From a distance, they made for quite the grim little procession, the four of them; A man with bound hands, a woman with a glaive on her shoulder and a pistol trained in his back, and two ravens trying–and failing–to follow them unseen.
Up close, however, things were much more casual. Besides the fact that she was keeping Hunter at gunpoint, Fawkes was quite pleasant.
“…and that’s how I ended up here,” Hunter concluded. “You could say I spend half of the day in prison, and the other half exiled in your world.”
“What were your crimes, then?”
Hunter gave it some thought, looking for a way to translate credit card fraud into something Fawkes would understand.
“I bought some food and tried to put it on a moneylender’s tab” he said.
Apparently, it was funny enough to make Fawkes chortle.
“What?”
“Big lad like you, I would expect something more…”
“Violent?”
“Drastic, at the very least.”
“Never judge a book by its cover” Hunter shrugged.
“Lad,” Fawkes said, still smiling, “that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“Well, I’m very sorry if my gentle nature disappoints you.”
“…and that’s the reason you were imprisoned and exiled?” she went on. “A mighty strange place, your homeland must be, transient. In most civilized places, you’d simply get a beating and be done with it.”
“It does sound more civilized, yes. Also feel free to call me Hunter. No need for that transient crap now that we’re all buddied up, right?”
“There is power in names” Fawkes shook her head. “Yours is a fine one. Too fine, if I’m to be honest. You haven’t earned it yet, not in my eyes.”
“I guess I should be getting used to “lad” or “transient," then.”
“Right so.”
“Anyway, enough about me," said Hunter, changing the subject. “What’s your deal?”
“My deal?”
“Yes. Why are you all the way out here? What do you do?”
“Oh. My deal. My business. I see.” Fawkes paused for a second. “You could say I’m a hunter of sorts myself, I would guess. I keep an eye on all things unnatural.”
“Is that why you’re in the Weald? You’re hunting something?”
Fawkes threw Hunter a suspicious glance.
“Hey, it’s fine if you don’t want to say,” Hunter said. “I’m just trying to be polite here. Just making conversation.”
“No, it is alright. What brings me to the lands of the Brennai is something of a more personal nature. I’m looking for a friend of mine. A man in his thirties, hair like straw, yay tall. Dresses like… Well, like me. Likes to wield a blade in each hand. Fights like a demon. He goes by the name of Reiner. I don’t suppose you’ve met anyone like that, have you?”
“No, definitely not, sorry.”
She eyed Hunter with suspicion again, as if trying to find a hint of recognition. Hunter did his best to not look guilty. It was something his face did whenever he was under scrutiny, ever since he was a kid. It didn’t matter whether he had something to hide or not, especially when it came to cops; he always looked like he’d been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t have.
“Not to worry. I’m sure he’s doing fine, wherever he is. It’s other things we should concern ourselves with right now. There’s something on the loose in the Weald, prowling in the night. Something big and nasty. Clever, too. The village folk asked me to look for a missing group of woodsmen, and I have a bad hunch about them. They won’t be the first to turn up dead or worse in these woods.”
“I’ll have Biggs and Wedge keep an eye out," Hunter said. “That’s what I call the birds.” Fawkes had easily spotted them not long after they’d left the cabin, so there was no point in trying to hide their existence.
“I was meaning to ask you about them,” Fawkes said, eyeing the two feathery windbags that fluttered and hopped from branch to branch above them. “I’ve never seen ravens behave like this before.”
“Sure, I’ll tell you all about them. Just let me out of these bonds.”
“Not going to happen, lad.” Fawkes smirked. “You don’t look like much, but it could be you that’s hunting and killing all those poor people. For all I know, you could be a werebeast.”
Hunter tried to tell whether she was being serious or not, but couldn’t.
“A werebeast and a transient?” he joked. “A bit of an overkill, don’t you think?”
“Stranger things have happened,” she shrugged. “Stranger by a long shot.”
