ESBROR :

  I was in my office for a moment, and then the next thing I know I’m here, in the middle of corpses. I feel bile rising in my throat at once—the stench is unbearable. My hands sink into rotting, pulpy flesh as my vomit pours over the smashed-in face of a human. Tears spring from my eyes along with my gastric juices.

  The spasms wracking my gut nearly make me pass out. I’m stunned by the incongruity of it all—nothing about this makes any sense. The acrid smell turns my stomach; the stench of decaying flesh saturates the air, stinging my throat. I want to lift my head, to straighten up, but the ground, strewn with limbs and entrails, slips beneath my palms. My fingers plunge deeper into that spongy mass, and another wave of nausea floors me.

  I struggle to catch my breath. The acrid taste of my own digestive fluids still burns my lips as I force myself to turn away from the hell unfolding beneath me. I blink, my vision blurred, confused. It was still my office just… seconds ago?! My hands, so clean a moment ago, are now smeared with clotted blood and dark fluids. Panic seizes me. A cold shiver runs down my spine—I recognize nothing around me.

  Where I am is a landscape of horror. The corpses aren’t merely piled up—they look like they’ve been used as a barricade in some battle I know nothing about. Some bodies are grotesquely mutilated, as though their skin was ripped off for some ritual. Others—human or not—have gaping wounds still oozing marrow and black blood. In the distance, a low rumble echoes. A blaze faintly lights the horizon, revealing jagged towers—or spires—rising into the night. I glimpse a collapsed wall unlike any architecture of my world.

  I force myself to rise. My legs shake; I stammer, almost in tears: — What… what is happening?

  No answer, save for the crackling fire and a distant echo, like a scream warped by distance. I take a step back, slip, and nearly fall onto the carrion at my feet. My mind races, heightening my fear—a visceral, primal fear that squeezes my chest.

  Then I hear something: a scraping, a rasping breath a few meters away. I make out a shape writhing on the ground, its abdomen split open, a tangle of pulsating guts spilling out. Despite the wound, it tries to crawl. Is it human? Its skin is gray and covered in pustules. Impossible to tell whether it’s a man or a creature. Its bloodshot eyes fix on me. My heart clenches, torn between terror and an inexplicable pang of pity.

  I swallow and look at the nightmarish scene around me, wondering if there’s the slightest chance I’ll wake up back at my desk. But deep down I know there’s no dream, no mirage. I am here, among the corpses, in a world I don’t understand—and it’s too real.

  The thing opens what passes for a mouth, revealing a row of broken, pointed teeth; its dislocated jaw lets a purplish tongue loll out. A guttural, obscene laugh bubbles from it in a loathsome gurgle.

  My legs give out; my whole body trembles under a primitive, uncontrollable terror. The hot wetness of my urine trickles down my thighs, soaking my trousers, mixing humiliation with the horror gripping me. I stumble backward, wobble, and crash heavily onto a mound of putrefied flesh; my back slams into a corpse’s gaping chest, which bursts with the impact, spraying me with a geyser of infective fluids that coat me completely.

  I scream at the top of my lungs, lost in this chaos of atrocities. My cries reverberate off the half-ruined walls around me, bursting from among the heaps of bodies. The ground seems to want to swallow me—each movement plunges me deeper into the warm entrails, into a viscous tide of death. My fingers claw desperately at the soft flesh, but it tears under my frantic grip.

  The creature continues crawling toward me with deliberate slowness, its bloodshot eyes fixed on me with perverse glee, as if relishing my terror. A blackish trickle drips from its parted lips, and it murmurs in a guttural, hissing tongue I cannot understand but that resonates deep in my bones.

  I cannot move or breathe properly. I’m paralyzed, drowning in fear, drowning in the fetid odor of death. One thing is certain: if I don’t act now, if I don’t find the strength to tear myself away from this terror, that creature will soon make me part of this loathsome charnel house.

  — Move, you moron! shouts a voice like a divine messenger snapping me out of my stupor.

