It crouched like a cat, bore the wings and feathers of a bird, and watched like a snake, but it was all put together in the vague mockery of a man’s form. It was unsettlingly low to the ground, and its limbs were bent as though it had just made its landing after jumping down from a rooftop above. Not in the blink of an eye after Górin made eye contact with the shining black depths of its hideous face, it rose up from where it knelt, standing to its full height of nearly two heads over Górin. It paused its jerking movements for a moment, as though contemplating the newcomers. Its head cocked to one side, then the other, and then in one quick step, it lunged forward with a suddenness.
The abominable thing did not simply move towards the two, for in its leap, it swiftly ascended into the air. The thing was dreadfully fast. Deep and rapid gusts of wind broke the silence of night as it closed the distance between it and its prey. It reached out with great talons upon its feet, sharp as razors and long as a butcher’s knives.
Górin felt his stomach drop as the creature made for him. A quick instinctual step to the side saved his head from being taken off, but he was not given the time to thank his luck or make certain that he had truly not been sliced. The sudden rush of air beside his head as the talons flew by was quickly followed by a frenzied flapping of wings as the creature turned its course and made to return for more strikes. Half a moment later, the thing was upon them again, only angrier and more frantic than before.
As it made for its return, the thing let out a chilling screech. It pierced through the night, but not cleanly, for its call was shriller than a hawk’s and yet rougher and more broken than a chicken’s. It echoed many times throughout the square, though rather than diminishing with each repetition, the clamor only grew. Dread and terror filled Górin and Troíde as they raised their weapons against the great shadow, praying that it would not slink further into the distant darkness and escape their sight.
Troíde had been forced to jump aside from her stance, for even a well-caught blade can knock the defender from her feet if the full weight of a great beast were behind it. Only in preparation could the two protect themselves from the thing; to attempt a head-on block or parry of the terrible claws might mean a broken arm in the best of outcomes. Three times the thing made a pass over them, and each time, luck was on their side, if not for the immense unconscious focus that impending death teases to the surface. In the brief moments of reprieve from the attacks, Troíde’s sword flew from her belt as she let her spear drop to the ground with a hollow clatter.
The creature made a round towards Górin, and in the ephemeral obscurity from the beast’s attention, she hopped forward to make ambush of her own upon the traveling boats of death. The thing’s legs swung forward as it grabbed in the place Górin ducked away from, and Troíde’s blade swung up to meet its feathery flesh.
If the cries of the beast had before been able to curdle new milk, the shrieks it now gave off would have turned the milk to mold before it hadleft the teat. Flailing in agony, the beast’s wings faltered and it fell to the ground in a writhing mass. Though it no longer soared above them to bring death from above, it now flailed its legs out to bring death from below. Even in injury, the thing was no small threat. Although Troíde had dealt a great blow to it, it would not be long before the beast rose to hobble along and peck at them with the anvil of a beak upon its dreadful face.
But the Lady of Elórdn did not wait for such a fate. Retrieving her spear from where it lay, she grounded her feet and readied a flurry of strikes. Where the sword had tilled the flesh in a red groove, the twisting spearhead planted the seeds of death.
In the midst of it all, Górin had joined the offensive. He spun out of the range of the beast’s claws, and though he bore a long blade in his hand, it remained clean as though he had forgotten it. Rather, he ferociously delivered bone-shaking kicks to its head with his heavy boot, each one causing the thing to twitch violently. The new assault continued onward even long after the monster lay motionless. Only when its lifeless body was flung about by the repeated and unrelenting strikes did the thing move at all.
It was some time before Górin finally fell to his knees over the mangled carcass and began to pummel it wildly with his fists. In the frenzy, he had cast his sword to the side, for such a thing only seemed to get in between him and the demise of the monster. It only took a few heavy strikes from his thick fists before the skull caved inward beneath his fingers. Many hard slams against its body spilled things out onto the ground, and yet Górin’s intensity only grew as his breaths grew shorter and more dog-like. Troíde had long stopped once she saw that the monster’s head was shattered into many pieces, and she tried to inform Górin of the fact, but he did not hear her words.
