He opened his eyes. His head was spinning, and he still didn’t quite understand what was happening. The knight’s blond hair was stained with blood. He looked around and saw Galfrido, Ertai, and Anthos.

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  “We’re about to be dinner for those bastards, that’s what happened,” said Galfrido, with dried blood on his nose and a swollen eye.

  Now he took in his surroundings. They were in a massive cave, clearly a natural formation. Anthos remembered it—this was the final passage before the long exit tunnel leading into the frozen region of Trabarioth.

  In the center of the cave burned a massive bonfire, built on a stone structure whose base was littered with the skulls of at least twenty people. Hanging from the walls, the knight could see the mutilated, naked bodies of humans and dwarves.

  Around the fire, nearly twenty Osgor chanted profane and sinister melodies, songs passed down through generations of serving Demento, the god of evil and chaos.

  He narrowed his eyes and managed to see a wretched man, on his knees, still wearing his clothes. From his garments, he seemed to be a merchant. His arms and feet were tied. His white beard betrayed his old age.

  On the other side of the bonfire stood an Osgor who stood out from the rest, larger, his body covered in more tribal tattoos and ornaments: skulls, bones, and human skin. His matted hair was tied and braided in several places, leaving his forehead exposed. Though his skin had a dark, almost Elbarien tint, the truth was that all of them were constantly smeared with dried or fresh blood, making them appear like shadows the color of red wine.

  “Please, I’ll give you whatever you want, I beg you!” cried the man, weeping and trembling like a dry leaf. “I have many crowns, gold... please!”

  They had rarely seen such an expression of terror.

  The place where they were imprisoned was a hollow in the rock—perhaps natural—that could fit at least seven people. The bars were made of bone, both human and from some large animal, and seemed quite sturdy.

  Shaking his head, the knight looked again at who was with him. Galfrido, Anthos, Ertai, and a thin man missing a leg. There was no sign of Begryn or the baby.

  “Where is Begryn?” he asked.

  “They took her somewhere else, along with the baby. See that opening next to that bastard?” said Galfrido, pointing to a small entrance beside the Osgor chief. “That’s where they took her.”

  He looked the other way and saw the exit to the final tunnel, guarded by two Osgor.

  The music went on, and it was driving the prisoners to madness. Two Osgor dragged the poor man by the bonfire and stripped him of his clothes. He no longer begged for his life—he only cried and screamed. He was pissing himself in fear.

  A third Osgor approached and began sawing off his leg with a jagged bone knife, right at the groin, at the joint. The sound of flesh tearing, mixed with the man’s screams, filled them with such revulsion that they had to muster all their willpower not to vomit.

  Then they did the same with the rest of his limbs. Others impaled them and began roasting them over the bonfire. The feast was going to be grand.

  At last, they took the dismembered man and beheaded him, leaving on his face one final expression of terror and pain. They carried the head to the Osgor chief, who held it in both hands and laughed. With the dead man’s hair, he tied the head to his belt as a trophy.

  “This can’t be happening... this can’t be happening...” muttered the one-legged man, locked in the improvised cell with the travelers.

  “Shut your mouth,” Galfrido snapped, with irritation that bordered on fury.

  “We were just merchants...” The man spoke with a vacant stare, his eyes bulging. He trembled. “They ambushed us on the road... Oh gods, this can’t be happening!” He began to sob uncontrollably.

  “Just what we needed,” Galfrido said, slapping his forehead with his hand.

  “Listen, good man, stay calm. We will get out of here,” Kalen put a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him.

  The knight scanned the place more carefully. He spotted their weapons in a corner, only a few meters away. He pushed against the bars a little, but they were solidly built. The bastards knew what they were doing.

  Suddenly, from the small opening beside the Osgor chief, two more emerged, carrying a massive iron cauldron, balanced on two wooden poles. They carefully set it down over the fire, in a place clearly intended for it—though the flames kept them from seeing exactly what was there.

  Behind the flames appeared a deformed, grotesque old woman, small and hunched. Her hair was white and coarse, her nose long and hooked, her face wrinkled like the paths of a map, covered in warts. Her milky white eyes seemed to radiate pure malice.

  She wore a brown robe, several skulls dangled from her neck, and in her right hand she carried a kind of staff, almost like a broom. But what drew their attention most was what she held in her left hand: little Drako, dangling upside down by one foot, naked, his white hair and the dragon-shaped birthmark on his chest exposed.

