Oleksandr and Samorix continue riding in silence for a while, the sound of the horses' hooves against the dusty road the only noise apart from the occasional bird's call. After a while, Samorix speaks up again, his deep voice cutting through the stillness of the night.
"Well, lad, we'd best start thinking about setting up camp soon," he says, casting a glance towards the dark sky. In the distance, they hear the haunting howls of wolves. "It's gonna be a long night." Oleksandr nods in agreement, puffing on his pipe.
"You’re right. Last thing we need is to be caught out here, out in the open."
The two men ride on, their eyes scanning the surrounding landscape for a suitable place to set up camp. The sky is now a deep shade of blue, the first stars starting to appear. Samorix suddenly spots a small copse of trees up ahead.
"Over there," he says, gesturing with his chin. "That looks like a decent spot. At least there's some cover from the wind." As they ride towards the trees, they spot a clearing surrounded by thick foliage. It looks like a perfect spot to set up camp for the night. The men dismount their horses and begin to unpack their supplies, setting up their tent and preparing a small fire to ward off the chill of the night.
Oleksandr tosses him a bundle of dried, salted fish, settling in beside the fire as he gnaws on his own jerky. Samorix catches the bundle deftly, his one eye still surveying the surroundings. "Thanks, lad." He grins, tearing into the dry fish. The two men sit quietly for a while, eating their food in the glow of the fire. Oleksandr puffs on his pipe, the sweet smoke curling around his face in lazy spirals. "Ye know, I was just in this-here area not too long ago, with me wee lad. Took him hunting and set up camp." Samorix says. Oleksandr glances up at Samorix, interested.
"Oh? How’d you fare? Catch anything good?"
He grins, gazing into the fire, his eyes gleaming with affection. "Aye, he caught himself a fat, young hare. The same one Layl' used in that rabbit stew." Oleksandr chuckles, nodding approvingly.
"Ah, a fine catch, indeed. I could go for some good stew about now. I bet the little pup was pleased with himself, feeding his family."
Later that night, Oleksandr stirs in the tent, his eyes drifting open as he emerges from sleep’s haze. He lies still, staring into the darkness, his senses sharp and alert as he tries to grasp what pulled him from his rest. The air is thick and silent, and for a moment, he can’t place what feels off. All he hears is the steady rumble of Samorix snoring beside him, a familiar, almost comforting sound. But then it strikes him—Samorix’s snores are all he hears. Outside, there’s an unnatural silence pressing down, as if the entire world has paused. Not a single chirp of insects, no scurrying of night creatures in the underbrush. Even the whisper of wind is absent, leaving the night air heavy and still. Not only that, the air is heavy and dank, like the smell of burnt hair, sulfur, and decomposition. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, a sense of unease settling over him. He shifts slightly, his eyes darting to the tent flap.
Just as Oleksandr’s senses stretch into the silence, he catches it: a faint rustle outside, the sound of something moving. To an untrained ear, it might pass for the quiet steps of a deer, light and cautious, as if testing each patch of ground before fully committing its weight. But Oleksandr knows better; he can tell by the rhythm, the barely audible crunch of feet on twigs and leaves. This is no animal wandering the night. It’s footsteps. Two feet, not four. The steps stop, and an unnatural stillness returns, settling over the camp like a shroud. Oleksandr remains motionless, every nerve on edge, his hand slipping instinctively toward the weapon by his side. He listens, each breath drawn slow and shallow, waiting, senses sharp and keen, prepared for whatever—or whoever—is lurking just beyond the thin canvas walls.
Oleksandr glances over at Samorix, who lies sprawled out, snoring, blissfully unaware of the threat lurking outside. He considers waking him, but he knows that any disruption to Samorix's noisy slumber would be as good as a shout to the intruder. Quietly, he shifts, leaning forward to peer out the tent flap, his movements slow. The night beyond is cloaked in stillness, the landscape bathed in the faint, ghostly glow of the moon. The trees stand tall and silent, their branches casting long shadows over the ground. Near the edge of the camp, the dying embers of their fire flicker faintly, casting a dim red light across the clearing. He scans the darkness, searching for any sign of movement, each shadow a possible threat.