At some point, his gloves were torn against the sharp cracked bones, and his fingers were scratched, but he neither cared nor noticed. Blood flowed freely and more flowed with each time he dropped his fist into the red mass. Only when he began to cry out in wrathful vengeance did Troíde grow concerned enough to step in and push him aside. For a moment, terror took her as the ravenous beast in Górin’s eyes darted to her from behind a red-beaked face of joyous murder. Like a rabid dog, he bent down in a low stance as though preparing a pounce.
Troíde did not rush to throw him back further, but stood tall. She dared not reach for a blade, lest it provoke him further. She took a step back, and his gaze followed her, away from the filthy carcass.
“Górin,” she said slowly, “It is over, now. The beast is dead and we can return.” She wished there was something more she could say to reason with the ranger, but nothing came to her flustered mind, then.
He said nothing in return, but quickly, he looked back to the corpse and then again to his companion. This he repeated many times, and in each repetition, his head moved more slowly and his breathing became slower. At the final return to Troíde, he rose from where he knelt.
“I am sorry,” he said at last in a muffled choke, “I...would not have turned my back unless I knew what it was that pursued us was dealt with.”
“I know not what to expect in such a dreadful place,” Troíde groaned, relieved to hear some sense from her leader.
“Well then,” Górin said, looking himself over and wiping a bloody hand against his already-crimson-stained trouser leg, “What’s done is done. I suppose it is fortunate enough that neither of us is hurt very badly. Let us go.”
Troíde looked at the beast with concern, but went along with Górin as he stepped towards the hall. Every few steps, she looked back in its direction, as though expecting it to suddenly get up and resume the fight, but she quickly pushed the thought from her head, scolding herself for indulging in the horrid fancies that her frenzied companion had introduced to her. The two moved quickly across the square as quietly as they could, but the resumed silence did not calm their nerves even slightly. In a way, they might have preferred some distant noises to come to them; a signal of a distant being that had somehow not yet noticed their presence. Yet, no such sounds came, for once they had ceased the mauling of the monster, silence had fallen once again over the square.
Troíde passed through the open door first, and Górin remained at the threshold for a few moments longer.He took in the square one final time before entering and shutting the door behind him. No creatures followed them so far, yet the paranoid thoughts never left him even for a moment as long as his back was still turned.
Where once a dim light glowed at the distant end of the long hallway, only darkness now remained. Their own lamp cast light down through the great passage, but it was not nearly enough to reach the camp. Only the long streaks of dark blood from the battle earlier remained, leading further onward until it too disappeared among the shadows. Like the square outside, the hall too lay in silence.
“Handor?” Górin called out into the dark, “Are you well? Where is your light?” His voice echoed many times until it faded and withered in the distance. He looked to Troíde, who gave him an uncertain look. Though the two perked their ears to catch any small response from ahead, nothing at all came to them. Not even as much as a whisper.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“I don’t like the feel of this,” Troíde finally said just barely louder than a sigh, though to Górin who was straining for any sound, he heard it clear as day. “I fear that something might have overtaken them while the door was left open.”
“Snuffing our lamp would only put ourselves in more danger,” Górin replied, “A stealthy approach might as well be impossible, now. Let us just hope against hope that we can find something before it finds us.”
The two stepped forward, passing over the upturned dust and trails of smeared blood that decorated the entryway. Once they had closed the door behind them, the darkness around them had become suddenly apparent, and the light from the lamp revealed little except for themselves and a short distance beyond. As they departed from the doorway, the walls faded into the darkness. All around, they could see nothing except for the ground ahead. Now and then, they would pass a set of pillars which rose up to an unseen ceiling, and thus they marked their direction for whither they wished to go. With light feet, their steps made little sound in the hall, though in the silence, such a thing would travel far.
