TCOB: CHAPTER TWO( Arc 2)

Hunt

The sun had begun its descent by the time Clyde unexpectedly stumbled back on the trail that brought the delving expedition to the dungeon in the first place. The soft, trodden soil still bore the marks left behind by the conscripted Yeomen; all of whom, except him, were most likely now dead.

For a moment, Clyde stood at the crossroads, contemplating the two choices that lay before him. Should he return in the direction of Neverna, he would more quickly put this entire debacle behind him. But should he follow the footsteps back to the secluded ravine that was the dungeon's mouth, he would most likely be able to scavenge a few supplies and medicine from the many corpses outside the dungeon to treat his steadily worsening injury, decreasing the possibility that he might not make it back in the first place.

With a painful sigh, the reincarnator turned—ignoring that lizard part of his brain screaming to flee from the area entirely—as he began to trudge back towards the dungeon.  A fever was beginning to take hold of him and his thoughts felt light and fuzzy. Clyde was utterly exhausted, his bones weighing his body down like lead weights. Blood had fully soaked his crudely bandaged wound, and with adrenaline no longer in his veins to mute the pain, he knew it was a fool's dream to say with any certainty that he might make it to Neverna in the state he currently was.

His short sword, the blade stained with a mix of dried blood and viscera and its sharp edge dulled, felt more like a burden now than any true means of self-defense. Still, he did not dare put it down. Memories of bonehounds snapping at his heels continued to burn brightly in his mind.

Soon he arrived back at the ravine. The towering trees growing on the walls around the site now felt distinctly ominous with the dim light of dusk drawing long shadows beneath them. The tiny stream that flowed along to the right of the ravine trickled along noisily, the sounds doing little to alleviate the tension in the air.

The shadowy corner at the heart of the narrow gorge that was the entrance to the dungeon was now pitch black. Undiscernible. When Clyde listened carefully, he felt he could faintly hear the scraping noise of bone claws digging through dirt and hard rock.

Whether it was reality or merely a figment of his feverish imagination, Clyde couldn't say with much certainty.

Still, he hurriedly began his search, ransacking whatever bodies he found for something of value. Most had already been stripped bare, but he managed to find a few pieces of meat jerky, as well as one vial of low-grade healing salve that had been distributed to every man on the day the expedition sat out.

Carefully, Clyde undid the crude bandage he had wrapped around his thigh before rinsing out the wound in the nearby stream. The salve burned for a few moments when it came in contact with the gash in his flesh but it quickly settled into a more cooling sensation a few seconds later.

When done, he washed the bandages before wringing them out and re-wrapping them around his wound. The few supplies he managed to gather were stored in a bag he found and—

Footsteps.

Clyde froze, his eyes flickering to the less-worn short sword he had picked off one yeoman's corpse. It was lying on a log by the stream a few meters away, where he had left it after cleaning it. 

Fuck! 

Thoughts swam frantically in his head as he realized he couldn't reach the weapon without alerting whatever had come visiting.

The footsteps grew closer.

Clyde pried his dagger free from its crude strap by his waist as he balanced his body weight on his uninjured leg. Dire anticipation flooded his mind as the animal drew closer.

Closer still. He could now begin to make out the silhouette of a four-legged, long-necked creature, its shoulders nearly as high as a man was tall.

A horse.

A breath of relief escaped Clyde as he put his dagger away before slowly approaching the animal. He had ridden horses quite frequently in his past life, mostly for fun, sometimes for sport. He knew his way around them even if the Clyde whose body he now possessed didn't.

"Hello," he whispered, his voice just barely audible above his labored breathing. The animal huffed in response but remained calm. It was well-bred and taken cared for, that much Clyde could infer as he ran his hand down along its long face. Gripping its reins, he maneuvered himself to stand by the saddle before rummaging through the leather bag that was hanging from it.

Clyde still couldn't read, so he was unable to infer what any of the neatly folded documents inside said. A shame, they seemed very important. Putting those aside, he pulled free some fresh sets of familiar clothes, vials containing strange, mystical fluids, two bottles of ale, more beef-jerky, and a strange-looking talisman with a familiar curly pattern on its surface. It was at that moment that Clyde realized Ser Dunice, the supervisor for the other platoon, didn't flee from the cave when his fellow supervisors did.

"Ah," the reincarnator said eloquently. "You're the other bastard's horse. And he's dead now ... so I get to keep you?"

The horse grunted, seemingly in response. 

Clyde took that as an agreement.

His gaze flickered to the talisman he found in the satchel by the saddle as his hand reached for the magical noose around his neck. Unless he was mistaken, the patterns on the talisman were reminiscent of the ones on the necklace around his neck. Still, despite suspecting the talisman to be the key to unlocking the delayed death sentence strapped to his person, Clyde didn't have an inkling of thought about how to use it so he just stuffed it back in the satchel and steered the horse towards the stream.

A matter of a later time, he supposed.

Holding that thought, he discarded his yeoman garb and quickly washed his body to the best of his ability before donning one of Dunice's much cleaner clothes. His new sword was wrapped in a piece of rag before it was stuffed into the satchel.

Exhaustion clawed at Clyde's mind as he hauled himself onto the horse's saddle, but the fear seared into his mind kept it at bay. The former inspector knew well that rest would continue to remain beyond him until his body failed or he put a few dozen miles between himself and the dungeon, preferably before the monsters trapped within inadvertently break out and begin to scour the surrounding forest of anything and everything that moves.

***

A few hours later.

The vine-laden, rusted metal door that Clyde left in his wake stood silently amongst the trees that had grown to surround and conceal it. Unmoving. 

Until it was not. 

There was a loud bang as something collided with it from behind. The door rang like a gong, frightening what little critters made their home there into hiding. There was another ear-splitting bang, and another before a fourth tore it off its hinges.

The towering bonehound that stood behind it staggered out before shaking as a dog might do after coming out of water; clumps of coagulated blood scattered from the gash along its shoulder, splattering on the surrounding leaves and trees and making a general mess of things. The monster, seemingly unaware of matters of this nature, turned an angry gaze to the fallen obstacle, glaring at it for a long moment before sniffing disdainfully and looking away. Its attention turned to the faint blood trail leading from its feet into the forest as many of its smaller brethren poured out of the underground corridor behind it. Calmly, it took a deep sniff of the blood-tainted air.

Then, suddenly, its ears rose to attention as it lowered its frame to the ground before shooting forth, its pack hot on its heels, with the intent of continuing the hunt.