciate this rare and expensive bottle. He couldn’t say why, and with a shake of his head, he pushed the feeling down with another sip.

“I need time to plan our strategy,” John said, standing and taking another gulp, the amber liquid dribbling out at the corners of his beard. Again, Alarik was forced to ignore a burning sense of irrational irritation.

“In the meantime,” the captain continued, “take a break, get food and some rest. You’re free to meet with the other residents… but be wary, some may still want to kill you,” he placed a rusted iron key on the table next to the skull, hesitated, looked as if he might pick up the macabre trophy, then thought better of it. “This key is for the cell you woke up in. I figure that should keep you safe from any retaliation while you sleep. Even so, be careful.”

John walked around to the front of the desk and Alarik stood. The captain raised his mug for a toast. “Thanks to you, we may still have a chance to survive this nightmare, so… welcome to Devil’s Crossing.”

“I appreciate the bed, and I'm grateful for the chance after… whatever happened before. But I’m not sure how long I’m staying.” Alarik said.

“Oh? Got somewhere better to stay?”

“No, but your people don’t want me here. And if I have to spend much more time around your sergeant, I'll probably kill him.”

“Something I should be aware of?” The captain said, folding his arms, his mug hanging at a precarious angle.

Alarik stared at the mug, not wanting to see the excellent whisky wasted to the floor. Finally he said, “He’s arrogant and abusive. I was only around him for five minutes and wanted to drive a dagger into his eye. But more than that… I need to figure out who I am.”

“Still no memories from before?”

“No specific memories, but I get hints... feelings maybe? Take this alcohol for example. The flavor is exquisite. I know how to appreciate it. And... I want to kick your teeth in for gulping it down like water."

John's eyebrows shot up and stared down into his mug with a thoughtful expression, then took a more reserved sip, giving Alarik a chance to continue.

"That seems to indicate some kind of sophisticated upbringing, but I’m covered in scars. Scars on top of scars. These are old, healed over and over. This happened long before whatever befell the world. Beyond that, I know how to fight. I don't have a lot to compare to, and my body is still weak from… well… whatever happened to me, but I would wager I am skilled. Really skilled.”

"You don't think you can figure all this out here?" John said with a gesture at the ruins around them.

Alarik shrugged, “Maybe, and I'll stay for a while, and I'll help where I can. But I think the answers I seek lay beyond these walls, Captain.”

Nodding, John said, “Very well. Then for as long as you are here...” He raised his mug once more, and they both drank to that.

Return to the Top

Chapter 7: Salvage

The next two days blurred together in a haze of backbreaking labor. Alarik hauled timber and stone, his muscles aching as he cleared rubble from the collapsed sections of the prison. Sweat stung the still healing wounds across his body, and dust caked his throat, the cough it brought making him rub at the scar around his neck, bringing dark visions of something he couldn't quite remember… something horrible.

The other survivors gave him a wide berth—conversations died when he approached, eyes tracked his movements with barely concealed hostility. The soldiers, Keenstead and Barnes, were friendly enough, but Alarik's dealings with them were few. Sergeant Mainville would give a curt nod or mumble a gruff greeting in passing, but little more.

The only exceptions were Sahdina, John Bourbon, the scavenger Faldis—the man Alarik had saved from the razor hounds—and Edwin the cook, a cheerful man who remained kind to everyone despite the harsh living conditions.

In the evenings, he took to cleaning out his cell, methodically removing cartloads of dirt and debris. Faldis had shown up to help, once more impressing upon Alarik how grateful he was. It was starting to make Alarik uncomfortable—his thoughts sliding into a dark sense of superiority. The obsequious bowing made him smirk inwardly, looking down on this weak, cowardly fool. The sensation disturbed him as much as they pleased him.

Alarik forced himself to smile and accept Faldis' help, using the work to push down whatever darkness was stirring in his mind. With each mound of rubble moved, the cell slowly transformed, exposing more and more of the stone floor beneath.

