Blue eyes.

  The same eyes that had plunged him into a fiery pit. The same eyes that had sent him here.

  Sam froze, and from every direction more noises came; scampering, chittering—the whole forest alive with the sound of rats in a frenzy. The figure lumbered forward, and something about it was wrong. It moved with an awkward gait, a twisted silhouette giving way to a creature that was more hound than rat. Shredded ears told of countless fights, and its scarred snout was twisted in a feral growl. It had a mane of sharp bristles, and its bent limbs ended in grasping, rat-like hands. A long, naked tail twisted behind it, scraping through the brush with an ominous thwick.

  Its cold eyes betrayed none of the malice he had seen moments prior. The dull, grey orbs spoke only of simple, bestial hunger.

  Had he been imagining it? Had it been a trick of the light? He grasped his knife and grabbed the roots above him, pulling himself up. The fire was now almost completely out. Whatever this thing was, it was smart. It had waited until the flames died down, opening up multiple avenues of attack.

  All around him, the sound of the smaller rats grew, and Sam felt his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t really been scared before, a part of him confident he could handle a few oversized rodents; a confidence that quickly evaporated as a dozen sets of glowing eyes materialized in front of him. Terror, cold and biting, settled into his gut.

  His spear was a cracked mess from the repeated thrusts into the hard-packed ground, and he tossed it aside, desperately searching for an alternative weapon. One of the branches in the dwindling fire caught his eye, and he pulled the half-burnt stick from the coals. It was thicker at one end, with small, sharp protrusions sticking out every few inches. The smaller branches had burned away, leaving a functional spiked club.

  He wrapped his bloodstained hand around the thinner section and gave it a swing. The glowing end left a series of afterimages in the near pitch-black forest. It wasn't perfect, but against the rats, it may actually be better than the spear. He didn't need precision; he just needed to hit them until they stopped moving.

  Sam squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the pain in his hand and legs. His heart pounded, thoughts flashing back to his quiet life. It wasn't fair; he hadn't done anything wrong. Hadn't done anything to deserve this. Some cosmic twist of fate had decided to fuck him?

  Fuck that.

  The anger burned away the cold fear in his gut, and a breeze whistled by his ear, causing the last flames to dance, the erratic light illuminating a veritable army of rats.

  “Come on then,” he muttered, as much to himself as to the beasts arrayed in front of him.

  The first rat charged, and he smashed it across the face with his club, the wet thwunk sending vibrations up his arm.

  It was a corpse before it hit the ground.

  One of the wooden spikes had pierced its eye, impaling the brain with a single swing. The eye ripped out as it fell, dangling from the club like a gory pi?ata. The other rats hissed and charged, creating a wave of chittering, pulsating fur.

  Sam wasn't sure how long he stood there. After the first dozen swings, the burning in his shoulder ceased to matter. He was numb to it and the growing pile of corpses. The knife held in his left hand moved like an oversized sewing needle. The plunging motion separated limbs and flesh in a macabre dance; short clinical motions a contrast to the wide arcs of his charred cudgel.

  His own body fared only a little better than the rats as he accrued wounds at an astonishing pace. The sheer number of beasts quickly overwhelmed his meagre defences. Bites and scratches marred his arms, his bloody fingers almost losing their grip on his improvised weapon.

  Beneath the sounds of the squeals and dying animal cries, he thought he could hear a man’s laughter carried on the wind. He thought his senses were playing tricks on him, even as new sets of sapphire eyes dove at him from among the swarm at his feet.

  He simply kept fighting.

  Swing after swing, rat after rat. The sound and smell nearly overwhelmed him until it eventually faded to nothing, and all that remained was the anger. The burning in his chest seemed to match that of the fire, which stubbornly refused to go out.

  After what felt like an hour, he raised his arm only to find that no new enemy sprang up to meet him. He stood trembling, muscles twitching, chest heaving with exertion. Only one beast remained. The large rat-hound had prowled at a distance throughout the onslaught, pacing as the smaller rats threw themselves into the grinder.

  It stepped forward now, claws raking deep trenches in the earth, saliva dripping from its wicked fangs.

  Time seemed to pause then, as Sam contemplated what he imagined to be his final moments. He was hanging on by a thread, his body pushed beyond what he ever would have believed possible. The strange burst of energy he’d felt earlier seemed to have solidified his resolve, but even the sturdiest of wills couldn't outlive blood loss.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  His head spun, and he almost didn't register that the beast had lunged at him until it tried to rip out his throat. He managed to get the club in its mouth, but he was shocked by the strength of it. A few twists of its neck had him spun completely around, pulling him out from behind his wall of corpses.

  Sam stumbled and nearly collapsed, somehow standing despite the bloody mess that were his legs. The rat-hound growled, and it almost sounded like a chuckle. Its eyes flashed again, and this time Sam knew he wasn't imagining it—the eyes were blue. He was in there somehow: the god that had sent him here. He had possessed this monster rat to come finish him off personally.

  For some reason, Sam’s failure to process the reality of the invitation had irked the being so thoroughly that he'd come to kill him himself. Its fragile ego couldn't even conceive that it had been ignored and dismissed. Despite how ridiculously it has been presented, despite Sam’s strained mental state. To the god, it hadn’t mattered, and now, it seemed, he had a vendetta.

