They had made it, just. The Stedinglas had seen them from their tower and had sent a party mounted on their hardy yet deft dale ponies against the rear of the Leopards. Attacked on two fronts, the angry grey-clad soldiers broke and galloped east, past the column. Those behind the column turned and ran when they saw their comrades fleeing towards them. It had all been quite easy in the end, with the Stedinglas shepherding them past the limit of danger as the shadow of night took the dale. With Conan back with the others of the Huntress’s little band, Trystan took his chance to test the librarian’s lore on the subject of the Frencenlic Wood and the Dunwald. When he learnt the two women had gone that way, Conan looked grave.

“Some monsters lurk there,” he said, “but old tales that pass many lives before a scholar can pen them can hardly be trusted. It seems though that a pack of savage hunters, four-legged like giant naked wolves, that killed for sport were once trapped there. Some say they were cursed men, hunters, and their hounds, but I give no credit to that. Whatever they are,” he lowered his voice and his face darkened, “I fear for our companions. The slight girl with the hair like the heart of fire, she might fight her way out, perhaps, and the other, darker lady, she might survive if they stay together.”

The librarian’s downcast eyes looked sad, then he added, softly, “There may be worse in the Dunwald. An ancient and creditable sage once made record of it. No less an authority than Caed-Caedwaldir of Druge it was. He wrote that the wood only appears to be in the Dimlicdale. Once one steps between its outer circle of trees, one is in another world entirely. What that means exactly, I cannot say. Caed-Caedwaldir the Wise reports that he spoke to one man who had braved it, a knight of pure heart who said that strange Guardians appeared in the air about and sheltered him else he would have surely perished.”

“Was he alone or were there others to bear witness to the encounter?” asked Trystan.

“There were. He entered with a company of men. They were all slaughtered most horribly according to the knight. Not pure enough, I suppose. Still there may be hope for our companions in this strange tale.”

Conan thought again about the good heart he saw in Sigird. He was not nearly so sure about the other one, so said nothing further.

Just then, Elle bustled up to them, nodding to Trystan before addressing the other, “Master Conan, those of the townsfolk who rebelled at the ford, are you sure all were expelled from the party?”

“All those who opposed us openly were dealt with, my lady,” replied Conan.

Obvious and unspoken was the shared thought that a cunning traitor would not have betrayed himself. Elle anxiously bit her lip and, brows furrowed, departed as suddenly as she had arrived.

“There will be death in the dale tonight,” mused Trystan bleakly, “but have we brought it also to this haven?”

Conan did not reply, but he did not look happy.

The Stowham folk made do with a make-shift camp, and the Stedinglas welcomed them with straw palliasses, blankets and hot food. Elle and her companions lodged in the hall, screened off from the soldiers.

The Huntress was not taking rest, however, Captain Trum was loitering in the shadows, wearing his concern plainly on his honest face, but uncertain what to do as he witnessed Elle stagger around the hall like a drunk. Amora found them thus.

“Rest, my lady,” Amora gently chided, as she attempted to steady Elle, “We are all safe now, and you did that, but once the last of us passed the western wardstone your task was fulfilled. Rest now.”

“Not all of us,” Elle’s voice was slurring, “Not all of us passed.”

Captain Trum, emboldened, stepped forward, “Forgive me, my lady, but your father once told me … you will have always losses. That will cut you like a knife, as it should, but where you led well, and you did lead us well, lady, you earn a blameless rest.”

“Ssh,” said Amora, “there is hope yet. Do not despair, lady.”

Elle grunted, and then suddenly slumped heavily against Amora. Trum reached out to take the weight and together he and Amora gently conveyed Elle to her rest, and then took rest themselves.

Elle’s companions had all looked forward to a sound night’s sleep, in which the needs of their weariness must overcome their anxiety for their missing comrades. And sleep they did, until the screams started. Terrible wails and fell calls were heard in the air above the dale. Then the fearful shouts of men and the neighs of panicked horses, and then the screams of many, minute after minute, for the best part of an hour. The Leopards had camped in the dale, it seemed. Eventually their screams died down, and the night returned to silence, save for the mournful hooting of owls. The people tried to sleep again, but for most the attempt was in vain.

Some two or three hours before the dawn, there was again noise, a commotion at the northern gate to the settlement. Elle and Elyssa were awake and beyond thought of sleep, so they pulled on outer garments and left the hall to investigate. It was Celandrim, cloaked and solemn, sitting astride a fine Elven steed, but leading two large war horses of the kind men rode; a proud black destrier and a strong dales horse, patched brown and white. Elle and Elyssa looked at each other, and their hearts sank.

