Quill hunched over, hands on his knees, sucking in air. Slim, Deckard, and Yoran looked just as spent, while Cross and Blade scanned the trees for the right path. The two men stood in silence. Blade's weapon's hung ready at his side. Cross drew on his pipe, smoke contrasting Quill's emotions by lazily drifting into the air and forming a calm cloud.

"What're they looking for?" Slim asked.

Deckard stood and placed a hand on a nearby trunk. "It's different... the land, the trees—none of it's as it was eight years ago."

"Fantastic..." Slim muttered. "A forest full of Hallowbound, and the only thing we thought we knew—we don't."

"We move forward regardless,” Cross said between puffs. “Find the hill—climb it. The Totem’s at the top. That’s all we need to know. Keep pace."

They set out toward the hill. The pace was brutal, and Quill was no longer the only one struggling to keep up with Cross and Blade. Yoran and Slim lagged behind with him. The big man clutched at the wound on his side, but he voiced no complaint. They had no energy left to complain at this point. Traversing the snow was an arduous task, each step sapping more and more strength. If they ever reached the hill, would they be physically able to climb it? And once they did, would they have anything left to fight the Totem's final warden, the Black Knight?

Quill wished he could focus on the Black Knight, but he knew that wasn't a luxury he had. Every man’s gaze swept the woods. Each sway of branches, each rustle of blackened leaves in the wind felt like enemies creeping from the shadows. Quill's heart pounded like a war drum.

Was it from the exertion—or the fear?

He’d seen four comrades die—each end more brutal than the last: stabbed, skewered, hacked to pieces, melted. How would he meet his end? 

No! he thought. If I give up, they all died for nothing. Wil's choice means nothing.

He didn't fully believe his next words, but he forced himself to say them between breaths. "I will not perish."

Quill had lost track of time and distance. Grelneer’s Pass lay far behind, and every tree looked like the last.  The only thing he could focus on to guide him was Sergeant Cross. If there was one man who would find their to the end of this mission—it was him.

Blade froze, head tilting.

Cross signaled to halt and turned to the Bloodletter. "What is it?"

Blade spoke for the first time, his voice scratchy and high-pitched, like each word clawed its way out of his throat. "Two... coming."

Cross calmly unsheathed his blades. "Where? How fast?"

Blade brought up each arm and pointed, one left, one right. "Can't... outrun... kill."

Then he burst forward, veering right. 

"Shit it all," Slim rasped, hunched over and gasping for air.

Cross turned to face the rest of the squad. "We keep moving forward. I doubt it'll let us pass without a fight so keep weapons ready. Could be any—"

A soft, strange sound.

A familiar sound

Quill knew recognized it instantly—how could he forget? Like a dozen voices all mumbling in an otherworldly tongue, the Gibbergnash's babbles crept through the trees. Every man readied himself, weapons drawn. 

"Delmiir preserve us," Deckard muttered. 

Quill could see the fear in his eyes—in all their eyes. A Gibbergnash wasn't something a lone squad was capable of engaging. Especially not a tired, battered squad with men already gone. The babbling sounds grew louder with every passing second. 

"Spread out!" Cross barked.

They formed a line. Quill was on the far end next to Deckard; Slim was just behind them, arrow nocked and ready. They were all nerves. Slim's arrow tapped constantly against his bow as his hands shook. Deckard continued mumbling prayers and rubbing the holy symbol on his chest.

From the shadows, the Gibbergnash's wretched shape emerged. It snaked between trees, its giant form carried swiftly and unnervingly smooth on its dozens of centipede-like limbs. Quill had only seen it through the haze of a blizzard last time. Now he saw it full.

Its body stretched over twenty feet long, plated in segmented black chitin armor.  Its spear-sharp legs skewered the ground with every step it took and sent clouds of snow into the air. At its rear gaped its towering vertical mouth, rising up on top of its body. Its blocky, human-like teeth chomped with excitement as it slithered toward the squad. Its two tongues licked its lips and dripping black slobber onto itself. 

