The monsters surged forward as one, a wave of twisted limbs and gnashing teeth.
Goro didn't wait. Blood streamed down his injured leg, pooling in his leather footwear and making each step a sucking, squelching sound, but he charged headlong into the mass. He swung the branch with terrifying force, the muscles in his shoulders and back rippling with the effort. Each blow connected with enough force to snap bones and shatter skulls, the impact jarring up his arms.
One creature caught the branch in its teeth, splintering the wood. Goro didn't hesitate; he drove the jagged end into its throat, then wrenched it free in a spray of black ichor. Each swing drove the creature's back—but only for a moment. They circled him like wolves, their movements becoming more coordinated, more purposeful. They were learning, adapting, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Silas darted forward, quick and precise despite the burning in his lungs. He moved differently than Goro—less brute force, more lethal calculation. Decades of noble training had honed him into a weapon. He wielded a jagged piece of stone like a dagger, his grip sure despite the blood slicking his palm. He targeted joints, throats, and exposed flesh with surgical precision. Where Goro carved space with raw power, Silas moved through gaps and blind spots, exploiting every weakness. He carved space around Goro with ruthless efficiency, ensuring no creature could attack the big man's wounded flank.
For a few precious seconds, they held their ground.
But the swarm thickened, pressing in from all sides. The Thralls seemed endless, pouring into the ravine like a tide of nightmares. Silas's arms grew heavier with each strike, his reactions slowing by fractions. Beside him, Goro's breathing had become laboured, each exhale a grunt of pain. The big man leaned heavily on his good leg, the wounded one trembling visibly now.
From the ridge above, the ground trembled. Small stones skittering down the ravine walls, plunking into the stream.
The two massive Marauders — Brutes had noticed the commotion.
Silas glanced up and cursed under his breath, an icy dread settling in his stomach.
They were immense—easily three times the height of a man, with limbs like gnarled tree trunks. Their shapes blotted out the stars as they moved along the ridge, each footfall sending tremors through the earth. Where the smaller creatures moved with insect-like skittering, these behemoths had a terrible, ponderous grace. The very air seemed to distort around them, as if reality itself recoiled from their presence.
Silas growled, his voice hoarse:
"We have seconds at best."
He dispatched another creature with a brutal thrust to its eye socket, but for each one that fell, two more slithered forward to take its place.
Goro grunted acknowledgment, battering a smaller Marauder aside with a vicious swing that sent it crashing into the rocks. The impact reverberated up his arms, and for a moment, his wounded leg buckled beneath him. Pain flashed across his face, but he forced himself upright with a roar that seemed to tear from some place deep and primal.
Their eyes met again, no words needed. This was their only chance.
They moved as one, shoulder to shoulder, driving forward with desperate strength. Goro led the charge, his massive frame creating a path through the press of bodies. Silas guarded their flank, keeping the creatures from closing in behind them.
The threshold was only a dozen paces away now. The air shimmered and distorted, frost crystals hanging suspended at the boundary between worlds. Beyond it, the blizzard howled, a wall of white that promised its own kind of death.
Above them, the massive Marauders had reached the edge of the ravine. Their enormous shadows fell across the battlefield like an eclipse, plunging everything into deeper darkness. One of them opened its maw—a cavern lined with teeth like broken gravestones—and released a roar that shook loose stones from the ravine walls. The sound was physical, a pressure wave that slammed into Silas's chest and made his ears ring.
He and Goro shoulder-slammed their way through the last mass of twisted bodies, the smaller creatures shrieking and clawing at them, desperate to bring them down before they could reach safety. Claws raked across Silas's back, shredding his shirt and laying open the skin beneath. Hot blood ran down his spine, instantly cooling in the frigid air. Beside him, Goro took a hit to his shoulder, the impact spinning him half around, but he kept moving, his jaw set in a grimace of pure determination.
Ahead—the threshold shimmered, close enough now that Silas could feel the alien cold radiating from it, the air crystallizing with each breath.
The boundary between worlds was not a gentle transition. It howled with ancient magic, promising cold, pain, and maybe death. But behind them was death for certain.
One final push.
