Haulder the farmhand leant over the river, hauling a rickety wooden bucket through its crystalline waters. Cupping his hands into the icy canal and bringing them to his lips.
He took a large gulp, recoiling at the taste of sulfur and ash. A boy not much older than ten, he looked upstream with youthful eyes and his innocence was quickly dashed. Scattered rows of torsos, fingers, heads and limbs bobbed up and down on the water's surface; a sickening black ichor washing upon the banks, immediately staining them.
The boy staggered backwards spluttering, dropping his bucket and clambering to his feet. Smoke stacks dispersed over the valley, choking the air and painting the sky a mottled grey smear.
Pivoting and sprinting back through the tall grass, yet to be cut neat by bored yeomen, the ash from the river having turned his lips ashen.
'Pater!' He screamed, his father's barn still at least a league away. Spittle running down his chin, his nostrils suddenly full with the smell of char and rotting meat. Tears began streaming down his face, now turned to a blubbering mess; his eyes red and swollen.
A cold finger ran the length of his spine.
His legs failed him and he plunged into the dirt beneath his feet.
'PATER!' He cried out into the soil, fingers bloodied as the boy scraped himself back to standing. He turned to get a look at his pursuer, only to be met with a field of tall grass and a child weaving baskets. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and wandered over to the child, his hands yet to cease shaking.
'You- You have to run.' Haulder choked. Grabbing the child by the shoulders, he tried to haul him away from what he now saw as inky fog creeping towards them from the river bank. Haulder yanked at the child's arm to no avail, the pitch-black wall growing ever closer.
The child turned to look at Haulder, the same black ichor from the river spilling over his eyelids and pouring from his mouth. Bony wings sprouted and tore through his rough-hewn shirt, lips curling into a lopsided grin.
He snapped his fingers and suddenly Haulder found himself floating in a deep abyss, the child no longer human— now a visage of nightmarish proportions and appendages. It crept towards him, head snapping at awkward angles with each step.
Long claws seemed to switch back and forth between supple hands and grotesque talons, an ethereal scraping sound echoing into the void as it drew closer. It ran its nail down Haulder's cheek, now gazing into the distance; limp and lifeless.
Claw in flesh. This one is good for carving.
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Ser Gavin and Ser Alder stood together with some twenty knights and men-at-arms, the captain's servants lacing his maille and strapping his breastplate. They had disected the beast's head, which Ser Caister had rightly identified as a Cruor in the local dialect, revealing several markings underneath that jaw; denoting it had travelled a fair way to reach the woods surrounding Ebbing.
'Do you believe it to have been led here?' James asked, prodding at the cruor's brain with a lengthy stick.
'It's likely. If we find others, then they may have migrated. But it's certainly a possibility Mr. Cully.' Kemp answered, poring over a map of the barony surrounding Alstower and its natural features.
'They could have come over the border here,' he pointed at the Boræthin river, snaking to the North of Broghe and spilling into the Northern Sea, 'Perhaps being hunted by the Sulleans, although certainly quite the distance to travel.'
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Ser Gavin cleaned the muck from the hinges in his sabatons, bending his foot to confirm each articulation. Once he was happy with the mobility of his harness he strode over to Ser Alder and his squire, nodding at the map and the markings the physician had made.
Short scribbles of fyrks and cruors were passed around the camp, notes on claw length and speed; what to do in a fight if you unfortunately had to face one head-on.
The war-horses had been lead to the forest's edge, nibbling on the fresh dewey long grass. The loud ringing of hammer on plate could be heard throughout the camp, Apprentice Rowan completing his contracted work on behalf of his master in Alstowe, Ser Gavin's spaulder had three rivets needing to be replaced after it had become very intimate with the cruor's fist.
Having retrieved his sallet, he had a new visor fitted. Less protection, more visibility. Noting that the forest had an infinite number of nooks and crannies to hide in, even moreso when his visor was down.
Ser Caister walked the camp, inspecting the men-at-arms' equipment; watching them go through the daily motions. He arrived at the captain's tent, ducking his head in and checking for anything untoward. Stepping in, he retrieved Ser Gavin's war sword; rounding up the men and leading them to the pack of horses milling in the grass.
The servants had already saddled the chargers, fitting them with cruppers to protect their haunches from any hidden attackers.
The men filled out the field and began attending to their horses, strapping their swords on the side of their saddles.
Wagons rolled down the main road of Ebbing, spears and bucklers strapped down with canvas and heavy rope. Intrigued faces leaned out of the rustic, stone Ebbing dwellings; watching the strange soldiers with a mixture of bored stupour and mild enthusiasm.
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Ser Gavin's standard-bearer hoisted the flag of his company, the Cross and Rose, as they crossed the boundary into the forest North of Ebbing, heading towards the Boræthin river.
The men rode in tight formation, the captain and Ser Alder up the front; eyes focused on the shadows betwixt the trees. The two men exchanged a few words, commenting on how the tracks from the day before were no longer visible; the great splinters of wood having been cleared as well.
The company crawled through the forest, listening to the cracking and snapping that echoed wistfully with the breeze. Small animals skittered by hearing the tremour of forty destriers stomping through woods, complimented by the metal clink of the men that rode atop them.
Ser Gavin caught a glint a few paces down the way, his brow furrowing to focus on the scurry and murmur that followed. He heard the light chatter of bone on bone, tooth grating against tooth.
Then they were upon them.
Sharp-bodied, frog-like creatures pounced out of the brush; brandishing crude spears and curled daggers.
'To arms!' Ser Gavin called, the horses kicking out at their foes— no taller than a young child.
They surged forth: scratching, biting, clawing. Catching sword into steel, promptly followed by longswords plunged deep through their skulls. The men-at-arms circled, raising their swords up and down in fluid motion. With each cut, swathes of the attackers were cut down into a growing wall of pale, spotted flesh. Their blood sunk deep into the soil, causing it to boil.
One caught a man by the rerebrace, pulling him to the ground. He was immediately swarmed, torn to shreds as he scratched at the air; arms peeled down to the bone. His scream morphed into a desperate gurgle before finally being silenced, the creatures that befell him cleaved in two before they had even finished consuming the body.
Ser Gavin called for his trumpeteer to organise his men, three concise notes; the men spinning their horses in place and falling into wedge formation.
Settling into the triangle, they kept the enemies in front of them; extending their swords out in front of them, lacking the lances to execute properly. As they rode forward they tore through the creatures, smashing a hole through the middle of their advance.
The stragglers attempted to run, scrambling into the cover of the deep thickets. As they turned their backs the men separated from their wedge into a pincer, collapsing on the remaining enemies and leaving a bloody pool where their chargers' hooves had crushed the corpses into a fine paste.
Ser Gavin raising his arm called his men to rest, calming their horses and wiping the muck from their blades; recoiling from the heat that met their hands.
'The blood boils in air,' Ser Alder leaned into the captain's ear, 'these are a small tase of what might be waiting for us. Best keep your men alert from here.'
The mercenaries dismounted and began to pick the corpses clean, stripping them of their weapons and loading them into the wagons they brought. Some with corroded jewellery wrapped tightly around their ankles or wrists, even tucked under their flat, pointed tongues.
Upon death, they seemed far different than in battle. Their smooth faces, long limbs and wrapped feet more akin to folklore fae than monsters of the night.
Ser Alder collected samples from the dead, tucking them into his pocket.
His dice rattled.