  In a reflex of survival as sudden as it is unexpected, I roll onto my side, my stomach still churning, my hands caked in congealed blood. A blast crackles right where I lay, hurling a tongue of blinding flame. The heat scorches my already soiled clothes, whipping my cheek like a fiery lash. The smell of charred flesh, mingled with the carcass’s vile fumes, rises again, twisting my gut.

  I prop myself on one elbow, heart pounding wildly, to see a massive figure—perhaps a soldier—wearing a dented breastplate adorned with religious symbols. He holds a long, gleaming steel tube etched with runes. Wisps of smoke drift from its barrel, and a residual flame licks its muzzle. A kind of fuse, oozing with oil, protrudes from the tube’s end.

  — You wanna die, punk?! he roars in a hoarse voice. Move! Get out of here!

  With a brutal gesture, he points me toward a blasted alley between two crumbling walls. In the flickering light I see two more hooded figures brandishing improvised weapons—sticks, rusty blades—ready to spring into action. But against what? Behind them, I spot other living bodies, all smeared with soot and dust, moving among the ruins like fleeing shadows.

  The creature the man has just incinerated thrashes in its death throes, its torso reduced to a mass of smoking, charred flesh. It attempts one last gurgled groan before collapsing into a black gush of blood. Its limbs spasm, then go limp for good.

  — Up! the man yells at me, his face half-hidden by a cracked helmet.

  I’m frozen, still shaking, leaning against a stench-soaked corpse. I can’t make sense of what’s happening—fear, pain, astonishment blending into a blur. But my instinct screams at me to follow him, to flee this charnel ground. I grit my teeth, clutch a piece of wall, and haul myself up despite my numb limbs.

  — Move… he repeats in a quieter tone, as if sensing an even greater horror could burst forth at any moment.

  I catch a glimpse of his eyes—or at least the glint of them through a slit in his helmet. It’s a hard, merciless gaze, yet one burning with fierce determination. He signals me to clear the area, shouting again almost into my ear:

  — Follow me, and watch your step!

  I dare not say a word. I simply nod and force myself to back away, to leave the carpet of corpses where I’d lost my bearings. With each step, viscera and fluids cling to my soles, reminding me that nothing—absolutely nothing—about this nightmare leaves room for innocence or safety. I have no idea where he’s leading me, only that I hope it’s as far from this abomination as possible, somewhere I can change out of these ruined clothes.

  Breathless, my body slick with entrails, I find myself slammed violently against a crumbling stone wall. The man who pulled me from the pit grabs me by the collar, his raspy breath hissing through the cracked visor. I try to collect my wits: my legs buckle, my ears are ringing, and the smell of corpses still churns my stomach.

  — Who the fuck are you, you son of a bitch?! What the hell are you doing here? he spits.

  He eyes my clothes suspiciously—too “clean,” too unfamiliar to be those of a soldier or local. The blood and fluids from the corpse that exploded under my weight seem to offend him far less than the seams of my suit.

  — You’re a heretic, aren’t you? he snarls, his voice thick with rage and fear.

  Other soldiers approach, most wearing pitted chainmail, rust-eaten pauldrons, carrying improbable arms: halberds, chipped swords, or those strange fire-spewing tubes. They form an arc around us, as though to block my escape. Their faces are etched with fatigue, anger, and mistrust.

  The soldier holding me steps closer, towering over me with his hard gaze. I feel his breastplate press into my chest; I hear his breath hiss. His gloved fingers dig into my shoulders, pinning me hard against the wall.

  — Answer me! he barks. You were in the middle of those fucking corpses—are you here to loot, to sacrifice? Are you a demon spy? A goddamn heretic?!

  I shake my head, my mouth dry, unable to form a coherent reply. I want to scream that I don’t understand, that I’m not from here, that I was in my office just a moment ago. But my throat is clenched; barely a breath emerges.

  — N-no… I… I swear I…

  My words die on my lips. Around me, more soldiers close in: some bear religious symbols engraved into their armor; others flaunt glowing medallions that, despite the grime, exude a sacred aura. By their inquisitorial stares and posture, they seem not to joke about the taboos of their faith.

  — Speak! my captor hisses. You look like you come from a heretical city or you’re some pathetic deserter—fess up!

