True to his word, within twelve hours Runt had been invited onto an expedition alongside Dragomir, Florin, and another two Corpsehunters Marcel and Ionus. Numbering five men, they were a larger band than most expeditions would require. They were tasked with the hunting of gheists, among the most fearsome beasts which arrived from the Barrow Mountain. They beyond all others were clever, patient, and willing to use strategy in their assault against all things living. Where lesser forms of living dead fought mindlessly and only because they hungered for flesh, gheists sought out only death, uncaring for which form it took.

  And perhaps more terrible than their shrewd minds was their ability to fly. Made from pilfered human bodies and bat wings that sprouted from their upper arms, they were stitched abominations made by unknown defilers. From grave-robbed corpses they were returned into unlife to be sent out in packs from the Barrow Mountain. And the sighting of any gheists called for immediate action to hunt them down, as they now did.

  A gheist hunt was a near perfect opportunity for Runt to find his honorable death, Dragomir thought as they wandered through the swamps. Few foes so consistently claimed the lives of skilled Corpsehunters. And hopeful martyrs would count themselves fortunate to find their end against these rare beasts. Dragomir didn’t hope for Runt’s death, he didn’t want any good fighters of Blestrysnia or elsewhere to fall before their time. But if there was a single truth to this world, it was the inevitability of death. Thus, when it arrived for anyone, there would be no reason to mourn. And with Runt’s illnesses likely to eventually claim him, a death on this day was vastly preferable to an ignoble and bedridden one.

  And clearly, Runt intended to fight the gheists up close. With a Corpsehunter’s cleaver in his possession, but no bow to shoot the beasts from the sky like the others had, Runt would need to close any distance to fight. But that inevitable combat would likely be rather one sided.

  The exertion of walking through the swamps was already taking its toll upon Runt, who struggled to breathe deeply after only an hour of stalking. Given another hour and the man might collapse from exhaustion or perhaps suffer greater consequences from pushing his body too far beyond its limits. Thus Dragomir was quite relieved when Florin, who’d been acting as their lead tracker, signaled that the gheists were close.

  Dragomir made sure Runt kept close to his side, especially as they found cover within the knee-deep swamp waters and the gnarled shrubbery that grew within them. From there they kept still so as to not disturb the waters, silent as they listened for signs of movement. With bows at the ready, Dragomir and his comrades alertly waited on Florin’s behest, until the moment came when they caught the distant sound of wings buffeting through the air.

  Rapidly the sound intensified as the gheist flew nearer until it came within view. Though still nothing but a vague silhouette in the air, the shape of the hybrid corpse creature was unmistakable and doubtlessly foul. With his decades of experience, Florin rose from his hiding place while drawing his bow to fire in one smooth instant. With pinpoint accuracy his shot landed; the gheist shrieked as its wing was punctured. The beast fell towards the earth with a thrashing of limbs. Then, after impacting a tree while still at speed, the monster went silent.

  Its head would need to be removed later to ensure the kill, but for the moment such issues could wait, as the gheist’s death didn’t go unnoticed.

  From the distance more shrieks were heard, at first centralized in a single direction before spreading. Clearly, the gheists were attempting to make the direction of their next attack unpredictable. But this was not Florin’s first gheist hunt, nor Dragomir’s, and in response they didn’t focus upon the shrieking but instead other sounds around them.

  Runt seemed to catch on quickly, and he likewise didn’t seem to overly concern himself with the gheist-calls. Instead, he likewise centered his focus towards the nearest trees, listening, watching, until he looked off towards their right flank.

  An instant later Dragomir heard it too, the sound of wings in the air, obscured by the shrieking but not beyond perception. Turning quickly while drawing his bow, Dragomir took aim before fully seeing the descending beast, then released the arrow the moment he locked sight with it.

  His arrow pierced the monster’s stomach, forcing the winged beast to the ground as it began to cry out. Marcel was upon the wounded gheist within an instant to cut its head off with a single clean swipe of his cleaver. The following gheists were not so easily dealt with however. They, unlike the first two, attacked in force by arriving two or three at a time. The first few were felled with bows, but quickly the first among the beasts reached close enough to attack with talons and teeth alike.