***

“That’s your naynell, I presume, a bloody great snail!” said Sacrissa, standing up and backing off.

Whatever it was, it didn’t look friendly, thought Sigird, and Sacrissa’s expression told her that her companion agreed. It was huge. It was also rather aggressive for a snail; what was it about this place?

It was aware of them. It turned and headed straight for them.

“Well,” said Sacrissa, “it doesn’t seem very friendly,” she again drew her sword.

As it drew near, it reared up, as if it intended to bring its bulk down upon them. A horrid, gooey slime dripped from its underside, which rippled horribly and made a hideous squelching sound. And it stank like rotting vegetables.

With its monstrous head weaving and its horns thrust toward them, it prepared to lunge. Sacrissa had no warding charms for a creature of convulsing slime, so she prepared to strike with her blade. Just then, Sigird leapt past her, waving her stick of roasted gorby, or whatever it was, at the creature’s head, which, in response, contorted wildly to avoid the fragrant morsel of cooked meat, evidently not to its taste. Indeed, the beast was clearly desperate to get out of the way of their supper, which, considered Sacrissa, was not much of a recommendation for it. Everywhere Sigird thrust the toasted wolf-rat, the head of the naynell recoiled. Unable to get past the roasted menace, whichever way it turned, the naynell started to slide backwards.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Good naywell,” chanted Sigird happily, “nice naynell, that’s it, now off you go!”

‘The girl is insane,’ thought Sacrissa, ‘effective, but insane.’

And so it left them, horns, house and all, and they saw it sliding off along the further side of the clearing, towards where the four dead soldiers lay. When it reached them, it stopped, and the women could dimly see its neck stretched out, slowly questing forward, and its horns waggling. Sniffing, perhaps, if they did that. Probably they did, thought Sacrissa, the creature’s reaction to the roast gorby suggested it was possessed of refined olfactory sensibilities, even if decaying vegetables were beyond its range.

Presently they heard a sort of sucking and squelching, a very unpleasant sound, emanating from where the naynell seemed happily engaged.

“Is it …?” began Sigird.

“Sucking on the dead flesh of our fallen enemies?” Sacrissa replied, “yes, I should think so. And why wouldn’t it? This place is a nightmare, perfect in all respects.”

It was then the spiders started to drop on and around them, from the trees on the bank above them. In their hair, landing on shoulders, attacking their feet, the bidyes for a moment seemed everywhere. With more panic than skill, frantic fighting with fire and steel eventually drove the bidyes to a respectful distance. Yet these over-large and socially confident spiders did not go far, and soon crouched attentively in a ring around the two women, glaring malevolently at them with thousands of redly glowing eyes.

Other eyes now lit up the night, cruel, white eyes, above and behind the ghastly spiders. And, below these eyes, the flickering firelight played on sharp teeth and lolling tongues. There was low growling from many throats, which changed, as they listened horror-struck to an ominous hooting; a sinister chorus of doom. They might be the horriboos at last, thought Sacrissa, but, to be honest, she didn’t much care what they were, provided they could fight them off long enough to see the dawn. That did not look particularly likely, it must be said.

The fire was dying. There was no more wood to hand. Seeing or sensing this, the double ring of predators tightened and drew closer.

The crashing and flailing at the treeline beyond was, in the circumstances, a welcome distraction. Some great shape was lurching, waving and dancing towards them. As it came closer, they saw it was their last Leopard. He was bleeding profusely, whether their fault or some due to the attentions of some absurdly awful predator, they could not tell. His arm and his deeply notched sword were festooned with the trails of bidye webs. He was, they concluded, most parts mad by this point, and unlikely to last long, yet his maddened plight conferred a fearless recklessness upon him, as he blundered about the clearing, swiping at the hooting terrors and stomping on outraged spiders. Yet, he was continually glancing over one shoulder or the other. His rash courage seemed to be born of a terror of something so great that he would gladly run into this nightmare clearing, full of deadly danger, and face what was before him, rather than whatever had pursued him hither.

That, thought Sacrissa, could only mean one thing. One very bad thing if Sigird’s rhyming catalogue of horrors were to continue to prove true. Bloody typical, she concluded.

