The figures nearest the crystal columns turned to face the group, drawing greataxes from over their shoulders. Dressed in black they were sometimes difficult to see in the fleeting shadows, but the whites of their teeth showed through their grins as they espied easy prey. Glimpses of movement and the sounds of shuffles and scrapes gave away the fact that there were others in this cathedral of shadows.

The priest plunged the knife into the halfling's heart, spurts of blood covering the dais. The halfling's eyes flickered open for a moment, pain and anguish in his eyes, then the priest began to tear downwards, tracing the line of the cut he had already made.

Blood started to flow down the halfling's chest, but then it turned, seeping outwards across the horns of the brand and out towards the halfling's outstretched arms, flowing onto the manacles, across the chains, and onto the statue. From there it began its inexorable march to the crimson streams, dripping down the side of the statue and dais in pulsing rhythm.

The halfling screamed once, and then was silent, and still.

The figures next to the dais brought the elf forwards.

‘Ulmo! No!’ shouted Rangrim, breaking into a run, heading for the dais, his face white with shock.

The dwarf sprinted for all he was worth, with only one thought on his mind, to reach that of his friend.

As he reached the grate he ran across one of the crimson streams, the blood slippy and treacherous underfoot.

His legs gave out beneath him as the slick pool cost him his balance. With a racking sob for his friend he fell to the floor in a heap.

Khalin slammed into the Berserker, just avoiding Tradden's whirling blades. The human in front of them didn't seem to care, and set himself ready for his own assault.

The blood dripped from the statue, growing in speed as the knife cut down and down and the halfling took his last breath. It joined the streams and started running slowly down the channels towards the grate and the fall down below.

From out of the shadows, from one of the many recesses of the chamber, flooded a number of new figures.

Dressed in dark garments, covered by a layer of ragged chainmail, they swooped almost silently towards Khalin and Tradden, sharp claws glinting in the crystal light. Two veered away at the last minute, wary of the whirling blades of the young fighter, and rounded the eastern side of the grate.

Closing in, they appeared to be humanoid of some sort, perhaps even human once. But, all traces of their former race were lost, consumed within the dark evil that had transformed them into creatures of horror.

They closed in on Khalin for the kill.

The dwarf raised his shield, warding off these strange creatures, keeping their sharp claws at bay.

The small winged creature kept its path towards Zero, or was it towards the hole? It was ungainly in flight, struggling with oddly shaped wings, but kept its bright yellow eyes firmly fixed upon the rogue.

As it closed on the centre of the chamber it was illuminated by the crystal columns, and all could see that it was not of flesh and bone, but perhaps mud or clay. Whatever the strange creature was, it was no living being, a construct maybe, or some arcane beast.

The halfling's blood continued to spill towards the hole, running along the crimson path, picking up speed as it neared the grate.

The other dark humanoid managed to get out of the way of the explosion in time, but the berserker did not, the razor-sharp blades of force tearing across his blood-speckled lips, opening further cuts. With a blind roar of rage, the berserker swung out with its greataxe.

Tradden was caught by surprise, and took the full weight of the blow.

Satisfied that the halfling's blood had started to make its journey, the priest tore down the manacles that held the lifeless corpse in position, and cast aside the body with an easy motion.

There was a muffled shout from the centre of the chamber, as Rangrim sobbed and snarled, but the priest did not even flicker, continuing his ritual as though unconcerned at those behind his back.

The priest motioned for the two fleshrippers to move forward with the elf, and began chaining the limp body to the statue, a litany upon his lips.

The first of the blood from the halfling reached the gate, split into macabre waterfalls, glistening in the blue-green light of the crystal columns. It began to fall to the void below.

Zero followed the rest of the group into the chamber a little tentatively. This horrific scene brought back memories of the mausoleum and how the spirit had entered his mind. However, he must steel himself, and help his friends.

The flight of the bolt was true, without any delay, and it thudded into the berserker's shoulder drawing another furious shout.

The hammer blows, sword cuts, spells and bolts had only enraged the first berserker, the fervour instilled in him from the prayers and worship at this despicable altar gave him the strength to do his master's will.

However, before he could swing his axe, Tradden stepped forward with his whirling blades, cutting across his arms.

He ignored the sharp bite of steel and brought his axe around in a wide swing.

