Chapter 24
Only the Moon Howls
> In times of incursion, it is the farms and smaller hamlets that fall first, swept away like dry leaves in the wind. Their cries seldom reach the great cities in time, and by then, the beasts have feasted. Let it be understood: when the wild begins to stir, it is the humble folk of the hinterlands who feel the sharpest teeth."
>
> — Report from the Provincia Regularis
“Emily! Get in the house, now!” Griffon’s voice cut through the growing tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. Without waiting for a response, he turned to Godfrey, eyes hard. “You, grab your blades and follow me.”
“Where are they coming from? Did you disturb the den?” Godfrey asked, breathless as he grabbed his blades from where they lay in the larder next to his pack.
Griffon’s jaw tightened. “I crossed paths with them not two miles northwest. Making a new den, throwing their stinking fur all over. The pack leader seems rabid, and it would have to be to make a den this close to people."
His voice was clipped, urgency clear. “They’re not just hunting. They’re staking a claim. Gauntlet must have fucked up their hunting grounds,” He nodded toward the woods. “Now move. They’ll be on us before we know it.”
Godfrey and Griffon rushed toward the main house, their breath sharp in the cold air, boots crunching through the snow with hurried purpose. Mary met them at the door, her face pale but composed, her gaze flickering between the two as she stepped aside to let them in. The warmth of the house hit Godfrey like a wave, a brief moment of comfort that was quickly drowned out by the urgency of the situation. Inside, Emily was busy barring the front room’s window, her hands moving quickly as she secured the latch and pushed heavy furniture against the frame.
Griffon gave his wife a quick, reassuring nod before turning to Godfrey. Griffon’s voice was low and urgent as he spoke, glancing toward the window Emily had just barred. “They’ll be on us soon. With the new den this close, there’s no way they’ll just leave us be. Even if we drive them off this time, they’ll come back.”
Godfrey's heart pounded as he gripped his blades. "How many?"
Griffon’s jaw clenched as he considered. “About a dozen that I could see, maybe more, maybe less. Not the biggest I’ve seen, but big enough.”
Just then, a howl ripped through the night, somewhere near the larder outside. It was followed by another, then another, until the air outside the house echoed with the eerie, blood-chilling chorus. The sound seemed to come from every direction, surrounding them.
Griffon’s eyes darted to the door. “They’re here.”
Silence fell like a heavy blanket, broken only by the tamp of padded feet approaching the barred door. A low, deep snuffling sound echoed around the edges, followed by a terse growl that sent a shiver up Godfrey’s spine. His hand tightened on his blades, eyes flicking to Griffon.
Griffon touched Godfrey’s shoulder and motioned silently, lifting his bow before pointing upwards to the roof, then to himself. Godfrey nodded, understanding the plan. Griffon moved quietly, slipping out of the room without a sound, making his way to the top of the house.
Moments later, Godfrey heard it—a soft, barely audible knock coming through the thick thatch above. Somehow, despite his size, Griffon had managed to clamber out a window and up onto the roof without alerting the wolves prowling outside, all while carrying a bow and quiver. Godfrey made a mental note to not ever underestimate the man.
Godfrey did some quick mental arithmetic. Griffon, perched on the roof, could most likely drive the whole pack away with his bow, given enough time. But the house wasn’t tall enough—he couldn’t be sure the direwolves wouldn’t find a way onto the roof. His eyes flicked to Mary and Emily. They clung to each other, their knuckles white as they gripped long boning knives, their eyes fixed on the door. Godfrey knew they had the heart to fight, and he pitied the first beast that tried to break into the home.
But the second? The third?
Godfrey shook his head. There was only one thing for it.
His hand tightened on the hilts of his dagger and sword.
Without another word, Godfrey stepped to the door, his breath steady as he braced himself. He angled the tip of his longsword toward the latch, springing it free with a deft flick of the blade. Exerting Control over the tendons in his right leg, he focused, tightening every muscle with precision. With a swift, brutal motion, he snapped his foot into the weighty oak door.