***
Fawkes seemed to be able to find her way through the woodland much better than Hunter did. He’d been trampling his way through the undergrowth like an elephant, too focused on finding his bearings. Now they were effortlessly moving from one forest path to the next, as if guided by an invisible compass.
Finding paths had to do with the Survival Skill, probably–and hers had to be off the charts. Hunter was tempted to use Mystic’s Eye on Fawkes and see what information he’d be able to get, but he suspected it would be rude–if not outright an act of aggression. Instead, he decided to pay more attention to the path ahead.
There were many tracks on the hard earth–some animal, some human, some fresh, some old. To Hunter’s untrained eye, nothing really stood out. Except…
There were some peculiar tracks he couldn’t make sense of. They were fresh, and there were lots of them. They looked like they belonged to a barefoot human, but that’s where the similarities ended. The more Hunter looked at them, the more certain he was that whatever had left them moved on all fours, like an ape.
“Fawkes? These tracks–”
“Good eye, lad,” she cut him short. All of a sudden, she was dead serious. “Low-dwellers, or troglodytes, as some call them. They’re necrophages, corpse-eaters. A whole pack of them, judging from the tracks. That’s weird.”
“Why is it weird?”
Again, Fawkes shot him a sideways glance and said nothing.
They followed the tracks for about half a mile. Fawkes took point, Hunter followed, and Biggs and Wedge were circling above them, scouting around. Hunter felt a knot form in his stomach. If they were anything like the monsters in the games he was used to, corpse-eaters didn’t sound very dangerous. Well, at least not compared to that Ancient Shambler thing–and he’d held his own well enough against that one.
Still, the pain and horror of dying at the cold hands of the apparitions back at the standing stone clearing hadn’t faded from his mind, and it was something Hunter wasn’t exactly looking forward to experiencing again.
Catching up to the things wasn’t hard; Hunter smelled the metallic tang of blood in the air and heard their grisly sounds and growls way before he actually saw them. They were a dozen or so, scattered all over a clearing, feverishly feeding on torn and bloody body parts of what looked like a mule.
In part, these low-dwellers resembled bald and malformed men. They had human-like arms and legs, human-like torsos, even human-like faces. And yet on the whole they were something else entirely. Their naked bodies were skewed out of proportion. Sinewy muscles rippled beneath their unnaturally tan, blotchy skin as they moved on all fours, like dogs or badgers. Worst of all were their eyes. Lifeless, big, eerily human-looking eyes, but devoid from all sentiment except a savage hunger.
Fawkes crouched like a big hunting cat and raised a gloved hand, signaling Hunter to wait. He gestured at his bound hands, but the woman simply ignored him.
Great.
He gave Biggs and Wedge a mental command to make sure they remained quiet, then summoned his mana and cast Mystic’s Eye on one of the low-dwellers, hoping it wouldn’t alarm it to their presence. He was starting to hate that Ability with a passion, but a moment’s worth of briny, rusty agony was something he could manage, given the situation. Getting clawed and bit to death by these mutant fucks, on the other hand, was something he would prefer to avoid. He needed as much info as he could get.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Fawkes drew an intricate saber from somewhere within the folds of her cape–a blade Hunter hadn’t noticed her carry. Saber in hand, she threw a glance at Hunter and held up three fingers.
Three.
Two.
Just as Hunter was thinking “one," she surprised him with a strong kick to his butt, shoving him out of his hiding place and right before the closest low-dweller.
“Hey! What the–” Hunter gasped, only drawing the thing’s attention and making things worse.
What the hell was that woman doing?
Using him as monster bait?
She could have cut the rope at his hands, at least, she could have given him a fighting chance. Images of bloodied spectral claws flashed before his eyes, of vacant eyes and of terror and pain and of his guts being spilled on the misty ground.
No, no, no, he wasn’t about to go through all that again.
Never again.