Tradden's whirling blades caught the axe in mid-flight, holding it still for a moment as the combatants locked eyes. The berserker snarled, blood-flecked spittle covering the young fighter. Tradden returned the compliment with a knowing smile and released the axe, continuing his whirl of blades.

The second berserker acted on his master's will in an instant, rounding the crystal column.

Before cutting down on the sobbing Rangrim.

The axe came down and Rangrim would have had his head decapitated had he not rolled to the side. As it was he took a nasty cut to his scalp. The immediate threat brought the dwarf to his senses, and he snarled at the berserker.

More of the dark humanoids came out of the darkness.

One skirted the crystal column and took a swipe at Tradden with its claws.

Tradden felt as though something had tugged at his insides when the claws bit into his flesh. A cold numbness tore at his guts.

The other fleshrippers assisted the priest in trussing up the elf at the statue.

The droplets of halfling's blood fell the distance down into a pool of blood below. Over the noise of the battle it could not be heard, but Kireth could sense it fall, a shudder racking through his body as he tried to piece together the puzzle of what would happen next, and where the blood would go.

He knew that Ulmo was gone, the life ripped out of him. Above him towered one of the berserkers, axe in hand, ready to strike once more. With slow, watchful care he began to stand, scooping up a handful of his friend's blood in his hand.

He scowled at the berserker and threw the blood to one side, drawing the fighter's attention.

Before the berserker could bring his gaze back to the dwarf, Rangrim swept round with the hammer, aiming for the fighter's knee.

The berserker took a step back, his combat experience outmatching that of the dwarf, and the wild swipe missed.

The blow was intense, even though Khalin caught it on his shield, the sheer force crushed him against the crystal pillar, knocking the wind out of him in an instant. As the blow landed, the berserker fell flat on his face in the blood, the final spark of animation left his body. The priest at the altar took a moment to look round and smile.

The dark humanoids seemed to swoop in like crows at carrion when Khalin's blood spilled and mixed with the crimson streams on the floor.

The first fleshripper wasted no time in sinking its claws into the dwarf, chilling his bones and adding to his misery. Another swooped in, sensing an easy kill.

But Khalin somehow managed to get his shield in.front of him, although his arms felt like lead. The other one moved around the grate, heading towards Rangrim at speed.

The rogue dwarf had managed to set himself now, and easily dodged the oncoming storm.

Clumsily, the strange clay-like winged creature moved above the grate and hole, hovered for a moment, and then darted down and out of sight.

It was a strange beast, looking more made than born, but decidedly had intent.

The creature halted its attack on Khalin, thrashing and scraping at itself in terror. Whatever nightmare was invading its mind, its comrade seemed to sense it too.

Both of the creatures fell to the floor, writhing and thrashing until they were still.

Kireth could sense the blood splashing into a pool below. He could feel it stretching out and the power feeding something, something yawning, something pulling…

The mage suddenly felt himself slipping forwards, his mind distracted.

The priest continued to tie the limp elf to the statue, ordering the fleshrippers away to deal with the intruders. The sounds of battle behind him were intensifying and he was beginning to find it most irritating.

Perhaps he would finish off this elf first, and then deal with them personally, or he might finish trussing the elf up and then kill them. Choices, choices. The manacles closed around the elf's wrists, and the priest drew his ceremonial dagger.

The bolt caught the thing in the throat, and it fell back into the crimson stream instantly, the body slowly following the current until it stopped on the grate, stopping the waterfall at the southern side.

The remaining fighter seemed to pay little attention to his fellow falling, simply bringing his axe to bear in great wide swipes. Rangrim watched the axe blade weave to and fro in front of his face almost mesmerised, before the swing was reversed and brought right towards his midriff.

Rangrim just managed to dodge the swing and dropped into a crouch, further infuriating the berserker.

Satisfied that the limp elf was held securely, the fleshrippers moved forwards, their tattered cloaks billowing out behind them as they moved with unnearthly speed.

One closed in on Khalin and Tradden's position, extending its claws towards Tradden with an ear-piercing scream.

The second charged at Rangrim, its arms wide, claws glittering in the blue-green crystal light.

The last swooped in at Khalin, enticed by the blood splattered across the dwarf's chest.

The claws raked across the dwarf's cheek, drawing another splatter of blood.

The dwarf rogue had two opponents now, one of the fighters and one of the odd dark humanoids. He wasn't used to fighting alone, preferring to be on the periphery and dart in and stun opponents when he could. Still, he had one or two tricks up his sleeve when he needed them.

