The gates lay open and unguarded as Górin and Troíde approached. Peering inside, they saw nothing of any importance in the first area of the keep. The grounds were laid out in an angular bend, and the first portion extended out for some distance until a sharp turn led to a larger open area where the faint shadow of the castle’s tower could be seen against the night. From this further area came the glow of yellow firelight, reflected onto the old stone walls. Many shadows danced in the light upon the walls, cast in the forms of many men and things not quite men. The chants of Jynge had already begun once more, loud and valiant from beyond. All throughout, beneath her harshly beautiful tones, the calls and growls of other things loomed. Low and terrible they were, some from men’s throats and others from cruel beasts.
The pair stepped lightly into the keep, balancing a swift foot with a quiet one. Upon gaining sight of the firelight from beyond the turn, Górin snuffed his lantern, and the two slowed to a prowl once they neared the corner. As they came close and the sounds of conflict grew louder, they removed their packs and dropped them upon the ground. Troíde tightened her grip on her spear and Górin set down the lantern to ready his bow. Moving silently, he lowered himself and leaned out past the corner pillar just enough to see the source of the light.
A ring of strange figures surrounded a ring of tall flames. There were just as many ravenous beasts as there were blighted men, and all loomed with cunning and ferocity. They paced around the ring of fire slowly with each moving according to his own pace and judgment. The men largely resembled the grotesque and diseased others that the pair had only just passed by, but these did not wander idly in place. Sharp-eyed and cruel these were, and their movements were carefully slow. Beside them prowled vile hounds, great and yet wasting. Whatever rot ate away at their fur and skin had no apparent detriment to the number or sharpness of their razor teeth. Low like cats stalking mice, they stepped around the circle, growling at the witch that stood within and hungering for whatever opportunity would present itself.
In no time, one of the diseased men seemed to have found the chance to strike, and with a bent and rusted blade, he swung wildly into the circle of flame. Yet that wild swing was the first and last of the strike, for it never reached its mark. The dark blade had hardly entered into the blazes when its speed was quickly sapped and the quick motion became like drawing an oar through thick bog water. He grunted and with a clear effort, withdrew his sword as though pulling a branch from the mud of the shore. In the midst of the withdrawal, he suddenly jolted back as though startled by something, and grabbed at his hand while the sword fell to the ground. Something guarded the witch against his strike, and something else bit back at his cruel fingers.
Just as a trickster jackal might laugh at a wolf he had outsmarted, the flames danced and glowed in response. Upon the ground from where the blaze burnt, shining emblems radiated in glory. A great circle bordered everything, but just within were many symbols and letters of power. Each flickered like silver beneath the moonlight, and each cast forth scorching flames of its own. Many bordered standing candles, and many candles cast out waves of heat as visible as a mist in daylight. High above the heads of those who sought to advance past the bulwark, a column of fire fumed and thrashed like a thousand leaves in a storm. And at the center of it all, the witch stood forth as the source of the unleashed inferno.
She held her hands high aloft, and in them she bore her tools of spellcraft, shaking as her hands trembled in exultation. Very little of her could be seen at a time, for the raging fires burned wildly from her skin, and often obscured much of her as much as a deep fog might. Shadows fled from her, only daring to show themselves from behind creatures of evil. Whatever the light of Jynge’s daír-fire was halted by, the fire itself threatened to burn away. Yet even with such a powerful essence, shadows can still find their way ever close if they are protected, and her foes brought the shadows with them.
The more they were thwarted and barred from bringing harm to Jynge, the more wicked and steadfast their resolve became. When one after another was bitten by the protecting flames, never did any idea of retreat come to their foul minds. For the witch spoke forth in declaration of prayer and magic, and such things disgusted them terribly, even when heard from afar. Thus summoned to the source of such offensive chants, they had closed in on their target with hungering vengeance. The monstrous beings could not reach to defile her with their wicked touch, but they could beat upon the wards she had called up, and as time went on, their twisted fists and slavering maws reached further into the circle than had first been possible. Blighted and insane they might have become, but they could tell when a bulwark was growing weaker.
When Górin and Troíde had gained dreadful knowledge of the situation and recognized the dangers the permeated the area around their companion, they retreated back to the darkness behind the corner, and looked to each other. Neither seemed eager to address the predicament before them.
“Seven,” Górin finally said, “Seven against two.” His voice was grim and low.
“It will be a short fight if they surround us,” Troíde noted, completely unsure of how to relay her reluctance to engage the terrible band of assailants.
“Then let us make swift work of them,” the leader of the survivors growled, “Let them be stuck with a hundred of our arrows before they can see what hit them. Savagery infests this foul stain upon Vilgen, and it would be folly to not return that savagery. If we cannot defeat all of those black-hearted creatures, then perhaps we will grant Jynge enough of a distraction for her to complete whatever ritual she now means to perform.
