HISS…
Steam did not just rise from Vanderznak's body; it erupted from his pores like geysers on a volcanic plain. The grey fluid Hunter had injected into his heart rampaged through his system and boiled his blood from the inside out.
"GAAAH! THE HEAT! THE GLORIOUS HEAT!"
Vanderznak thrashed on the laboratory floor. His back arched unnaturally high as the hump beneath his spine pulsed with violent life. Thick, white vapor hissed from the empty socket where his blue eye had once been.
"Sir!"
Hunter stepped forward and reached out to steady the convulsing scientist.
WHAM!
Vanderznak shoved him away with shocking force. Hunter flew backward and crashed into the metal operating table.
"Don't touch me!" Vanderznak shrieked. "I am… becoming!"
He fell to his hands and knees. His jaw unhinged.
BL-ORCH!
A massive torrent of biological sludge vomited from his mouth. It splattered across the tiles; a viscous pile of rejected tissue and fluids. Vanderznak wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and struggled to stand. The hump on his back swelled to the size of a boulder. The skin stretched until it became translucent.
RIIIIIP!
With a sound like tearing canvas, the flesh burst open. Blood and slime sprayed the ceiling.
Hunter froze. His eyes widened as he stared at the monstrosity that unfolded from the scientist's spine. It was a wing. Leathery, veined, and dripping with grey ichor, it spanned six feet and twitched with new nerves.
"Beautiful…"
Vanderznak flexed the appendage and ignored the gore that dripped down his flanks.
"Simply… beautiful. My evolution is still incomplete…"
…
WEE-OO! WEE-OO! WEE-OO!
Alarms blared across the Blackthorn Estate. The shrill sound cut through the misty night and roused the entire complex into a frenzy of organized chaos.
Boots hammered against cobblestones as dozens of henchmen scrambled to their posts. The heavy iron gates slammed shut with a final, deafening-
CLANG!
On the high stone walls, patrolling guards racked the slides of their rifles. These were not ordinary men. Some had eyes that protruded on stalks to scan the perimeter, while others possessed arms that ended in chitinous spikes. They watched the sky and the treeline with predatory focus. If a sparrow dared to fly over the wall, an arrow or a bullet would strike it down before it crossed the threshold.
High above in the central spire, Carl Blackthorn stood by his floor-to-ceiling window. He swirled a glass of brandy and looked down at the frantic mobilization with a frown of annoyance.
"What is the meaning of this racket? It sounds like a war zone down there."
A breathless henchman burst into the room. He bowed low but kept his eyes on the floor.
"My Lord! We have a Code Red! An old prisoner has escaped!"
Carl took a sip of his brandy. "An old man? Let the dogs catch him. Why trigger the general alarm?"
"It… it isn't just an escape, my Lord. The prisoner severely wounded Lord Vanderznak. The scientist is currently… undergoing emergency measures."
Carl nearly choked on his drink. He lowered the glass and stared at the henchman.
"What? That crazy dwarf is dying?" Carl scoffed and wiped a drip of brandy from his lip. "I knew it was only a matter of time before his own machinations destroyed him. He plays with fire and acts surprised when he burns."
He turned back to the window and watched a squad of mutants run toward the woods.
"But why does it have to be now?" Carl slammed his fist against the glass. "I have the Marquis arriving tonight! If he sees this mess, he will think I run a circus, not a stronghold! You lot better hurry and clean this up. I want silence before my guest's carriage arrives!"
"Yes, my Lord! We promise to do our best!"
The henchman scrambled out of the room to relay the orders.
…
Elsewhere on the grounds, Beltrom ran like a man possessed.
Thud-thud-thud.
He dashed through the manicured gardens and slashed through hedges with his human arms, though he wished he could manifest his mantis blades to clear the path faster. The Dog-Man loped beside him, nose to the ground, sniffing frantically for a scent that seemed to have vanished into thin air.
"Damn it!" Beltrom stopped and kicked a stone statue of a cherub. "Where are they? An old man with busted legs and a child shouldn't be able to move this fast!"
He spotted Jarrar running from the stables.
"You!" Beltrom barked. "Have you seen them?"
Jarrar shook his head while panting heavily. "Nothing, boss! We checked the perimeter. The walls are secure. No one went over."
"Then where the hell are they?" Beltrom grabbed Jarrar by the collar. "Could they have made it to the woods before the lockdown?"
"Impossible," Jarrar stammered. "The men stationed there are on high alert. Nothing gets past them."
Beltrom shoved Jarrar aside. "Keep looking! Check the shadows! Check the roofs!"
Beltrom dashed through the central courtyard. It was a wide, open space filled with decorative fountains and overgrown weeds. He scanned the area once, saw nothing but shadows, and sprinted toward the woodland path.