  Still screeching, one gheist opened its rotting jaws as it dove towards Dragomir, clearly aiming to rip out his throat. But with his cleaver he countered at the last second, side-stepping its dive before cutting upwards. His cleaver cut cleanly through the gheist’s wing, sending it thrashing into the swamp where he decapitated it. From there Dragomir turned to fight off the next gheist, this one flying mere feet above the ground. He stepped forward and cut down into its back as it rose from the water, killing it just before a third was upon him.

  The other Corpsehunters found themselves in similar circumstances. Outnumbered, they needed to slay their adversaries swiftly and stay close together lest they get flanked and ripped apart. But it seemed that not all of his comrades were willing to take this tactical approach. With a reckless ferocity Ionus rushed forwards to meet the gheists as they dived towards him. Many beasts noticed how out of position he was and immediately refocused their attacks towards him. And though Ionus slayed no less than four monsters before falling, he was killed regardless, all while shouting a battle-cry heard only from those most desperate to claim their good death.

  Yet there was a reason why Ionus shouldn’t have been reckless, why he would be denied a place among the Honored Dead. His actions now left Marcel exposed. And without support on his flank, he was little more than fodder for the gheists who ripped him apart, though not after he took more than his share of the slaughter.

  Marcel would have his honors. If Dragomir or Florin survived this fight, they would certainly see to it. But while still embroiled in the fight, Dragomir could barely spare more than passing glances at his comrades. He’d not checked the condition of Runt since the gheists first attacked. At this point, he almost expected the man to already be dead. But after looking at him during a seconds-long reprieve, Dragomir was surprised to find that Runt not only survived but fought on in ways he could never have expected from the man.

  With great agility to surpass the swiftest Corpsehunters and dexterity to turn the gheists’ every move against them, Runt fought with his cleaver as if a veteran of many crypt raids. He moved fast enough to catch the gheists while still in flight, sometimes grabbing their legs or wings with his bare hands before throwing them to the ground. He turned and dodged their attacks deftly, never letting the swamp waters overcome him. There was no indication of his previous exhaustion nor bodily weakness. It was as if, only in this moment of life and death, did his spirit shine through the ailments of flesh to fight without disability.

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  The only indication of anything strange, other than Runt’s sudden bout of energy, was the now empty vial which floated on the surface of the waters. But Dragomir thought nothing of the vial, didn’t even truly notice its presence as he returned his focus to the fight before them. But now, unlike before, Dragomir needn’t worry about attacks from behind, as he relied upon Runt to cover that flank as Florin took up a position to his left.

  Together, the three of them fought the gheists, numbering nearly two-dozen in total. The saving grace of gheists was their unwillingness to retreat from a fight after it begins. They might be clever in how they attack, using ambushes wherever possible, but if one successfully baits them into a trap or unwinnable position they will gladly throw themselves into the slaughter. And while this skirmish hadn’t been bloodless, it proved effective in cleansing the land from this pack of beasts who fell before the Corpsehunters to the last.

  The silence came suddenly. One moment, Dragomir’s pulse pounded in his ears, shrieks echoed from above and about, splashing water and ceaseless bloodshed. Then all at once it seemed over. Dragomir breathed a sigh of relief while looking towards Florin who already busied himself with removing the heads of the dead gheists, ensuring they would never again rise into unlife. Dragomir quickly joined him, setting towards this necessary task before he and Florin began to prepare the bodies of their fallen comrades for travel.

  It was only after binding both corpses that Dragomir looked around for Runt, only to find that the man was missing. Suddenly curious, and slightly cautious of danger, his gaze scanned through the surrounding trees, only to find Runt some distance away. He was learning against a rotted-out oak, up on a small rise which allowed him to sit down on dryer land. With Florin still occupied by body management, Dragomir approached Runt, half-expecting the man to be mortally wounded.

  While clearly injured, Runt was far from death’s door. But the exertion had clearly taken its toll upon the man. With nearly desperate gasps Runt struggled to intake air; his hands shook violently, and he seemed near the point of passing out. It was only when Dragomir came to Runt’s side that he noticed the color of Runt’s blood as it bled from his cut arm. A pale red liquid tinged yellow. The smell of his blood hit Dragomir next, one that was all too similar to embalming fluid in its rankness.

  Dragomir watched, utterly baffled, as Runt took out a red vial from one of his pouches. The sickly man then placed the vial into a needle tipped mechanism which he then stabbed into his own leg. With a hiss, Runt’s body relaxed as the red mixture was injected into his body. Only then did his breathing fall back into normalcy, his hands steadying while his entire body went slack against the tree.

