Dem rode beside the Swiftwind Huntmaster, matching Dern's pace as they left the vast spread of the Gathering behind and followed the old western trail.
The air grew drier, quieter, the sounds of thousands fading into the low hum of insects and distant wind.
After only a few minutes, Dem's nose twitched… then wrinkled sharply.
"Something dead is close."
He slipped his yurka over his face, drawing curious glances from several hunters.
Dern lifted his chin, scenting the breeze, but found nothing.
"We're meeting Sark ahead. He'll give the briefing."
"Is he a Huntmaster?" Dem asked.
"He was," Dern said. "Stepped down a few weeks before the Gathering."
The smell grew stronger with every stride. A few riders exchanged uneasy looks. Soon, the rest pulled on their yurkas as the thick stench of rancid flesh settled over them like a fog.
"You've got a good nose, Swiftwind."
A slim woman in Stonefall colors guided her mount up beside him, easily matching his pace. "I'm Tori. Second to the Stonefall Huntmaster. Fosterling—eight years now."
"Well met, Tori," Dem replied politely. "Dem Swiftwind."
Tori offered a quick, crooked smile. She had a pleasant, lean face, sun-browned skin, and mismatched eyes—one clear sky-blue, the other a dark, earthy brown that watched him with sharp interest.
"My shaman probably said something foolish," she admitted. "Told me to 'make nice' with you."
Dem grinned; her bluntness was refreshing. "Is that right?"
"Don't take it personally." Tori shrugged. "As shamans go, she's young. Still new to the… club."
"The shaman club?" Dem snorted. "What do they do? Sit around painting each other?"
Tori burst into laughter. "Probably! But I'm too scared to ask."
Dem chuckled. "Fair. Where were you before Stonefall?" he asked.
"Servant girl in the Great Beast Empire." She said it casually, but the wry twist of her mouth revealed more. "Our ship sank. I made my break and never looked back."
Her smile widened. "Too long a story for today. I'll save it for the next time we find decent drink."
Dem laughed. "Alright. I'll hold you to that."
The stench hit them first — a heavy, choking rot that made eyes water and tongues go bitter. By the time the hunting party reached the mouth of the narrow valley, even the horses shied and tossed their heads.
A lone horse was tied near the entrance. Beside it sat an old man on a slab of black slate, waiting as calmly as if the air weren't thick enough to chew.
His hair was a mix of blond and white, his skin leathered by sun and years, his pale eyes sharp despite the deep lines around them.
Sark rose as they approached and waved them in with a broad smile.
Dem took a place near the front, between Huntmaster Dern and Tori. She carried a geared bow unlike anything he'd seen among the tribals — metal joints, tension discs, and carved runework along the limbs.
Nine Huntmasters formed a half circle. Their seconds flanked them. And Sark — once Huntmaster of the Frostridge Clan — now stood with a chunk of chalk stone in hand, boots planted on the black slate.
He tapped the stone.
"Originally," Sark began, "our hunt was going to be a Typhon. Vicious serpent-beast. Everything on it either bites, sprays, or rubs poison into you. Even the long hair along its sides excretes a toxin that'll bed you for a week… if you live through it."
Dern lowered his yurka, grimacing as the rancid smell burned his sinuses. "Did something happen?"
Sark jabbed a finger toward a mound of boulders stacked against the ravine wall.
"Yeah. Something else killed our quarry before we got to it. I've spent the last few days harvesting poison from the corpse. And this smell?" He gestured around. "This is roses compared to what it was."
A few seconds exchanged uneasy glances.
Dern addressed the group. "Typhon are serpent-like. You keep distance — everything about them is toxic."
"How big?" Dem asked.
"Fifteen feet, usually," Dern answered.
"This one was closer to thirty," Sark said.
Dem blinked. "Does that mean the hunt is canceled?" His eyes drifted again to the stone pile — uneasy, curious, uncertain.
Sark shook his head. "No. It means we've got a bigger problem. The Typhon was killed by a Tatzelwurm. One that's recently moved in to nest." He grunted. "That's bad luck — for all of us."
Judging by the blank looks from the other seconds, Dem wasn't the only one unfamiliar with the name.
Sark crouched and began sketching on the slate.
"The Tatzelwurm has a twenty-foot serpent body. Each year it sheds its skin — the old sheaths twist together into a knot near the tail. That knot grows as the beast does. If it hits you with it?" He rapped the chalk sharply. "Your bones will turn to paste."
Tori exhaled. "Okay. Dodge the tail. Good to know."
Sark snorted. "And that's not its worst side. The Tatzelwurm also has the head and shoulders of a desert lioness. Front legs intact. Claws sharp enough to split stone. And it has more than a few ways to kill you."
Dem frowned. "You said it's nesting. Shouldn't we… walk away?"
