The resonant clangs of sword against fleeced knuckle or palm rang throughout the village in the stead of silenced voices. The source of the sounds, a true battle knowing not predator nor prey but two equally impassioned opponents, had taken no pause since morning. Even now, as the sun tugged the droopy lid of night over the sky in its orange deluge, the pants and cries of a warrior denying death's approach continued as if begging the village to stay awake past twilight, to bear witness. From beneath that struggle rose a distinct, ear-tickling sound.

Though the warrior knew that this village had long since been dragged into an unshifting slumber, he couldn't help but pretend that he was within a packed stadium, with a city of spectators holding air in their lungs in anticipation of his victory. Nostalgia washed over him like dusk over the village as he recalled his young adulthood — he could almost see the spectators waving their ragged banners, smell the pungent spice of concessionary snacks wafting through the sun-drenched air, hear the ringing in his ears that accompanied every expectant, placid silence, every killing blow. In those days, the warrior was no hero. He killed, he desperately seized lives, just to ensure his own survival. He played to the interests of his patrons, partook in their awful gatherings where the air was stiff with winish breath and he was but another man’s party trick. He did this to survive, and yet each day he was reminded that his life was not even his to hold.

“Perhaps this time, my child,” or, “win another victory for me, then we shall see.” Some variation of these words spilled from the lips of that wretched man, the one whom he was taught to call father, whenever the warrior pleaded to be released. Release never came except in brief and guilty glimmers, those deep breaths and roaring applauses.

Since those days, the warrior now realized, death had not been so frightening. It had not been frightening at all. No matter how feline and ferocious his foes were in rumor or tattle, they always shrunk at the sight of his sword and died as mice. Of course, he never enjoyed fighting. He hated the feeling of a hilt in his calloused hands: natural. He hated blood and the way it dripped and pooled, dried, crusted, and cracked. He certainly did not fight for blood. He even hated being called a warrior in the first place. “Hero,” he could stand. After he escaped from the Pit, he hoped naively that he might never have to fight again. Finally his own master, he didn't expect he’d ever feel responsible for a life other than his own. But now he bore that burden, and so he fought as a hero.

On the other end of the blade stood a monster, the agent of each teasing parry which shook the foyer they fought in, shook the front doors to and fro on their aching hinges. In truth, the dying sunlight and the sight of the village only entered the fray in these brief gasps. This hilltop manor was not the monster’s home, and yet he had hauled all of his possessions into the place, once the boastful house of a ruling lord. In a sense, then, he had made it his. It may have been an elegant place once, but now it was adorned with all the dour flair one could expect from a monster’s abode: cobwebs, unlit candles, the stench of death, et cetera. Some delicate furnishings from the past remained intact, such as a crystal chandelier which hung over the foyer. It swung violently as the battle raged, its usual eerie glow now an enraged twinkle.

The crackling hum in the air grew in volume until it crowded the hero's ears. It was a curious sound. Was the monster preparing a spell? If so, it would be best to disengage from close combat. And yet the monster moved with such fervor that to disengage, and so to halt the flurry of strikes he had so long sustained, could mean giving the monster the perfect opportunity to attack with his crooked claws. Attempting to change into a defensive stance could completely backfire, but if a magic attack was imminent, failing to do so might also be lethal. But how could such a magic attack be prepared without an incantation? And then it became clear —

The monster was laughing.

“Ahaha, ahahahaha!” his voice rumbled.

Both parties ceased exchanging blows. While the hero saw an opportunity to end things swiftly during the monster’s pause, he was too taken aback to act in time. Would it have made a difference if he did act? His opponent was confident enough to stop and laugh at him. His mind raced.

“I am sorry, human,” the monster spoke. “I have been so caught up in this game we’ve been playing that I did not think to ask — why have you come here?”

The jerking of the doors slowed to a stop and the last light of the evening bled in. Its soft illumination outlined the monster’s form — he stood around two heads taller than the hero, and from a distance could perhaps have been mistaken for a human of grand stature. Up close, he was undoubtedly monstrous. A great mess of fur ran from his breast to his jaw and then wrapped around his head in a mane. Pointed ears shot out from his hair, horn-like, and both furrowed brows looked aflame with more coppery fur. His eyes were a sickly yellow, and each hung under its brow like a waning moon beneath a swab of cloud. Sharp fangs, notably polished, poked out from his underbite. Despite these bestial features, there was something oddly sophisticated about him. He was dressed in the proud garb of a count or lord, torn and re-stitched with patches of miscellaneous cloth so that it fit his hulking figure. From a chain tied around his waist as a belt dangled a keyring and, strangely, a small cage, vacant. The longer the hero observed, the more like a person his opponent appeared. But he couldn't shake off the monster’s own question despite how his curiosity had been kindled.

After catching his breath, the hero responded, “So this has been like a game to you, fiend? I have not found it so fun.” A fib. “You should know exactly why I’m here if you’re as smart as you look.”

The monster’s taut face mimed confusion. Or perhaps he really was confused. “I do not know… could it be that you have come to reclaim something?” the monster asked. He puzzled over which of his many adopted belongings this human could be after.

Just as the hero started to reply, a thought flashed across the monster's face and he spoke, “Oho! Could this be what you’re seeking?”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Reaching an unwieldy mitt into a deep pocket, he slowly removed a glossy sphere. Within the sphere, which he pinched between his claws, danced a bright flame. The hero recognized it as an Ignis artifact, a powerful source of fire magic. The villagers must have relied on it for protection.