Content with the blow, he poised, ready to see what the enemy would do next.

Kireth cursed as the words of the spell trickled from his mind, but had no time to berate himself more severely — an involuntary movement took him backwards, something unseen dragging him swiftly towards the hole at the centre of the chamber.

For a moment the mage tottered on the brink, his arms wheeling, looking down, seeing the pool of blood below, and something, something else…

He regained his balance, teetering on the edge, but his composure was gone.

‘You shall pay dearly for interrupting my master's will,’ the priest uttered, drawing a blackened mace from his belt. ‘A lesson must be served.’

The priest whirled on the fighter, drawing the mace in a crushing arc at Tradden's head.

Tradden easily dodged the clumsy swing, drawing another snarl from the priest.

‘I never was that good at school!’ the fighter quipped, looking for an opening.

A low, soft moan issued from the elf, and the fingers on his right hand unclenched slowly.

The bolt skimmed Tradden's shoulder and thudded into the altar near the statue, its shaft quivering.

The remaining berserker continued its assault against Rangrim, swinging its greataxe with fury.

The dwarf managed to block the swing with the shaft of his hammer. The contest was proving to be quite evenly matched.

From out of the darkness from around the side of the dais whistled a small object aimed squarely for Tradden's chest.

The dagger plunged into Tradden's chain shirt, causing an intense pain. The young fighter squinted to shut out the feeling, but then found he couldn't see!

Something else was happening out there, though.

Amidst Tradden's blind panic, he couldn't even begin to speculate what had happened.

Despite his moment of rest his sight did not return.

Tradden's blood trickled down his chain shirt and dripped into the crimson flow, adding to the pool below.

The wily dwarf decided discretion at the moment was the better part of valour. He was evenly matched against the berserker, and needed an edge to help him through. It seemed that edge, in the form of Khalin, was nearby.

If Khalin attacked, Rangrim could use the warlord's bulk to distract the berserker.

The charge knocked the wind out of the priest as Khalin hurled the craghammer against his ribs with a loud crack. A thin dribble of blood appeared at the corner of the priest's mouth. He licked his lips with a smile.

‘You bring me closer to my master!’ he roared, the smile growing into a grin.

There was something off to the northern side of the dais area, lurking in the shadows. Something small, perhaps the size of a halfling, but the warlord couldn't make out what.

Rangrim watched Khalin's back as he sped away to the dais and mumbled to himself with ire. He spat on the ground next to the berserker's feet and swung his hammer carefully.

The hammer crashed against the berserker's mail and left Rangrim ready to strike again if needed be.

It seemed that time was immediate, as the berserker, blood streaming down his torso, swung his greataxe around in retaliation. Rangrim had set himself well, though, and his strike got in first.

The hammer struck the mail once more, drawing a gasp of breath from the berserker, before the greataxe swung around.

The greataxe cut across Rangrim's arm. A cut for a cut. It seemed this battle would wage for ever.

The bolt struck the priest in the shoulder, but it elicited nothing more than a snarl.

Showers of blood& — the flow increased by Tradden's, Khalin's, and the underpriest's cuts and lacerations —  were consumed by the void and fell into a ghastly pool below. There they mixed and swelled and fed… something.

That same something drew upon this crimson river and from words intoned by a nearby scion of nefarious intent. It bulged and widened and the membrane thinned. More blood was needed, more words, and more energy. Yet it would be soon.

It spewed forth shadow upon shadow, thin wispy tendrils that searched out Kireth, grabbing at his robes and legs and arms, pulling him ever closer to the edge, the mage's fingers unable to get a firm grip on the smooth column.

The underpriest laughed as he saw the shadows tug at Kireth, drawing the mage closer to the hole and the drop to the blood pool below.

‘My Lord will taste your body, and my master will be rewarded!’ he sniggered. ‘You come here to stop us, but you will only aid us, you pitiful Vale creatures.’

As he spoke he raised his arms, summoning the shadows to his aid. The shadows flittered across the chamber, soaking into the priests eyes, and ears, and mouth. The priest's eyes seemed to glow with a strange darkness, and the cuts seemed to close before Khalin's eyes.

‘The closer you bring me to My Lord, the more powerful I become!’ he laughed. With that he swung his mace at the groping Tradden.

Tradden didn't see, but felt the icy chill of the priest's mace slam into his shoulder, freezing his blood and chilling his heart.