The door crashed open, slamming into the snarling face of a black-furred, rippling beast of the North. The direwolf let out a guttural yelp, stumbling back from the impact, its massive body crashing into the snow-covered earth. For a split second, the world was still. Then, chaos erupted as the other wolves in the pack snarled and surged forward, their eyes glowing with wild hunger.
Godfrey stepped through the door, snapping it shut behind him with a powerful kick, his parrying dagger in his left hand and his longsword raised in his right. The cold air wrapped around him, sharpening his focus as the closest direwolf charged in, its black fur rippling in the twilight.
The first wolf lunged, massive paws reaching for him. Godfrey darted to the side, his left hand snapping upward to deflect its claws with the parrying dagger. With a quick twist, he turned its momentum and drove his longsword into its exposed belly. The wolf howled in agony, collapsing into the snow with a wet thud.
An arrow whistled through the air, striking another wolf in the flank just as it leaped toward Godfrey. Griffon was on the roof, firing arrows into the pack, thinning their numbers with each well-aimed shot. Another direwolf fell, an arrow lodged in its eye, but the rest of the pack wasn’t deterred.
Two wolves came at him from either side. Godfrey spun, executing a Grecian sword form designed for combat with large monsters with fluid precision, one he remembered John having an affinity for called Titas. He deflected the first beast’s snapping jaws with his parrying dagger and pivoted, driving his longsword into its ribs. As it crumpled, the second wolf lunged, aiming for his throat. Godfrey crouched low, letting the beast sail over him before bringing his blade upward in a deadly arc that cleaved through its belly.
But the wolves were relentless. Three more closed in, circling him. Godfrey’s heart pounded, and his muscles screamed in protest, but he refused to slow. He danced between them, the Grecian Titas form coming naturally now, a deadly blur of flashing steel. His parrying dagger caught another wolf’s bite, locking its jaws just long enough for him to drive his longsword through its neck, but leaving his weapons lodged.
Another arrow struck one of the wolves in the hindquarters, sending it skidding into the snow from where it was about to maul Godfrey from behind. Godfrey sidestepped another charging wolf, his dagger catching its claws before he brought his longsword down in a vicious strike that severed its spine.
Godfrey's breath came in heavy bursts, steam rising from his body like a battle-worn furnace as the snow beneath him turned red with blood. He heard the soft scrape of claws on the wooden floor behind him, and his head snapped toward the house just in time to see a wolf slipping through the cracked door.
Before he could react, Griffon roared from the roof and leaped onto the wolf's back, his skinning knife flashing as he drove it into the creature’s neck. Blood sprayed as Griffon held on, wrestling the beast away from the house, leaving Godfrey alone with the remaining two.
Godfrey's focus shifted immediately to the pack leader. The enormous, rabid wolf stood before him, saliva foaming and dripping from its jaws. Its black fur was matted and patchy, and its wild eyes showed no hint of reason. Next to it, a smaller, grey-furred female prowled in circles, waiting for her chance to strike.
Without hesitation, Godfrey gripped his parrying dagger, feeling the weight of the steel in his hand. In one smooth motion, he flicked it underhanded toward the gray wolf. The blade spun end over end, catching the beast in its left eye with a sickening thud. The wolf let out a sharp bark of pain, rolling wildly in the snow as it pawed at its face, blood pouring from the wound.
Godfrey barely had a second to register his success before the massive pack leader lunged at him. It wasn’t like the other wolves—this one didn’t care for tactics or caution. It threw itself forward, a rabid fury driving its limbs, saliva sloughing from its gaping maw as it snapped at the air in its blind rage.
The wolf’s bulk slammed into him, knocking Godfrey back a step, but he kept his balance. He swung his longsword in a tight arc, managing to clip the beast's flank, but it barely registered the blow. The wolf twisted in midair, its jaws snapping inches from Godfrey’s throat.
