Dust coated their tongues, and the air was cold—unsettlingly so. Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper and his men sprawled across a broad stone floor, each gulping for breath, hearts hammering in their chests. Seconds ago, they were in a collapsing compound somewhere in Helmand Province. Now, nothing looked or felt remotely familiar.
Slowly, Jason pushed himself up on an elbow. Moonlight—two moons, if his vision was right—glistened down through the jagged hole in the fortress roof. The acrid smell of gunpowder clung to his gear, but an entirely new scent mingled with it: blood and burning pitch.
Marcus "Saint" Miller shuffled next to him, checking Derek "Hawk" Hawkins for injuries. "You good, man? You look like you got dropkicked by a rhinoceros."
Derek coughed and waved him off. "I think I'd prefer a rhino. At least I'd know the rules. This is some next-level crazy." His eyes darted around. "Where are we?"
Jason blinked hard. "Sure as hell not Helmand."
They took quick stock: none of them were severely injured, though bruises and cuts peppered their arms. Their rifles, mostly intact. One of Derek's spare magazines had cracked, spilling a few precious rounds across the stones, but he scooped them up with a grimace.
Above, a gaping hole let in the pale glow of twin moons. The rest of the place reeked of a fresh firefight: shouts, metal on metal, and the faint thunder of boots racing along corridors somewhere beyond. More pressing was the swirl of dust behind them, where a swirling purple afterimage of the "portal" had been. Now it was gone—snuffed out.
Marcus spat out grit. "Please tell me you see a way back?"
Jason turned, scanning. The fissure in the wall where they'd tumbled through was sealed over by a ragged chunk of stone. No more glow, no rift, not even an ominous sparkle. Just a black, cracked surface. The "door" was quite literally sealed, as though the portal had never existed.
Derek walked up to it, nudged with his boot, then rapped a knuckle against the stone. Solid. "Welp, we officially used the one-way ticket."
Jason's gut clenched, but he kept that stoic calm. "Stay frosty. Let's do a quick recon. If we can't go back the way we came, maybe we'll find another path. A main exit, or stairs leading out."
He pointed to a heavy wooden door set into the far wall—eight feet high, reinforced with iron bands. Carved symbols ran its length. Flickers of torchlight seeped around its edges.
"Think it's locked?" Derek asked, raising his rifle.
Marcus exhaled, half-laugh, half-scoff. "Dude, we just fell through a magic hole from Afghanistan into—what is this, a medieval haunted house? If that door isn't locked, I'll bet my Kevlar it's booby-trapped."
Jason stepped forward. He twisted the handle. Sure enough, it wouldn't budge. But a metallic bar on the other side rattled, indicating some mechanism held it fast.
He signaled the others with a nod. "Saint, got your kit?"
Marcus slipped off his backpack, rummaging through compartments. "Yeah, but we're low on supplies. Used a chunk of C4 in that last building."
Derek sighed. "We sure we wanna blow every locked door we come across? Could lead to a big 'Surprise, orcs!' moment."
Marcus snorted. "You act like that's worse than dealing with real estate agents." Still, he dutifully drew out a small shaped charge. "Unless you see a doorknob we can politely jiggle, this might be our best shot."
Above them, a tremor in the fortress shook loose a sprinkle of gravel. Distant roars echoed, and somewhere, people were fighting. The ring of swords was unmistakable—like something straight out of a historical documentary, only laced with savage snarls and gut-churning screams.
"Set the charge," Jason ordered curtly. "Keep it small. We want to open that door, not turn ourselves into shrapnel."
Marcus affixed the charge to the latch area, glancing at Derek with a raised eyebrow. "Ready for door-kicker mode, bro?"
Derek half-grinned. "Always. Though if an ogre is on the other side, we're definitely blaming you."
A quick beep, a push of the trigger, and a contained crack. The iron bar gave way in a burst of splinters and metal shards. Smoke curled from the battered hinges.
Jason led the stack, muzzle first, voice low: "Go!"
They poured through, rifles sweeping in coordinated arcs. Torchlight and swirling shadows replaced the gloom of the collapsed chamber.
The corridor beyond was littered with debris—fallen banners, broken shields, and fresh blood trailing off into the dark. A single torch bracket flickered on a wall, revealing claw marks gouged into stone. The stench of death curled in the cold air.
"Tell me again that this isn't a nightmare," Derek whispered, swallowing.
Marcus stepped over what looked like a shattered sword. "Well, we wanted to fight guys with guns, not…whatever the hell tore those gouges. I'll take a rifle fight any day."
Jason motioned them to check each side. One hallway stretched left, the other right, though both were half-choked with rubble. Overhead, more tremors rattled stone. Possibly the siege from outside?
They paused as a tremor knocked dust loose. Through the gloom, Jason spotted a battered soldier—human, definitely—slumped against the corridor's corner, breathing in ragged gasps. The man wore partial plate armor, dented severely. He clutched a sword in one hand, and his face was etched with shock and pain.
Marcus's medic instincts flared. "I got him." He slung his rifle to check the soldier's vitals. The man's eyes flicked open in panic when he noticed Marcus's strange gear and face covering.
"It's okay," Marcus murmured, though the soldier clearly didn't understand English. Nonetheless, the man's tense posture eased slightly at Marcus's calm tone.
