Panic blurred the edges of Oak's vision and gave strength to his limbs. He flew through the doorway and landed hard on his burned shoulder on the dungeon's stone floor, Jehona wrapped in his arms. Agony pierced his dread like a fist full of sharp needles. They slid to a stop, and he flung the shrieking priestess further into the dungeon, past a buttress and a pile of smashed crates.

Pain could wait its turn. Oak had bigger concerns at the moment.

The infernal worm of rot and decay squeezed through the doorway into the dungeon, excess flesh sloughing off from its milky white bulk in great slabs. Oak grabbed his blades from the floor and jumped upright, backing away from the nightmare made flesh as fast as he could manage.

Fuckmefuckmefuckme!

A torrent of corruption wafted from the hellish creature, flooding the cramped dungeon with an inexorable truth; all things must die and wither. Rot waited at the end of the line. An invisible tide of decay sought to bring Oak to his knees, but Ashmedai's gifts saved him from a fate worse than death. The infernal engine inside his soul belched radiant flames, blasting apart the questing tendrils of corruption, and he kept his feet in the face of terror.

Somewhere behind him, Jehona struggled to her knees with a shout, shaking her head. The blind priestess had taken a rough tumble and Oak had not helped matters by throwing her across the floor. She had lost her headscarf and her black hair was in utter disarray, marked with streaks of dust and grime. No surprise there. Jehona's angelic protector shielded her against demonic corruption, but the Erelim's protection did nothing to lessen the pain of smashing one's face against solid stone.

Even the Choirs won't let you skip life's hard knocks.

Oak trusted the priestess would sort herself out. Jehona still clutched her long-knife and hatchet in her delicate hands and she had a bloodthirsty look on her face. Who needed a headscarf, when you had good steel in hand, anyway?

The worm hissed and gathered itself, coiling against the low ceiling. Looking for an opening to strike. The air felt heavy, like trying to breathe liquid. Waves of corruption churned and seethed against the moist round walls of the dungeon, filling the small space with a storm of infernal power.

Lungs straining like overworked bellows, Oak hopped behind the same buttress he had thrown Jehona past and shook himself. "Come on!"

The worm circled first from the right, then from the left, seeking weakness. Cockroaches, centipedes and rotting strips of flesh dribbled from the nightmare in great rivulets and globs, splashing against the floor like overripe fruit.

At floor level, the dungeon was a long rectangle, but the round walls and the low, arching ceiling took up their fair share of space. There wasn't that much room to maneuver. No place to flee, either.

"Come on!" Oak roared and shook himself, trying to psyche himself up and stoke his wrath to better prepare himself for the fight. The Corse of Bloodshed answered his call, humming with savage anticipation. Infernal might waited with bated breath for the opportunity to suffuse his flesh.

Step to the right, the Butcher whispered.

Oak followed his instincts and hopped to the right, just as the worm snapped forth around the pillar, trying to bite him in two. Its maw closed on nothing and Oak bathed the monster's flank in flame.

Bubbling flesh burned, and rotten fat boiled away by the bucketful.

The smell beggared belief. Oak had no words for it. Like a burning latrine covered in offal and week old diarrhea, except a thousand times worse.

"Honor to the Valiant! Death to the unclean!" Jehona screamed and sank her blades into the worm's disgusting, tumorous head. The priestess held on with a white knuckled grip as the worm seized and struggled, smashing its bulk against the ceiling.

Not to be outdone by the waifish woman, Oak got to hacking with his short sword and cleaver, slicing and dicing burned meat off the worm's flank. Wrath and disgust burned in his heart like piles of dry coal, fueling the symphony of violence he conducted with his blades.

The nightmarish creature lost its mind.

It bucked with increasing strength, smashing its monstrous weight against the walls, the ceiling and the debris of shelves and crates filling the dungeon floor, leaving no room for Oak to bring his weapons to bear.

Jehona lost her grip. Her fingers slipped from the handles of her blades, which stuck out of the horror's tumorous head, and she went flying.

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The Priestess crashed into a shelf which collapsed on top of her in a cloud of dust. Bugger. "Jehona!" Oak shouted and cursed himself inside his own mind in the same breath. Wasting air was a good way to get yourself killed in a fight. He hoped against all odds that Jehona could walk it off. Two heads were better than one, and he didn't want to face this monster alone.

One nuisance temporarily dealt with, the worm rolled over and a sharp row of spines almost pierced Oak's belly. The rotting beast of Rot and Decay rounded on him, and smashed him aside with its great bulk, sending Oak sprawling on the floor.

