Page 25 of Chained to the Horned God

BARSOK

T he jungle breathes around us, a living, pulsing entity that shifts with every passing second.

It’s a riot of colors and sounds, brilliant greens and fiery blossoms splashed across the oppressive darkness beneath the dense canopy.

The heat hangs thick, heavy as chains draped around my shoulders, my fur damp and matted from sweat and the humid air.

Each breath feels like swallowing steam, thick and uncomfortable in my throat.

My senses sharpen fiercely, instincts screaming warnings with every rustle, every distant cry of a hidden creature.

The jungle is beautiful but treacherous, cloaked in shadows that hide threats as lethal as they are unseen.

Our group moves fast, hunched low beneath the twisted branches and tangled vines, each careful step muffled by the damp soil.

Our breaths come in ragged gasps, exhaustion threatening to bring us to our knees, but adrenaline keeps us upright, vigilant.

Valoa’s small hand grips mine tightly, her skin slick with sweat but unyielding in her fierce determination.

Her presence beside me is a steady beacon in the chaos, comforting yet agonizing.

Every second that passes without confrontation feels like borrowed time, a fragile reprieve before inevitable danger finds us again.

I keep my eyes fixed ahead, ears straining for any sound of pursuit, for the rhythmic drumming that pulses through the air, distant but persistent—a grim reminder we’re far from safe.

Durk pushes ahead, his heavy frame battering through thick underbrush, hacking away stubborn vegetation with swift, efficient strikes.

Sharonna shadows him closely, her movements graceful yet cautious, alertness etched deeply into her features.

Behind us, the others trail silently, wounded, exhausted, yet fiercely determined to survive.

Each face is tense, etched deeply with worry, uncertainty, and grim resolve.

They trust me to lead them safely out of hell, and the weight of that trust nearly buckles my knees.

I focus fiercely, shoving down exhaustion and the bone-deep ache of countless bruises and fresh wounds.

My muscles protest sharply with each movement, battered from battle and escape, but determination propels me forward, one relentless step after another.

Valoa’s grip tightens, her breath quickening slightly, sensing my struggle, silently lending me strength with her unyielding presence.

The further we push into the jungle, the thicker and wilder it becomes.

The air grows heavier, rich with the scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, and vibrant, floral fragrances that clash sharply, dizzying in their intensity.

Birds screech harshly from high above, monkeys chatter rapidly, unseen, hidden deep within shadowed branches.

Each step feels harder, slower, the jungle conspiring to entangle and trap us with relentless persistence.

“Gods, it’s like walking through soup,” Durk growls irritably, wiping sweat from his brow, blade still clutched tightly in his massive fist. “You sure there’s an outpost out here?”

“Beltran swore,” Sharonna answers tersely, pushing forward, eyes scanning warily. “We just have to keep going.”

Valoa’s breathing grows harsher, and I glance quickly down at her, concern tightening my chest fiercely. “You alright?”

She nods sharply, jaw set in stubborn determination. “Just tired. I’ll make it.”

I squeeze her hand reassuringly, silently promising her we’ll survive this—no matter the cost. The jungle closes tighter, oppressive and relentless, each twisting vine, each dense patch of underbrush, each uneven root conspiring to trip and hinder us.

Frustration builds sharply within me, temper flaring dangerously beneath exhaustion and strain.

The distant drums pulse louder, more urgently, matching my heartbeat, a grim reminder of pursuit and imminent danger.

My pulse spikes violently, adrenaline surging, every muscle tightening instinctively, senses sharpening fiercely.

My grip on Valoa tightens protectively, desperation lending urgency to every hurried step forward.

Then suddenly, the dense jungle opens abruptly, spilling us into a small clearing that was once a crude outpost. My breath catches sharply in my chest, eyes widening in horror.

The outpost is nothing but blackened ruin, reduced to smoking, charred remnants.

The air is thick with acrid smoke, choking and bitter, stinging my eyes fiercely.

Charred wood and ash scatter the ground, shards of twisted metal gleaming dully amidst the devastation.

My heart sinks heavily, dread pooling darkly in my gut. Durk curses vehemently under his breath, stepping forward cautiously, blade raised defensively, eyes narrowed fiercely. Sharonna steps beside him, expression grim, eyes darting warily across the destruction.