  He shakes me violently, and pain explodes in my back as my skull slams the wall again. I feel the vise tightening: in their eyes, I’m already guilty. Guilty of what? I have no idea, but in this world, judgments seem swift. Bare seconds have passed and they’ve already decided my role.

  — I… I don’t know… I stammer, my voice trembling. I swear I have no idea where I am.

  His expression doesn’t soften. His lips curl in a contemptuous sneer.

  — Doesn’t matter… he growls, looking down on me. We’ll see what the Inquisitors do with you. And if you lie…

  He doesn’t finish the sentence. The ensuing silence is heavier than any direct threat.

  One of the other soldiers, a giant with cropped hair, murmurs in a low voice: — Smells like sorcery. No one ends up here by accident. Maybe he’s possessed…

  All eyes lock on me, as if I’m already an animated corpse, no different from those littering the ground. A shiver runs through me and a dull dread twists my mind: what hell have I fallen into? And how can I explain to them something I don’t understand myself?

  “No!” I scream in tears, I don’t know what else to do, I break down. What’s happening to me?! What is this hell I’ve suddenly been plunged into?!

  No sooner have I shouted than a fist crashes into my face.

  My head rings like a gong—a horrific blow that rattles my skull. I feel a crack in my jaw; the sting radiates to my temple. The metallic taste of blood floods my mouth—a burning mix of terror and impotent rage. I collapse onto the bloodstained cobbles, my vision blurred by tears and pain.

  — Shut your mouth, you vermin, growls the man looming over me.

  I can no longer make out his features, only the murderous glint of his eyes through the shattered visor of his helmet. I don’t even have the strength to shield myself as he raises his bloody gauntlet. Every attempt to breathe sends jolts of pain through my face.

  The agony pins me to the ground, but a thrill of pure survival instinct shocks through me. I weakly raise an arm in a desperate gesture, praying they’ll stop beating me. Around us, the other soldiers exchange murmurs. I sense their looks—charged with defiance, with hatred—like they already see me as condemned.

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  — What do we do with him, Corporal? Do we take him somewhere or finish him off?

  A voice deeper than my attacker’s rings out, thick with hostility. I curl up, trembling, my hand pressed to my swollen cheek in a feeble attempt to stem the flow of blood.

  — I… I’m not… I croak, half inaudible, trying to rise.

  With a kick, he shoves me back against the wall. My back slams into the uneven stone. Sparks dance before my eyes, as though I’m moments from passing out with each breath.

  — You don’t get to decide what you are, he interrupts, the corporal pointing his makeshift flamethrower at my face. — I’m warning you, we’re taking you before the Holy Inquisition. They’ll know right away if you’re a demon, a goddamn heretic, or just a poor fool who got lost. If they have any doubt, they’ll make you confess.

  His final word lands like a sinister toll, giving me the impression they speak less of “justice” than of torture. A long silence follows, only broken by my gasps and the distant crackle of flames.

  I have no idea how to defend myself, and their violence terrifies me. Tears stream down my cheeks, mixing with blood and grime. I now clearly perceive that my salvation, if it exists, hangs by a thread in this merciless world.

  — Stand up.

  With a sharp motion, two men lift me under the arms, forcing me to stand despite my trembling legs. My entire body vibrates with anguish and pain as they hold me firmly, ready to finish me at the slightest attempt to flee.

  — Move out, the corporal hollers. We’ll stash him in a cart until we get orders.

  His men, dark and silent, start moving. They drag me through the ruins, the filth, the corpses—in this nightmarish setting my feet slide, reminding me with every step that I’m safe nowhere.

  I choke, a constant vertigo threatening to carry me away with each step. My skull pounds as if a vise is tightening around it, and I still taste blood in my mouth. Tears blur my vision as they jerk me along the broken cobblestones. My suit soaked through with blood and putrid fluids—it’s ruined.

  — What’s happening to me…? I murmur, my breath uneven, unable to stop crying.

  Barely whispered, and one of the soldiers throws me a hateful look: — You picked a bad time, you filthy heretic.