Despite Oak's best efforts, he hit the back of his head on the rough stone. Stars danced in Oak's eyes, wooden splinters dug into his back and his ribs protested every struggling attempt to draw breath into his tired lungs. His grasping hands sought for the handles of his blades, but his weapons were nowhere to be found.

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

The worm rose above him and opened its massive drooling mouth. Rows upon rows of needle-like teeth quivered with anticipation, and a splash of yellowish drool dropped on Oak's chest, soiling his already ruined jacket beyond repair.

With the speed of a viper, the worm struck down. Oak screamed and caught the infernal beast by the sides of its bulky, tumorous head, barely holding the snapping maw at bay. The monster's weight crushed him against the hard stone floor and the slimy flesh threatened to slip from his desperate fingers as the worm coiled and writhed above him, pushing against the ceiling to force its disgusting fangs closer to his face.

If all else fails, be a savage, the Butcher whispered.

Bloody hands pushed Oak up from the floor, lending their strength to his shaking limbs. The roots of Oak's bones punched through rock and stone, grounding him against the foundations of the earth, pushing back against the monster bearing upon him.

"Savagery it is!" Oak roared and let the rage coursing through his veins take the reins. Infernal might surged from his soul like lava from an erupting volcano and Oak fell into the pit of his mind, cloaked in wicked glee.

I am the Flesher in the flesh. The Blood-Splattered Fist. The Unholy Mincer of Meat.

The Butcher laughed. Pushed and wriggled. He exerted grinding, unyielding pressure, rising to his knees and breathed fire right inside the worm's twitching mouth.

Radiant flames bloomed in the darkness of the dungeon and cooked the insides of the infernal monster's maw. Fangs cracked in the heat like hazel nuts under a hammer while rotting flesh bubbled and melted like wax. The worm's diseased gums fell from its mouth in strips of charred meat and boiling blood, and the dancing shadows cast by the ruined meat laughed in delight.

Warbled, choked hisses escaped the monster's mouth, its breath wheezing through airways burned by infernal flame. It backed up, trying to retreat from the pain, but the Butcher followed. Hounded the beast. Head lolling, eyes shining. He laid into the worm with blood-splattered fists, each blow strong enough to kill a grown man outright.

The worm bucked, and a spot of delicious agony bloomed on his stomach. Yes! Such a lovely idea! Rotting, tortured flesh parted in the face of unnatural strength and the Butcher sank a right hook inside the monster up to the elbow, heedless of his own pain.

A cleaver thumped on the worm's flank blade first, three inches from the Butcher's left hand. He felt the gaze of the Erelim on his back. Well done, meatbag. Jehona had climbed out from under the shelves and found his weapon. The blind priestess stood doubled over, leaning against the wall of the dungeon and watching him work, mouth open in astonishment.

Wet hissing. Burbling groans and snapping spines. Escape was in the worm's tiny mind. It coiled and writhed, hastily pushing its long body past the buttress and through the dungeon's doorway.

"Fight me, pathetic maggot! Face your end with pride!" The Butcher laughed. No one escapes. I am Death-Singing, Hate-Roaring. The Ferryman of Death always gets his due. "Come here, little grub."

The Butcher vaulted past the buttress holding up the ceiling, grabbed hold of the retreating worm's head, and bore the monster down. Cruel fingers holding fast, sharp cleaver sinking deep. He was a grizzly, ripping and tearing, a weasel burrowing into a fresh kill.

Like one long jugular. I love you, maggot.

Black blood fountained out of a dozen wounds on the worm's flank, each more serious than the last. Under the astonished gaze of Jehona, and the Erelim acting as her eyes, the Butcher hacked through the worm's struggling body and tore the hellish creature in two.

"Wiggle all night, wiggle all day. You just might wiggle your life away!" The Butcher sang and wiped rotten blood from his eyes. "Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!"

The monstrous, burned front-segment of the worm lay still while the body writhed, fighting against the inevitable end. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. A head removed from the body. A soul snatched away from the broken corpse. Slowly, but surely, reality set in and the death throes of the monster seized.

Licking his lips, the Butcher turned towards Jehona. The priestess took a step back, naked fear twisting her features. "Stay back, Warlock!" she croaked, grasping at the grimy wall of the dungeon and the remains of collapsed shelving to keep herself standing. Her movements revealed a thick splinter of wood sticking out of her side, right between her ribs.

Labored breathing and priestly robes matted with blood. The priestess might have punctured a lung. Ally, a familiar voice whispered inside the Butcher's mind. She is an ally. He indulged the voice. After all, Jehona was already a walking corpse, bought and paid for.

"Don't worry, meatbag. Your death is spoken for," the Butcher said and stalked closer through the mess and debris, stroking the spine of his cleaver like it was a cherished pet. "Destiny awaits us both down below."

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