Oleksandr’s gaze locks onto the flicker of movement near the shadows of a nearby tree. His pulse quickens as he squints, trying to pierce through the murky darkness to make sense of the figure lurking there. At first, he thinks it’s a man—a lone wanderer, perhaps, or some ill-intentioned intruder. But the longer he watches, the more uncertain he becomes. The figure shifts, creeping closer to the edge of the clearing, and as it does, the moonlight catches it. Oleksandr's breath stills. This is no man.
The creature is tall and thin, its hulking form hunched and covered in a dense, matted layer of hair that seems to glisten faintly in the moon’s glow. It stands upright, mimicking the posture of a human, but its movements are animalistic, its motions too jerky, too unnervingly quick. Oleksandr feels a chill crawl down his spine as he watches it dart from shadow to shadow, almost gliding around the outskirts of the camp, studying it with a sharp, predatory focus.
He stays perfectly still, every instinct on high alert, as he watches this strange beast circle them. The night air feels thick and heavy, the silence pressing down like a weight, amplifying his senses. It seems to be testing the boundaries, assessing the camp with a patience and intelligence that unsettles him. His eyes narrow as he watches it bend over onto all fours like an animal, moving out of sight. Oleksandr unsheathes his sword, nudging his companion.
Samorix jolts awake, but Oleksandr quickly puts a hand over his mouth, shushing him. Without a word, he hands Samorix his sword and nods towards the tent flap. Samorix's one eye widens in understanding, and he silently grips the pommel, his gaze darting towards the opening. Oleksandr scans the outside in the silence, straining to hear any movement. The creature seems to have vanished, sensing their awareness of it. The once calm silence of the night is now filled with tension and anticipation. He motions silently to Samorix, signaling that it seems to have gone for now. But he knows it could be lurking just outside the light, waiting.
"We're not waiting for the beast to ambush us." Oleksandr murmurs.
"Beast? What is it?"
"I haven't a clue. An abomination of sorts."
"An abomination?" Samorix whispers, his voice filled with disbelief. "What the bloody hell kind of beast is it, then? What’s that damn smell?" Oleksandr shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the shadows outside. Oleksandr holds up his hand, signaling for Samorix to be silent. He hears the sound of rustling outside, the sound of something moving in the foliage. The two men exchange a tense glance, their hands gripping their weapons tightly. In a flurry of movement, Oleksandr and Samorix burst from the tent, swords drawn, their feet pounding against the earth as they confront the creature, out here, the air is even worse.
There, just behind the tent, it crouches low to the ground, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, like a man forced into a beast’s posture. The sight of it is grotesque, every line of its body unsettlingly familiar yet horribly wrong.
Its face, though wolf-like, is distorted—a narrow, elongated muzzle tapering too sharply, its beady, human-like eyes positioned close together at the front, staring with a piercing and unnatural intelligence. Its mouth hangs slack, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and it lets out a low, guttural growl that reverberates through the night.
Samorix squares up his muscular frame, gripping his sword tight in his hand. His one good eye is fixed on the menacing creature, his lips curling into a defiant snarl. "Come on, ye devil!" he growls. "Come taste a Highlander's steel, ye wretch!"
With a sickening crack, the creature’s body contorts, shifting into an upright stance. It towers over Oleksandr and Samorix, its hulking frame now standing on two legs, covered in coarse, matted fur that ripples with every movement. The night air seems to pulse with a strange energy as the creature stares down at them, its human-like eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence.
The creature lunges forward. Its long legs carry it with terrifying speed, and for a moment, it seems to move as though time itself is stretching, its body a blur of unnatural grace. The air is thick with the scent of shit and blood as it closes the distance between them in an instant, its monstrous form moving like a beast but with the chilling precision of a man.
Samorix, his instincts honed through countless battles, steps forward without hesitation, bringing his sword down with a mighty roar. The blade swishes through the air with a roar of its own, but the creature is impossibly fast. With a swift twist of its body, it dodges the strike. It lands in a crouch just to the side, a mocking growl rumbling in its throat as if toying with them.
