The 100 Monsters Who Really, Really, Really, Really, Really Want To Kill You

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Silas rushed down from the ridge, sliding slightly on the slope of loose stone and frost-laced roots. His breath came in sharp bursts, more from urgency than exertion. He moved with surprising stealth for an older man.

Goro was already halfway to standing, Rhys still lying unconscious on the bed of dry pine needles behind him. His massive frame tensed at the sight of Silas sprinting back.

"Trouble?" asked Goro.

Silas caught his breath before replying.

"Most certainly."

"How bad is it?"

"We might be fucked."

The giant's brow furrowed, but he didn't speak. He lowered himself gently to the ground, then grabbed the nearest fallen branch, a trunk-sized piece of timber he could probably swing like a club if needed. Silas continued:

"The Marauders have caught up," he hissed. "Dozens. Maybe more. Two of them are utterly massive."

Both men were visibly engrossed in their thoughts, minds racing to find a way to escape with their lives.

Silas massaged his temple, eyes downcast as he spoke:

"Staying on this mountain has become a death sentence."

Goro nodded in agreement. "Indeed. But taking our chances with the snowstorm doesn't seem any different."

A tough choice now faced the group. Do they stay on the mountain, trapped here with the monstrosities? Or do they escape into the tundra and battle the elements? Both options seemed bleak. One would almost wish that they remained in captivity. Freedom to live also meant freedom to die.

For now, though, Silas had come to a conclusion:

"Let's keep ourselves hidden and observe for now."

He pointed to a nearby outcrop, half-shrouded by the tangled limbs of a fallen pine. It was barely large enough for the three of them, but it would do. Goro nodded and slung Rhys across his back again, careful not to jar him too much.

They moved.

Beneath the cover of thorns and angled stone, the world narrowed. The light had all but vanished now; only a silver sheen on the treetops marked the fading sun. Crickets hummed around them, the warmth of the mountain air pressing close. It was almost surreal how peaceful the mountain felt while death marched below.

From their vantage point, just high enough to see down into the treeline below the ledge, the Marauders emerged in full.

They moved like a tide of wrongness.

Some crawled with spindly, insectoid limbs, too many joints bending the wrong way. Others walked upright in clusters of two or three, hunched under the weight of grotesque tumours or fused torsos, their flesh stitched together, some almost tearing at the seams. The two largest towered above the rest, moving like executioners through the underbrush.

One of them dragged a flail of spines behind it. The other had no face, just a vertical slit that breathed and pulsed like a gill.

Down at the threshold—the jagged, invisible line where the mountain stone gave way to snow—they saw it clearly.

The leading giant slowed as it neared the threshold. It stood there for a long moment, staring into the blizzard's howling white.

It sniffed the air; or what passed for sniffing; as its shoulders rose with a strange shudder.

Then, it lifted one foot and placed it just over the edge.

Its foot didn't even touch snow.

It stopped mid-motion, then jerked back, snarling. The monster reeled as if struck, retreating two heavy paces. Its chest heaved, shoulders shuddering.

And the others followed suit.

One by one, they avoided the boundary. Dozens of malformed shapes skittered, crawled, and lunged across the slope—but none of them crossed the line into the tundra. They circled it. Like dogs avoiding fire.

Silas squinted at the threshold.

Whatever unnatural force separated the mountain from the blizzard wasn't just a barrier for men.

It was a boundary even monsters feared.

***

Silas's grip tightened around a gnarled root as he watched the last of the Marauders slink away from the threshold. The mountain had gone quiet again, save for the distant howl of the blizzard beyond the boundary. He released a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Did you see that?" he whispered, barely audible even to Goro beside him.

The giant nodded, his expression grim but thoughtful. "They fear it."

Behind them, Rhys stirred with a soft groan. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open.

Silas leaned back against the cold stone, mind racing. "Earlier, we turned away because of the cold. But now..."

"Now we have worse than frostbite to fear," Goro finished, glancing back toward the ridge where they had spotted the horde.

They sat in silence for several long moments, the decision weighing heavy between them. From their hiding place, Silas could see the Marauders dispersing across the mountainside, their twisted forms spreading like a disease through the underbrush. It looked like they were combing through the mountain, searching for prey.