  His words snap like a verdict, merciless and absolute. I lower my gaze, terrified. I understand that my appearance, my strange clothes, and above all my inability to give a coherent explanation make me the perfect culprit. And apparently that’s exactly what these men needed—a distraction, another addition to the surrounding violence.

  The ruins around us glow with the dying embers of scattered fires. Shadowy shapes sometimes flit through the wreckage—other soldiers, perhaps, or creatures like that filthy thing in the pit. I can’t really make out the form of anything through my haze. The air is thick with soot and dust, and each breath sears my lungs.

  One of the soldiers holding me grunts to another: — Let’s hurry. We don’t know how long the barrier will hold.

  — The barrier? the first replies with a sneer. It must have given way days ago. We’re on our own here… so no mercy for intruders.

  He throws me a malevolent glance, as though considering impaling me on the spot. A chill runs through me at the mention of a “barrier” having failed—it suggests the front is collapsing, that their position is precarious. And deep inside me, dread rises: if they deem me too much of a burden, what’s to stop them from shooting me here, in this chaos, without any trial?

  I let out a sob I cannot hold back. My body aches so much I can scarcely walk, yet they force me forward by the armpits, dragging me if I falter. I don’t know how long we go on like this, weaving between bodies and fallen walls, but each second is torture.

  — Not another word, orders the man who seemed to be the corporal—the same who struck me. Try talking nonsense again and I’ll tear your tongue out.

  I nod, terrified, gasping for breath. I want to tell them I’m not a heretic, to explain where I come from, but every time I shape a sentence in my mind, my battered jaw shoots pain and the words die in my throat. Honestly, I doubt they’d believe me; if I told them what just happened, it would only confirm their heresy bias.

  In the distance, I occasionally hear torn cries echoing like phantom reverberations. Sometimes a low roar follows, then a flare of flame above the shattered rooftops. I shiver at the thought of what might stalk these ruins.

  Suddenly the corporal stops, raising his hand to signal his men. I feel their grips tighten on my shoulders. He turns as if listening for something. For a moment, silence falls—broken only by a fire crackling to our left. Then the ground shudders, like a distant collapse or explosion.

  — Damn… We don’t have time to waste, the corporal snarls, his jaw clenched. I hope the carts are still there… or we’ll kill you—I’m not running with you dragging us down.

  They force me onward again. I dare not imagine what they might do to me, but the thought chills me even more than being hauled someplace unknown. In this hell, I have no choice but to follow, legs wobbling, head throbbing, a thousand questions screaming in my mind.

  Ahead, a squad cuts through the haze, visors down, shoulders hunched, their armor composite steel stained with soot, ash, and mysterious blotches. They advance in tight formation; the stamping of their spiked boots sounds like a funeral knell.

  Their equipment contrasts sharply with the men around me. They wear full cuirasses—reinforced, battered by use, edges rounded by constant friction. At their belts hang sapper axes, short maces, sometimes digging tools repurposed as weapons. The rifles they carry don’t gleam: long barrels, cracked wood stocks, manual lever systems—rustic, reliable, built to fire even caked in blood or mud.

  The squad’s leader—identified by a black armband and command fittings on his helmet—moves forward without wasting time or breath.

  His voice cuts dryly, his headgear’s brim shadowing his stare:

  “Order to withdraw. Our group’s mage received a direct transmission from the quartermaster. Multiple abominations reported. Position unstable. Front has shifted to point B4.”

  Not another word. They wheel as one, their boots striking the stone like a sinister clock. No wasted movement, no backward glances.

  The man holding me, the corporal, releases me and gestures to another of his men to take over.

  He lets out a howl that saturates the ash-laden air. His scream rings in my temples, making me reel. The pressure on my arms eases for a moment, but the other soldier grabs me instantly, dragging me along with the group. I struggle to keep my balance on the debris-strewn ground.

  — We move out! the corporal bellows again, his voice raw from exertion. Regroup at the carts, destination Fort Koblor!

  The name strikes me without evoking anything—except perhaps the idea of a stronghold or bastion. All I feel is the dull terror of not knowing where they’re taking me or what I’ll endure.