The bolt took the priest by surprise, slamming into his shoulder, knocking the smile from his lips. The colour of the priest's skin seemed to change to a pallid grey. Death was near.

The berserker continued his assault against Rangrim, the two foes circling one another, trading blow for blow.

Once again Rangrim caught the blow on the shaft of the warhammer, pushing it away and to the side.

The elf's eyes flickered open for a moment. Chained to the statue, he could barely move, the tautness of the chains combined with the little strength he had left in his body. His lips moved, but no sound issued. His finger kept pointing off to the north, to the place in the shadows where the unknown attacker lay.

Another dagger flew from the shadows to the north, whistling along the dais, aimed squarely at Khalin's thighs.

The dagger lodged home, hitting a nerve, sending shivers up Khalin's spine and dimming his vision. For a moment the dwarf couldn't move, and then he found he couldn't see!

Without the ability to see, sometimes other senses come to the fore. Tradden and Khalin, stood on the steps of the dais, were fighting on instinct, using their growing martial prowess to ward off blows and judge where their opponents stood.

Yet, there was something else amongst the chaos of battle.

Yes, there it was again, thought Tradden. A cry, perhaps behind the statue area, a plea for help.

The sword thrust through the priest's belly — a fatal wound. The priest dropped his mace, his face a mixture of surprise and a macabre delight. He grabbed hold of Tradden's arms, and pulled himself closer, the blade sinking deeper and deeper. The young fighter couldn't see, but could feel the priest's face edging closer, the spittle on his lips splattering against Tradden's face as the priest began his final words.

‘My work is done, my blood will flow. My Lord will reward me in the Chaos.’

The words felt heavy in Tradden's mind, a numbness crossing him.

With relief, he saw the chamber slowly fading back into view.

From somewhere upon the dais Khalin could hear a whispery, croaked response, but could not make out the words.

The dwarf rogue still didn't have the advantage against the berserker, and knew that this battle would be a tricky one.

He set himself once more, ready to counter the berserker if it swung its axe once again.

The blow hit home, and Rangrim was ready for the return strike.

The berserker barely seemed to notice the bolt crash into his back, so intent he was on Rangrim.

No wisps of shadow came this time, no smoky tendrils wrapping themselves around the hem of Kireth's robes. At first it seemed like relief to the mage — the chains holding the elf to the statue did not look particular appealing, if but practical — but then his gut began to gnaw with foreboding. What would be next?

He could still sense the bulging and thrusting below, but something drew close to an end. Perhaps there was enough blood and energy to satiate it. Perhaps it paused for a moment to build strength for a final push?

The manacles clicked open to Zero's skill and the elf fell into his arms, clutching the young rogue with unexpected strength. A raspy voice, cracked and parched, attempted to speak in Zero's ear a couple of times before it grew stronger, and the words became understandable.

‘Below,’ the elf uttered. ‘Stop them.’

The elf coughed and spluttered, a dry bark. ‘Others… behind. Free… them.’

His eyes sparkled and the chapped lips almost drew a smile. ‘More than Blackengorge!’ he said, almost triumphantly, and then collapsed limply into Zero's embrace.

The pair of combatants still circled each other warily. The dark fighter knew his priest had fallen and that it was only a matter of time before he would join the crimson flow and be of ultimate service to his Lord. However, he could take the dwarf with him, adding another's blood to the pool below.

With a roar, he swung his axe in another great arc.

Rangrim was ready, however, having set himself up for the counter. As the axe was drawn back, he punched forwards with his hammer.

The berserker gurgled as the hammer struck his sternum with a crack. There was a moment of stillness, as the fighter tried to catch his breath, couldn't, and then fell to his knees, slumping before the dwarf.

With a grunt of victory and a howl of “Ulmo!”, Rangrim stepped over the fallen man and started running towards the halfling slumped on the dais.

There was a hiss from the shadows around the northern side of the dais as the priest fell and the berserker's breastbone shattered. There was a swift movement as a small figure darted towards the west heading for the yawning gap in the centre of the chamber, trying to leap the crimson flow.

It was a curious thing, small and almost halfling-like, wrapped in voluminous black robes, a knife in hand. Its grey skin and huge protruding nose were visible in the shimmering light of the crystal columns.

It leaped the blood stream with ease, and paused behind the northwestern column, hiding from the group.