They were getting close to being finished when the shovel knocked a stone aside, revealing something buried. Wedged against the far corner, he uncovered a sheaf of battered parchment, its edges torn and stained. The letters were crude, blocky, and scratched in what looked like charcoal:

Now, I ain't a decent man and I sure ain't good at writing, but word needs to get out 'bout what this place really is. This prison, it ain't like no joint I ever been in, and I've seen double my share. Men don't stay here long neither and some of the lads they haul in, they ain't criminals. I'd know. Moment I see a man, I can tell by his eyes that he done wrong. These boys? I see fear.
I seen this warden a coupla times, big man in black armor. If you ain't know better, you'd think he was on the wrong side of the bars. Every day, he and his lackeys take prisoners out to this hut in the yard by the dozen. They ain't never come out. Later, a wagon rolls in by the hut. It always leaves full.
They don't let us outa our cells no more, but I can tell there ain't much of us left. The halls are quiet. I'm the last man in my row. The others? They was taken in yesterday's batch. I ain't asking for pity. I know my end's in that hut; but perhaps this note will be my one good deed in my pathetic life...

Alarik worried at the edge of the paper, his brow furrowed as he reread the man's final words. Captain Bourbon would have to see this immediately.

After thanking Faldis for his help, Alarik knocked on the captain's door, handing him the note and explaining where he found it. John's face grew grim as he read the ragged parchment, then set it aside with a heavy sigh.

"Warden Krige," he muttered. "I've seen that name mentioned in a few documents that survived the destruction of this place. Nothing sold through. I'll need time to dig through the remaining records and see if I can corroborate any of this prisoner's claims."

The captain settled into his chair, resting his chin heavily against a fist. "Unfortunately, we have more immediate problems. Water, for one. We're surrounded by the stuff, but none of it's safe to drink. The lake to the west is saltwater. That nearby creek reeks, and with so many corpses rotting upstream..." He shook his head. "Walking north a mile to the river means fighting through undead-infested territory. We'd need a heavy escort we can't spare."

"Where were you getting your water from?" Alarik asked.

"The windmill was our source, but it broke the other night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about windmill repair, would you?"

“Me?” Alarik’s eyes narrowed. He felt angry. Insulted.

“Relax!” John’s hands patted the air, “I didn't mean to imply you did it. Although some people are already blaming you. A part was sawed through, causing it to snap on its own. Sabatage to be sure, but there’s no way to tell when it was done. It could have been days or even weeks before you arrived.”

Alarik relaxed somewhat, but now his nerves were now on edge, thinking about one more thing for the people of Devil's Crossing to hate him.

“Anyway,” John continued, “the mill was our only reliable source of clean water.”

"What do you need me to do?" Alarik asked.

“A man named Barnabas is working to repair the windmill—but he needs materials. There's a dumping ground north of here where we might find the scrap to fix it. I'm sending a salvage team, and I want you with them."

Chapter 7: Salvage

Two hours later, the dumping ground stretched before them—rusted metal, broken furniture, and garbage piled in towering mounds. The acrid smell of decay hung in the air, and a heavy mist rolled between the refuse piles, slowing their pace and increasing the chance of an ambush by undead or predators.

As escort, Alarik stood guard over the men along with two other soldiers: Garret, a stocky man with greying temples, and Finn, a fresh-faced recruit, a little too eager to get some payback on the monsters.

Alarik mostly ignored the kid and his endless prattle about revenge, trusting Garret to keep him in line. A snapping twig forced a murder of crows to suddenly erupt from the trees. They scattered in a terrifying and sudden explosion of movement and cawing.

With the blackbirds' calls fading into the distance, the scavengers returned to their search for salvage, slower now, more wary after the ill-omened display. The mist seemed to press in on them, making the hills loom like menacing shapes in the fog—the curve of some great and terrible beast with spears and weapons impaled upon its jagged hide.

Alarik gritted his teeth and tried to dismiss the image of the hill rising up to crush them all. He told his companions, "Keep your eyes open."

Garret grunted his agreement, adjusting his grip on his sword hilt, while young Finn nodded, his breathing ragged, scanning the refuse with wide eyes.

Another hour passed as the scavengers picked through the debris—pulling out pieces of metal and beams of wood not yet succumbed to rot, then loading it all onto a small wagon pulled by a mule. One man climbed a steep mound and lifted a section of sheet metal, holding it up before yelling back, "I think this is enough scrap."

There were murmurs of agreement from the men. They were filthy and tired, gathering their tools and grumbling about a hot meal, when a scream sounded out. The man on the slope was rolling down, a dark brown blur attached to his leg as he tumbled. At the bottom, the man came to a stop and a creature came loose, sliding to a stop and coming to all fours, snarling and hissing.

It was a massive rat, the size of a large dog, fat, with greasy fur that bristled with long sharp quills. It hissed and snarled, baring jagged teeth, the flesh around its mouth blistered with oozing pustules, its eyes burning with feral hunger.