  In the distance, the heavily armed column already melts into the dusty night, helmets and breastplates twinkling in the flickering fires. Mentions of a mage receiving orders and an “abomination” sent chills down my spine: so this is a conflict beyond comprehension. Demonic creatures, perhaps akin to the thing in the pit? Or something worse, certainly, given how they all react—but what?

  The front is in retreat. The thought seems to sow both anxiety and resignation among the men. They quicken their pace, breaking formation to weave between the ruins, paying little attention to me. My captor grips my shoulder with his gauntlet, pushing me forward to keep up the pace.

  — Come on, move, you bastard… he pants, more from fatigue than pure hatred.

  With each step my muscles protest. My back aches with every jolt, and the pain in my jaw pulses with my frantic pulse. I stumble several times, caught at the last instant so I don’t collapse into the refuse and bodies again. No one lifts me gently; it’s a harsh shove, a grab at my clothing or hair if needed—just enough to avoid losing a prisoner. I’m a burden they won’t abandon—perhaps they see me as useful for the Inquisition, or they fear showing too much initiative by killing me outright.

  We barrel down a dark alley where the once-paved road has partially caved in. The walls close in, cracked, blackened by soot. The acrid smell of mold and burned flesh churns my stomach again; I have to bite my cheek to keep from vomiting.

  Soon we reach a small square—or what remains of one: the pavement broken, walls half-collapsed revealing a blood-red sky. In one corner, several rudimentary carts and sturdier wagons—some reinforced with metal plates, others adorned with religious symbols—lie in disarray. Gaunt, trembling horses paw the ground. A general panic lingers in the air; heads of creatures drip blood onto the ground, strung from the carts as trophies.

  — Load whatever we can! orders the corporal. And you two, he bellows at a pair of soldiers, tie him to the back!

  I barely understand his words before I’m shoved toward one of the wagons. Rough ropes are looped around my torso; one man hastily ties clumsy knots. I gasp for air as the ropes squeeze my chest, but every protest is answered by a sharp jab to my jaw.

  Amid the clamor, I notice other figures—probably wounded—crammed into another cart: some moan, draped in coarse bandages. Blood smeared trails across the ground, disappearing into the darkness. I wonder if I’ll share their fate, thrown among the living dead.

  — Corporal! We’re ready! shouts a soot-smeared soldier brandishing a torch. He leads a weary horse on a leash. The corporal, panting, quickly checks that all his men are present, then climbs onto the front of the cart.

  — Move out!

  The order cracks like a whip. The beasts set off; the carts rattle violently over the stone. I’m tossed on the wooden planks, the rope slicing into my flesh with each bump. My thoughts swirl: fear, confusion, pain…

  A howl erupts—inhuman. A monstrous bellow that stretches over long, unbroken seconds, as if the creature had lungs of impossible size. My entrails twist; a shiver runs from my nape to my heels. Even the hardened soldiers fall silent, as if any sound might lure the monstrosity toward them.

  The horses, already spooked, break into a frantic gallop. The ground quakes under their hooves; the wheels rattle violently in the ruts and over the broken stones. I grip the side rail despite my bindings, afraid I’ll be thrown out. Each jolt rekindles the ache in my skull and the searing pain in my jaw.

  — By the Grace of the Divine, protect us… murmurs one soldier, barely audible.

  His comrades join in a muddled chant of prayers, as if each were pleading to their own saint or order to save their souls. No one dares mock their zeal: the horror of the moment has united them in faith—or at least in the same terror.

  The corporal, perched at the front, glances nervously behind him. His makeshift flamethrower rests within reach. His jaw is set, lips pinched; you can barely see his fingers trembling as he reins in the horse for a sharp turn, narrowly avoiding a heap of rubble. The horse nearly stumbles but rights itself, fear biting at its flanks.

  I crane my neck to glimpse the source of the howl. Above the collapsed walls and shattered roofs, I now make out something immense rising in the distance: a misshapen silhouette, impossibly broad, yet barely visible in the crimson night. For a second I think I see a gigantic arm—or maybe a leg encased in bone-like plates. Sparks or embers drift around that monster—or are they projectiles I imagine? Hard to tell. The ground continues to tremble in irregular intervals.