The low-dweller had forgotten all about its grisly lunch and was now moving closer to Hunter, prowling on all fours, studying him with its empty eyes. Yes, there was nothing natural about this thing alright. It was a pile of malformation and disfigurement given life–life, and hunger.
Hunter was about to turn and flee, Fawkes be damned, when two things happened almost simultaneously; first, the low-dweller finally pounced at Hunter, its long, misshapen arms reaching for his face. Then, only a split second later, Fawkes exploded in a blur of motion.
She sprang out of her hiding place like greased lightning, so fast that the low-dweller didn’t even have time to turn her way. She stabbed the thing in the eye, making its malformed body go instantly limp. Then, in a single fluid slash, she cut Hunter’s bonds, splattering him with blood and brains.
“Grab your weapon,” she growled through gritted teeth. “There’s more coming.”
Hunter didn’t need to be told twice. He’d rather avoid getting in a tangle with these things, or with anything else with claws and fangs, for that matter. He knew that was a luxury he’d not always have, however; not on Aernor, not in Elderpyre. If he had to fight monsters, he’d better get down to it.
He picked up his glaive–Fawkes had left it on the ground–and assumed his best glaive-fighting stance, while the swordswoman lopped another low-dweller’s arm cleanly off at the elbow.
How sharp was that thing she was wielding?
The rest of the low-dwellers were looking at Fawkes with vacant eyes, still numb from the surprise attack. Now was the chance to stack the deck in their own favor, Hunter thought and rushed in.
Hunter drove the blade of his glaive through the chest of the closest low-dweller again and again, drawing gushes of dark, viscous blood. The thing was driven to the ground by the force of the strikes, and Hunter took the chance to deliver a final slash to its exposed neck.
The low-dweller let out a bloody gurgle and collapsed on the ground. Light-headed from the rush of adrenaline, Hunter couldn’t hold back a savage smile.
Was it wrong that he actually liked how this felt?
Fawkes, in the meantime, continued her bloody waltz through the necrophages uninterrupted. She’d already torn her way through another three when the things finally got over their initial surprise and started to fight back.
“Keep moving!” she shouted at Hunter. “Don’t let them surround you!”
She must have fought low-dwellers before, because that’s exactly what the things were already trying to do. They were snarling like a pack of wild dogs, shying away, circling around, waiting for the perfect moment to strike at their prey together and overpower them with their sheer numbers.
Despite the force of their initial assault, said prey–Hunter and Fawkes–were outnumbered about four to one; they had to keep up, or the tide of the fight was quickly about to change.
The biggest, meanest low-dweller of the lot was the first to lunge at Fawkes. In a fluid, elegant motion that reminded Hunter of a ballet dancer, she drew her pistol and shot at it point-blank, turning its head into mush and bloody confetti, then pivoted around it and repositioned herself just in time to slash at the next foe.
Magnificent as it was, Hunter had no time to gawk at her bladework; he was about to be hard-pressed himself. Fortunately, the low-dwellers gave him a wide berth; the long reach of his polearm afforded him just a tiny bit more relative safety than Fawkes’s shorter saber.
Or at least that was what he thought; focused as he was on the three snarling low-dwellers in front of him, he almost missed the fourth one that skulked around him and leaped at his feet from the side.
That was a close one. The numb pain on Hunter's leg wasn’t too bad. Getting tripped and swarmed by the thing’s buddies, though? That would be game over.
Hunter kicked the low-dweller off and took a few steps back, slashing at the air with his glaive to make sure none of the other corpse-eaters got too cocky.
For the first time after years and years of gaming, Hunter suddenly became painfully aware of what it really meant to fight against multiple opponents; with the sole exception of an ever-unforgiving meat grinder called Phantom Black, most video games he’d played got it dead wrong.
Judging from the low-dweller he’d just offed, he could easily take any one of these things one-on-one, no problem. Taking on more than one, though, became exponentially more difficult. There was no room for error here. A tiny little mistake–any tiny little mistake–would probably mean another agonizing death for him.