The scavenger, still laid out on his back, gasped from the pain of his savaged leg, blood flowing freely from the tear in his pants. Alarik was about to charge when the rat's screech echoed across the dumping ground—and was answered by several more emerging from hole. The hillside bulged, the mound where the hole was swelled, and like a boil it burst. The earth opened up and a flood of brown fur erupted, scurrying up the hole that had been concealed beneath that sheet of metal.

"It's a nest! Form up!" Alarik shouted. The soldiers moved forward, shields up, but the scavengers were scattering in a panic, running for the path back to the prison.

The quilled rats burst from the refuse, racing down the hill of garbage, their razor-sharp spines making a strange rattling sound as they charged. Alarik's revolver barked, sending one falling back in flames, but more kept coming.

“Don’t run!” Alarik bellowed at the backs of the fleeing men, “We can't protect you if you run!”

Alarik did not look to see if the scavengers remained, focusing on aiming, and firing at the horde of monsters charging towards them. Pulling the trigger, a quill rat’s foreleg was blown free in a fiery blast, the creature tumbling and flipping the rest of the way down. A second rat’s head exploded, a charred crater between its shoulders. As the pack closed the distance Alarik squeezed off one more round, hitting, but not killing the monster before he holstered the revolver, saving his final rounds for dire need.

As the wave of rats hit the bottom of the slope, Alarik drew his sword and braced for their charge, at the same time he spotted a flicker of movement in the air above them, “Arrows! Shields up!” he bellowed. A second later a rain of needle-sharp quills peppered them, and a moment after that, the rats slammed into their shield wall, the heavy thuds of bodies and claws slamming into metal and wood.

Alarik lunged and his blade punched through fur and bone. Garret roared, driving his sword deep into a snarling maw, the tip of steel punching out the back of the skull. But there were too many—Finn screamed as three rats bowled him over, their teeth fighting for his throat.

With Finn down, a few rats slipped through the gap in their line, rushing for the scavengers. Garret held his ground, stabbing at another rat while swinging wildly at one of the creatures atop the kid. Alarik heard cries of alarm and fighting from behind him, but resisted the urge to look. He imppailed one of the monsters that had latched onto his shield, then stepped forward and kicked another off Finn so hard he felt the thing’s ribs crunch.

Finn had his shield over his torso and face, but with the rat kicked free, his sword arm came up. With a panicked cry, the kid stabbed the second quill rat biting and snapping around his shield, his thrusts frenzied and shallow. The creature screeched as the blade slid in, blood splashing down over Finn.

Garret plunged his blade into brown fur and yelled “Cover,” before getting his shield up.

The kid curled up into a ball under his shield and Alarik didn't even think about it, just crouching and ducking, moments later the heavy thunk and patter of quills striking all around them. Raising his shield gave a rat easy access to his legs and it bit deep. With a scream of pain Alarik ran it through and twisted, his blade, pulling it back slick with blood.

He scanned the mist, spotting two of the quill rats still up on the slope, keeping their distance and rattling their spines in preparation for another volley. There were screams behind him as the scavengers fought off the rats that got past, but the ones on the hillside were the greater threat—raining down theri barrage of quills.

“Protect the men!” Alarik yelled, sheathing his sword, drawing his revolver, and charging up the hill.

His leg lanced him pain, and the wound slowed his advance. He fired once and missed, cursing the pain. There was a whipping sound and he dove towards a busted armoire, the thunk of quills punching into the heavy wooden cabinet only moments later.

He winced, realizing he had not moved fast enough—a spine hung from his left shoulder. Alarik grabbed the spine, prepared to yank it out and wondered how it was that his most protected area kept getting injured. He let out cry of pain and then a deep sigh as he ripped the bone dart free, letting it drop to the ground.

He gasped and sucked air in through gritted teeth as he took a second to reload and check on the men at the bottom of the mound. In this moment of pained focus, a strange sensation came over him—his head snapped up and his eyes darted around, searching for the source of what?

There was something here... was it power? An otherworldly tugging, like the crystals… like the vortex. He focused on it, feeling invisible threads, pulling at his soul. It was faint but unmistakable, emanating from somewhere deep within the mound of refuse. The burrow entrance? Or something else entirely?