“What the hell happened here?” Sharonna murmurs sharply, voice tight with shock and wary suspicion.

Durk kneels slowly, examining a shattered post carefully, fingers tracing bullet holes riddling the scorched wood, jaw clenching fiercely. “This wasn’t elves,” he growls, voice dark, tense with anger and confusion. “Gunfire.”

My chest tightens painfully, dread sharpening fiercely, suspicion and fury coiling sharply within me.

My pulse hammers violently, eyes scanning warily across the smoldering ruins, senses screaming warnings.

Valoa stiffens sharply beside me, body rigid, trembling fiercely with suppressed rage and fear.

“Gods,” she whispers fiercely, voice tight and brittle, eyes blazing with bitter realization. “It was Mike.”

The name sends cold dread washing violently over me, memories of Mike Rizzo’s ruthless determination, his callous disregard for collateral damage surging fiercely.

My breath catches harshly, pulse hammering, tension thickening sharply within our ragged group, suspicion and betrayal twisting painfully in each expression.

“We don’t know for sure,” I mutter gruffly, forcing reluctant optimism into my voice, eyes scanning warily, senses on high alert. “Could’ve been elves using captured weapons.”

Durk shakes his head grimly, expression hard and bitter. “No chance. This was systematic. Clean. Mike’s men. Had to be.”

My chest tightens painfully, dread twisting sharply within me, suspicion solidifying harshly into brutal certainty. Mike Rizzo’s brutal ambition has left no room for doubt, no chance for innocence. My pulse spikes sharply, dread and rage warring fiercely within me.

“That bastard,” Sharonna snarls fiercely, eyes blazing with raw fury, fingers tightening fiercely around her weapon. “Innocents died here. He massacred his own.”

Before I can reply, the mist swirling thickly at the edge of the clearing suddenly shifts sharply, parting swiftly as figures step slowly forward. My heart lurches violently, adrenaline flooding sharply, every muscle coiled, prepared for fight or flight.

Through the haze, Mike Rizzo emerges confidently, rifle slung carelessly over one shoulder, posture relaxed yet arrogantly assured.

His battered hat shades cold, merciless eyes, lips curled smugly in a mocking, triumphant smirk.

Behind him, human soldiers materialize silently, heavily armed, expressions hard and wary, eyes cold and calculating.

Mike’s gaze sweeps casually over our ragged, exhausted group, smirk widening slightly, dripping with cold satisfaction and undisguised contempt. He chuckles softly, the sound cold, mocking, utterly devoid of sympathy.

“Well, well,” he drawls slowly, voice dripping with sardonic amusement. “Look what the jungle dragged in.”

His cold gaze settles directly on mine, eyes narrowing slightly, challenge and threat radiating powerfully. My fists clench tightly, fury boiling violently within me, tension thickening sharply in the oppressive, smoke-choked air.

We’ve escaped one hell only to walk straight into another.

Mike Rizzo stands before us like some god of battle come down to bless his chosen warriors.

His eyes are wild, intense, lit with a fierce, unsettling light, a gaze so penetrating it makes my fur bristle with unease.

His tangled beard hangs low, dark and threaded with silver, framing a weathered face that carries the marks of violence like badges of honor.

In his hands he holds a musket, cradling it reverently, as if the weapon itself were a divine instrument rather than an ugly tool for killing.

“Heard you made quite the mess,” he grins, voice rough-edged but oddly melodic, his lips curving upward beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. “Gotta say, I’m impressed. Not many could bring Kharza to its knees.”

His words drip honeyed charm, but beneath the smooth, charismatic veneer, there’s something dangerous and unpredictable—like the flicker of a lit fuse, burning slowly toward an inevitable explosion.

He steps forward, casual, fearless, his presence radiating power and authority, making even his heavily armed soldiers shift respectfully aside.

Their wary eyes never leave us, fingers twitching subtly on triggers, but they follow Mike’s lead without hesitation.

Valoa tenses beside me, her grip tightening until her nails dig painfully into my palm, her breathing harsh and uneven.

I feel her distrust, raw and tangible as my own, and it mirrors the skepticism radiating off Durk and Sharonna behind us.

Mike's smile never wavers, sharp and predatory, his gaze flickering knowingly between Valoa and me, reading our tension with practiced ease.