They had gone on for some short distance until the quiet was finally broken by a sound created not by either of the two. Actually, it was two sounds that came to their ears; one after the other, as though in response. The first was a low moan, like a cry of pain that would have been a great shriek were it not for the fatigue and agony that prohibited such. A cry of pain that had been forcibly transformed into a groan of hopeless dread. And it was unmistakably the voice of Dákk which produced such a piteous tone.
The second was a stranger sound that they didn’t understand what caused it. To the best comparison Górin could make, it seemed like the tearing of leather or some other tough material. It was much quieter than the first, and it came only shortly after the groans began. It was a strange response, but it was one that alternated in place. Dákk would begin to moan, and then the sound began, but as the sound shifted in speed or force, Dákk’s voice only grew more pained and breathless.
The two were only about halfway across the hall, by their judgment. Troíde’s hand shook, causing the light to quiver violently and send shadows dancing about the pair. Moving forth slowly and with weapons raised in readiness for what they might find, they dared not breathe or step any heavier than a feather-fall. All throughout, the duo of terrible sounds only became all the more noticeable to their ears.
At last, they came upon the mass of objects laying about where they had set up camp. Though their own possessions seemed to have not been touched by any, the mess of Jynge’s hurried departure left dozens of various things littered about the area. From ahead, from where the source of Dákk’s moans came, a lingering puddle of dark liquid seeped along the cracks in the stone. With a pounding heart, Troíde stepped forward held out the lamp to illuminate the place where Jynge had tended to the wounded ranger.
Dákk lay upon his back in the pile of blankets, though he moved little. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest revealed traces of life within him, but as Górin and Troíde neared, his eyes languidly moved to their direction. Every time he blinked, it took longer than to take one slow breath. His shirt had been torn open, revealing alarmingly pale flesh. Yet, this pale flesh was only occasional, for great masses of it had been ripped away, leaving only the crimson and white things beneath.
Yet he was not the only figure that they beheld. Handor obscured much of Dákk’s wounded form, for he bent over with his head low, moving only slightly. Beside him, his discarded mask lay within the puddle of blood. In fluid movements, his head pulled back, and as he did so, the sound of ripping leather rang out, and Dákk groaned in agony. When the tearing suddenly ceased, Handor did not lower his head again for a time, but rather jerked forth as though attempting to chew on a tough piece of meat. If he noticed the light of the lamp shining upon the grim scene, he made not indication of it. He lifted his hand to grip the flap of flesh in his teeth, and as he did so, the yellow light reflected off of it in a perfect shining wet red.His friend groaned in misery.
Górin felt his head spin at the sight, but caught his thoughts a moment after.
“Handor!” he shouted, “What are you doing?!”
The crouched figure started as though noticing their presence for the first time, then slowly turned to face him. The face wore the shape and flesh of Handor, but the spirit behind the eyes was gone. In its place was the predatory hunger of a ravenous beast. Blood covered his face, pooling and soaking the lower half around his mouth. The whole front of him was stained red. In his bared teeth, he held a long strip of irregular flesh, fat, and meat. As his eyes met those of the two, he let the torn cut fall from his mouth, and he grimaced at them fiercely and hatefully.
“Why-Why would you do that?!” Troíde suddenly shrieked, her voice shaking in nauseous despair. The light of the lamp shook tremendously in unison, and Górin reached to take hold of it before she dropped it and left the two in total darkness with Handor.
“There’s nothing for you here,” Handor growled, wiping his face with a hand, only smearing the stains further into his skin. “Either of you. We were never going to leave Kaðrosedd. There was never the possibility.” With every word, he spoke slowly and with little else but menace.
“Move away from Dákk,” Górin commanded.
“Don’t tell me that you hadn’t felt it either?” Handor interrupted, narrowing his bloodshot eyes, “Such a dreadful hunger when morning came and we found the roe to be completely rotten? What foolishness is that? Do you not hold any love for life?”