Then, cutting through the mayhem like a cleaver through a carcass, there sounded a great roar. It was deafening, and it shook the glade, and the stinking wind of it blew hot on their faces.

Perceiving them, and their fire, as if for the first time, the Leopard ran forward. “Help!” he cried, in a hoarse cracked whisper, barely human in sound. The bidyes, horriboos and whatever else was there, shivered and ran round frantically. Then a great whoosh was heard, as something of monstrous size leapt into the clearing, brushing through the rustling brown leaves, clearing the roof of the naynell’s great house. Oblivious, the naynell slurped on contentedly, the only creature apparently unaffected by the horror that now stood in the centre of the clearing, regarding them with calculating yellow eyes.

It was huge, much larger than the monstrous naynell. And it, too, stank, but far worse than anything else in this wood. It was a hot, sweaty, decayed, evil stench of bile and dead flesh. It was like the smell of the savage things in the darkling wood, yes, quite like that, but ten times stronger, and with a few affectingly pungent ingredients besides.

It was hairy. Very hairy. Dark and shaggy, like Black Shuck himself, but this was more than a dog, however demonic. This was more dire than the direst wolf. Yet, it was something of that kind; four legs, long head, powerful shoulders, massive slavering jaws. Its feet were the size of trenchers and bore many wicked claws. Its tongue was long and livid. Its lips were arched in a permanent snarl and its teeth were many, long and vicious. Stained and yellow they were, but razor sharp, and thick sticky drool pooled in the clefts between them and dripped from the monstrous maw. Above all, though, it was panting. Panting from exertion, panting from anticipation. Panting constant hot breaths like hammers on their faces, the stench of each powerful exhalation nearly overwhelming them with nausea. Nature could hardly suffer such a monstrosity; surely no Power had framed its dreadful symmetry. It seemed a travesty of all wild hunters that go on four legs; it possessed a power and a will and a joy in the terror that flowed before it. No natural creature could so revel in the fear of its prey. It was savage not because, in the moment of the hunt, it had to be. No, this beast was savage for the sake of savagery. It killed for the joy of killing, and it bore hatred that could never be sated, a blood-lust that could never be slaked.

Sacrissa, though, sensed intelligence. And that gave her faint hope. She could always work with intelligence, so long as it was not greater than her own. It works on fear, Sacrissa thought, so I will not fear it.

She stepped forward, which surprised the beast, and locked eyes with it and began a low chant. At first it was difficult, painful in fact. Through those terrible eyes, the creature’s will bored into her, and she fought to push it back. The searing pain in her head risked distracting her, but she concentrated and blocked it out, exhausted though she was. Sacrissa was not used to losing a battle of wills. She was determined not to lose this one.

Sigird stood amazed. She could not make out Sacrissa’s words, the tongue was foreign, but the manner of her chanting suggested an incantation and that smacked of witchery. That was never good. Yet it had captured the beast’s attention, and whatever Sacrissia was saying to it, seemed to give it pause for thought.

The panting slowed. The growling became lower and quieter. The fire in the eyes died down.

Sigird was frightened of her companion’s strange power over this great beast of evil. The beast was more frightening, however, and she felt this was hardly the time to worry about such things. The beast was visibly calming down. In fact, it no longer seemed so monstrous or so evil. Unbelievably, thought Sigird, whatever Sacrissa was doing, seemed to be working.

Then the Leopard perked up. What he now saw was not salvation, but opportunity. He made has way unsteadily toward the beast, and shouldered Sacrissa aside. Eye contact was broken, so was the spell. Shouting and waving his sword, he struck at the dangazone, scarring its foreleg, drawing blood. The light in the beast’s eyes flared. It roared in pain and anger and struck out with its claws. The Leopard was eviscerated and collapsed shortly after his entrails hit the ground in a cloud of blood-spray and with a nasty plop. The dangazone lunged with its head and it took the dying man in its massive jaws, gulping his broken body down its throat. Then it turned its head and shot Sacrissa a look of pure hatred and let out a long, low, snarl.

“Well,” remarked Sacrissa, “that’s torn it. But what do you expect from a world with Seven Hells and only Three Powers?”

Sigird worked her jaw silently for a moment before she managed to say, “I think we should …”

“Run!” cried Sacrissa.

And they bounded off to the gap in the clearing, crunching furious bidyes, swatting importunate govies and kicking away startled gorbies and horriboos, not giving anything even a second to attach its jaws to them.