Kael could remember nothing. Opening his eyes, he saw only chaos. The world swam before him, his head pounded with pain. The screams of people reached him—familiar and yet alien. The buzzing agony in his shoulder pulled him back to consciousness only to hurl him into darkness again. This hell seemed endless, unbearable, revolting.
"…ael." Someone was shaking his shoulder. If not for the fresh pain from this stranger's grip, Kael might not have felt anything at all.
"Ka…" The voice was fragmented but insistent. He tried to open his eyes, but saw nothing. Only a thick shroud of grey fog, pinpricks of light, and shifting silhouettes he couldn't fix his sight on.
"Kael!" Suddenly, the voice snapped into clarity. His gaze caught the man standing before him—a man covered in blood and wounds, screaming at him. "Run, Kael! Get up! Now!"
Torgrim? He remembered the name of this red-haired man. Blood flowed from his head down his entire face, dripping onto the ground. Crimson as summer wine, it almost blended with his long, red beard, nearly hiding it from view. But his weary eyes darted frantically from side to side, constantly assessing their surroundings.
"Get up, boy!" Helping him rise, Torgrim dragged Kael deeper into the forest, away from the human screams and the strange, bestial howls. Gradually, the noise faded, and the light from the torches and campfires no longer lit their path. Now, they were left alone with the night's gloom of this cursed wood.
"Where… Hayess…?" Kael mumbled, barely clinging to consciousness. His legs were like lead, weak, forcing Torgrim to practically carry his half-alive body.
Torgrim didn't answer immediately. Gasping for air, he stopped after fifteen minutes of walking at a pace his long-untested legs could just barely manage.
"At the camp. Fighting the rest of our lot against those beasts," Torgrim exhaled deeply, a thick plume of breath misting in the cold autumn air. He could barely keep his eyes open. Blood still seeped from wounds all over his body, his head included. The chainmail over his thigh was torn to shreds, and his dark fur cloak was caked in mud. "I hacked a couple of limbs off one of the bastards, but another got a good hit in. Sent me flying, and I saw you lying by a trunk, out cold."
Coming to his senses a little, Kael looked into the distance, toward where an occasional, pained scream still echoed.
"What… happens to us now?" His voice was thin and weak, but loud enough for Torgrim to hear.
Looking at his own bloodied palm pressed against his thigh, Torgrim spoke.
"You'll live," his voice was grim, yet a note of satisfaction rang in it.
"And you?"
"Lost too much blood. Can't save me." Torgrim looked at the young man, who didn't seem a day over twenty, and added, "But you, boy, got off light. You've got a chance. So go."
Kael jerked upright, but could barely keep his balance.
"I'm not going anywhere without you, old man," the youth protested. In their seven years in the Hunter unit, Torgrim hadn't just been a mentor. He'd filled the space of the father Kael had never known.
Torgrim placed a hand on his shoulder, leaving a bloody print.
"Shut your mouth, pup," he gave a weak grin, drew a dagger from his belt, and held it out. "Take it. You can't carry my axe, but you can manage this."
Kael looked at the dagger before him and meant to refuse, but a sudden, bestial howl cut through the night.
"Run!" Torgrim pressed the dagger to Kael's chest and shoved him. "Go, Kael. Save yourself. Start a new life. For yourself… for us."
The youth's eyes welled with tears, his hands trembling. Grabbing the dagger, limping badly, Kael ran. He heard the creature behind him drawing closer. The scrape of its long, enormous limbs against the tree bark sent shivers down his spine. He didn't look back. Clutching the dagger tighter to his chest, Kael swore to himself:
I will make them all pay. I promise…
And far behind, Torgrim stood watching as the youth slowly vanished from sight. A faint smile touched his lips.
"I love you too," he whispered.
An enormous silhouette loomed behind him. A creature with multiple limbs and eight eyes stared right at him. Torgrim felt the warmth of its every breath. He smelled the thick, metallic stench of blood, heard the rasp of its breathing.
Gripping his iron axe tighter, the old man stared fearlessly into the monster's eyes and roared with fury:
"Die, you bastard!"
Mustering all his strength, Torgrim charged the monster and swung. But, to his misfortune, the creature's limb was no longer there. Turning his head, he saw a swift movement in the moonlight—and heard the crunch of bone.
The old man coughed. Blood began to fill his lungs, choking him. A sharp, spidery leg pierced his chest through the chainmail, shattering ribs. Withdrawing the leg, the spider leaned in and sank enormous fangs into Torgrim's collarbone and neck, tearing away skin and muscle, exposing shattered bone.
Falling to the ground, Torgrim no longer felt pain. His body was warm, and the cold of the approaching winter held no terror for him. Images flashed before his eyes—the faces of loved ones and friends, their fleeting smiles, their joy.
He died with the faintest trace of a smile on his bloodied face.