In his frantic searching, he spotted movement, and heard the shouts of the men. The fog was thick, but with his back to the sturdy furniture, he could just make out shapes through the mist. Garret and Finn had flanked the rats, now pinned by a line of men with staves and wooden planks. They had used the wagon as a shield, keeping the spiny rats at bay with their improvised weapons.

With a force of will, Alarik pushed himself up on his wounded leg and leaned out, spotting a quill rat. He heard the whipping sound once more and dropped back as a flurry of spines flew. Wood thumped and cracked under the barrage, and then Alarik popped out and shot the beast, the flaming round catching its fur alight. It screeched and tried to run, but fell after a few feet, the creature's hair continuing to burn, forming an orange glow in the dense fog.

He darted out from cover, fighting against the pain as he brought his shield up. His boots pounded the ground as he scanned for the next rat hidden in the trash-cluttered hillside. He saw movement to his left and crouched behind his shield, taking no chances. There was the whip sound, then quills hitting and bouncing across the hillside all around him. He returned fire. Two more rounds and the quill rat was a flaming heap, smoldering and igniting the remains of a busted doorway half buried in the refuse.

Alarik jerked the revolver from side to side, his eyes wild and hands shaking, but he saw nothing—just swirling mist and the orange glow of flames blotting out his visibility. The sudden silence felt wrong after the chaos of battle. His ears rang from the gunfire and the world was muffled, muted. Both sight and sound blurred into indistinct shapes.

He didn't hear or see any more rats up here. Only quiet murmurs and groans of pain drifted up from below. With an exhausted sigh, Alarik limped back down the slope, his leg throbbing with each step.

At the bottom, he surveyed the aftermath. Dead rats lay scattered across blood-soaked ground, but his men were alive. Three scavengers sat holding rags to puncture wounds, their faces pale from blood loss. Garret was helping Finn to his feet—the young recruit's armor dented, crimson streaming down the side of his head and matting his hair. Wounded and shaken, but alive.

"Good work," Alarik said, though his voice was sore and raspy—dry from the dust and burnt hair and the stink of garbage. He quickly switched to nods as his eyes met the other men.

"Sir?" Garret's tone cut through his thoughts. The older soldier was watching him with concern. "The men need to see a healer."

Alarik grimaced at the formality. For a moment he had the desier to correct the man and insist on being called 'My Lord', but he ignored that, instead saying, "I'm not in the army, Garret. Just Alarik will do."

The scavengers were already loading the last of their salvage and helping one wounded man up onto the wagon—he wouldn't be able to walk back on his own. They all seemed eager to leave this place. Finn stood ready, though he kept glancing nervously back at the burrow.

"You're right," Alarik said finally, shouldering his pack. Whatever secrets the burrow held would have to wait. Devil's Crossing needed water.

As they made their way back through the mist-shrouded dumping ground, Alarik couldn't shake the feeling that something important lay hidden beneath the earth. That same otherworldly energy he'd felt at the pillar in Burial Hill, and near the rift in Devil's Crossing—it pulled at him. Not with the same intensity as the rift gate, but enough he was sure there was something there.

Return to the Top

Chapter 8: Water

On the road back from the dumping grounds, fire lanced through Alarik's leg. Each step shot pain upwards, reminding him of his mistake in the dump. Sweat broke out across his brow and his vision blurred until at last he stumbled; his leg buckling, he fell to the earth. Several men helped to pick him up, getting onto the cart.

“I just need a minute.” Alarik said through clenched teeth.

“You can barely walk. You had better lie back and rest. Let the mule haul you back to the prison.” A man with a thick beard told him.

Collapsing back against the junk piled up in the cart, all he could do was ignore the chunk of metal stabbing into his back and stare at the pale grey sky above. After a few minutes, he fumbled for his vial of healing medicine, and checking to see if anyone was watching him, took a small sip, then tucked the bottle away and waited for the unpleasant effects to begin.

The precious drops burned as they hit his tongue, and within moments the familiar torment began: the maddening itch that crawled beneath his skin, racing from his wounded shoulder down through the bite on his leg. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out and endured the cure's price. When the worst of the healing itch finally subsided, Alarik hauled himself upright and gestured for one of the other wounded to take his place on the cart.

With the reanimator dead and most of Lower Crossing cleared of walking corpses, they faced no other attacks on the return journey. Soon the crumbling walls of Burrwitch Prison came into view, a shattered ettifice looming in the fog. Despite its damaged and treacherous appearance, the salvage crew's spirits and they hollered out a cheer as they approached. Alarik was doubly grateful for this, not wanting to get shot at like last time.

