The monster was larger than Dirk had remembered. Somehow, somewhere, it had killed more Oxkin; its muscles split its skin like overripe grapes. A ring of quivering spears surrounded it, held by half a dozen soldiers, the rest maimed, unconscious, or dead. Tam lay in the dirt, disembowelled – both Stitch and Blunts were missing. The Ravenkin loomed above the cowering squadron, an aura of fear as cold as ice spiking from it. The horror set his legs quaking in their stirrups, and Pat whimpered in his saddlebag. The teeth covering its maw were sharper than any blade. Courage radiated from Representative Fedor, but the feeling was like a candle in a storm; liable to be snuffed out at any moment.

The monster’s doughy skin had been opened, bleeding strange liquid akin to pus, the milky substance mingling with the blackened rain pouring from above. Its innards looked like they belonged in a plant, not a moving creature. Yet move the beast did, three eyes whirling in their sockets as it swiped at Jackson, who somehow fought despite the hellish terror his combatant provoked. They battered back and forth, Jackson parrying or slipping its large, telegraphed blows, opening small wounds with the tip of his halberd. He looked to be winning, however the giant was clearly outmatched. Next to the monster the giant looked like a child fighting a bull. If it hit him, the Oxblood was dead.

Dirk fumbled his crossbow - already loaded - from a saddlebag and fired a bolt at the creature. The quarrel vanished into its hide, however it wasn’t enough to distract the thing from Jackson. He let out a quavering curse and spurred his horse forward, yet his steed startled and reared, refusing to move any closer. The hunter dropped out of his saddle as the horse bolted, Pat slipping out behind him. He whistled a command to the hound to stay clear.

“Rep!” Dirk shouted towards Fedor. Both Vernon and the Representative had been transfixed by the battle; the two startled out of their reverie. “We need to get closer!”

He didn’t wait for their reply to sprint in. The hunter veered around the melee, searching for the Doctor or Stitch. It took moments to find the former – his skull’s contents were spread across the dirt, the sight enough to set Dirk’s gut roiling – however the latter was better hidden, taking nearly half a minute of racing through the tiny encampment to spot.

Stitch and Blunts were attempting to lever open a crate with a spear, the two of them partially concealed by the tarp covering the rest of the supplies. The torrent of gunk was causing their fingers to continually slip, and the pair’s hands shook so fiercely reinserting the spear took seconds of floundering. Dirk proved no better, yet somehow, with his help, the two of them managed to crack the box open.

It was full of bottles, the poor light making their contents indecipherable. “What’re they?” Dirk asked, then spluttered – the tarp was funnelling brackish water into his mouth.

“The Doctor said they were healing potions!” Stitch yelled, voice barely audible above the torrent.

“We got any oil?” Dirk’s voice quavered.

“No, boss!” That was Blunts, eyes steely, objecting to the hunter’s half-vocalised plan. “Can’t burn the monster – this rain’s thick enough to smother any flame!”

“Bloody godskin,” he swore. “What do we do?”

Stitch found her voice again. “The Blooded can handle it! Get me the least wounded; hopefully this mix is potent enough to put them back in the fight!”

Dirk nodded and dashed back onto the battlefield, just in time to see the Ravenkin’s paws blur with impossible speed, smashing into Jackson’s halberd with enough force to send the weapon flying away. The hunter cursed for the umpteenth time, scooping up a spear to toss to the Oxblood, however the halberd glowed purple mid-air and reversed its course, accelerating back into the giant’s outstretched hand. Dirk blinked. Even obscured by the torrential rain as his vision was, he could still see the glint of Vernon’s mad grin.

The hunter picked up speed once again, sliding in the muck to a stop next to a soldier with a mangled arm. The man howled as Dirk began dragging him through the encampment, sliding over dropped spears and splintered chunks of wood. Soon enough he had dumped the man beside Stitch and sprinted back to repeat the cycle, Blunts following his lead by pulling more wounded over to their medic.

Between carrying soldiers over to Stitch, Dirk caught glimpses of the fight. The monster had been hiding its true strength before, and now moved at incredible speeds, circling the Oxblood like it was a fractions of its immense size, whipping claws towards its quarry at different moments, or occasionally charging in attempts to knock him over. Pat’s barks punctuated every one of the beast’s movements. Jackson responded by whirling his eight-feet long halberd around like a toothpick, batting away taloned claws with inhuman precision. Any blows too powerful were stepped aside with a few strides from his long legs. However, as incredible a warrior as Jackson was, he made mistakes. Claws would rake his chest, or a swipe would be powerful enough to break ribs, sending the giant stumbling sideways, almost losing his footing in the muck.

Purple light would glow around the beast’s limbs, stopping it from taking advantage of Jackson’s openings. The work of an Owlblood. Fedor’s contribution was less visible, yet despite the agony Jackson must have been in, he continued as if the pain was completely foreign.

Around them, the soldiers quivered. Dirk didn’t blame them; this wasn’t a battle mere humans could meddle in.

Jackson ducked a swipe from behind, his feet slipping beneath him from the sudden movement. The Oxblood fell to his knees, and there was no violet glow to save him. The monster leapt at the soldier, lipless mouth gaping, however Jackson only smiled. The Ravenkin flailed as it fell, its own momentum too great to divert, as the giant braced his halberd, sending it straight through the beast’s flabby skin and out its back. It flailed its claws, pulling itself down the weapon’s shaft in order to reach the warrior. Muscles bulged as the giant strained, attempting to cause as much damage as possible before it beheaded him.

Blunts was recovering the last injured soldier, so Dirk cranked his crossbow and loaded another bolt, sending the quarrel flying towards the creature’s three eyes. The shot was decent, considering his shaking hands and the constant downpour, however even still the monster flinched backwards, causing his shot to miss entirely.