Quill's shoulder's sagged, his sword slipping from his grip. This was it. No man could withstand such a thing. He wasn't meant to fight such horrible monstrosities. He was a boy who read stories, who liked to write. He wasn't even a soldier, let alone a monster-slayer. They'd need ten times the men just to stand a chance and instead they had him. He couldn't make his squadmates deaths mean anything. He couldn't give them the peace they deserved.

"Pick up your fucking weapon, solider!"

Cross’s voice cracked through his panic, snapping him back. The Gibbergnash was only a few hundred feet away now. Quill scooped up his sword and held it in trembling hands.

Cross looked at the squad, frowning in disgust. "What the shit are you all so scared of? Dying? Hell, we all died the moment we joined up. There's no one out here but us. No gods. No reinforcements. Just five dead bastards!"

Cross stepped forward, turning to face them with the Hallowbound looming closer. “Good news—dead men don’t feel fear. They don’t feel pain. They don't get tired. And dead men don't fucking die!”

With a guttural roar, Cross charged, the Gibbergnash mere seconds away. The others bellowed and followed. Quill couldn’t remember deciding to move, but he was already flying through the snow and emptying his lungs with the loudest cry he could muster.

It reared up just as they arrived, then slammed its full weight into the ground, blasting a smokescreen of ice and snow into the air. Two spear-like legs shot through the haze toward Quill. One clipped his shoulder and spun him sideways. Using the momentum, he swung his sword in a wide arc. It connected with one of the legs, severing it clean. Quill expected the crunch of shell, but instead the sword slid through like slicing into tough meat.

The severed leg twitched beside him, spraying black blood from the stump. The warm spray covered his face, blinding him. He wiped his eyes—then felt a rush of air and a heavy thud at his side. When he regained his vision, all he saw was black. The Gibbergnash had shifted its position and Quill now lay directly under its armored belly.

He scrambled to his feet as the creature skittered sideways. Its legs slammed into the snow like a collapsing wall of spikes, closing in on him. He lunged forward, diving beneath the raised legs. He slid through as the legs slammed down behind him, rolled, and came up in a crouch. Warm blood leaked down his left arm, but there was no time to care.

The others struggled against the Gibbergnash’s sheer size. Yoran and Deckard weaved around stabbing legs, desperate to land even a single blow. Cross fell in beside Quill, both rushing back into the fight. A few feet away, Slim was out of the fray. He was on his knees, gripping his abdomen and groaning in pain.

The Gibbergnash had lost a few legs in the opening clash, but nothing that slowed it.It kept darting side to side and weaving around trees in erratic bursts. It would thrust its giant spear-like legs at the men with each move, puncturing the snow with bone-jarring force.

Quill sprinted with Cross to rejoin the fray when the creature swerved, slamming Yoran against a tree with a heavy thud. The big man grunted, ducked, and a leg speared into the tree, splitting the trunk with a jagged crack.

The babbling swelled—like a congregation of people all yelling and arguing at once, incoherent and painful to the ear. 

"The mouth!" Deckard shouted, ducking under a stabbing leg. "It’s unarmored—hit the mouth!"

Easier said than done. 

They'd have to get onto its back which was nearly ten feet off the ground and constantly shifting. And of course, dodge the razor-sharp legs slashing the air around it.

Slim had returned to his feet, blood streaking from the corner of his mouth. He nocked an arrow, shakily drawing the bowstring. The arrow cut through the air and buried itself deep into the flesh around the Gibbernash's mouth. The voices shrieked, forcing Quill to clamp his hands over his ears.

The creature spasmed, spinning in a tight circle and pushing Deckard and Yoran back. Then it charged sideways, straight for Quill and Cross. Cross leapt aside—but Quill was too slow.

The Gibbergnash dropped its flank to the snow, plowing forward and blasting Quill’s face with ice shards. He threw up his arms to brace himself just at the creature slammed into him. 

Something in his left arm snapped as his legs left the ground.

He flew through the air for a heartbeat.

Then another.

Then the ground rose to meet him.

His body plunged deep into the snow. Pain burned through his entire left side. He rolled onto his side, dragging his face from the snow as sharp pain flared with every small movement.