Captain Bourbon met the crew as they rolled past the prison entrance, continuing through the southern gate to where the windmill stood. A crowd of survivors had already gathered, watching with hopeful eyes as the team unloaded their salvaged goods.

"Barnabus!" John called out, spotting a broad shouldered man with long scraggly hair and oil-stained clothes examining the windmill's mechanism. "They brought what you needed."

The man hurried over, his weathered face breaking into a grin as he surveyed the cart's contents. "Aye, this'll do nicely. I'll need to build the gear assemblies, drive shafts—”

“I don't need an explanation. Just do it.”

“I'll get right on it.” Barabus said, setting to work, sorting through the heap of parts and scrap loaded into the back of the wagon.

"Alarik." Captain Bourbon's gruff voice cut through the courtyard bustle. "A word." He gestured back towards the prison and they followed the wounded men being escorted to where Sahdina waited, her hood concealing most of her face as she met them halfway. Alarik couldn't hear the witch’s words, but he saw her examining each injury with gentle hands, soft murmurs, and understanding nods. She fell out of view as they entered the captain’s office, and Alarik’s mind shifted from one of stress and concern, and into a strong desire to taste the contents of that excellent bottle once more.

The afternoon dragged on with agonizing slowness. Survivors gathered in clusters around the courtyard, their conversations hushed and tense. Children whimpered for water and the elderly sat in whatever shade they could find. The guards on the southern gates watched, distracted by all the activity here, and just as desperate and hopeful as the rest.

Alarik spent the time resting against a stone wall eating some of the cook’s horrible burnt stew. After drinking the healing draft, his body became ravenous, enough to eat even this burnt slop. The mechanic moved with surprising agility for his age, climbing into the windmill's housing to install the salvaged components. Occasionally he would call out for a specific tool or curse creatively when something didn't fit quite right.

"Almost ready!" Barnabus finally announced, his voice echoing from within the mechanism as he hoisted the windwheel back up. "Stand clear of the blades!"

The entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath. Even conversations stopped as every eye turned toward the windmill. Barnabus finished placing the wheel in place, tightening something with a large wrench, then climbed down. Wiping greasy hands on his clothes, he moved to a lever assembly at the base of the structure.

"Here we go," he muttered, then threw the lever.

There was a thump, and a slow creak as the tail shifted and the wheel faced the wind. Then, with a scraping groan, the rusted metal blades began to turn. Slowly at first, then with gathering momentum as the mechanism found its rhythm. The crowd held its breath, hands locked to their chests in silent prayer, begging the capricious gods to spare them.

A deep hollow gurgling sound belched out of the pipes and water began to flow from the spigot, splashing into the large wooden reservoir below. A cheer erupted from the watching crowd—hands flew up, people jumped and cried, mothers hugged their kids, and men who did nothing patted each other on the backs with nods of congratulations.

Nobody thanked Alarik. A fumed there in the shade of his tree, glaring at their jubilation, hating them for their petty wants. The celebration of success they had nothing to do with. He got a burning desire to put a flaming bullet into each one of their skulls. A spiteful, evil sneer a begun to spread across his face when Barnabus shouted, snapping him from his thoughts—

"Let the tank fill first!" he called out. "We'll all get our share!"

The crowd had started to press in on the man, and he was trying to hold them back, pushing and shouting. The people started to yell back, screaming for water…and then the wind shifted.

The crowd fell silent as an unholy stench washed over them—a reek so putrid it stung their nostrils and clawed at their throats. Several people immediately doubled over, retching violently. Most of the crowd fell back, scattering with hands pressed to their faces, gagging and stumbling away from the windmill. Alarik watched a woman in a faded blue dress simply crumple to the ground in a dead faint. Those brave enough to remain turned an unhealthy shade of green, desperately covering their noses and mouths with whatever cloth they could find.

Alarik fought down his own nausea, and his enjoyment of these people’s just reward before approaching Barnabus, who was staring at the flowing water with a grim expression. The mechanic's face had gone pale, and he was breathing shallowly through his mouth.

"Dead gods… What is that smell?" Captain Bourbon choked out as he approached from the prison, pushing his way through the crowd trying to escape the area.

“That would be our water captain.” Barnabus said, his face screwed up and and turning to face them, “The good news is I got the water pumping again. The only problem is it smells like a sewer, only about ten-fold worse..”