However, Vernon’s power lit the Ravenkin’s head, and the slight movement turned into a jolt as it was yanked backwards, giving Jackson the space needed to rip his halberd out and slice the monster so deeply its head was half severed. The beast slumped to the ground, twitching. The Oxblood stumbled backwards a few steps, then fell to his knees, panting. Fedor and Vernon kicked their horses towards their comrade, faces obscured by the downpour.

Dirk managed to breathe a sigh of relief, only for the hairs on the back of his neck to tingle. Pat’s barking turned rabid, and the screams coming from behind reached a new octave.

A sensation pressed at Dirk, like a bow aimed directly at his spine; something full of weight was pressing down reality behind him. He knew it from years of pursuing monsters: the Lizard’s ilk.

Voices recognisably Stitch and Blunts' wailed. He twisted around, seeing the medic sprinting towards him through the murky rain. Dirk blinked, then squinted at the grotesque image coalescing through the brackish torrent. A dozen monsters pursued, skin blackened and sloughing off with every movement, then growing back just as quickly. Tumours bulged from them at disgusting rates, occasionally exploding into masses of twisting fibre. Any wound was healed within moments. They let loose animal shrieks, a different pitch for every monster. Dirk knew that for them, all sensation was pain, and only maddened instinct kept their legs moving.

Their flesh, amidst its constant shedding and regrowth, sometimes peeled away to reveal human bones. Beneath the tumours and constant healing and decay, the creatures wore red, lamellar armour. They were the wounded soldiers.

Dirk grabbed Stitch and pushed her onwards, from behind. The three Blooded were their only chance of survival.

“The potions!” she panted. The hunter swore, and pounded his feet faster. The healing potions had been dosed.

The poor men and women had consumed Lizardblood. Unlike regular Blooded, who imbibed their divinity slowly, over the course of years, Dure’s monstrous power had taken their body and mind all at once, moulding both in its cursed image. Their forsaken souls had no chance at all. A god’s blood was too powerful to be handled so lightly.

Then the first monster, bleeding white pus behind Jackson’s back, blurred into movement. For a moment, everything seemed to stop; Dirk and Stitch had the perfect view of what happened next.

Lifting its massive bulk out of the mud, the beast stumbled upright, bleeding its life onto the ground. It moved, like nothing the hunter had ever seen, and Fedor’s horse spooked, throwing the Representative off. With a slash from one of its massive legs, the monster split the Dolphinblood in half as he fell, covering its surroundings in a sudden burst of blood. It moved towards Vernon, figure blurring. A purple glow slowed it, and its pale blood sprayed like a geyser. It spun, then headed for Jackson.

The Oxblood spun, scooping his halberd off the floor. But he slid, ever so slightly, the weight of his massive frame and the sludge beneath his feet just enough to throw Jackson off balance. And the hunter knew if Jackson died, then they all would be next. Its glaive-like claws blurred towards the giant, and Dirk was there just in time to throw himself in front of them.

He hoped someone would take care of his dog.

Pat knew as soon as the Quarry finished its swing that the Friend was dead. He howled his grief to the sky, forgetting his pain and terror as he dashed towards the Friend. The Big Man was killing the Quarry with his long fang, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The Friend was dead.

The Ever-Dying were coming, the Healer running, screaming. From behind him, the Strange One howled his deep howls. The Friend was dead. The Big Man’s arm crunched like a bone between teeth as the Quarry hit him. He responded by cleaving its head off, long fang clutched in only one hand. The Friend was dead.

Pat ran faster than he had ever run. Faster than when the Friend asked him to track a Quarry. Faster than when the Friend gave him food. Faster. Faster. Yet even though he arrived faster than he had ever arrived anywhere, it made no difference. The Friend was dead.

He howled and howled at the Friend’s feet. The sky fell down around him, yet the world could have ended and Pat would have cared less. The Friend was dead.

The Big Man slashed at the Ever-Dying, leading them away. The Strange One worked his magic, and their incredible healing slowed enough for the Big Man to kill one. Then another. The Friend was dead. The Healer tugged at Pat’s collar, but he pulled against her. No one would pull him away.

The Big Man was swarmed by the Ever-Dying. The pointy humans came to help, but the Ever-Dying beat at them, their muscles exploding as they did so. The humans died, for the Ever-Dying had the strength of the dying. Why wouldn’t the Friend get up? How could the Friend die? The Big Man broke away, bleeding from a thousand wounds, then killed another. Light flashed around one of the Ever-Dying, and it crumpled into a little ball, smaller than a rabbit’s eye. The Friend was dead.

The Big Man tore two of the Ever-Dying in half, and the Strange One made sure they didn’t rise. One broke away from the group, coming for Pat, and he growled his rage. The Friend was not to be touched. The Healer moved first, catching it with a long tooth taken from the ground. The Ever-Dying screamed its agony, body tearing itself apart, and pulled it along. Pat tore at its leg. A blow hit his side and he flew away, a strained whimper emerging from his snout.

Pat rose again and attacked, avoiding a kick. He pulled its strange flesh, however it simply tore away. The Healer screamed as the Ever-Dying came closer. Pat barked and barked. Then it was cleaved in half, because the Big Man was there, and the Big Man was strong.

The last Ever-Dying’s body split apart, as the Strange One worked his strange magic on it. The Strange One then fell, slumping off his horse. The Friend was dead. The Big Man went around the battlefield, taking the Ever-Dying apart, then stabbed the Quarry over and over again. The Healer fell to her knees and wept. The Big Man slumped to the floor, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding.

The sky was black as it fell.

The Friend was dead.