Chapter 4: The Hunt

The morning sky had turned to a murky overcast grey-brown as high-sun approached. Despite the heavy, ugly cloud cover, the plains air was stifling; a thick, cloying heat that was somehow both humid and dusty. The sweat trickled in rivulets down Vanity's back and into her ripe cleavage as she rounded the gentle incline of the dusty trail out of Dreadrock Ridge, following the cartwheel tracks and hoof prints half a mile out of town, silver toe-capped boots kicking up dust as she marched purposefully towards the tin mine.

Three large workhorses were tied to a heavy stake impaled into the rocky dirt next to a palisade of flaky whitewashed posts, emblazoned in large, black tar-paint letters with the words "Dreadrock Ridge Miners Co-Op". Beyond the palisade, through a rusted iron gate swinging slowly on a creaking hinge, a great rocky cairn dotted with scrubgrass formed an imposing backdrop to a smattering of single-storey grey-brick buildings and wooden shacks. Three figures stood by the mine entrance; a rectangular alcove carved into the stone hill framed with heavy wooden support beams, thick planks of wood hastily nailed over the entryway in haphazard fashion. Vanity raised a fingerless-gloved hand in greeting as she crunched across the gravel forecourt of the mine towards the figures.

She recognised Rickard immediately. He was now shirtless, his worn leather vest hanging open showing his bronzed, muscled torso; his hairy barrel-chest shining with a sheen of sweat. His gun and knife were still on his belt, which was slung low, showing off a girthy but firm abdomen and a trail of dark hair leading from his navel to below his waistband. The one called Francis, a wide-brimmed hat pushed back to reveal his leathery, hawkish features, stood leaning on a shovel, eyes darting nervously between Vanity and the mine entrance. A dirty, sweat-stained off-white sleeveless shirt hung off his wiry torso, open halfway, showing a sun-beaten, hairless chest and a protective charm of Pan dangling on a bootlace around his thin neck. He had a black leather satchel slung over one shoulder, and a machete hanging loose on his belt.

Next to them was a young woman in her early twenties whom Vanity didn't recognise; she was effortlessly sexy, a sweat-sheen shimmering on a lightly-tanned complexion with deep, dark eyes which regarded Vanity with intense interest. She had a partially shaved head, long auburn hair pushed to one side hanging in a messy, sweat-matted torrent down the left side of a pretty face. Her slender but well-defined body glistened in the sun; she was shirtless, in baggy, dark-brown denim dungarees which showed her large, full, round breasts, nipples barely covered by the straps of the dungarees. The shaved right side of her head and right arm were heavily adorned with swirling tattoo's which Vanity instantly recognised as marking her as either belonging to, or having once belonged to, a ruthless mercenary group out of Serpent's Hollow called The Death's Head. She carried a large, heavy crowbar in one hand and had a long-handled seven-shooter pistol unceremoniously shoved into one pocket of the dungarees.

All three of them nodded as Vanity approached. Rickard took a drag from a thin black cigar and spat on the dusty gravel, wiping his mouth with the back of one meaty hand.

"Gotta be honest Miss Hellsong, wasn't right sure you'd come."

Vanity licked her lips, tasting the salt of her sweat.

"I always come, Rickard," she grinned, nodding to Francis. "Francis." The tall, wiry miner responded with a two-fingered half-salute, making no attempt to conceal his gaze on Vanity's body as he chewed on something like cattle on cud. She smiled at the woman, and returned her attention to Rickard, who was gently blowing on the burning tip of the cigar. "Where's Jack?"

"Jack's at home makin' sure his balls is still attached," Rickard chuckled, a noticeable undertone of nervousness in his voice. "Got his self a sudden nervous disposition where meeting you again was concerned." He gestured with the cigar to the woman in dungarees at his side with the cigar. "This here's Kayla."

"Pleasure," the woman said quietly. Vanity allowed her eyes to wander over her body.

"I'm sure it would be. Death's Head?"

"Once upon a time."

Vanity recalled what Rickard had told her at the Dirty Pickle that morning. Dreadrock Ridge took in anyone looking for a chance to disappear or rebuild. She guessed that included former members of the most feared and bloodthirsty mercenary company this side of the Shroud. She'd had a run-in with a couple of Deaths Head mercs a year back on a job; they weren't exactly scrupulous as to who paid for their services, even if the one paying them was a Necromancer who was robbing graves to make golems. The mercs had fought hard, impressively so, but not hard enough to keep them out of the dirt.