Godfrey gritted his teeth and ducked low, sidestepping just in time as the beast awkwardly thrashed forward, its massive body lashing out wildly, oblivious to its own safety. It crashed into the snow, rolling up again with terrifying speed, and launched itself at him once more.
Godfrey braced himself as the massive pack leader flew through the air with a snarl, its jaws aimed at his throat. He raised his longsword to intercept, using the length of the blade to block the wolf's deadly bite. The impact of the beast’s weight drove him back, sending him crashing onto his back with a bone-jarring thud.
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The wolf's powerful jaws clamped around the sword, forcing it downward. The edge of the blade began to cut deeply into Godfrey’s left hand as he desperately braced it, blood welling up around the wound. The wolf's rabid frenzy only intensified, its body pressing down, biting and snapping with wild abandon.
The beast lunged again, its head angling in a horrific attempt to crush Godfrey's skull. Saliva dripped onto Godfrey's face, the acrid smell of its infection making him shudder. He clenched his lips and shut his eyes tight, fighting to avoid taking in the fluid. The wolf’s relentless assault pushed the blade deeper into its own brain, the steel slicing through its skull in a final, grotesque act.
With a guttural yelp, the wolf's body went limp, the thrashing ceasing as it slumped heavily onto Godfrey. The weight of the dead beast was crushing, pressing the air from Godfrey’s lungs and pinning him helplessly beneath it. Godfrey felt weak. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation allowing less and less air into his lungs.
As the pain from his injured hand and the pressure from the wolf’s corpse overwhelmed him, Godfrey’s vision blurred. Darkness edged into his consciousness, and he slipped away.
XXX
Godfrey slowly regained consciousness, the first sensations hitting him were the softness of clean linen and the subtle hint of lavender that drifted through the air. The warmth of a bed and the comforting scent of bone broth tantalized his senses. As he began to stir, he heard the soft rustling of movement nearby.
Opening his eyes, he found himself in a small, neatly kept room. The walls were lined with simple but tidy furnishings, and the light from a small window cast a warm glow over everything. Mary was in the room, busy arranging a tray with a steaming bowl and a hunk of fresh bread. Her movements were calm and practiced, but there was a slight shake to her hands.
Godfrey’s stomach growled loudly, a reminder of how desperately he needed sustenance. As he tried to push himself up, he became acutely aware of his nakedness. The realization made him pause, a flush of embarrassment and discomfort mingling with his hunger. He shifted awkwardly, trying to cover himself with the linens as he glanced around for something to use as a cover.
Mary’s eyes flickered toward him, a hint of amusement dancing in her gaze. “You’re awake,” she said, her tone warm and gentle. She set the tray down beside him, offering a reassuring smile. “I’ve got some broth and bread for you. Take your time; you’ve been through quite a lot.”
Godfrey, still feeling somewhat disoriented, nodded in gratitude. He reached for the tray, eager to dig into the food, but his movements were slow and careful as he continued to adjust the linens for modesty.
As Godfrey reached for the tray, he noticed something unsettling. His arms, once strong and muscular, felt noticeably thinner. The muscles that used to bulge with exertion were now subdued, less defined. His skin, though still firm, seemed to lack the usual vibrance it usually held.
A wave of realization hit him. The intense battle with the direwolves, the exertion of his Control and Focus, had taken a heavier toll than he had anticipated. He must have burned through more of his physical reserves than he had realized in the heat of the fight.
Godfrey’s expression shifted to one of concern as he examined his arms, the remnants of his strength now painfully apparent.
Mary noticed Godfrey's troubled gaze and the subtle shift in his demeanor. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, her touch both warm and reassuring. Her eyes reflected a mixture of guilt and gratitude as she spoke softly, "Don’t worry, Godfrey. I’ll have you filling out in no time."