  “Baba Yaga! Baba Yaga! Baba Yaga!” all the Osgor began chanting in unison as the old witch walked with dark solemnity toward the cauldron.

  The water inside was boiling, and they already sensed what she intended to do with the baby.

  “Peace, my beloved children, peace!” said the crone, her voice grave and rasping, like something from beyond the grave. “Our devotion to Demento and the beautiful Tak-Ma has finally borne fruit.”

  Kalen didn’t know if the Osgor could understand her, but they were riveted, their chant continuing softly beneath her words.

  “Today we will feast on the greatest banquet of all... today we shall devour a dragon! Uthma Kashnar-Engkorr Tak-Ma 'Muriel Askja! Uthma Kashnar-Engkorr Tak-Ma 'Muriel Askja!”

  “Uthma Kashnar-Engkorr Tak-Ma 'Muriel Askja!” all the Osgor roared back in unison, weaving a new, sinister melody.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “We have to do something! We have to do it now!” Kalen’s eyes blazed with an ancient fury.

  At that moment, they saw Ertai grip one of the bone bars, and smoke began to rise from his hands. The ropes binding them together started to smolder and burn away.

  “Why didn’t you do this earlier?” asked Galfrido.

  “I was waiting until they were all distracted. You think I want to be the next feast?”

  At last, he pulled the bar free. Now they had a way out.

  “You want to get us killed sooner?” said the one-legged man, trembling and shrinking into the shadows.

  “If you want to die here, I won’t stop you,” Galfrido shot back.

  “I know you’re afraid, but we have to fight if we want to escape,” said Kalen, his tone gentler.

  “Damn it all! You’re insane...”

  The knight shook his head. With the greatest caution, they slipped out of the bone cell and crept toward their weapons. But just as they reached them, one of the Osgor spotted them and let out a piercing howl.

  The chant to Baba Yaga was shattered by the roar of battle.

  “There are too many of them!” Galfrido shouted, swinging his greatsword. “We have to take out the chief, the witch, and keep these bastards at bay. By the gods, we have to get Begryn out of there!”

  “I’m going for Drako!” Kalen cried.

  He began cutting his way through the fight until he reached the witch, who awaited him with a twisted grin that resembled a mocking smile.

  “Come, my child!” she said, setting Drako on the ground, the baby choking on his sobs, and opening her arms. “Come, come, come to Grandma Baba Yaga!”

  At once, he saw the witch’s nails growing, curling and black as ebony, sharpening into dagger-like claws. From her knees, spikes sprouted as well, and from her chin too.

  “I’ll wipe that damned smile off your face!” he snarled, hurling himself into battle with a sweeping strike of Eldora.

  The crone moved aside with unnatural speed, slashing his thigh with her claws and driving him down to one knee. In a swift motion, the paladin dodged sideways, barely avoiding an elbow strike from which a black blade jutted, tearing through flesh as it cut the air.

  He stood again, measuring her carefully. This was no ordinary foe. She was the witch from the stories that had haunted him as a boy—the one who came to snatch children, fatten them with sweets, and devour them in the forest. And now the knight had the chance to end her. That was a bonus, but his priority was protecting Drako.

  Anthos drew his hand crossbow and loosed the first bolt, burying it in the throat of an Osgor. Two charged him, their swings clumsy but brutal. He dodged both without difficulty, cutting vital points with his blade as he slipped past. The hulking creatures glared with fury, ready to charge again, but blood spurted from the arteries of their arms and legs. Anthos watched as their blinks grew heavier until their eyes finally dimmed.

  Two more Osgor came at him with greater caution. The first tripped him with a bone, and as he stumbled to recover, he left himself open. The second raised his weapon to strike when Ertai appeared from behind, slicing the beast’s throat with a dagger and extending a hand.

  “I owe you one,” Anthos said.

  Ertai gave him a sharp nod, eyes already scanning for the next foe. The druid’s apprentice fought several Osgor at once, wielding a dagger—no doubt stolen from one of the dead merchants.

  Anthos glanced at the cauldron of boiling water, and an idea came to him. He slipped away while blows echoed all around, blood painting the walls.

  Galfrido charged straight at the Osgor chief. The towering beast was a head taller than him, its face painted white and red, its bloodshot eyes burning with murderous rage—fury like the warrior had rarely seen.

  He swung his greatsword in a brutal arc, but the Osgor blocked with its axe and, in a quick motion, drove a kick into his gut. Galfrido seized the chance—dropping his sword, he caught the beast’s leg with both hands. With a sharp twist, he pulled it closer, drew his dagger, and plunged it into the monster’s belly.