Before Samorix can recover, Oleksandr is already in motion. He swings his sword in a perfect arc, aiming for the creature’s exposed flank. Once again, it leaps out of the way just in time to dodge the attack. The creature's grip is like iron as it grabs Oleksandr's sword arm, its long fingers coiling around his wrist with an unnerving strength. For a moment, Oleksandr feels the creature’s unyielding hold, its claws digging into his skin, but his reflexes are sharper than it anticipated. Without a second thought, he switches the sword to his other hand and, with a swift motion, swings the pommel of the blade straight into the creature’s skull.
The blow lands with a sickening crack, sending a shudder through the creature’s body. It staggers back, its head jerking from the impact, but to Oleksandr’s shock, it doesn’t release him. Its fingers remain locked around his wrist, unmoved by the strike, its unnatural calm unsettling in the face of such force. Before Oleksandr can react, Samorix steps in, his sword flashing with deadly precision. In one swift motion, the blade cleaves through the creature’s wrist, severing the hand with a clean strike. The creature remains eerily quiet, not reacting to the dismemberment.
Oleksandr, free at last, shakes off the still-writhing severed hand, the skin on his wrist burning from the creature's grip. He readies his sword once more, eyes locked on the beast as he takes a step back. Samorix mirrors his stance, both warriors now circling the creature, waiting for the next move.
The beast growls in fury, its eyes gleaming with hatred. It lifts the severed limb to its mouth, sucking on it like some sort of twisted, macabre gesture, its gaze never leaving the two men as it recalibrates itself.
Samorix grins, his bloodlust evident, and with a dark glint in his one eye, he taunts, “Damned thing’s tough, but it ain’t invincible.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Careful," he warns Samorix, his eyes locked in the creature. "It's smarter than it looks."
"Yes..." It hisses, causing both of the warriors to freeze. It’s voice is distinctly bestial, as if an animal like a dog or lynx tried to talk. Its narrow, wolfish features seem to form the word with difficulty, as if it's not accustomed to speaking. Samorix glances over at Oleksandr, his one eye wide with disbelief and confusion.
"Did that infernal thing just... talk?"
"Are you deaf, Samorix of the Highlands? Or have you gone senile?" It responds. Samorix's face contorts in surprise and anger.
"How in the bloody hell..?" He growls. Oleksandr's eyes narrow, his mind racing to make sense of the situation. The creature's long, slender neck twists with an uncanny range, its eyes fixing on Oleksandr with an intense, unblinking gaze as it squats on the ground. It studies him with a mix of curiosity and aggression, its lips twitching in what might almost be a smile.
"Your kind," it rasps in its bestial voice, "you look familiar, swordsman." Oleksandr stands his ground, unfazed by the creature's words. His face is a stone mask, betraying none of his thoughts. Samorix, on the other hand, is visibly unsettled. He glances at Oleksandr, then back to the creature, his missing eye darting nervously.
"What are ye, then?" Samorix demands of the creature, his voice tense, but with a hint of defiance. The creature's mouth splits into a grotesque sort of grin, revealing rows of sharp, canine teeth. It ignores Samorix, its attention still fixed on Oleksandr.
"You... I know those scars." It rasps, the words coming out with an almost unnatural smoothness. It crawls forward, its eyes fixed on Oleksandr's face, studying the many scars there. The light of the campfire casts harsh shadows on its wolfish features, making it look even more demonic in the darkness. Oleksandr's face remains steely, his eyes never leaving it.
"Come any closer and I'll take your legs next."
"Men are always so quick to threaten," it rumbles, its voice like the grating of gravel. "But you have no power over me. You are nothing but fragile sacks of meat and bone. So fragile. So finite.” It takes another step forward.
"I know what you are." Oleksandr mutters.
The creature's lips curl in a sneer, its eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Do you now?" It rasps. "And what do you think I am, little Rus?"
“A demon. A necromancer.”
The creature's sneer deepens, its eyes growing darker. "A necromancer, you say?" it rumbles. "You think you know so much, do you?" It crawls closer, still squatted down like an ape. "What if you're wrong? What if I am something beyond your mortal understanding?"
"I have gazed into the abyss. I have seen what stared back. You call me flesh and bone, but you envy, for we have what you lack."
"You think you're so wise, do you?" It growls. "Just because you've 'gazed into the abyss'?" It's voice becomes a low, menacing growl. "You know nothing, mortal. You are blind to the truths of the universe. We envy nothing but your ignorance."
