[Osse]

Carthor whipped around the corner, his great bulk a careering shaft loosed over-soon from the string, reckless, almost uncontrolled. The scream rebounding recklessly in his ears as he thrust forwards.

In front of him, shapes emerged from the gloom, their misty forms strengthening into discernable shapes; two tall women, one steering the other firmly but gently down the passage toward them. A slim young man strode tentatively behind the two, his outstretched hand clasping gently the cloak of the leading woman. Hand clamped firmly to the young man's, a lad of no older than three or four shuffled, his curly locks shining in the torch light as he contemplated his small feet.

“What ha…” Carthor started breathlessly, concern twinkling in his eyes as he looked upon his wife and her shaken friend.

Carthor was not to finish his question. Lissi, obviously on a higher plain of nerves and awareness, anticipating his query, launched into a brisk, yet inclusive recount of the events.

“All is well now.” She said, more to the woman next to her than to Carthor. “All is well…”

Carthor ushered the women and children into the middle of the group. He paused for only a brief second as his son passed, the words he meant to say drying in the sun of his emotions. Carthor strode to the front of his group, composed again, and turned back the way they had came. Or so he thought.

In the confusion and hurry that had followed Renedwen’s scream, the group of five or six men that had rushed to her had failed to mark their route. They were now far from the glow of the rest of the group as they stood perplexed at the door of the storeroom, their precious torchlight now hidden, and had no mark to guide them through the twisting and turning tunnels.

To make matters worse, the group had only one torch amongst them, and that was burning dangerously low, particularly for a group who now found themselves stalked by eight-legged foes on one flank, and confronted with a booming, ever present drum-like clamour on the other, especially as the group now contained women and children, one of whom was blind.

Carthor, his stride long and mechanical, paused, suddenly aware of the fact that the return journey was taking far longer than it should, despite the pace of the party being barely half of its careering, uncontrolled canter outwards. Without stopping, Carthor raised his hand, signalling Derigorm, who strode just behind him on his right, his long, fluid steps making almost no noise, to walk beside him.

“Derigorm my friend, it seems we are somewhat, shall-we-say, misplaced.” Whispered Carthor.

Derigorm, stout to the last, merely raised his eyebrows in a half nod, unwilling to be the one to drop the spark on the ever present oil of panic. Instead he merely leaned closer to his old captain and asked what he would have him do.

“Certainly nothing to raise alarm my lad.” Carthor’s answer came soft and subtle, like a gentle breeze licking at one’s face. “Have you still your marker stone?”

Derigorm nodded.

“Mark our route. Discreetly.”

Derigorm spun deftly, his cloak swirling like some great wing, cutting through the air. The man slowed his pace near the middle of the group, feigning to talk to one of the other soldiers, with instruction from Lord Carthor.

At least now we’ll know just how to retrace our steps through this confounded pit. Carthor mused bitterly as he peered forward into the receding gloom.

He was trying, largely in vain, not to flinch as the many tendrils of super-fine, ordinary cobweb that littered the corridors brushed his grizzled face. Chattering footsteps, in rhythms of eight found their incessant way into his mind, whether they were real or imagined, Carthor could not tell. Terror stood nonchalantly behind every footstep, waiting for Carthor to lose concentration, so as to like an uninvited guest, feed off his hospitality.

Suddenly, the torch in Carthor’s right hand spluttered and died, the hiss it emanated both sombre and obvious in the quiet, confined tunnel – a terminal breath audible by all.

Terror now stood in the hall of Carthor’s mind, casually hanging its black cloak on a gilt hook and firmly shaking its host’s hand.

Carthor halted.

“Halt.” His voice echoed with astounding clarity in the confined space, resounding harshly in Carthor’s own ears.

Pulse quickening the entire time, Carthor instructed his fellows to stay close. He was going to have to stop and count off more often now.

Feeling his way with his left hand, Carthor inched slowly but surely down the corridor. Every web that hit his expose skin made him shudder, threatening to allow terror further into his home. The still air was silent, not even the horrible drums were sounding. Carthor could hear the soft scraping as Derigorm, true to his word, marked their route through the darkness.

Something brushed up against his exposed right hand, though it was no web. Lissi’s cold hand met his in the gloom and clasped - two halves of a whole, reunited. Hand in hand they proceeded into the pitch darkness before them, host and hostess, entertaining terror.

Carthor halted suddenly. Largely because he had run into a knobbly pillar of rough-hewn stone.

“Oi!” The pillar shouted, as it turned around and picked Carthor up by the throat.

Carthor right hand fumbled for his scabbard, and found it empty. His broadsword lay forlorn amidst the spilled grains of the storeroom, it's steel length gleaming in the receding torchlight of the rest of the refugees as they departed.

Terror now sat at the very head of Carthor’s table, beaming jovially as it made inappropriate jest.

Carthor’s scream filled the corridor with a shuddering clamour.

“Run!!!”