“Listen to me, you swine,” Górin growled, “You get away from Dákk so I can knock the sense back into you. We leave you to guard your companion, and you do...this?!”
“There’s nothing we can do to save Dákk, now,” Troíde weakly said, looking mournfully at the suffering man.
“Don’t...listen…” Dákk moaned, looking up at the shadows above, “They can...find...you if you listen...to them.” He raised an arm in a pitiful attempt to reach for something in the air, and that arm was stripped of nearly all of its flesh from the elbow down, and several fingers were gone, leaving only broken stumps.
“I can’t let you return to Elbregn as a free man, Handor,” Górin said with no emotion whatsoever in his voice. The lightheaded sensations had mostly left him, but the hollow dread remained. Noticing movement to his side, he looked and saw that Troíde had made a few steps away. Not further from Handor, but a slow circle around him.
“You think we can leave Kaðrosedd as we are?” Handor said, his feral scowl loosening to something almost resembling a smirk. “You would die of starvation before you could make it even halfway to Elbregn. Perhaps a Veil might send a hapless roe your way.” At this, he gave a vile chuckle before shaking his head and slowly turning back to his feast. However, Górin shouted an exclamation at him before he could fully turn around, and Handor looked back with a foul expression. Meanwhile, Troíde had made her way nearly completely behind him.
“I never liked you, Górin,” he said darkly, “Must you be so loyal to your duties, even at great cost to yourself? Is even a little decadence too much for one such as you?” As he spoke, his fingers began to tremble in a nervous fidget, and his breaths became heavier.
Górin sent a glare at the kneeling ranger. “’Decadence’...and you consider yourself a man worthy of your lord’s employ.”
“You would not understand,” Handor replied, “Not until you too have felt the hunger. You will, though.”
Górin did not look directly at Troíde, but he nonetheless saw her perfectly. She stood only just arm’s length behind where Handor sat. No light entered to the lenses of her mask, and of what expression she bore, Górin could see nothing. In her hands she tightly gripped her sword. There, she stood in waiting, staring directly at Górin.
“What a sick fate that has befallen us,” Górin whispered to himself, “What deep blight has crept within our minds?”
As Handor and Górin stared at each other, the bestial ranger grew more restless and twitched with greater unease. At last, he started and lifted his hands to his head, leaving great red prints on his scalp.
“Ah!” he howled, “The hunger! It consumes me!” He set his hands to the ground and made to get up from where he knelt.
Górin looked to Troíde and gave a single grave nod.
In a single perfect strike, the blade of Troíde came down upon the back of Handor’s spine. He fell immediately and without a word, slumping over where he knelt. Troíde tried twice to loosen her blade from where it was lodged in between neck and shoulder, but after it refused to budge, she relinquished it.
She stood still as a statue for a moment as she stared down at the carnage at her feet. Then, with a tremble only for warning, she let out many broken screams. Grabbing at her head, she shook terribly and struggled to stand upright. Undoing her cowl, she ripped her mask from her head and in her face, she wore a look of utter terror and hopelessness. She cared not for who might hear, for she did not even realize how loud and sharp her cries were. Stumbling, she took several steps until she collapsed against the wall behind the grisly encampment. She lurched forward several times as she gagged, and upon the last, she lost all of what meager supper she had eaten. Even as the sour mess fell from her mouth, still she screamed. Before it was over, she had fallen upon the ground and begun to writhe back and forth many times, holding her head.
When Górin had finished putting Dákk out of his misery, he came over to where she knelt, and laid a hand upon her wrist. She shook violently and her left hand was twitching more vigorously than he had ever seen before. At the touch, she flinched and cried out.
“They were not themselves!” she choked through many short breaths and stutters. This, she repeated many times to herself, and she did not answer Górin’s reassurances for a long while.