  “Let’s see you kick now, you filthy bastard,” he growled, wrenching the blade upward.

  But the Osgor, far from showing pain, lunged again at Galfrido. The warrior buried his dagger deeper as they both crashed to the ground.

  The beast seized Galfrido’s head with both hands and roared, its massive mouth opening wide to reveal rows of yellow, blood-stained teeth. Slowly, with sheer force, it pressed down, trying to sink its jaws into the warrior’s face. Despite the dagger twisting in its gut, the monster seemed unfazed.

  “Die already, you son of a bitch!” Galfrido snarled, pulling the dagger free and stabbing it again and again at blinding speed.

  The Osgor chief, with his final breath, forced himself forward and sank his teeth into Galfrido’s cheek. The warrior let out a sharp cry of pain. Summoning every last ounce of strength, he managed to lift the beast just enough to free his dagger completely, then in a savage frenzy, drove it into the Osgor’s neck again and again—then into the back of its skull, and finally through the other side of the throat.

  Fury blazing, he shoved the monster off him and, with one last brutal stroke, severed its head from its shoulders, a strip of spine still dangling from it, connected to the corpse by a thin thread of flesh. The ominous head still had a chunk of his cheek clenched between its teeth. Galfrido dropped it with contempt and rushed to aid Ertai, who was locked in combat with half a dozen Osgor.

  Eldora carved flawless arcs and thrusts, strikes as swift as a serpent. Yet the crone evaded or deflected them all with her claws and jagged spines.

  Sir Kalen ’Fal was gasping for breath, but his guard never faltered. The round, wide, milk-white eyes of the witch, paired with her deranged grin, weren’t enough to shake him. Perhaps any ordinary soul would have gone mad at the mere sight of that demonic abomination—but not him. He was a knight of the Order of Reidos, a paladin of Dorlan, and as such, he could face Demento himself with the stoicism of a statue.

  Baba Yaga opened her mouth in a grotesque, unnatural way, and from it shot forth a flesh-colored dart tipped with a black barb, speeding toward him. Kalen intercepted it, sweeping his blade in a fan-like motion and knocking it aside.

  “Who are you, little heart, that you resist me so much?” the crone asked, her hands weaving through the air like a macabre dance.

  “I am Sir Kalen ’Fal, knight of the Order of Reidos… and today, I am your executioner.”

  “Bravo, my handsome one. It’s been centuries since anyone gave me such a fine show… but now it ends. You didn’t let me feast on the dragon… but he will die all the same!”

  The witch stepped back and fixed her gaze on the baby. She spread her claws wide and raised them high, ready to bring them down with all her fury upon Drako, who lay helpless on the ground.

  “Nooo!” cried the paladin.

  Kalen launched himself from the floor in an impossible leap. Against all odds, he struck the old witch just before her claws could fall, slashing her ancient torso open with a sweeping strike of Eldora and sending her crashing against the rock, drenched in black blood.

  The paladin’s sword buried itself so deep into the stone after the blow that he couldn’t draw it free at once. Releasing the hilt, he set upon her with his fists, raining punch after punch on her monstrous face, mixing them with strikes that smashed her head against the rock itself.

  “Damn hag from the Abyss!” he roared with each blow.

  Yet the witch only seemed to laugh harder, cackling with every strike.

  Suddenly, he realized he had been striking the ground. The only thing left of Baba Yaga were her fetid rags. He glanced toward a corner and saw a black rat, with unnatural, milky-white eyes, scurrying through a tear in the stone, leaving a trail of black blood behind. He knew it was her. She fled, cursing that she hadn’t been able to complete her task. This time, the knight had been better.

  “Move aside!” shouted Anthos.

  Galfrido and Ertai, still locked in combat with several Osgor, leapt to the sides.

  The iron cauldron, suspended above by a wooden frame, toppled forward, spilling its boiling contents onto the three or four Osgor nearest to it, crushing the first one. The creatures recoiled in shock, glancing around wildly. Their leader was dead, there was no sign of Baba Yaga, and only a few were left fighting.

  Wasting no time, Galfrido swung his greatsword in a horizontal arc, cleaving one of the beasts in half and sending its entrails flying through the air. Anthos and Ertai did the same.

  After a few minutes, there wasn’t a single Osgor left standing. The place was soaked in red, littered with limbs, blood, and entrails, and the stench of blood and filth would linger in their nostrils for months.