Dog work

George thrust a dirty wad of cloth into Murphy's fist.

"Smell that."

Murphy blinked, and between his fingers, the fabric was flaccid and wet.

"You're giving me laundry right now?"

"It's not laundry. It's survival," George replied.

Murphy sniffed carefully and then pulled the thing back like it had offended him.

"Is this how you treat your friends? Thought Derrion was the one with manners etched in bone."

George kept a straight face.

"You've got the nose. May said your hearing and sense of smell are so acute that they spooked some cursed scouts once." He scratched his neck innocently.

"Close enough to a tracking dog, really."

Murphy raised an eyebrow.

"So, I'm the team dog now. Great."

"Dog, miracle, whatever to keep us alive." George shrugged.

"We're blind down here. Literally. Just get us through whatever's gnashing its teeth on bones up there."

Murphy opened his mouth to object, but another voice cut through the group before he could even speak.

"What are you waiting for? Sniff it already, brat!"

It was from a survivor near the back, a hollow-eyed, tooth-grinding one, gripping a knife-like object carved from bones of a fallen beast, like a scared child. His arms shook, as desperation was written all over him.

Another man edged forward. He looked worse. One of his sleeves was soaked in blood that was his and not his at the same time.

"We are not asking much, just some indication. Do you want us to die here while you grow sentimental?"

Murphy stiffened, clutching May's body closely. Before he had time to act, came a push from his back, shoving his head to sniff the damn cloth.

Murphy tripped, struck a ramped section of decaying floor, and fell on something soft, warm, wet, and squirming: a corpse, split open from shoulder to backbone. May rolled awkwardly against him, her shoulder brushing exposed tissue.

He gagged. The taste hit faster than the reaction—spoiled flesh, rotted marrow. Blood soaked his collar. He spat savagely, shoved himself upright, his heart thumping behind bruised ribs.

Failing to react promptly earlier, George, now furious, didn't hesitate to make a move against the bastards. He stomped over, seized them both, one by the collar, the other by the front of his ragged shirt, and slammed them hard against opposite sides of a mushroom wall. Not hard enough to break any bones, but hard enough to make them feel small.

"You don't get to be brave and stupid at the same time."

The first of the two men attempted to push back, but George pushed his shoulder harder.

"I don't care if your guts are twisting or your hope's running dry,'' George growled.

"If you lay another finger on him, I'll let the Rotters feed on you alive."

Neither man replied. But they didn't appear defiant any longer, only empty, afraid, stretched beyond recognition. Murphy rubbed purple blood from his jaw, assessing the cloth in his hands and his new job description.

"I didn't sign up for this."

George glanced sideways.

"I understand. None of us did."

Murphy exhaled slowly.

"Not doing it for them. I am doing it because May is still breathing, and I want to get the hell out of this wretched place in one piece."

George nodded, backing away from the other two men to move towards him.

"Then let's make that matter."

He helped Murphy to his feet. No ceremony. Just a hand and a shared understanding. Murphy picked up the cloth, reluctantly smelled it once more. There was the stench of metal and rot, something he couldn't place, but Derrion's smell was unmistakable. It bent right, faded, then broke strong again. Always coiling.

"This way."

They moved. Ten survivors behind. No one spoke unless asked. Two tunnels later, Murphy tilted his head.

"We should have waited in the cave. Two strong Favourites are coming, isn't that the plan?"

George shook his head.

"Not anymore. That chimera outside the cave? The head wound matched Derrion's habits. He passed through, if more came. We'd have been boxed in."

Murphy frowned.

"So we're betting on Derrion's scent."

"We're betting on the only man who will do anything vile to survive. Believe me, he will survive."

Murphy hesitated. "And the crimson stones, why didn't you hunters use them sooner?"

George sighed.

"I only use low-grade ones. Hunters like me, like Derrion— it's not safe to handle high-purity crimson energy. It burns your nerves, drives you mad, and accelerates corrosion too fast. The side effects are not worth the gamble unless essential."

Murphy nodded.

"So, where'd they go, the lower ones you had?"

"After we got caught, Keepers appeared, newborns that maintain internal order and proper workings of the newborn territory. They smell like burned leather. They have special eyes that detect crimson signatures. Anything active got stripped."

"No way around that?"

George gave a grim smile.

"Unless you have an artifact-based storage, a cursed or favourite artifact of a relatively high rank than the newborns' level. But most hunters aren't equipped like that. Only high-rankers or favourites."

Murphy felt it settle in.

"So, we didn't just get caught. We were disarmed."

"Exactly. Resistance fails not through weakness of man, but because those strong enough to fight were left with nothing in their fists."

George paused.

"And when they marched us to cave sectors, one of the crimson Demons spoke in a low voice. I don't know the rank of the demons, but only demons speak among the crimson creatures, so don't ask me that."

"It asked for healers. A few stepped forward, but most were forced. After witnessing the indiscriminate killings of the demon."

"Pure hellspawn," George growled, then continued.

"Then they divided them into different cave prisons; those with healers were offered mid-grade stones."

Murphy listened quietly.

"Derrion was limping, wounded on the leg, just like you," he said while looking in Murphy's direction.

"I had to collect the stones myself, as May was too busy stabilizing you."

They continued forward. With his free hand, Murphy repositioned May's body, holding her protectively against the barrage of debris. An odor new to him assailed his nostrils, burned oils, pared nerves, rotted material.

"George," he called.

"We have a bad situation up ahead."

George stepped beside him. "What?"

"Ten Rotters. One chimera and an Infant wretch, I think?"

"... Its scent is similar to the night of our capture."

George raised a hand. They slid behind a broken piece of ceiling rock, its surface etched with old sigils, probably of a misfired trigger seal.

Murphy looked up.

"Derrion's trail goes through here."

George paused. "You sure?"

Murphy didn't answer. Just nodded once. Sure, enough to act. Sure enough, to hope not to be wrong as their dog.

George spoke to the crowd quietly, but everyone could hear.

"There's a trigger I can activate— [Invisible Streak]. For sixty seconds, I can cloak myself and four others. Anymore, and its effect diminishes greatly."

One of them began to say something, but a sharp look from George cut him short.

"I'm taking May and Murphy. That leaves two."

Silence...