  For a moment, Dragomir suspected that Runt must not have been human. He conjured theories about Runt being one of the living dead, a clever corpse, for how else could anyone have blood so foul. But following his first, blissfully calm breaths, Runt was overcome by a coughing fit. And soon after, Runt turned away from Dragomir to vomit onto the ground before his hoarse coughing continued. At this display Dragomir pushed aside any idea of Runt being inhuman. Clearly the man lived, his stomach functioned, his heart pumped new blood which continued to bleed out through his wounds. No dead man could replicate such perfect evidence of life, no matter how much they put into the performance.

  “You fight like a hellion.” Dragomir spoke.

  Runt huffed a short laugh in response, an unseen smile creasing the edge of his eye as he looked up at the other man. “Does that surprise you?”

  “It did a little more than that… I’ve no idea how you found that strength, but I suppose it couldn't've been natural.”

  “No.” Runt shook his head. “It was not…” Standing on shaky legs, Runt pulled himself from the sodden earth, his attention then falling to the cut in his lower arm which now began to stem its own bleeding. The cut didn’t close. But clearly, something about the red liquid Runt injected was working to keep him alive and coagulate his impure blood.

  “What manner of magick is this?” Dragomir asked. “I’ve never heard of any Sorceress who can enchant water.”

  “It’s not magick, not how most would think of it anyway.”

  “This isn’t the work of some spell?”

  “It’s Alchemy.” Runt answered, a weight in his voice giving insight into the importance of that single strange word. “It can give me the strength to fight… but not for very long.” Runt then coughed as if to emphasize his point, although his struggle for breath was nearly constant.

  “A dark thing this Alchemy is, if it harms you like this.”

  “I suffer the ill-effects far more than most. You would likely be able to imbibe its strength without issue.”

  Dragomir perked up at this. “Do you mean that any Corpsehunter might have this strength?”

  “No… not this potion.” Runt answered, continuing before Dragomir could ask for an explanation. “Its ingredients are from a distant place… And little grows here. Perhaps I could make something, but a land of death is poorly suited for ingredients to enhance the living.”

  “But what about our mushrooms? They sustain us well-enough.”

  “They grow from death. If subjected to Alchemical processes, they could only ever produce poisons and venoms. Unlife seeps too deeply into everything here…” A clear lament was in Runt’s voice. Certainly he hated the haunting from the Barrow Mountain like everyone else who was unfortunate enough to know its shadow.

  Dragomir sighed, disappointed but unsurprised that such a gift would be denied to them all. This land was too cursed for blessings. “Then, why did you come here? Was it actually in search of a good death?”

  “No.” Runt answered. “I came to help, however I could.”

  Dragomir might have laughed, had the statement not been so inherently doomed. “There’s little difference in these swamps. Everyone who helps dies eventually… I have to ask, why come here, out of anywhere else you could’ve gone?”

  “Bad odds never stopped me before.” Runt muttered, perhaps to himself. “It’s as I said. People kept warning me away from the Barrow Mountain, so I came here.”

  Dragomir paused at that statement. He’d never known anyone to act in such a way. He knew many things about self-sacrifice. To him, his entire life, fighting for others had been the same as giving one’s life in combat. There was no separation between heroism and death. Bravery was always measured by one’s willingness to accept a meaningful end. Never before now had Dragomir met another who wished to offer aid, who fought selflessly with full knowledge of what they would face, while also expecting to survive. Assumption had blinded Dragomir to Runt’s true intentions. But somehow, he knew that Runt intended to do something nobody else would ever think of attempting, at least not successfully, and certainly not without losing their lives.

  “Do you want to end the curse of the Barrow Mountain?” Dragomir asked.

  “If I am able.” Runt answered without the heavy burden that such an evidently suicidal proclamation should carry.

  Dragomir didn’t know if he should think it foolishness, or something more virtuous, but regardless his attention was pulled elsewhere by Florin’s call. With little more than a low whistle towards them both, the master Corpsehunter signaled for their departure. The bodies had been properly tied, and now their responsibility lay in their return to Blestrysnia. They would continue this conversation later, Dragomir decided. But already Dragomir was considering whether he should join Runt’s almost certainly doomed mission. There was no honor in throwing away one’s life, yet the certainty with which Runt spoke of ending the terrible magicks which had haunted Blestrysnia for generations made Dragomir almost think that such a quest was both possible, and worth seeking out.