Derek and Jason stood guard, scanning for threats. The soldier mumbled words that sounded like warnings or pleas. Blood seeped from under his armor.
Marcus rummaged for bandages. "He's got a nasty slash across his midsection." He pressed gauze in place, ignoring the soldier's startled grunt at the alien materials. "Derek, I could use a translation spell right about now."
Derek snorted softly. "Yeah, sorry, man—my D&D dictionary is at home."
The soldier groaned, pointed shakily down the corridor to the right. It led to a set of stairs descending into gloom. His eyes then darted to their rifles, a flicker of awe crossing his pain-lined face.
Jason inhaled. "We'll help him if we can, but we can't lug him around in active combat. Saint, do what you can. Then we move."
Marcus's quick, practiced movements stabilized the soldier as best he could. Even through the language barrier, the man must have recognized compassion. He gave a weak nod, gesturing as if to urge them onward—to escape or maybe help in the fight.
Once Marcus finished, they rose. The soldier sagged against the wall, still alive but too weak to stand.
Jason turned to the corridor on the left. Smoke and flickers of light danced that way, maybe an exit or an opening to a courtyard. He signaled Derek to check it out.
Derek advanced, rifle at the ready, silent as a wraith. He returned moments later, shaking his head. "Total collapse. Rubble up to the ceiling."
"That means the only route is down those steps," Marcus said, eyeing the narrow staircase to the right. The faint echo of more clashing steel drifted up from the depths. "If that soldier's pointing us that way, maybe it leads to an exit. Or at least more intel."
Jason took point, heading down the steps with methodical caution. Derek followed, shining a small flashlight along the damp walls. Cracks and creeping moss testified to the fortress's age. Torch sconces spaced every few feet offered dim, flickering illumination.
The deeper they descended, the stronger the odor of must and old blood. Low moans reverberated, possibly from the wounded, or something far worse.
The stairs ended at a new door—massive, reinforced with heavy iron plates. A stylized crest, half-scratched away, was set at the center: a soaring griffin, wings outspread. The bar across it was locked in place from the outside.
Derek mouthed the words, "Sealed door."
Marcus exhaled, "Yeah, another door. I'm seeing a pattern. You want me to blow it, or can we just lift the latch this time?"
Jason tested it, pulling on the metal bar. It slid with a protesting squeal, stiff but not locked. He had to put his shoulder into it, and with a final wrench, the bar clanged to the floor.
A rush of stale air flooded out, carrying the stench of fear and despair. Torchlight flickered inside—a corridor or storeroom? Jason raised his rifle. "On me."
They edged in. The corridor opened onto a wide chamber lined with iron-barred cages—cells. Some were empty, others held shapes huddled in the dim corners. Men, possibly women, too, dirty and battered. A few looked half-dead, no fight left in their eyes.
Derek grimaced. "They're keeping prisoners here?"
Marcus bristled. "And from the smell, they're not giving them five-star treatment."
Jason's gaze swept the chamber. A corridor branched off at the far end, flickering with more torchlight. "We can't just leave them. But clearing this place might be more complicated than we can handle. We still don't even know where the hell we are."
A weak voice rose from one of the cells: a gaunt older man in ragged robes, speaking in that strange local tongue. He pointed to a cluster of iron keys hanging on a far wall.
Derek raised an eyebrow. "Guess the concept of keys is universal. Should we do a little good deed? Might earn us some karma."
Jason blew out a breath. This wasn't standard procedure. They were short on ammo, in an unknown fortress with an active war overhead. But leaving these prisoners to rot felt wrong.
"Saint, check those keys. Hawk, watch the corridor."
Marcus nodded, hurried over to the key ring. It rattled in his grip. Meanwhile, the robed prisoner reached through the bars, desperation shining in his eyes.
"Guy's probably done nothing but get tossed in a cell by orcs or whoever's in charge," Derek muttered, scanning the passage for hostiles.
Marcus tried a key in the cell's lock. It stuck. "Dang, medieval padlocks. Real subtle."
After a couple attempts, the lock clicked. The cell door swung open with a groan. The robed man stumbled out, bowing repeatedly in gratitude. He babbled a stream of words none of them understood, but the meaning was clear enough: relief, thanks, possibly pleas to help the others.
Jason pressed a finger to his lips, motioning him to stay quiet. The man nodded rapidly. He indicated the next cells, urging them to free more captives.
But before they could move, a heavy scraping from the far corridor froze them. Footsteps—several pairs—echoed, accompanied by guttural snarls.
Derek backed up, whispering, "I see shadows. Big. Could be orcs. And I'm not thrilled about a door jam with a bunch of prisoners behind us."
Jason's voice tightened. "We hold position. If they come in, we engage. We free these folks after."
Marcus squared his shoulders, rifle aimed at the corridor. The robed prisoner hid behind the cell door, eyes wide.
The steps drew closer. Harsh voices barked in that same alien language. Light from their torches danced across the floor. In a moment, they'd round the corner.
Jason flicked his rifle's selector to semi-auto. "No talking, no mistakes. We drop them fast."
Derek inhaled, adjusting his stance. "Standard welcome from DEVGRU, medieval edition. Let's do this."
Amid the flickering shadows of that underground cell block, the three modern soldiers stood resolute, prepared for the unknown foes about to appear. The sealed door was open, but the path to understanding—and possibly escaping—this war-torn fortress had only just begun.