“Honestly, I am not sure how to use it. It is all yours.” With this, the monster flicked it toward the hero, who instinctively deflected it with his sword. It bounced away harmlessly.

“An artifact like that can be extremely volatile,” the hero warned, almost losing his composure. “And that’s not what I came here for.”

“Oops,” the monster replied dully. “Then did you come for the villagers?” With this, he let out a large, rumbling belch. The smell of death grew stronger.

The hero’s expression turned grave, and he spoke more coolly now. “No, it seems I’ve come too late to help those poor souls.” Anger began to show in his trembling grip. “Where is my daughter?”

Drip.

As he gripped his blade, the hero’s blood ran down the weapon and onto the floor. Blood? The pain was slowly setting in, too. When was he wounded? Could he have been so mesmerized by his opponents competency in parrying his attacks that he failed to notice someone else lurking in the room? Was the monster stalling while a thrall readied to assassinate him? Had a magic attack actually been carried out? How could he have been so foolish?

He swallowed anxiously as he looked down to find his body covered in lacerations. They didn’t appear to be too deep, but he was bleeding nonetheless, and had probably been bleeding for some time. He felt weak, not just physically, but in the crushing sense of suspected defeat, a feeling he had forgotten.

“Hmhmhmhmha,” the monster chuckled. “Looks like I got you.” He tugged on his coat to reveal a wide gash across his own chest, raw with indigo blood. “But you got me, too.” The monster snapped his fingers, and at this the candles lining the walls lit themselves. The shadows he now cast began to squirm with sharp, rigid motions, as if they were about to pounce. “I was licking at you with your own shadow,” he spoke, and snapped the candles back out.

Meanwhile, the hero moved slowly as he listened to his opponent and observed the effects of their battle. He eyed the ornate walls with imagined interest as he inched towards the thing and swiftly snatched it up. Then, he moved back toward the door, all the while acting — as best he could — as if he were searching for something else. It might not have been a believable performance if he didn’t genuinely wonder whether his daughter might be somewhere nearby, although he feared the worst.

“And that thing?” the monster asked, his words stinging with disgust. “Ahhh, of course. It gave me some trouble. It’s not here anymore.”

“Dead?” the hero asked plainly, his hands wrenching tighter around his blade. Depending on the answer given, he'd judge the creature in front of him right then and there. He'd paint those old walls with its blood if he had to and just sit there in the quiet for a while. Were he younger, he might have tried, but he knew that right now it would be suicide. He had priorities.

“Not last I saw it,” the monster said. “They are not as tasty when they are that defiant, anyway. I prefer them scared. That thing cast a confusion spell and escaped.” He licked his lips, and trailed off, “but not without spilling some of its internals, I reckon…”

“That’s all I needed to know,” the hero responded through gritted teeth. His muscles tensed so that the monster expected him to lash out with his sword. Humans were always vengeful for their own kind, the monster thought, and this one surely could not resist the urge to avenge its own-

The room erupted.

Before the monster could react, the hero was out the door. The foyer had become engulfed in hungry flames, and shrapnel fell in sharp clumps from the ceiling. The effect wasn’t devastating, but it gave the man an opportunity to escape. The monster gave chase as soon as he could stand again, and his arms waved gashes through the flames as he ran.

A bloodthirsty roar sounded from behind the hero. There was no doubt that the creature would chase him, but he was confident in his speed. Under his breath he spoke a simple incantation which roused his legs to propel him forward with renewed finesse. He had left his sword, but that didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered but his child.

The hero charged down into the village in a spectacular flight, and as soon as the monster stumbled out to the edge of the hill he understood that he wouldn't be able to catch up. Shadows danced around him in a tango with the flames loosed by the artifact, and with one last angry howl he sent a fireball streaming toward the village. It took a few of the abandoned houses down. Thatch burned and crumpled against the ground and wood turned to charcoal.

At the edge of the crater its impact created stood the hero, thoroughly impressed by the beast’s tenacity. Had things gone on longer, or if he'd been a bit slower, he may have even fallen to it, and so perhaps out of respect he turned to face his enemy.

“After I find my daughter,” he yelled up toward that building, still burning, “I will return to kill you! This, I pledge.” For a moment, the two locked locked eyes so that the monster understood this as a promise. “You can keep my sword!” Obscured by the corona of flames that surrounded and spread from the crater, the hero vanished into the night.

“Come, then!” the monster shouted. “I will look forward to that day, the day you’ll kill me!”

He mocked the warrior, but his hair was standing on end. Something like hatred or fear bubbled within him. He wanted to keep hating this stranger, or fearing him. Didn’t the hero want to avenge his daughter? Being coy about the girl's whereabouts should’ve made him angrier. He didn’t even ask which way it went! It must be dead by now. The man had better return soon, the beast decided.

Louder now, the monster howled into the dark, “Remember this day and the pledge you made, human! Remember it by my name —

BEEADDLEDRUNG.”

This cumbersome name poured out through the village and then down through the trees like an avalanche, an ill-formed tumult assaulting all who could hear. Except for the hero, if he was not already too far away, there were none. The village was empty now, and only the crackling of combustion could be heard in response to this desperate proclamation.

BEEADDLEDRUNG sighed, defeated. He turned and reentered his adopted lair and allowed the shadows to feast on the restless flames. Removing the keyring from his belt and twirling it around his index claw, he stared at his wound, which was still wet. It glistened.

It hurt.