Godfrey tried to laugh it off, but his attempt sounded hollow, betraying the anxiety he felt about his condition. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said with forced nonchalance. “I usually go through phases like this. Sometimes I’m bigger, sometimes smaller. It’ll balance out.”
Mary’s expression grew more earnest. She sat down beside him, her gaze steady. “Godfrey, you saved our lives—my daughter’s life, my husband’s. I wouldn’t think twice about defending you if it came to it. Don’t worry about…your secret. Just focus on getting better. Whatever happens, we’re in your corner.”
Godfrey looked away, his mind racing. He knew he couldn’t stay forever. “I have to go,” he said, his voice low and conflicted. “I’m bound for Centria before winter really sets in. The road will get nearly impassable soon.”
Mary's eyes flashed with a hint of guilt as she absorbed Godfrey’s words. “You’ve been asleep for four days,” she said softly, her voice tinged with concern. “A storm came and went while you were out. Centria is fifty miles away, and the path to the road is twenty miles through harsh wilderness.” She glanced at him, her expression both apologetic and resolute. “In your condition, you’re not capable of that.”
Godfrey’s frustration flared, and he turned his gaze away, muttering darkly, “You don’t know what I’m capable of.” The words were harsh, and his anger was palpable.
But then, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. When he faced Mary again, she had only a look of concern on her face. Godfrey’s voice grew steadier, though tinged with regret and pain. “I’m sorry. I’ve noticed I’ve been having…difficulties, recently, controlling myself.”
Mary shook her head, her gaze softening with sympathy. “You have nothing to apologize for, Godfrey. I’m sorry. Griffon told me a bit about what happened and how you ended up here. I knew some people in Oakvale, and I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through or how you’re feeling.”
As she spoke, Godfrey felt a wave of comforting blankness wash over him, pulling him away from the jagged memories of Oakvale.
Godfrey’s jaw tightened, and he shifted uncomfortably in the bed. “I appreciate your kindness, but I can’t be an invalid under your roof. I need to leave for Centria before it’s too late.”
Mary’s eyes flared with sudden anger, her voice rising with a fierce determination. “You listen to me, Godfrey. I know the path you're walking. I understand better than you might think. But the only way I can repay what you’ve done for us—saving our lives, my daughter’s life—is to see you back on your feet. I’m not letting you leave like this. You will stay here, and you will let me help you get healthy again. Whatever plans you have can wait until the thaw.”
Godfrey opened his mouth to argue, but the steely resolve in Mary’s voice made it clear that further discussion was pointless. He nodded in reluctant agreement. Mary, her expression set with determination, stood up from the bed. “You eat now. I’ll bring more when you’ve finished, and you’ll eat every bit of it. Then you’ll rest, and we won’t discuss this again until I see you able to walk without stumbling.”
XXX
On the third night, after Mary had insisted on cramming a third meal into his seemingly bottomless stomach, Godfrey lay barely conscious, the edges of his awareness blurring into sleep. Through the open shutters of the small window which allowed a breath of chill air into the stuffy room, Emily's voice floated in, a delicate melody weaving through the night air.
Godfrey had been vaguely aware of Griffon's huffs and grunts as he removed the direwolf carcasses from around the house over the last few days. Apparently the stench and fear of wild battle had lifted enough for Emily to resume her daily chores, and Godfrey was struck again by the lilting tones.
As sleep pulled him under, his mind floating somewhere distant and untethered, he found himself answering her call. He hadn’t sung in over a month, and the pressure had been building within him, coiling tight like a spring. In this half-dream, this place between moments, the grasping panic did not come, and as his voice rose, the world seemed to fall into place. Emily’s voice followed, seeming closer and closer, until their songs braided together, wrapping around the fragile moment like a soft, shared breath. A small smile curled on Godfrey’s lips as he finally surrendered to his dreams.