She gave Kayla one last lascivious look-over, and turned her attention to the mine itself. Seeing it now, something was off. It wasn't part of a range of hills, nor the foot of a mountain; not a cliff-face or a Mesa, just a wide, imposing, solitary craggy rock cairn jutting from the earth. Something about it made Vanity uneasy.

"How long you been mining this place, Rickard?"

"This here particular dig? Been 'bouta year now. Over yonder," he motioned off to the north, where some natural foothills shimmered in the heat haze "That's where the tin mines ran for last twenty years. Tin started to dry up, and after some prospectin' we opened up here. Coal face is bout a mile south o' here. Why?"

Vanity squinted her eyes and looked up at the midday sun, a pale red orb barely visible beyond the murky cloud cover; it hung almost directly above the mine.

"You find anythin' besides Tin down there?" Vanity rubbed her eyes and looked at Rickard, who regarded her quizzically.

"'Sides rocks and a monster? Not a damn thing." He chewed his cigar nervously. "Somethin' you wanna tell us, Miss Hellsong?"

She wasn't sure. It hadn't occurred to her that this might be anything other than a random monster nest. But seeing it now, the strange geography, the location of the mine and the position of the sun, was putting her on edge. She was glad she had performed her ritual of protection before coming here.

"Where are the bodies? I mean, whatever you could salvage of them."

Francis swore quietly. Rickard cleared his throat.

"We dumped 'em in the furnace. We may be nothin' but small town frontier shitkickers, Miss Hellsong, but we know enough as to not let bodies lay round after a monster attack 'less they get up again." Rickard seemed grimly proud of himself for knowing that. Vanity held her tongue. It was a common misconception that any monster victim would rise as undead. Truth was, unless they fell victim to a Ghoul or a Vampire, the dead would stay dead; and the attack Rickard described sounded like nether of those. She swore to herself. Gods-damned mother fucking small town frontier shitkickers. Seeing the bodies for herself just might have given her a better idea what she was up against. Rickard continued, running a hand through his thick salt and pepper hair. "We'll hold rites for 'em course. Give the families some peace o' mind, even if we ain't burying nothing."

Vanity sighed,

"Right. You got the money?"

Rickard motioned to Francis, who slapped the satchel at his hip; the unmistakable, reassuring jangle sound of coins eased Vanity's tension a little. "Alright, enough with the pleasantries. Let's get your crew back to work, shall we? Open her up."

Kayla and Francis began tearing the layers of boards from the frame; Francis somewhat warily. But Vanity noticed Kayla acted with a calm, unwavering precision. Vanity watched Kayla's breasts jiggle as she wrenched the crowbar in among the boards, the tensing of her back and shoulders; the ripple of her muscles under her sweat-sheened skin and the occasional tantalising glimpse of her wide brown nipples caused Vanity to catch her breath. The same couldn't be said for Francis, who seemed to always be a few feet back, nervously jabbing at the boards with his shovel like he was ready to turn tail and run like a jackrabbit at the first sign of trouble. Vanity couldn't really blame him though. Most men were not equipped, either physically or psychologically, to deal with the horrors of Tierra Muerta.

"That oughta do her," Vanity suggested as a narrow breach was made in the makeshift barrier. She peered beyond the broken apart boards into utter darkness. "No reason to open it up further 'til we're sure what's down there won't be coming up this way. So," she turned to Rickard. "Where am I going?"

"Straight in. 'Bouta minute til you'll come to a slope, another couple minutes down you'll come to a fork. We found 'em in a new chamber at the end o' the right fork. Usually got lanterns hangin' in each chamber, but they'll be long burned out, you'll wanna take one with ya."

Kayla lit a small handheld oil lantern with a match and handed it to Vanity, her hands gently caressing Vanity's fingers as her touch lingered on Vanity's slender fingertips. Vanity smiled, her eyes smouldering into Kayla as a slick, needful warmth grew in her pussy. She felt a wet oily trickle down her inner thighs at the sight of Kayla's exposed body flushing with desire for her; her breasts swelling, nipples pushing past the straps of her dungarees. Vanity leaned in close and whispered in Kayla's ear.

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be right out."

She turned to Rickard and Francis, both staring intently at the two women; Rickard chewed on his cigar, Francis with one hand casually caressed a visibly growing bulge in his thick denim breeches. "That goes for you, too. Board it up behind me once I'm inside. Once I'm back up, I'll holler at you, and you can open up again."

"What if you don't come back?" Francis asked, eyes darting between Vanity and the now exposed entry to the mine.