The ground shook as one of the massive Marauders leapt down into the ravine, landing with an impact that knocked both men off balance. Stones cascaded from the walls, a deadly rain. Silas stumbled, nearly fell, and then dove forward, rolling under the reaching claws of a leaping Marauder. Sharp stone bit into his shoulder as he rolled, but the pain was distant, secondary to the driving need to survive.
He scrambled up to his feet, battered and bleeding from a dozen minor wounds, muscles screaming in protest. He sprinted the last few steps toward the boundary, the air growing impossibly cold, burning his lungs with each desperate inhale.
Silas turned just in time to see Goro stumble.
The giant faltered—his wounded leg finally betraying him. It gave out completely, folding beneath his weight. He crashed to one knee with a grunt of pain, face contorting as the impact sent a fresh wave of blood pulsing from his thigh wound. He tried to rise, but his strength was failing, the massive blood loss taking its toll.
A smaller creature saw the opportunity and pounced, landing squarely on Goro's back. Its claws dug into his shoulders, tearing through fabric and flesh. Goro roared in pain, reaching back to dislodge it, but his movements were growing sluggish and uncoordinated.
Silas reacted without thought.
He lunged back toward Goro, even as the threshold's cold magic pulled at him. The air seemed to thicken, resisting his movement, but he pushed through it. In three quick strides, he reached Goro and the creature clinging to him.
With a snarl of effort, Silas drove his stone dagger into the creature's throat, all his remaining strength behind the blow. The improvised weapon punched through cartilage and severed something vital. The creature spasmed, its grip on Goro loosening as black ichor fountained from the wound, splattering both men.
Silas wrenched the stone free, and the creature fell away, twitching in its death throes.
Goro surged back to his feet with a growl of pain and effort, swaying slightly. His skin had gone the colour of old ash, his breathing shallow and rapid. He looked at Silas, and something passed between them—gratitude, respect, the wordless bond of men who had fought through hell together.
Together they staggered the last few meters toward the boundary, Goro leaning heavily on Silas despite the older man's smaller frame. Each step was a battle against exhaustion and injury.
The two massive Marauders converged on them, moving with terrible purpose. Their heavy footfalls shook the earth, sending ripples across the surface of the stream. Their grotesque forms towered like nightmares in the dark, blotting out the stars. One reached out with a limb the size of a tree trunk, claws extended, close enough that Silas could smell the rot-sweet stench of its flesh.
Goro grunted and, with the last of his strength, shoved Silas forward toward the threshold.
"Go," he rasped, the word barely audible.
Silas stumbled forward, momentum carrying him across the threshold before he could react.
The world snapped.
Instantly, he was swallowed by the blizzard. The transition was violently abrupt—one moment in the ravine, the next in a howling vortex of white. Cold like knives tore at his exposed skin, the world reduced to white and roaring wind. The cold stole his breath, froze the sweat on his body, sending violent shivers through his frame. The air was so cold it burned his lungs, each breath painful and insufficient.
He spun back, reaching out blindly toward where Goro should be, fingers already numbing in the supernatural cold.
Through the curtain of snow, he caught a glimpse of movement—Goro was right behind him, staggering forward on his ruined leg, one hand outstretched toward Silas. Behind him, one of the massive Marauders slammed into the ground where Goro had just been, missing him by a breath. The impact sent a shockwave through the ravine floor, nearly knocking Goro off his feet.
With a final, heaving step, Goro crossed the boundary.
The storm swallowed them both.
Behind them, the monsters howled and shrieked in fury—but none crossed the line. Through the swirling white, Silas could see them pacing at the edge of the threshold, their grotesque forms distorted by the barrier between worlds. The massive Marauders reared up, bellowing their rage, but even they would not step into the white void.
The blizzard roared in triumph, claiming its newest victims.
Silas stumbled forward, barely able to see his hand in front of his face. The cold was unlike anything he had ever experienced.
It felt not just physical, but something deeper, something that seemed to reach into his very soul. His hands found Goro's arm in the whiteout, clutching the man as they staggered deeper into the storm, leaving a trail of blood that was quickly buried beneath fresh snow.
Goro was shaking violently now, the cold accelerating the effects of blood loss. His skin, when Silas grabbed his arm, felt like ice. But he was still moving, still fighting.
Rhys was somewhere ahead, lost in the snow, likely already half-buried.
They were alive. They had escaped the Marauders.
But now came the real trial.
Surviving what lay beyond the threshold.