With a quick glance and turn it then scampered swiftly across the stonework, heading for the pit in the centre of the room, grabbing a hold of one of the chains leading down through the void, looking back at the group with a scowl.

The creature's eyes widened in alarm as Tradden bore down on it. It clutched tightly to the thick chain, but the young fighter's strength knocked its hands away, and it staggered back a few feet, looking left and right anxiously for means of escape.

So close to the pit's edge, Tradden could see down into the depths below. The blood still trickled through the grates, dripping onto the chains and down to a vast pool of blood below. A bright light to the north of the blood pool stung his eyes — a large circle glowing on the floor some fifty feet below. A deep rhythmic chant continued, unconcerned with events above.

The young fighter shook his head, clearing the sense of vertigo, and tried to focus on the enemy before him. At the back of his mind, though, came a whispering dirge, a call from below, “Tradden! Tradden!” unsettling him.

In all of the blood and the growing sense of vertigo, the blade went whistling past the creature's shoulder.

Rangrim sprinted across the stone floor, careful to avoid the slippy blood trails.

He skidded to a halt near the halfling's body, cradling the lifeless form in his arms, his tears falling onto the white face of the corpse.

‘Ulmo!’ he sobbed, anger growing in his voice.

The bolt struck home but did not seem to affect the creature that much.

Outnumbered and outmatched in the light, the small humanoid looked down the pit to flee. First it had to dodge Tradden's blades, which whirled and swung in intense fury, barely missing the chains snaking down into the pit below.

The blades cut across the black robes and the creature winced in pain. As the others closed in, it decided it was time to go regardless of the young fighter's advances.

Tradden reacted quickly, keeping his blades moving, and slashing across the dark creeper's side as it moved away.

The creature squealed as the blade bit deep, but it moved quickly, jumping and grabbing hold on one of the chains, attempting to slide down the blood-slickened metal to the chamber below.

Kireth had not felt the pull and insistence of the power below for some moments, and had begun to steady himself. His latest proclamation, spat out with a clear voice, showed he was regaining his usual composure.

As he moved closer to the pit, however, the whispers began to return. Fleeting sounds trickling his name into his ear, beckoning him to come, making him desire to walk open-armed into whatever danger lay below. An incredible power was close, almost close enough to touch, if only he could reach in and gather some for himself. As his thoughts wandered, the whispers rose in intensity, and he found his mind racing, a feeling of vertigo, and the pull once more.

‘Come! Come!’ they offered. ‘Give yourself and your wishes will be rewarded!’

He stumbled forwards, closer and closer towards the pit, before he knew what he was doing.

‘No!’ he shouted, stopping himself and falling to his knee. Power such as this came at a price, perhaps more than even he was willing to pay. He tried to blank his mind, to keep the whispers away, but they were too strong, and he rose uncontrollably, and staggered forwards once more, right to the edge of the abyss!

Then a new voice came to his mind.

A familiar voice. Once he had heard and understood before. A woman's voice.

‘It is time,’ it sighed and a peace overcame him.

He could hear death in the gurgles of the berserker as it sank into the blood stream at its knees. He could hear it in the rattling breath slipping out from the elf's spittle-flecked lips. He could spy it in the wide eyes of the fleeing dark creeper and in the glass-eyed stare of the priest on the dais. He could smell it in the tainted air as the crimson streams trickled past, and he could feel it pulsing and bulging below.

The time he'd spent examining Helvec's tome had taught him the power of death — the fringes of necromancy, and the touches of nethermancy. The mad elf had been trying a similar ritual to the one happening below, one opening a smaller portal with the blood and death of innocent children. But here was a greater power at work, fueled by any number of deaths, a larger portal.

Death was the servitor here. Death was the power. Death was opening a doorway, allowing whatever foul horde lay beyond to enter, and then all would be laid to waste. The ritual must be stopped, and this time he knew the price.

The whispers and the pull on his body stopped. Kireth straightened, clutching at his staff with a firm hand, and stood tall. He looked down into the chamber below without the least sense of vertigo.

‘Finish that thing!’ he commanded the others with a nod towards the dark creeper. ‘We have work to do.’

In this case, however, the move was just enough. The tip of his shortsword pierced the dark creeper's throat as it struggled to regain balance, and it slumped backwards, gurgling but certainly dead.

Tradden stepped forwards again, putting a boot into the now deceased sneak, partly because he wanted to make sure it was away from the channels of blood, and also partly because he was just in that kind of mood.