It wouldn't be long before our escapees were discovered.

Finally, Silas spoke.

"If those things won't cross the boundary, there must be a reason. But whatever waits in the tundra—"

"—can't be worse than what's hunting us here," Goro concluded. "At least the cold is honest in its killing."

Silas nodded. "We need to circle around. The main path is crawling with them now."

Carefully, they eased out from the outcrop. Goro hefted Rhys onto his back once more, securing him with strips torn from his own tunic. The unconscious man's breathing had steadied, but his skin remained pallid in the fading light.

They moved in near silence, picking their way through the underbrush that clung to the mountain's flank. Every few paces, Silas would pause, head cocked to one side, listening for any sign they'd been detected.

The descent was treacherous. What might have been under an hour's journey down the main path became a gruelling trek through thorny thickets and over loose scree that threatened to give way beneath their feet. Twice, they had to double back when the terrain became impassable.

Night had fully descended when they reached a narrow ravine cutting across their path. At the bottom, a stream of snowmelt gurgled over smooth stones.

"This might lead us to the threshold," Silas whispered, peering down into the darkness.

"The water will lead us to the lowest point."

Goro adjusted Rhys's weight on his back. "What about the beasts?"

"They seem to keep to the higher ground. Maybe they're maintaining as much distance between them and the cold."

The ravine walls were steep but navigable, lined with roots and stone outcroppings that offered handholds. Goro went first, descending with surprising grace despite his burden. Silas followed, wincing as loose pebbles clattered down the slope.

At the bottom, the air was noticeably cooler. The stream was hardly wider than a man's stride, but the water ran swift and clear in the moonlight that occasionally pierced the clouds.

"Downstream," Silas said, pointing. "And let's be quiet."

They picked their way along the streambed, staying close to one wall of the ravine where shadows provided cover. The water's gentle murmur masked their footsteps, but also any sounds of pursuit.

If they didn't find shelter soon after crossing the threshold, the cold would claim them before they could make any real distance.

Yet the alternative remained worse. Every shadow on the ravine walls seemed to move with a malevolent purpose. Every rustle in the brush above might be a Marauder closing in.

After what seemed like hours of careful progress, the ravine began to widen. The air grew steadily colder. Ahead, Silas could make out a faint line where the vegetation abruptly changed; hardy mountain brush giving way to the frost-crusted grasses of the tundra.

"The threshold," he breathed. "We're close."

From this angle, the boundary looked almost tangible; a shimmering veil separating the mountain's unnatural warmth from the howling tundra beyond. Just a few more yards, and they would reach it.

Freedom. Or perhaps just a different kind of death.

A sudden sound stopped them both, a skittering, scratching noise from somewhere above. Goro froze mid-step, his massive frame becoming impossibly still.

Silas pressed himself against the ravine wall, eyes searching the darkness above. For several heartbeats, they heard nothing more. Then a shower of small stones rattled down into the stream beside them.

They looked up.

Silhouetted against the night sky, perched on the ravine's edge like some malformed spider, was one of the smaller Marauders. Its many limbs gripped the rock as its head—if that misshapen knot could be called a head—swivelled in their direction.

It made no sound. It didn't need to.

In the stillness that followed, Silas realized the skittering he'd heard wasn't coming from above anymore.

It was all around them.

From upstream and down, shapes emerged from the shadows. Some crawled along the ravine floor, dragging misshapen bodies through the shallow water. Others clung to the walls, moving with unnatural speed over the stone.

They had been herded, Silas realized with cold clarity. Driven like game into a trap.

The threshold lay just ahead, tantalizingly close. But between them and safety, the ravine now teemed with twisted figures, their inhuman forms blocking any direct path forward.

Goro shifted his stance, muscles tensing as he prepared to move. His eyes met Silas's, a silent question passing between them.

Their options had narrowed to one desperate chance.

Goro nodded once, hand tightening around the branch he picked up earlier as he stepped forward. It was a pitiful weapon against such monstrosities, but it was all he had.

"On my mark," he whispered.

They would have to fight their way through.