"You ain't got to worry about that, Francis."

Vanity slipped the vial of holy water from her pocket and pushed it into her cleavage, grabbed a few extra shells for her gun, and pushed them into the ammunition belt on her holster. She slipped her duster coat down over her shoulders and tossed it to Francis, who caught it with no small amount of surprise. with an audible click, Vanity unbuckled the holster on her hip and drew her double barrel sawn-off pistol. The evocation runes on the polished wooden stock shimmered faintly as Vanity cocked both hammers. With one last, lustful glance to Kayla, lantern in one hand, gun in the other, Vanity stepped through the planks and into the cool darkness of the mineshaft.

The lantern cast a warm glow against the rough-hewn walls and ceiling of the narrow passageway as Vanity carefully made her way deeper down the slope, the daylight disappearing behind her as Francis and Kayla boarded up the entryway. As the hammering echoed down the hall, Vanity paused; whatever was down here would hear the hammering and see the light from the lantern; there was no element of surprise to be had. She held the gun out in front of her and listened as the hammering stopped; nothing but the barely audible flickering of the oil wick in the lantern. With a deep breath, her heart hammering in her chest, Vanity carefully made her way deeper into the mine.

The sweat on her brow, neck and breasts cooled as she reached the fork Rickard had told her about, her nipples stiffened in the cold air, pressing hard against the cool leather of her corset. She listened again; still nothing. As quietly as she could, she made her way down the narrow right fork, her back to the rough stone wall, gun held out in front of her ready to unload blazing death at the slightest squeeze of a trigger.

The narrow rock passageway opened out into a vaguely circular chamber around 30 feet in diameter, with a ceiling carved out around fifteen feet up, thick support beams lining the walls. The floor was scattered with rubble and dust, a rusty iron cart half filled with tin ingots and rocks lay abandoned near the passage, a few picks and shovels and hand drills lay around the floor. Vanity hung the lantern from a hook on one of the beams, kneeled, and ran a hand along the floor; it was dusty, spattered with congealed blood and bone fragments, but beneath the dust and rubble was smooth, polished stone; the same type of stone as the rest of the mine, but this had been expertly worked.

She stood and checked the wall next to her; it was dirty, dusty, some invasive roots and vines dangling across it through the rock above, but the stone underneath was smooth as polished marble, just like the floor; nothing like the passageway she had come down, and certainly not done by pickaxes, shovels and dynamite. This chamber hadn't been carved out by the miners, she realised; it had been uncovered by them...

Vanity cleared the dust and mold from a portion of the wall. Upon it, illuminated by the flickering lamplight, were intricate carvings, inscribed by delicate tools and expert craftsmanship. Runes she didn't understand, and script in a language she could not read, but she understood instinctively it was ancient, carvings which long predated humankind's arrival in Tierra Muerta. She took the lantern from its hook and made her way across the chamber until she found the remains of the unfortunate fuckers who had died in the chamber. Rickard and his crew had pulled most of the bodies out but in the centre of the room was part of an arm, torn flesh and shattered bone at the stump of where a shoulder used to be, and a severed head.

She stooped and examined the head; a gaunt, bloodless face of a young man frozen in an expression of horror, the first signs of decay visible around the neck, mouth and eyes. The neck wound was similar to the arm; rough, ragged, shattered remnants of a spine dangling from the stump. This head hadn't been cut off: it had been ripped off. Whatever they'd uncovered had the strength to tear a man's head from his body. As she kneeled, looking around the floor for more clues, she noticed two things which instantly caused her breath to catch in her throat.

Firstly, she saw more carved runes now, intricate, beautifully hewn into the smooth stone floor. This type of rune she recognised, with a cold, creeping sense of dread, from occult books in her father's library; ancient runes of binding. And these runes had been damaged, despoiled by pick axes and cartwheels. The other detail which caught her attention were the tracks in the dusty floor; hoof tracks. Not horse hooves, nor goats; these were elongated hooves, far larger than any beast of burden. The realisation hit Vanity like a punch in the gut.

This wasn't a natural mine. This was an ancient place of binding, a buried tomb designed to magically seal something here; something which the Dreadrock Ridge miners Co-Op had inadvertently freed. And by the elongated, cloven hoofprints and the sheer strength of the creature, Vanity could take a pretty good guess at what the creature was.

The miners had freed a fucking demon.

"I'm not getting paid enough for this shit," she whispered to herself as she stood up from her crouch position, eyes narrowing as she scanned the chamber; she holstered her gun, knowing that not even the arcane explosive rounds loaded in her pistol would work against this particular foe. Only silver would hurt a demon.