"Hold your deceiving tongue, serpent, before I cut it out. I am no fool. You are formless, hence why you have taken the skin of another. Bound to the shadows and oblivion you are, without hope for salvation. Your kind have envied since Eden, because unlike you, we were made with both the dust of the earth and with indomitable spirit, while you were cast to grobble in the pits."
"You dare speak to me of salvation, child?" It hisses. "You, who are nothing but a fleeting spark, a passing fancy of God? You speak of indomitable spirit, but we have seen empires rise and fall, seen countless souls fade to ash. Your 'spirit' is just another name for stupidity and hubris." Oleksandr's face remains stoic and unwavering in the face of the creature's words. His eyes burn into it with a steely resolve.
"Perhaps we are fleeting, but for that again, you envy, for I will find rest in the end, while you are shackled to the world, until it's made anew."
"Rest?" It snarls. "You will find no rest, only oblivion. Your kind is marked for destruction. We will be here long after you are dust."
"I have walked in the shadow of the valley of death, but I fear no evil. For He is with me."
The creature's eyes narrow, its lips pulling back in a snarl, recoiling slightly. "Don't speak those filthy words." It spits. "Your God has abandoned you, left you to fend for yourselves in a cold, uncaring world. He does not protect you, he does not even watch."
"Then why do you recoil, snake?"
"You think your God protects you? You think he watches over you? If he truly did, why have you suffered? Why did he allow your dear brother to be skewered like a pig?" Oleksandr's face tightens at the mention of his brother, despite his attempts to keep his composure. The fact that the creature knows about his brother is deeply unsettling. His voice is low and taut with anger.
"You speak of things you know nothing about."
"Ah, but I do, and you know it." It hisses. "We watched your precious brother fall, and we watched them desecrate his grave. And we watched your conception, the rape of your whore mother, how you and your brother sapped her life with your birt-." In a blur of speed and steel, Oleksandr strikes with lethal precision. His sword flashes through the air, its sharp edge slicing clean through the creature's throat, severing its head mid-sentence. The words die in its throat, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound as the decapitated head tumbles from its shoulders, rolling across the earth with a sickening scrape.
For a brief moment, the forest is silent. The creature’s body lays frozen, its eyes wide with the anger of its sudden demise. Then, as if caught in the throes of its final, agonizing transformation, the body lurches and warps. The unnatural shape shifts violently, its form collapsing inward and contorting in on itself.
With a crack of bone and a splintering of muscle, the body reverts, shrinking into something smaller. The transformation is grotesque, like a sickening reversal, the body collapsing into that of a large, decaying wolf. Its fur is matted and filthy, as if weeks of rot in the hot sun had taken their toll. The wolf's eyes, once full of malevolent intelligence, now stare blankly, milky white in their sockets, devoid of life.
It’s no longer a demon, a grotesque abomination. It’s just a dead animal.
Oleksandr watches in grim silence, his breath steady, his sword still raised. Samorix takes a deep breath, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and disgust.
"Mary, mother of..." He mutters, crossing himself with a quick motion. "What in the name of the heavens was that... thing?"
"A demon of the pits." Oleksandr nudges the body of the wolf. "A necromancer specifically. It wore this corpse. Demons are formless, one of the ways they can walk among us by possessing the skins of others." Samorix shudders, his expression one of horrified disgust.
"Demons… Never thought I'd be face-to-face with one." He kicks the body of the wolf. "Christ, that's a hell of a thought. These things going around, stealing bodies and skin... bloody bastards."
Oleksandr kneels by the campfire, carefully coaxing the flames back to life. His mind is still racing from the encounter with the demon, but his movements are calm and controlled. Samorix is busy cleaning their weapons, swearing and grumbling as he goes. "Fuckin' hell. I best start praying again." He mutters, wiping demon blood from his claymore's steel blade.
"I had our weapons blessed, before our journey. It's standard as you'd know, but it really came in handy this time."
Samorix glances up from wiping his sword, raising an eyebrow. "That's why the wretch was... affected by it, aye?"
"Aye. Regular steel can't do them harm."
Samorix nods, his expression grave. He gives a low, impressed whistle. "Damn." He mutters. "So, blessed steel is the only thing that can cut these things, eh?"