Sark nodded. "Normally? Yes. Absolutely. You never bother a nesting Tatzelwurm." His expression darkened. "But this one was poisoned during its fight with the Typhon. Typhon venom warps the mind. Soon, it'll go rabid."
He pointed toward the distant horizon, where the Gathering lay like a small city of tents and people.
"A healthy Tatzelwurm wouldn't look twice at us. But a poisoned one?" His voice dropped.
"It will kill anything it finds."
Sark crouched over the slate and sketched two branching lines.
"There are two approaches to the nest. The larger one is her main route — the one she uses regularly. The second is narrow and probably an escape tunnel. We have no idea what the interior looks like. Tatzelwurms are exceptional diggers, constantly reshaping the terrain. Ideally, I'd like someone to slip in and take a look."
He lifted his head.
"Volunteers?"
Nearly every second raised a hand. Sark shook his head immediately.
"Youth is impetuous. You need patience before courage. Huntmasters — raise your hand if you trust your second is up to the task."
Silence.
Then, slowly, Huntmaster Dern lifted his hand.
Sark gave a low, approving grunt. "Dem Swiftwind. Go in, map the interior with your eyes, then come back. Do not attack. If you're spotted, flee at once. A healthy Tatzelwurm sleeps during the day — but this one is poisoned. We can't trust anything."
The group watched as Dem prepared.
He set aside his bow and spear with deliberate care, handing them to Dern. Then he knelt, poured water onto the soil, and rubbed the damp dirt across his palms before smearing it over his cheeks, forehead, and throat.
Dern frowned. "You sure you don't want the spear?"
Dem shook his head. He reached toward a nearby sage bush, crushing handfuls of buds between his fingers and rubbing them across his arms and chest until he smelled like the hills.
"I'll have my blades."
Sark stepped beside the narrow tunnel entrance. "Remember: don't engage. Quiet as a mouse."
In a blur of dark motion, Dem vanished into the alternate passage. The ceiling brushed his hair; the tunnel walls gentled under his fingertips as he avoided disturbing loose soil. Darkness deepened — then thickened — and Dem's pupils widened, drinking in shadow.
His breath thinned. The air grew dense. His vision shifted, adjusting to the enclosed space.
A heavy musk coated the back of his throat. Beneath it lurked something wrong — an acrid taint like infection.
Dem slowed instantly.
Typhon venom.
The Tatzelwurm's mind would be unraveling.
He took another step—
—and froze.
Something familiar scented the air. Completely out of place.
Jasmine.
Perfume worn by women of the city.
His jaw tightened.
The tunnel widened abruptly, opening into a cavern carved half by nature, half by the labor of claws. Water dripped somewhere to his right, echoing softly. And beneath that sound…
Breathing.
A deep, ragged wheeze. A sickly whistle on every exhale.
Wounded. Poisoned. Suffering.
Bones littered the floor — countless small skeletons arranged in a scatter pattern. Not random.
A detection field.
Step on one, and the crack would echo like a shout.
Dem scanned the room. A narrow ledge cut high along the right wall. Too small for a grown man to walk, but not too small for him.
He leaped, caught the stone, and hauled himself up slowly, like a shadow sliding into place. The ledge rose at an angle, giving him a full vantage of the cavern below.
And there — sprawled on the stone — lay a human.
Thin. Pale. Broken.
Dem's stomach tightened.
One of Rubai's men.
One who had stood outside the Rat King's tomb.
A sudden WHAM cracked through the cavern.
The sound reverberated off stone. Dem nearly slipped, flattening himself to the ledge.
From the cavern floor, a long sinuous shape uncoiled upward.
The Tatzelwurm rose.
Its serpentine body rippled with muscle. Its feline head, far larger than any desert lion, lifted with a low, rattling breath. Two massive fangs curved down past its jaw like sabers.
It stared toward the far wall, then slammed its tail against the ground again — a deafening crack.
Dem narrowed his eyes.
Sound mapping. It's using the echoes to find its way.
He followed its gaze and at first saw nothing — just stone.
Then he focused, scenting the air, his nostrils flaring.
The cavern's aroma shifted into layered threads — thin ribbons drifting through darkness.
Behind a cluster of rocks, three human shapes hunched together. Their presence was hidden beneath some kind of unnatural masking agent.
But Dem knew them anyway.
Captain Rubai.
Matrea.
Ciara.
All hiding inside a Tatzelwurm's nest.
Dem's expression hardened.
He retreated as silently as he'd entered, retracing each step without disturbing a pebble. When he reached the tunnel mouth, he stooped, lifted a fist-sized rock, and weighed it in his palm.
A single throw.
The stone sailed through the air and struck the main entrance with a sharp, echoing crack.
Dem watched long enough to confirm the creature turned toward the sound.
Then he slipped outside, silent as dusk.