She reached back and unsheathed her silver bladed sword from its scabbard. The blade made a high-pitched swooshing sound in the quiet, dim chamber as she drew it. Blade forward, lantern in her other hand, Vanity began to carefully check the walls for any other entrances or exits to the chamber, the gravel and dust on the polished stone floor crunching beneath her feet. "Come on out, motherfucker," she hissed between gritted teeth. "Let's see what you've got..."

As if in response, a low, unearthly growl filled the room; a sound that seemed to come from the very bowels of the seven hells themselves, reverberating around the chamber.

The sound came from above her.

Vanity's eyes darted upwards as the shape dropped from the ceiling where it had been hiding, watching her. She threw herself out of the way, rolling on one shoulder and skidding to a stop in a half-crouch as the heavy, bone crunching thud of the creature's cloven hooves impacted the stone floor where she had stood moments before, sending plumes of dust and bone fragments billowing up in the flickering lamplight. Vanity tensed up like a coiled spring as she took in the horrific sight before her.

The demon was roughly humanoid; it stood twelve feet tall, more than twice Vanity's height, though it was hunched over as it turned to look down at her. Its body was covered in thick, leathery dark-red skin, with raised patches of scaly, rocky hide in places. An elongated baboon-like head protruded from between hunched shoulders, ending in massive, hideous spider-like mandibles dripping with a sickly yellowish venom. Faintly glowing yellow eyes regarded Vanity with lustful alien intelligence. Two sharp black bone horns at least two feet in length each curled back from the top of its head. It had four muscular arms, two protruding from each shoulder; each arm was longer than Vanity was tall, thicker than her waist, and ended in huge, seven-fingered, clawed hands. Its chest was broad, its demonic anatomy unnaturally muscled and rippling in the lantern light. Thick red thighs led to horse-like digitigrade legs ending in long, powerful, sharp black hooves.

Between the demon's legs hung a long, thick, red scaled cock, at least a foot in length, ending in a pointed black bulbous head like the sting of a scorpion, which dripped with a viscous pale yellow slime. A large leathery sac hung heavily between its thighs as its cock grew harder, curving into a dripping hook-like appendage at Vanity's eye level. With a gut-twisting sense of revulsion, Vanity realised the demon hadn't just killed the miners; by the description of the bodies Rickard had given her, and by the aura of lustful hate and rage the demon exuded, it had in all likelihood raped them too, either before, during or after it had killed them. As small a blessing as it would be, Vanity hoped for their sake that it had been after.

The demon's mandibles clicked and flexed as it emitted another growl at her, the sound shifting in pitch and speed as it crouched lower, moving towards her; two hands stroking its stiffening appendage, the other two curling into claws, ready to strike.

"Sorry," Vanity grimaced, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. "I don't speak soon-to-be-dead fuck."

The demon lunged at her, swinging a clawed hand towards her face. Vanity ducked backwards as the claw whooshed over her head, and swung her sword upwards in a graceful arc, slashing through the demon's arm. It roared in pain as acrid black blood splashed across the floor. Vanity continued her motion, flipping backwards and landing back in a half crouch as the demon swung its claws at her again, missing her chest by inches. With a deft feint to the left, Vanity stepped to the right and stabbed towards the demon's chest, catching it with a glancing blow under the armpit of its lower right arm; the demon spun, however, catching the blade between its arm and torso, the silver sizzling and burning flesh as it puller Vanity towards it; with a sickening thump, it raised one hoof and kicked her firmly in the chest, knocking the wind from her as she tumbled backwards; the vial of holy water stored in her cleavage shattered. She rolled awkwardly, knocking the lantern over and sending it spinning across the floor, as the light in the chamber dimmed.

The demon roared and leaped towards Vanity with frightening speed, as four claws swiped at her. She parried one, then two of the slashing claw attacks with her sword as she struggled to stand, but the third raked across her stomach. The claw shredded the leather of her corset like paper, as the fourth claw gripped the torn leather and pulled. With almost no effort, the creature pulled Vanity clean off the ground and hurled her across the room. Her corset tore off completely in its claw as she slammed into the wall and rolled awkwardly to the ground. She stood quickly, grimacing; she was topless now, breasts completely exposed, her nipples hard in the cold of the chamber; skin shining with sweat and oil in the dim light despite the grime and dirt from the floor. The demon's claws had not pierced her skin; her ritual had protected her for now.