"That and silver."
Samorix laughs humorlessly. "Aye, silver makes a shite sword. Breaks too easily, and not nearly as strong or sharp as good steel." He grunts, continuing to clean his sword. "Seems ye know a fair bit about these demons, eh, lad?"
"I read about them in the imperial library. They hate us, and they fear God. Never forget that."
"Aye, they do." He mutters. "Demons... damned, unholy creatures they are. I'd not want to run into another one of those things." He glances up at Oleksandr, his expression serious. "You seem to know a fair bit about them. More than just the library, I'm guessin..."
"Da. I’ve encountered one before."
He watches as Oleksandr helps him heave the remains of the wolf into the fire. "Bloody hell, lad. What did you do when you met the thing? Tell me you didn't piss yourself..."
"Almost did, I won't lie. It was after I left Constantinople."
He looks at Oleksandr curiously, clearly wanting to hear more. "What happened then? How did you get away from it?"
"Well..." Oleksandr pulls out his pipe, stuffing it. "It was on a cliff... in Bulgaria. I was about to leap to my death."
Samorix blinks, clearly surprised and even a bit disturbed by Oleksandr revealing such deep details. "Christ, lad... about to kill yourself, eh? Can't say I blame ye, I reckon I'd be in the same state after losin' a twin." He gives the younger man a sympathetic look. "What stopped you? What happened?"
"A demon came and whispered to me. It was pushing me to do it, to go and join my brother. It wanted me to throw myself to my death, to damn myself, to destroy the flesh and life it envied so." He puffs on his pipe, watching the corpse of the wolf burn. "Well, seeing that a demon was so pleased with the thought of me committing suicide... Well, out of spite, I told it to kiss my white ass and I turned back. Continued on with my life... Just to spite the devil. It was that simple."
Samorix couldn't help but chuckle at that, shaking his head. “You're one hell of a stubborn bastard, I'll give you that much." Oleksandr returns the grin.
"Yeah. I suppose my hard-assery saved me. It’s inspiring to know that hell will rejoice when I die, for I'll be out of the battle."
Samorix chuckles again, shaking his head with a grim smirk. "Aye, that's good thinkin', lad. The bastards want you dead? Then be damned ready to spite them by living to a ripe old age." He slaps Oleksandr on the back heartily. "God, you're a strange one, lad."
"They're nasty bastards, those fucking pricks." Oleksandr grumbles. "Total dickheads. They'll lie to you, hoping you lose hope, trying to convince you to turn your back on God, and on yourself."
"Well said, lad." He mutters. "Demons ain't called the 'tempters' for nothin'. Always tryin' to get us to turn our back on everything." He gives a rough, tired sigh, looking into the fire. "Aye, they don't deserve any shred of leniency. I might start saying a couple extra prayers tomorrow, just to be sure, so I say... Bastards."
"That's the thing. The closer you are to God, the more they'll try to attack you. But at least you have God and the angels on your side."
He glances back at Oleksandr. "Makes me wonder why the hell the angels don't help us fight against the damn things."
"They do. It was angels who cast them into oblivion in the first place. There's a reason earth hasn't fallen into hell."
Samorix grunts in acknowledgement, nodding in understanding. "Fair point, lad. That's true. The good ol' hosts of heaven fought them before. Got kicked out of heaven, and sent to the pits. Makes sense that the angels would keep 'em out, if they're such nasty bastards." He lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing his beard warily. "Makes me wonder though... if they want us so damn bad... what'd they do if they won."
"They want to drag us to their level, to hurt God, since God loves us. But they won't win. It's almost a tragedy that they fight so relentlessly, for nothing but delusions of hate and pride. For nothing but malice's sake."
Samorix nods, frowning in agreement. "Aye, it's a damn shame." He says. "Imagine spendin' your entire existence hatin' someone, and tryin' to hurt them. Seems stupid, if you ask me. But I guess they are just hateful, evil bastards by nature." He looks up at the sky, squinting into the night sky. "God, I'm never gon' look at the stars the same way now...."
Oleksandr looks up at the sky. "Yeah. It... feels different, staring at the abyss, once you've caught it staring back."