"You know it's bad when the goblins stop attacking and something else walks out of the dark."
***
The chanting grew louder. Each syllable seemed to leach warmth from the air around them.
Rhys watched his breath mist in the suddenly frigid tunnel as the torch flame shrank to barely more than a candle's glow. The orange light that had been their lifeline now cast weak shadows that made the goblin corpses seem to writhe on the blood-slicked stone.
His grip on his father's spear remained steady despite the cold that seeped into his bones.
But his mind raced through possibilities that all ended badly.
"Gorth-ek-mal... sha-gorth-ek... mal-sha-gorth-ek-nal..."
The words hurt to hear. Like nails scraping against the inside of his skull. Each syllable carried weight. Substance. As if the very air was being corrupted by the sounds.