Troíde looked grimly at him, but quickly lowered her eyes down to the spear she held. “Have you ever heard of the tale of my house? Of the horrible withering curse that was placed upon those fair-sexed who are born beneath its crimson standard? Many have come before me, seeking to make do with what little remains within our means to stop the slow ruin of our house. Some went very far, and others not so. Some lived to a great age and became great teachers. Others, of course, perished in the pursuit. I suppose some will come after me. I’ve thought often about how my demise will come, whether it be from an unlucky cut in a duel, or from being torn by some horrible beast as I wander the wilds in search of that which will set me free. I did not like the idea of any of them, but the thought of being taken by age without victory scared me more than an early death in my journey. I had come to know that I would not rest easy unless I were to perish while looking towards that treasure.
“That was a long time ago,” she continued, looking out of the shadow towards the flickering lights, “I thought such things as I was walking back form duels won and merchants protected. Never before have I looked at death and saw him looking back at me. I guess that my own wants and goals are as good as failed, at this point. Yes, Górin. Let them be rained upon with arrows, and such missiles shall be harder to dodge than the heavy drops of a raging tempest. Jynge has been a good friend to me and my kin. The house of Elórdn has long lost whatever honor it might once have had, and there is no hope for Troíde to break the curse, but for as long as I still draw breath in this nightmare, then Jynge shall have a friend to shield her from harm.”
“So be it. Blessings of Irka upon you, Lady Troíde of House Elórdn.”
“Blessings of Irka upon you, Górin of Dormedon.”
The two strung their bows, and prepared a handful of arrows for a rapid volley. Their hearts beat wildly as they took several deep breaths before finally giving each other a nod in confirmation. Górin counted from three, and then the pair stepped out from the corner into a clear sight of where Jynge stood surrounded by men and beasts.
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In a single motion, they bent their bows and aimed towards their targets, careful not to set the arrows’ courses too close to Jynge. Their bows sang one after the other, and by the time the first shots came to the attackers, Górin was already in the midst of drawing back his bow once again. The first of the shots hit true, and one of the disfigured men cried out as he reached for the arrow shaft that now hung from his shoulder. An arrow from Troíde struck a wolf in the haunch, and as one of the men turned to search for the source of the projectiles, a new one buried itself into his chest. As he fell and cried out, his companions had found their new targets.
The things were unsettling enough to look at from afar, but they were dreadfully-chilling to watch as they rushed towards Górin and Troíde. The wolfish beasts darted about, low and speedy, and the remaining men charged irregularly, making sure to never allow another clear bow shot at them. A wave of fear came over Górin as he saw the horribly clear and cunning thought that these bloated and wasting men were capable of, much unlike those they had found below. Nonetheless, he shot arrow after arrow at them, but eventually the two were forced to drop their bows and draw blades in preparation for the onslaught. Górin quickly snatched up his sword, and Troíde lifted her spear to a stance in a single swift motion.
The foul men were not without arms, though they were in nearly as much decrepitude as their bearers. The first of them to charge at the pair reached to his mildew-ridden belt as he ran, and from it he pulled a long knife from it, dark with rust. Spotting the spear of Troíde, he slowed to await for his companions who might surround her, but she gave him not the luxury of reinforcements. As quick as lightning, she lunged forward, covering three long paces in the blink of an eye. The spearhead pierced his belly, and he bent over, doubled in shock. With another thrust to the chest, he was sent to the ground, barely moving in his dying moments.
Troíde had felled one of their attackers, but she misjudged the speed of the beasts. They ran like dogs, but pounced and darted like snakes. When one was some twelve paces away from her, it leaped with a startling vigor, and before she could raise her spear from the corpse, it was upon her.
As the wolfish thing flew through the air to sink its many deformed and misaligned teeth into Troíde’s flesh, Górin had stepped forward in a swift motion of his own. Sticking out his sword, he tore fur and flesh upon it, but the weight of the beast was not so easily stopped. It cried out and abandoned its pounce, but the force of it still struck the lady of Elórdn with a terrible crash, and she fell backwards beneath the lifeless mass. A wave of pain darted throughout her body and mind, and for a moment, her sight failed her and she was unaware of how her body was oriented. She felt the weight of pressure upon her back, and knew she was laying to face the sky, as the world spun around her.
Before either could react, the cunning of the beasts was shown to them in full display. For while the first had come upon Troíde quickly and without mercy, the second waited behind for a break in the attention of its prey. As Troíde The image of a misshapen wolf, covered in dreadfully sharp and mangy fur, glaring at her with a red maw open at the ready, fell and Górin was pulling his sword from the carcass, another darting mass of shadow and fangs charged towards them.
Not a moment after Troíde’s senses returned to her, she saw only briefly a terrible and slavering shape rushing towards her from not far away. The image of a misshapen wolf, covered in dreadfully sharp and mangy fur, glaring at her with its red maw hung open at the ready, froze her and she could only stare in fear. Dozens of teeth shoved against each other, growing outward in all directions like a chaotic mold, lay exposed and glistening with a cruel hunger for her flesh and bones.
She knew not the sight of it closing the distance between it and her, but before she knew it, a second force landed upon her as the heavy paws of the beast landed against its dead ally while the jowls lowered to her chest. Her mail would keep the claws from sinking into her flesh, but it did not stop the terrible weight of the thing, and Troíde gasped out in pain.