“What would cause that?” Alarik asked.

“Well…” Barnabus crossed his arms and looked down in thought, rubbing his stubbly chin between thumb and finger, “This smell reminds me of a time I cleared out a den of slith, ages ago.”

“Slith?” Alaric said, looking between Barnabus and the captain who only nodded.

"Reptilian predators. Make their homes in swamps and caves… anywhere cool and damp." Barnabus turned back to look at the putrid stream. "They secrete a poison through their skin—makes the water perfect for them, but undrinkable to humans."

"Can it be fixed?"

Barnabus spat to clear the taste from his mouth. "The windmill's working fine so there's nothing to be done up here. It's the water source that's compromised."

"Then we go down and clear it out," John said. He turned to Alarik, his good eye locked on with an intensity Alarik had not seen before. "I'll need you to lead another team. Keenstead's recovered enough to fight, and I can spare two more men."

Alarik considered his options for a moment, not happy with the thought of being trapped underground with monstrous reptiles. Part of him recoiled at the idea, but the alternative was death by thirst for everyone in Devil's Crossing. Finally he nodded.

The captain looked to one of the guards at the gate and pointed, “Oxley, go get Keenstead and one other, I'm sending you down with Alarik to clear out the slith.”

As the guard ran off, Alaric asked, "When do we leave?"

"Right now." John walked to a nearby building, using a ring of heavy iron keys to open the door. "This leads down to a storage cellar, the wall is broken through to a cave that leads to the old dungeon levels. There wasn't much when we searched for survivors, but if there are slith down, you should watch your back..."

Alarik nodded, following John into the building.

“They do have some kind of primitive culture and can use tools and weapons, mostly wood and stone, but the real danger is the poison. I'll have Sahdina brew some antidotes just in case. If anyone gets poisoned, get back here as fast as you can.”

He walked to a corner, and using the ring of iron keys, removed a heavy padlock from a heavy wooden hatch in the corner. The lock turned with a rusty screech, and they both pulled the door open to reveal a ladder vanishing into darkness. The stench that wafted up was wet, earthy, and tinged with death.

Keenstead appeared with Oxley and one other soldier—a stocky man introduced as Briggs. All three carried lanterns and looked uncertainty at the trap door.

"Light your lanterns," the captain ordered. "And watch each other's backs down there. We can't afford to lose anyone else."

Alarik’s boots hit the ground, crunching in gravel and slipping on a layer of mud and slime while the glow of his lantern flickered across damp stone walls and piles of clutter. The storage cellar was larger than he'd expected, filled with broken and moldy crates, empty barrels and rotting sacks of grain that had long since spoiled. Water dripped steadily from somewhere in the darkness, forming a large puddle that rippled along one wall. Above him the wooden ladder shook and clattered as the others came down, the sound of their boots overpowering the faint trickle of water.

"Watch your step," he called up to the others. "Floor's slick down here."

Keenstead came down next, followed by Briggs and Oxley. The four men gathered at the bottom, their lanterns casting dancing shadows across the cellar walls. The smell of wet earth and mildew was stronger here—but mixed with something else—it was faint, but the same putrid reek from the windmill drifted in from a hole in the wall.

"There," Briggs pointed to the far wall where a jagged hole had been smashed through the stone. Chunks of masonry lay scattered across the floor, and the edges of the breach looked like they'd been broken with tools. "Captain thinks there was a prison break when everything went to shit. Reckons this is where they came out."

Alarik approached the hole, holding his lantern high. The opening was roughly three feet wide and tall enough for a man to walk through upright. Beyond it, he could see the gleam of water and the slick shine of moss-covered stone.

"Prison break?" Oxley asked, his young voice tight with nervousness.

"Aye," Briggs said, kicking at a chunk of broken stone. "When the dead started rising, some of the prisoners in the lower levels must have panicked. Probably thought they could dig their way out through the old caves." He gestured at the hole. "Looks like they managed it, though I doubt it did them much good in the end."

Keenstead moved closer to examine the breach. "There's water through here, maybe we can just drink this?"

Alarik studied the rippling surface and said, "Maybe, but I wouldn't drink anything till we check it first. The slith might have come up here."

The four men exchanged uneasy glances, Alarik nodding at them in turn before asking, “Ready?”

"Ready for an ale," Briggs said, hefting his sword, "let’s get this done so I can get a drink."