And that, of course, he’d rather avoid.
One particularly ugly low-dweller got bold enough to rush him, all but trampling the one on the ground. Hunter intercepted the attack with a quick jab to the torso. It was barely a glancing blow, but it was enough to keep the low-dweller at bay–and prevent its buddies from getting any other cute ideas.
The way Fawkes fought, on the other hand, was anything but conservative. She darted in and out of reach, carving bloody lines on the bodies of the low-dwellers with every single chance she got. She wasn’t in it to survive; she was in it to kill. If the way she fought and moved wasn’t proof enough of that, the dead bodies already lying at her feet were. So mesmerizing was her dance of death, Hunter found himself transfixed. He could hardly take his eyes off it, low-dwellers or no low-dwellers.
Another of the things started charging him, but was stopped cold in its tracks by two dark, feathery silhouettes that dive-bombed straight into its face.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Hunter slashed at its midsection, cutting its belly open and spilling dark blood and guts all over the place.
Now that was a surprise. Hunter had no idea the familiars could be of any help in a fight. For a quick second there, he was worried about them, too. What were the damn things thinking, going all kamikaze on enemies fifty times larger than themselves? Then he saw Biggs and Wedge take off again, feathers more or less unruffled, and turned his attention back to the fight. He had a half-slain low-dweller to finish off.
Just like the notification on his HUD ticker informed him, the low-dweller lay dead on the ground, still clutching at his wounds. There was barely any time for Hunter to take a breather, though; two more of the mutants came swinging, and this time he knew he wouldn’t be able to fend off them both.
He landed a powerful jab on the first one, tearing flesh and bone–a mistake, he realized. He stuck the low-dweller good between the ribs, but that gave the second one a clear shot at his exposed head.
Son of a bitch!
The pain almost blinded him and blood ran freely down the side of his neck. Grunting through it all, he managed to dislodge his glaive from the first low-dweller’s ribcage, took a step back, and whacked the second over the head.
There was not much force behind the blow, but it was enough of a shock to the monster to buy Hunter a couple of seconds to clear his head.
“You alright, lad?” Fawkes spat as she dodged a low-dweller’s attack.
“I’ll live.”
“Just keep your distance and stall them!”
Seeing how Fawkes was dropping her own share of low-dwellers like it was nothing, that wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d just try to kite the monsters with his greater reach and mobility, and focus on keeping them busy and at a distance until Fawkes could get them from behind. He just had to survive in a three-versus-one.
Piece of cake, right?
As it turned out, it actually was easier than Hunter had anticipated. Low-dwellers were simple and cowardly by nature–that much he knew for a fact. All he had to do to keep the trio of them away was keep a cool head, brandish his glaive in wide sweeps, and look confident.
A few feet away Fawkes continued to tear through the monsters undeterred. She cut and dodged and slashed and stabbed, leaving nothing but gore and torn bodies behind. She was a twister of precise, mortal violence.
Soon, the only low-dwellers left drawing breath were the ones trying to corner Hunter.
“Hey, dumb-dumbs!” he shouted, drawing the malformed creatures’ attention to himself. “Come and get me if you can!”
Fawkes didn’t miss a beat; she slashed at the hamstrings of the closest one, bringing the low-dweller to its knees, and nearly decapitated it with a horizontal slash to the back of its neck.
That left two.
Changing tactics, Hunter impaled one with his glaive, then used it as a fulcrum to move away and keep his distance from the other.
Again, Fawkes swooped in for the kill; she hamstrung the low-dweller, kicked it to the ground, then ran her blade through its throat. Even as the last mutant squirmed and thrashed at the end of his glaive, Hunter couldn’t stop himself from gawking at the woman’s brutal efficiency. Not even in a rush anymore, she crept up behind the thing and plunged her blade behind its ear, bringing its thrashing to an abrupt end.
With that, there was nothing left in the clearing but the two of them.
The two of them, and death.