The head of the beast came down, but it never completed the journey, for it was suddenly knocked aside with an awful crack, and in its place was the heavy hilt a sword, clutched in the fist of Górin. The beast was stunned, but not for long, and it turned to divert its hatred towards he who would get in the way of its prey. Yet it was enough for Górin to turn the sword and sink it into the neck of the monster, dragging it along all the while. With the weight of his body, Górin gave as much strength and will as he could to push the new corpse off of his companion.
He would have lent a hand to her and carefully helped Troíde to her feet, but there was never a moment given for recuperation. The two remaining men had rounded about the pair in their distraction, and to his left, Górin saw the man he had previously shot with an arrow step towards him with a knife in his good arm. He bent to spring forth and cut him down while the opportunity presented itself, but he then saw the other man begin to slowly close in upon him. At the same time, he heard a terrible snarl, and the shape of yet another dark wolf became clearer within the shadows about him. Were it not for the arrow of Troíde hanging from its haunch to mark it against the darkness, he might not have spotted it at all. The beast limped, but none of its ravenous threat had left its leering crimson eyes.
More and more, he growled to himself, Come then, vermin! I shall pull you apart beneath my fingers and snap your bones beneath my feet! His vision blurred for a moment, and his head swam, yet no swoon or haze clouded his thoughts. Crying out, he reached down to dig his hand under Troíde’s shoulder and dragged her upward from beneath the corpses with a great strain. She gasped at the painful and sudden force, but had not the time to rub at her aching shoulder where he had grabbed her. Their attackers, seeing that Górin had been preoccupied for even a moment, had seized the opportunity and quickened their steps towards them.
The wounded man, lamed though he was, charged forward, but Górin rushed forward towards him, and his blade followed with a sharp whistle cutting through the misty air. The man saw Górin’s counter, and stopped his tracks to raise his knife in defense, but the wrathful ranger only let his sword dance forward in a long arc, regardless of what petty tool might be in its way. Perhaps the man meant to surrender, or to merely defend, but Górin cared not for either. Lay still, swine! Reveal your neck so that I might butcher you! Górin thought as his sword knocked aside the weak guard of the knife and reached beyond to the arm and chest of the man who held it.
With both hands, Górin wrenched the blade from where he buried it deeply in the man, and spun to face those that still bore the strength to be a threat. In the midst of his assault upon the wounded man, the last beast charged forward towards him. Górin stepped to the side, but his attacker was not the heavy charging sort as might be a boar or bull. Rather like a dog it was, and perhaps it was indeed a dog at some earlier time, not yet tainted by the horrible blight of Kaðrosedd. In an instant reaction, it turned its course to strike where Górin had stepped, unleashing an awful snarl all the while. Górin struck nonetheless, but he only managed to graze the wild head of the cunning beast, infuriating it and lining its black face with a deep cut from which thick blood seeped. The beast roared, but the choking sound was cut short. Troíde had recovered her sword, and in an upward arc from stony ground to foggy sky, its path took it along the hairy side of the monster. Curving and trailing down like a shooting star, her sword fell again in a heavy strike, tearing open the haunch and sending the thing to the ground. It snapped and thrashed wildly until Troíde stepped forward and cut its throat.
At last, only one of their opponents remained. Unharmed and yet uninvolved with the conflict, he watched carefully, though his expression became more frantic. The ranger and the duelist had inflicted many wounds upon the untrained forces that faced them, but he seemed loathe to surrender. The blade he held trailed out in many loops without pause, and though he was clearly no fighter, the threat still remained.
Górin stepped forward in a false motion, and the last standing assailant went to meet him with the rust-bitten sword. Yet Górin quickly turned his course, and spun his sword to meet the man’s exposed forearm. Grunting in pain, he recoiled and dropped the sword.
Just enough time had gone by for Troíde to recover from the fall and sudden return to her feet. Not long after she was brought upright once again, her bearings were back, and she fell upon the wounded man before them. In many swift cuts and darting pierces, she made quick work of him. The grotesque man bent double and fell, but as he was upon his knees and falling further to the ground, a final wide slash rent his neck. There he fell, and Górin and Troíde were left by themselves amid a circle of broken corpses. Not daring to take even a minor risk, they gathered their senses and quickly gave each corpse, mutilated wholly or not, a deep stab to the throat. They thought the chances small, but even such chances were enough to rouse their suspicion and paranoid fancies.
Once they had finished assuring themselves that their foes were certifiably dead, they turned back to the interior of the keep where the witch stood. No other living creature, save for the three remaining members of the quest, could be seen in light or shadow.
They looked to Jynge, who stood great against the dark, and yet small within the inferno. Now that their focus was upon her once more, they noticed again the high shrieking incantations that she called forth into the night. Some words echoed within the walls of the keep, while others trailed off quickly. All about her, beyond the reach of flames, great waves of heat caused the air to tremble and shake like on a hot Leafsway’s day. Beneath her, the circle glowed brilliantly, as though cracks in the ground had formed in designs of her making, and within flowed rivers of molten metal.