Alarik stepped through the breach first, his boots splashing into ankle-deep water that felt cold. The cavern beyond was natural stone, its walls covered in a thick carpet of green moss lined with small plants and clinging fungus forming clusters of small circular shelves among the rocks. The ceiling curved overhead, hanging with roots and vines, while a shaft of light stabbed down into the cave, giving faint illumination.

"Incredible," Oxley whispered. "It's like a whole different world down here."

The water was clear and still, reflecting the faint light of the cave. Strange, bulbous formations of stone jutted up from the cavern floor—smooth and natural, glistening with moisture. A splashing sound from deeper in the cave made them all freeze. Then came a wet, gnawing noise that made Alarik's skin crawl.

"Rats," Keenstead said grimly, pointing ahead where several large shapes moved in the water.

Like the spiny, oversized rats from the dump, these creatures were the size of dogs, their matted fur slick with moisture and filth. They clustered around something pale floating in the water—something that had once been human. The rats' yellow teeth gleamed as they tore strips of flesh from the waterlogged corpse, their feeding punctuated by squeaks and territorial snarls.

"How about Keensted?" Briggs winced, drawing his blade. "Still want to drink the water?"

Keensted glared at the big man, drawing his own blade.

One of the creatures looked up at their approach, its red eyes reflecting the lantern light. It let out a chittering hiss that echoed off the cavern walls, alerting the rest of the pack. Six of them turned to face the intruders, water dripping from their muzzles as they abandoned their feast.

"Shield up and stay together," Alarik ordered, drawing his sword. "Don't let them separate you."

The rats moved with surprising speed through the shallow water, bounding and splashing through the shallow water. The first one lunged at Oxley, who stumbled backward with a cry of alarm. Keenstead's blade caught it mid-leap, splitting its skull with a wet crack.

Alarik blocked the snapping jaws of another, then drove his sword down through its throat. The creature thrashed in the water for a moment before going still. Beside him, Briggs fought off two at once, his stocky frame allowing him to wade forward and meet their charge head-on.

"Ugly bastards," Briggs grunted, kicking one rat's corpse aside. "Big as wolves, they are."

The remaining rats seemed to realize they were outmatched. They retreated deeper into the cavern, their chittering calls echoing off the walls as they disappeared into the shadows.

"Should we follow them?" Oxley asked, still breathing hard from the encounter.

"We’re not here for rats, but I don’t see any other way to go," Alarik said, wiping his blade clean on the fur. "So for now, we follow."

They waded through the murky water, past the half-eaten corpse that bobbed gently in their wake. The cavern curved to the right, sloping upwards as they rounded the bend, their lanterns illuminated something unexpected—a section of worked stone rising from the water like an island.

"It’s another wall," Keenstead observed.

A wall of fitted stones smashed through from the other side. Ancient mortar and shattered sone lay in crumbled heaps, two feet of stone wall the only thing holding the water back from spilling into the darkness beyond.

"Part of the old prison," Briggs said. "Must be where the prisoners escaped from. The water weakened the wall here… made it easy to dig out."

Alarik stepped over the lip of the hole, water streaming from his boots. The others followed, their lanterns revealing a narrow corridor that stretched into darkness. They emerged in a prison cell, bars penned them in on all sides—for a moment Alarik worried they would have to smash their way out, but he quickly noticed the door hung open.

"This is it," Alarik said. "We're in..."

In the cells to either side the cells were empty, only unsavory stains and the bones of those who died down here—gnawed clean and scattered by rats. Stepping out of the cell, they emerged onto a stone walkway that overlooked a vast open space. Alarik held his lantern over the edge and peered down into the layer below—only darkness and vague shapes met him.

"This place is huge…" Keenstead said, “It's going to take forever to find where the slith are hiding.”

Alarik shook his head. "The smell is getting worse, so it shouldn't take too long to find their hole."

He raised his lantern higher, trying to pierce the darkness below, but the light revealed nothing except more empty walkways descending into shadow. And from somewhere in that impossible darkness, the unmistakable sound of slithering movement.

Return to the Top

The Impossible Library

Grim Dawn Web Series

Content Warning

About

Act 1

Prolog

Chapter 1: The Awakening

Chapter 2: Lower Crossing

Chapter 3: The Tree

Chapter 4: Burial Hill

Chapter 5: Kyzogg

Chapter 6: The Return

Chapter 7: Salvage

Chapter 7: Salvage

Chapter 8: Water