  — The abomination… breathes the torch-bearing soldier, voice white with dread. They’ve managed to summon these horrors…

  Immediately the corporal roars: — Shut up! Focus on the goddamn driving; we need to reach Fort Koblor before they catch up to us!

  The howl resumes, deafening, closer now. A crash rings out, followed by a low rumble like collapsing masonry. At that moment, I see a strange violet glow illuminating the distant building tops. Columns of fire or energy shoot up, flicker, then vanish in an instant.

  The carts plunge into a narrow street, nearly tipping at each turn, jostling past debris and half-charred corpses. At the end of the alley I spot a vast arched portal of stone—partly collapsed, with shattered slabs revealing a muddy, waterlogged floor. The horses, panic-stricken, force their way through, their hooves splintering wood in a clangor of shattering thuds.

  I stifle a cry as a jolt nearly flings me over the cart’s edge. The ropes dig into my chest, and I feel a sharp pain in my ribs—I just manage to regain my balance, head spinning.

  — Hold on, orders the corporal without looking back.

  Around me, some wounded groan softly, their empty eyes lifted toward the reddened sky. In this hell hurtling onward, no one seems concerned to comfort them. The only thought is to flee the invisible—but oh-so palpable—threat rumbling behind the ruined walls.

  I close my eyes for half a second. I want to wake up, to find myself far from this nightmare. But the pain, the stench, the violence of each jolt thrust me back to reality: I am indeed a prisoner in this world, with no clue what comes next.

  So I pray too, without even knowing to whom or what. I murmur the words through my split lips—a plea, an empty hope. Because before these monstrous howls, before these fanatical soldiers, I have nothing else. Nothing but the fear hammering in my chest.

  Enormous detonations that make the air vibrate explode around us, tearing through the night in golden flashes, lighting the darkness almost as bright as the fires.

  The convoy accelerates into a gallop, racing onward under the distant barrage. With each echoing blast my heart skips a beat. I don’t know if the fury comes from rudimentary artillery, some occult power, or their “god.” It doesn’t matter: every shot feels like an invisible giant hurling itself at another.

  The sky darkens as we move away from the ruins. Between jolts, I manage to lift my head: the city behind us is a ravaged nightmare, hollowed-out, ablaze, smoke still spiraling upward. The soldiers, faces grim, keep silent. No one dares voice the fear— the front has collapsed, a titanic foe has been summoned, and we’re fleeing for our lives.

  Plane trees or whatever trees once lined the city outskirts are now nothing but twisted, charred trunks, as if consumed from within. Only some remain green, strangely alive amid the night, as though they thrived on the death around them. The fields beyond are pocked with craters, strewn with debris and heaps of corpses long since forgotten. As we press on, I see other groups in flight, sometimes broken wagons abandoned in place. The horses’ hooves stir a gray, ashen dust that envelops the cart in an oppressive cloud.

  I’m still securely bound, the rope cutting into my shoulder. The corporal, perched at the front, rallies his men to maintain speed, occasionally signaling to a scout or lone soldier. If someone is wounded or on the brink of collapse, they lend only the barest help. No word of comfort: everyone fears stopping.

  For nearly an hour we persist. The devastated landscape rolls by, monotonous, giving the impression war has ravaged all within miles. Not a creature stirs—no birds, no insects—disturbing that horizon of death and dust. Maybe because it’s night, maybe because the horses’ hooves and wheels echo on the stones—or maybe there’s another reason—or perhaps I’m too miserable to notice anything.

  Cramp seizes my calves; my bound wrists go numb. Occasionally a soldier meets my gaze. All I read is cold indifference—or disgust. In their eyes, I’m just a suspicious piece of trash to deliver to the Inquisition. And despite the brutality they’ve inflicted, I can’t help pitying them—swept up in this headlong flight, hunted by a greater evil than themselves. I don’t dare speak; I fear another punch to the face—it’s a shame, since we miraculously speak the same tongue…

  Finally, a shout breaks out: — There—Koblor in sight!

  The sight takes my breath away—or maybe it’s still pain, exhaustion, or that ever-present odor of war. No… this time it’s real: Fort Koblor.