  It should have made Sam afraid.

  Instead, it made him angry.

  Rage coursed through his veins like a tangible force. A life of mild manners and quiet objections shattered under the strain. He'd been a person who'd loathed to take up space, to argue, to fight. He’d done just enough not to be walked all over, but not so much that he’d rock the boat.

  Tonight he’d burn the fucking boat.

  The club, as if knowing his intentions, seemed to vibrate in his hand. He looked down and noticed that the burnt end—which had gone out under the deluge of blood—had rekindled. The charred wood glowed in the dark, sparks falling onto the grass.

  The beast seemed to notice the change, its eyes narrowing. Its head twisted, scanning the forest as if it were looking for something. Sam didn't know what was going on, but in the end, it didn't matter. He dragged one leg forward, then the next. A strangled cry emerged from somewhere in his throat, and he charged the beast, raising his club over his head. A roar like a bellowing furnace sounded in his ears, joining with his scream, pulling the rage from deep within his core and funnelling it into the battered hunk of wood.

  It burst into flames.

  The sudden flash of light blinded the monster, and Sam barely managed to connect as it jerked its head back. It shrieked as its ear was ripped clean off, stuck on one of the spikes. Sparks danced across its matted, oily fur, its thick mane a tinderbox as it caught with an audible whoosh.

  Sam was forced back as the beast lashed out, spinning and flailing as it inadvertently gave air to the inferno now raging on its back. The flames moved with supernatural speed, engulfing the creature far quicker than they should have. The creature rolled, but the tenacious fire resisted all attempts to contain it, until even the fleshy tail caught fire—becoming a red-hot whip.

  The rat-hound suddenly stopped, jerked to a halt like a puppet on strings. The blue eyes brightened, lit with an inner fire that matched the intensity of its blazing body. The eyes locked on Sam, and it lunged with a guttural roar.

  He barely had a chance to bring up his weapon before the beast barreled into him. He managed to once again force the club into its mouth, but he could feel its claws ripping at his chest, digging into his flesh. He would have screamed if he’d had any breath left in his lungs, but it had all been driven out as he was slammed to the ground, the beast’s weight breaking at least one rib.

  In desperation, his left hand braced the flaming head of the club, a dull spike piercing straight through his palm. Sam could feel the burning wood beneath his fingers, but the pain seemed distant, muted.

  The creature's teeth were only inches from his face, and he could feel the stinking breath wash over him. There was a panic to its motions now, as the jaws tried in vain to snap through what should have been a weakened hunk of wood. Somehow, the club held firm.

  It had become a race, as the creature tried desperately to rip out his throat before the fire fully consumed it. Sam watched as the flesh peeled back from the beast’s head, the crystalline eyes still boring into him, until they finally flickered, and went out.

  In the same instant, the fire sputtered and followed suit, plunging the forest into darkness. The club turned to ash in his hands, and the weight of the creature nearly crushed the life out of him as it collapsed. With a heave, he pushed the beast aside, a life-giving rush of air filling his battered lungs.

  He wasn't sure quite how long he lay there. At some point, his brain registered that he should get up and try to make some kind of barricade in case more rats came. His exhausted, pain-racked mind weakly flashed through a half-dozen scenarios, but in the end, Sam couldn't bring himself to move.

  Even the act of breathing was a challenge, and every part of his body burned with a myriad of cuts and bruises. The idea of getting up seemed as foreign as walking on the surface of the sun. It just wasn't happening.

  He kept replaying the last few moments of the fight in his mind, the flame that was seemingly summoned by his anger. Was that magic? It didn't feel like magic, but then he thought back to the energy that had entered his body when he’d killed the first few rats. There was so much he didn't understand.

  A breeze whistled through the trees, the cold air biting his skin, his shredded tunic offering little protection. The breeze brought with it the distinct smell of charred meat, and despite everything that had happened, despite the carnage and pain, the fear and anger, his body did what anyone’s would do.

  His stomach growled.

  He couldn't help it; he laughed. A mirthless, bitter laugh that was more exhaustion than humour. His cracked rib quickly shut him down, but the trance was broken. He looked over at the burnt corpse beside him and pulled strength from a reserve he didn't realize he still had.

  He forced himself to his knees and grabbed his knife from where it had fallen, kneeling before the mangled body. With a few jerky motions, he cut back what remained of the pelt and carved a slice of meat from the well-muscled shoulder.

  It was tough, but he didn't care. He’d have to be tougher to have any hope of surviving in this new world he found himself in. He’d have to be tougher still if he wanted to somehow win…whatever this was, and get home.

  He knelt there, holding a chunk of burnt rat, and he realized he wanted to do more than go home. The idea shocked him, but as he closed his eyes, another pair stared back at him: sapphire in the dark.

  No, he knew then he didn't just want to get back home. He wanted to make that fucker pay for ever dragging him into this. He knew it was probably impossible, the being was likely more powerful than he could imagine—but in that moment, he didn't care. The fire had lit something inside of him. He’d make the god pay, whatever it took.

  He'd do what he needed to do.

  He ate the fucking rat.