XXX
Godfrey slipped into his dream world, and once again, the scene had shifted. Tonight, he stood at the heart of a vast arena, surrounded by faceless spectators clapping and cheering, their hands a hollow echo. Around him, in concentric circles, grotesque, nightmarish animals dressed in garish colors engaged in brutal combat with his family.
Uncle Tarlow grappled with a short-nosed bear in a ridiculous red vest and hat, while Uncle John and Hawker dueled a grotesque creature bristling with eyes and arms, each limb trailing brightly colored tassels and wielding crystalline cutlasses.
At the center of it all, standing tall like a twisted ringleader at this macabre circus, was Knight Corvin. Godfrey felt the familiar weight of his blades manifest in his hands and grinned savagely as he realized he felt no fear, locking eyes with Corvin as the chaos raged around them. Here, the terror could not grip him. Here, he could face his greatest horror.
Godfrey engaged Corvin, his foe moving with the speed and precision of a viper striking from the shadows. Godfrey quickly shifted into the Somaran Seyf style, its fluid, unpredictable movements momentarily catching Corvin off-guard. The sudden shift forced Corvin back two steps, his eyes flashing with irritation. With a contemptuous snarl, Corvin retaliated, bringing his blade down in a thunderous overhand strike that could have split stone. Godfrey, instinctively switching to the Grecian Titas form, narrowly dodged the powerful blow, his body twisting into a graceful parry. His momentum spiraled around the crossguard of his longsword as he riposted with a sharp, precise strike.
Corvin’s blade met his in a hard parry, but he was driven back another step. Seizing the moment, Godfrey stepped back, then lunged, throwing his parrying dagger in the same instant. The sudden dual attack forced Corvin into a split-second decision. He chose wrong. The dagger sliced into his shoulder, slipping through the plates of his armor and tearing a ragged line across his chainmail gambeson. Blood spattered as the dagger spun away, gleaming with the crimson streak.
Corvin’s eyes dilated, his pupils blown wide as he administered the changes he wanted to his body. He unleashed a barrage of viper-quick strikes, each blow faster and more vicious than the last, as steam began to billow out of Corvin with the force of his Control. The rhythmic clash of their blades echoed like the drumbeat of battle, Godfrey's Focus burning like a furnace, pushing his dream body to its limits. His mind screamed as it burned through the dream tissue to enhance his reaction time, barely keeping up with Corvin’s relentless onslaught.
Then, something shifted. As Corvin’s blade struck again and again, the rhythm became clearer, and without thinking, Godfrey began to sing. His song—a low, keening dirge—escaped his lips, carrying the cadence of his movements. He no longer gasped for breath; the song filled his lungs, and the air seemed to breathe for him. Each note resonated through his body, sharp as the edge of his blade, steadying him against Corvin’s assault.
Corvin’s expression flickered. The once-fearless confidence in his eyes dimmed. His strikes, though still fast, began to lose their precision. It was as if the song had seeped into the air around them, and with every verse, it chipped away at Corvin’s focus. His breathing grew labored, his movements just a fraction slower, as though the song itself was a weight pulling him down, unraveling the fine-tuned balance he had relied on.
Godfrey watched as Corvin's eyes dilated even further, the whites nearly swallowed by the black void of his pupils. A sickening crack filled the air as grotesque masses of bone began to sprout from around Corvin’s ears, twisting and piercing through the flesh, encasing his ears in a jagged, organic armor. The growths curled, sealing him off from Godfrey’s voice.
Godfrey faltered, caught off guard. In that heartbeat of hesitation, Corvin struck—his blade arcing through the air with terrifying precision. Godfrey barely had time to register the motion before the sword cleaved him in two, splitting his body at the waist. Pain exploded through him, but just as quickly as it came, it vanished. His vision swam, and suddenly, he was whole again, standing directly in front of Corvin, facing him as though nothing had happened.
A smile tugged at his lips. He had drawn blood. Corvin wasn’t invincible—he could be hurt, he could be killed.
Godfrey set his stance for another attempt.