The Dog-Man paused. He whined and sniffed at a patch of dense weeds near the fountain.
"Come on, mutt!" Beltrom yelled from the archway.
The Dog-Man hesitated, then turned and galloped after his master.
Silence returned to the courtyard.
…
Hidden beneath the thicket of weeds the Dog-Man had investigated, a rusted iron grate sat slightly askew.
Drip. Drip. Splash.
Dark, fetid water flowed through the ancient tunnels beneath the estate. These were the arteries of the original fortress, a drainage system built by the first generation of Blackthorns to withstand sieges. Time had erased them from the blueprints, and arrogance had erased them from the memory of the current descendants.
Deep within this subterranean maze, where three tunnels converged into a central chamber, a torch flickered to life.
Fwoosh.
The orange light danced across the damp brick walls and illuminated a monstrous sight. Zareth sat slumped against the curved wall. His transformed left arm, massive and scaled, rested heavily on his knee. His left leg was a twisted ruin of black veins and warped bone. The boy clung to his side and stared into the darkness with glowing red eyes.
But Zareth was not holding the torch.
Standing before him were eight figures. They were dirty, scared, and armed with rusted pitchforks and shovels, but their eyes held a steel resolve.
Zareth squinted against the light. He recognized the man in front.
"Wenamor?"
The farmer lowered the torch slightly to reveal his face. Beside him stood Jerrick, the burly man Zareth had fought in the tavern, and Laviss, the old woman who ran the bar. Five other villagers stood behind them.
Wenamor stared at Zareth's mutated arm and the scales that crept up his neck. He swallowed hard.
"Sir Zareth… you look…"
"Like a monster?" Zareth finished the sentence.
He grimaced as a spasm of pain shot through his leg. "It hurts like hell, but never mind that. How did you find this place?"
Wenamor stepped closer. "I told you, sir. We live in the shadow of this place. My grandfather worked for the old Lord Blackthorn, the current Lord's father. He was a stonemason. He helped repair these tunnels when they were still in use. He showed me the entrances before he passed."
He gestured to the dark tunnels stretching out behind him. "Not even that fat pig Carl knows these exist."
Zareth shifted his weight and grunted. "Why have you come here? You told me to leave your town. You said you wanted no trouble."
Jerrick stepped forward. He gripped his pitchfork tight. "We came for the children."
"The children?" Zareth raised an eyebrow.
"We couldn't stand by anymore." Laviss trembled, but she held her head high. "For years they have taken our little ones. We lived in fear. But today… today was different."
Wenamor nodded. "A Church came to town. Just after you were taken. A group of elite Priests."
Zareth stiffened. "A Church?"
"Yes," Wenamor continued. "The lad in charge… he was terrifying, but he promised justice. He said he would set the Blackthorns straight and it seemed he was also looking for you. When they rode off to fight the monsters in Nesbeth, we realized we couldn't just wait for them to save us. We had to act. We used the tunnels to sneak in while the guards were distracted by the alarms. We hoped to find the dungeon… but we found you instead."
Zareth leaned his head back against the damp bricks.
'So that's it?'
He let out a dry, rasping laugh.
'Those Priests must have stumbled upon Maskorudeath. They must have caught onto my trail from the massacre. They were tracking me.'
He looked down at the boy. The child blinked innocently.
'This is all your fault, brat. Or rather, Sister Blood's fault. If that woman hadn't thrust you into my arms that night, I would be drinking whiskey in a quiet tavern right now.'
Zareth looked back at Wenamor. "The Church you spoke of… their Provost. Did you see his badge number?"
Wenamor thought for a moment. "Yes. It was a single digit. Number Nine."
Zareth's blood ran cold. The chill had nothing to do with the damp tunnel.
'Number Nine?'
He closed his eyes.
'Church Number Nine. The Execution Squad. And their Provost… that would be Kirill Miestrovier. The man who hunts rogues like a bloodhound.'
Zareth looked at his mutated hand. He clenched his fist, and the scales scraped together with the sound of grinding stones.
'It won't be long before they catch up to me. And look at me. I'm half-monster, half-cripple. I am in no condition to defend myself against a Church in the single digits.'
The mutagen pulsed in his veins. It felt like liquid fire.
"irk…" Zareth winced.
"Sir Zareth?" Wenamor stepped forward, concerned. "We know the way out. The tunnel leads to the river, far beyond the walls. If you want to escape…"
"Wait," Zareth gasped. He forced his eyes open. "We can't just leave. You came for the children, right?"
"Yes," Jerrick said.
Zareth said darkly, "Then we have a problem."