Chapter 2

The faint sound of water trickling down through rocks filled Arland's ears. Soft splashes from his footsteps sounded as loud as the crashing of a waterfall inside his mind. His nerves were getting the better of him. He gripped the handle of his sword harder as his palms became damp with sweat, and the thumping of his heart felt like the banging of a great drum deep inside his chest. The darkness of the cave enveloped him, overwhelming him with a sense of claustrophobic. He hadn't known fear like this since he was a child, a poor orphan growing up in the dark, dirty streets near the Altdorf docks; chased by drunken sailors fresh of the boats in the dead of night. It's a good thing he had always been quick. Not that that would help him now. He couldn't risk a proper run, one missed foot step on these wet, slippery rocks would send him tumbling to the floor and drawing whatever terrible beast lurked deeper in the dark. A soft prayer, more of a plea for protection, whispered quietly out of his mouth, as he kept his eyes on the faint glow of orange up ahead. That had to be Markus's torch, whatever had happened to his friends, he would find out when he reached that dying light ahead. Suddenly, he stopped. The soft sound a rock tumbling over could be heard up ahead. Was that one of his friends in need of help? Or something darker and more sinister?

Deep in the darkness, crawling along a hidden path parallel to Arland, a single solitary figure crept as silent as a shadow. Deep red eyes blazed with hunger, and an undying anger at the world that had driven him to this life. Lithe, but powerful, its body was as white as sheet for its skin had not seen the sun in several lifetimes. The tang of blood filled his mouth after feeding on the large one's blood. It hungered for more, very rarely did so much fresh, full blooded prey bring itself into his home. And he was not willing to let this opportunity pass. He had to be cautious though, he knew this. There was new prey entering the cave, he couldn't let himself get caught off guard. He had already made that mistake, the taste of the large one had been so sweet and succulent. Fresh and warm blood had exploded in his mouth as his razor-sharp fangs had ripped into his throat, making the blood explode down his throat. But the small one, the small one had been quick. Quicker than most mortals. His blade had shot out as he had closed on it. Mortals weapons usually had no effect on his, his skin as tough as the finest steel armour, but this one's blade had been different. It had cut into his shoulder, only a graze but it hurt. He hadn't been hurt in many a year. This meant he would be more careful with this new prey. Yes, he thought, I will make sure this one never sees me.

His vision swam, dizzying him, as another wave of nausea and pain erupted through his shoulder. Panting for breath he lay back heavily against the cold, stone wall of the cave. He pressed his hands hard against the cut in his shoulder, trying to stem the flow of blood pouring form the gaping, open wound in his shoulder, the pain almost causing him to collapse. By all the gods, he had never seen a beast move with such speed and ferocity! Erupting suddenly from the seemingly unending blackness of the cave it had slaughtered and torn up Hertz in seconds, giant fangs tearing his throat in great bites of flesh and volcanoes of blood, as its claws had sliced through his worn, leather armour like a great slicing sword. He had only escaped due to his natural quick reflexes. As the beast had leapt at him, Hertz still blood warm covering it's terrifying visage, he had quickly thrown his torch up and slashed his trusted, silver-edged sword wildly. Ranald's own luck must have been with him as the sword had found flesh and driven the beast off hissing and screaming. He made the shape of the hammer over his own heart as he remembered how the pallid, muscular flesh had smoked from the open wound. Gritting his teeth with desperation, he forced himself to stand. Silver edged sword tightly in hand Markus stepped forward, he knew he could hurt the beast. He knew it could be killed.

The first Arland knew of what hunted him in the dark was a faint hissing sound behind him, slowly, heart hammering in his chest he had turned. Perched on a rocky outcrop just above him was the beast. Skin pale and sickly, muscles rippling with massive tension as it crouched low in a pouncing position, like a cat stalking its prey. Two great fangs protruded from it's mouth, dripping with a disgusting mixture of blood and saliva and great talons of sharpened bone stretched out from his hands and feet, scratching against the rock. But the worst thing Arland saw was its eyes. In those burning pits of fire he saw his own doom, he saw himself being torn apart and feasted on. He saw a vast hunger for blood, unsatiable. He saw a darkness of the soul that could never be cured. Then, in the blink of an eye the beast, one moment as still as a statue, the beast burst into violent movement and the death he had seen in those eyes came for him.