Occasionally Lothair would cease his storytelling to shout direction at the servants during their preparations for the evening meal. Many times, he called for heaping spoonfuls of something or another brought over to taste, and always insisted that Vero take a share and give her own thoughts.

“More sugar?”

“Calls for salt I should say.”

They ate so much Vero doubted if she would be hungry for supper. She was sweating, sitting between all the cooking fires. It was welcome after the biting cold, but everyone in the kitchens drank tremendous quantities of watered-down light beer to stay hydrated.

As a journeyman, Lothair had hunted mostly in Teutonia. That was before the long interregnum started, and when the land was still rather peaceful. This meant work was sometimes short, but he could count on the academy to keep him equipped and provisioned. The contracts he did take were typically very safe. Mostly he resolved minor hauntings and put down rabid animals.

Vero envied the hunting ground he described. She often found herself torn between the risks of poverty or mortal threat.

After twelve years, Lothair’s luck ran out. He took a contract to hunt a creature which killed outlying farmers near a town on the other side of the grand-duchy. He presumed the creature to be a dire wolf.

True, the bite marks did not look quite right. But he had always been rather slovenly in his tracking and identification of markings, and it never harmed him in the past. He decided that the simplest way to hunt the beast was to let it bring itself to him, by spending several nights in the area where the monster stalked, waiting for it to show itself.

Nothing happened the first night, or the second. On the third, a storm descended on the abandoned farm where he made his camp.

Not a terrible storm. By the standards of the north, where storms could become terrible indeed. However, there was wind and snow enough that a man could be lost a hundred paces from his home, and die of exposure before he found it again.

Lothair was not worried at the time. He had enough food for days, and no intention of leaving his shelter until the storm blew itself out.

Imagine his surprise when he heard a voice calling to him from outside. She must have been screaming to make herself heard over the howling wind, but to him it sounded like no more than a whisper, on the edge of perception. Yet, Lothair told Vero, he knew with certainty that it was the voice of a woman.

He went to the door, and strained his eyes against the storm. Was he going mad? No, the voice came to him again, and he called back to her.

Whoever she was, she was in danger. That much, he was certain.

If he left the farmhouse, he might easily become lost. Then he would have thrown his own life away as well as her last chance at rescue.

He called out again, and heard a reply pleading for aid. He believed he knew the direction of her voice, but for the gods’ sake why couldn’t she find her way to him?

“And what would you have done in my place, Lady Vero?” he asked.

Vero considered the matter a moment. “I suppose I would have anchored a rope to my shelter, and then gone out for more information.”

“I don’t believe I ever carried rope with me.”

“You should have. I always do.” Vero took a spoonful of the most delicious tomato soup.

Lothair had stepped out alone into the snowstorm.

He reckoned the woman’s direction and walked in a straight line towards her. Several times he looked back to be sure his line of tracks led directly to the house, and tried not to let it unnerve him when the structure could no longer be seen. He called out again and again for the woman, but he heard no reply.

Then, just as it seemed most hopeless, he saw a mound of snow a few paces away. It might have easily been a large boulder, but he rushed towards it and dug the outer layer of snow away.

Revealed beneath, was a woman. Misty breath still came from her mouth, but her eyes stared forwards blankly.

With no time to lose, he picked her up and put her over his shoulder. Then he turned and tried to follow his tracks back the way he came. Already the new snowfall was obscuring his path, and soon it vanished completely. Visibility was fading lower and lower.

Lothair cursed himself for his foolishness. He was lost. Now they would both freeze to death together. Perhaps only yards away from their salvation, and never knowing it. He was sure he had been walking too long. He must have passed by the farm already.

Should he turn and go back? But his path was straight.

It was all hopeless… hopeless…

But, of course, then he found his shelter in front of him. He could hardly have survived to relate his story to Vero if he had not.

Lothair burst back into the warmth of the house, and collapsed beside the hearth with the woman. He felt her skin, and it was deathly cold. Desperately, he tried to rub life back into her flesh and bring her back to her senses. He only then noticed that his belt had come lose in the storm, and his sword was now lost in the snow.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

But what could he do, with the storm so intense as it was?

He tried to speak with the woman, but even when she opened her eyes, she seemed unable to understand anything he said. Instead, she appraised him like a wild animal. He assured her of his honorable intentions.

The moment he turned away, the woman lurched forwards and viciously bit into his calf.

Her strength was inhuman, and she had no response to pain. The battle between them was close, brutal, and took most of the night. Each time he forced her off she would immediately throw herself at him again, tearing away his flesh with her teeth and nails when she could.

His only reprieves came when she stopped to consume the meat she stripped from him.

Lothair watched in growing horror as he grew weaker, and searched desperately for a weapon. After hours of struggle, finally, he found a wood axe in the dark. He brought it down on her skull when she came for him the last time, splitting it open.

Later, he discovered the full story. The woman was a possessed by a wendigo, a fell spirit which haunts cold and isolated places. They prey on the minds of their victims, and tempt them to commit acts of terrible sacrilege that would place the subject beyond the protection of the gods, typically incest or cannibalism.