He lifted his head, scanning the chaos. He was around fifty feet away from the fray, though the creature continued to shift its position with every passing second. Slim’s bowstring twanged again—two more arrows finding the grey flesh around its mouth.

At the front, Yoran roared with every reckless swing of his axe. Cross stood on its left flank slicing and carving with cold precision. A half-dozen severed legs lay at his feet, the stumps showering him with black blood. Little by little, leg by leg—the creature was slowing. Quill struggled to his knees, a small flicker of hope forming.

Then—

"ARGHH!"

Deckard's cry ripped through the air. A spear-leg had punched through his right shoulder and lifted him up. Before anyone could react, another leg snapped forward. He raised his shield—splintered wood exploded in his grip as the leg punched clean through, burying itself in his side. Both legs wrenched back, hoisting him fifteen feet up before flinging him onto the creature’s back.

Quill tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he collapsed back into the snow.

"No..." he muttered, the word barely making it past his lips.

Cross and Yoran furiously hacked at the creature, tearing at the beast with frantic strikes. Slim shouted, firing off another arrow. But Deckard was beyond reach.

The priest rose to one knee, blood pooling beneath him. He still clutched his mace and made one more futile attempt, lunging forward toward the creature's gaping maw. One last act of defiance.

Another leg shot through the air, skewering his calf and yanking him upside down. His mace clattered onto the Gibbergnash's back. He screamed as the creature drew him toward its twin tongues. He flailed desperately, shouting for help as the tongues engulfed him and dragged him into its teeth.

"SOMEONE PLEASE! GODS HELP ME! HELP ME!"

The jaws closed.

It wasn't slow. 

Quill flinched with every wet chomp. Tears streamed down him face as he was forced to watch and listen to his friend's final moments.

The sickening crunch of bones being crushed between teeth. The gush of crimson, spilling and mixing with the beast’s black saliva. Deckard’s voice breaking into raw, wordless agony before it cut off altogether.

Quill lay in the snow, his willpower all but gone. 

But two men still fought.

Yoran bellowed, dropping his axe and leaping to grab the Gibbergnash's side.  His massive hands found purchase on the slick carapace, and he hauled with everything he had. The beast reared up on its few remaining legs, suddenly unstable. Yoran’s weight wrenched it sideways, its left flank slamming into the snow with a thunderous crack. It struggled to right itself, but Yoran now stood, feet planted firmly on the ground. His eyes bulged and veins popped, spittle and blood sprayed from his mouth as he roared. Two spear-legs hit him. One punched through his left side, the other skewering his right arm and burying itself into his chest.

He did not yield. 

Quill watched through the haze and felt certain that no man in history could ever claim such a feat of strength, and that no man ever would again. 

Two more legs blurred through the air, impaling him again. Yoran’s final cry was torn from him before his body went slack, head lolling.

But it was too late.

Cross was already there. He stood balanced on the creature's angled back, black blood dripping from his blades. A spear-leg shot out to meet him, but he sidestepped it without even turning his head. The Gibbergnash's tongues lashed out, encircling him. 

In a flash, the tongues were reduced to chunks of bloody meat. Cross cut so fast, the air barely stirred. Before the pieces of tongue had even fallen, Cross lunged forward and drove his shortsword deep into the base of the Gibbergnash's mouth. 

A leg darted for him—he spun, severed its tip, caught it in one hand, and rammed it into the wound he’d just made. Then he stomped, driving it deeper.

The babbling cacophony was now a constant, shrill shriek of agony.

Cross did not stop. He hacked at the mouth, not with his normal mechanical precision, but with the raw, unrelenting fury that only came in the throes of battle. Its lips split, grey flesh was carved away, its tongues were reduced to twitching stumps. Gouts of black blood poured from every wound. The creature convulsed, curling its last few legs toward it body. Its babbling quieted and then fell silent. Its body collapsed, crashing into the snow with a deep, final thud. 

Cross yanked his blade free and hopped down.

He glanced at Slim, then at Quill, before sheathing his swords.

"Let's move."