Then the wendigo would take possession of their victim’s body.

When the slayers traced the woman to her own home, they found the gnawed remains of two small children. Her own.

They had been devoured the previous winter, after being trapped for months by heavy snow.

Vero had never faced a wendigo before. Although she once faced a conjurer who became possessed by a daemon he summoned, and that was a close-run struggle. She did not envy Lothair his battle in the dark.

Lothair’s hunt was over, but his leg had already been half eaten. He could no longer work in the field, and he returned to the fortress. That was how, after many adventures and hazards, he ended where he began.

Only now he held the title of master slayer, and managed the finances and inventory of the Order, rather than his family.

“Any regrets?” Vero asked, at length.

“About putting my leg into a dragon’s jaws like a damn fool?” He smiled amiably and shook his head. “No. It could have been worse, after all. I was never a good slayer – not a bad one either, mind you – but never a good one. If I hadn’t been pulled in when I was, I would probably be dead by now. Most of the others I trained with are. And having tasted adventure, I no longer found it so sweet as I once believed I would.”

They spent so long in conversation that the evening meal was already started in the main hall. They went to join the others and seamlessly continued their afternoon’s feasting. Now they were sitting beside a returned Pentarch, Diana, and Philip- a handsome young man who sat near beside Diana.

They passed the time in idle conversation, until Vero felt drowsy and excused herself to return to her room. She wondered if Pentarch would object to her leaving by herself, but he did not.

Outside of the hall, the cold wind sobered away the pleasant haze of beer at once. The sun had set, and it was unearthly cold.

She was half way along the courtyard, when it occurred to her that it was strangely bright at night. When she looked for the source of illumination, she found a ribbon of soft almost-green light, which remained held above the mountains.

She realized it was Fae-light, although it was past the queer hour of twilight when it should be visible to human eyes without lenses. She searched for where it emanated from, or what spell held it in place, but could see nothing from her distance and the canyon walls were too sheer to climb. A passing watch patrol paid it no mind, so she presumed it must be a regular occurrence.

The stairs were covered in a layer of frost, and Vero moved carefully when she climbed up to the top of the wall. She looked over the parapet at the softly rolling hills of snow, which reminded Vero of dough rolls before baking- or perhaps the pale curves of a sleeping woman.

Vero realized that she must not have been completely sobered by the frigid air.

The snow was deep and fluffy. She could probably let herself down the wall carefully enough to drop without harm. It looked as though it would be like falling into a sea of cotton. Of course, it would be much harder than that to escape without starving or dying of exposure. That would be why they did not feel it necessary to keep her under guard.

She could build her own shelter, but a bedroll and tent would not go amiss if she could find them. Food and water would be more important. She already pocketed an impressive portion of her dinner, and done something to gain the trust of the quartermaster, so that project would come along in its own time.

Her leg was already beginning to ache, so she would move faster if she could find poppy milk.

There was one other defense she would need to pass.

A daemon lived under the mountain, a powerful one. It plagued her with terrible dreams the entire fortnight she spent in the dread valley between the fortress and the ruins of the Von Richlau estate.

The slayers knew a faster way than she came, Lothair all but confirmed that. It would need to be easy enough to travel for hauling cargo, they were exceptionally provisioned for the remoteness of the location. She would need to discover it, if she meant to escape.

How was this lost order so well provisioned? The entire fortress had an odd sense of careless opulence, mixed together with all the rigid necessities for survival in such a harsh clime. Where did they find the money? She accumulated far more treasure in a few months as an aristocrat’s mistress than she ever had or would earn by slaying.

And did she even wish to leave? Vero did not trust the Curia or their impish manservant, but the others gave a more favorable impression. If the witch left, that would make it more pleasant company still. She came there for knowledge. Why should she now want to go the moment she arrived?

It was the fact that she was not allowed to leave which rankled her.

Pentarch did what he could to ameliorate the situation, but there was no disguising the fact that she was a prisoner.

At the very least, she must remain long enough to retrieve her sword. Recovering the rest of her equipment would be helpful, but anything beside the sword could be replaced.

If she escaped, would they pursue her? Or leave her for dead?

Ramiro was waiting for her in Burgorod with her horse- so long as he had not drunk himself to death yet. If she could reach Burgorod, then she could get away completely. If they found her riding south, they would be sure she was running to the Marquis de Fer.

That would not be a bad idea either, if she still felt trackers following behind her when she retrieved Dora. The explanations would be complex, she supposed, but Jean’s army was certain to put off even the most determined pursuers.

It would require swallowing a certain amount of pride, however. So, she would not use that card until she had no other reasonable choice.

Vero shivered at a gust of wind. She put away her thoughts for the time being and returned to her room. Stoking up the fire place's coals, she added more fuel until there was a comfortable blaze going. Then she undressed herself, and folded her clothes neatly for the next day.

Finally, she slipped back into bed, and fell at once into a welcome slumber.