Prologue Two; Schwarzwald, The Kingdom of Wolia

A lone hunter stalked in the night; stepping through forest and shrublands with the stealth and grace of a prowling tiger. Nocking an arrow, he took in every sound, sight and smell around him. Tightening the string, the wind whispered pictures in his ears. He slowly breathed in the early spring air, so as to not freeze his nose. And as he did, he picked up a bitter and unsettling scent he knew to be fear, which, as far as the hunter knew, his prey was incapable of feeling such emotion.

The sky cleared and moonlight shone down upon worn roof-tiles revealing an old and abandoned cabin. Broken windows, cracked tiles and rotted wood spoke of its age. But to the hunter, this was an impossibility. For half a lifetime he’d called these woods home; he knew the grass to be his flooring, a carpet of life; the trees to be his walls, sturdy windbreaks and roof when needed. He knew the width and length of this forest as well as anyone would know their home after twenty years. And he knew, without a shred of doubt, that before this day there was no cabin there.

He set out into the clearing, towards the cabin. Carefully parting the waist-high grass with a turned foot, feeling for roots or fallen branches so as to not risk tripping, or the snapping of twigs as he slowly lent his weight to each step. He was alert; one misstep would give him away to any nearby monstrosity that dwelled within the forest. His shoulder ached slightly; a wound received in a forgotten past; it reminded him of the dangers of negligence. The hunter’s sight, trained by years’ worth of after-dark hunting, allowed for him to notice a breach in the otherwise bristling grass, which betrayed the presence of something. Something larger than a man.

As he approached the parting in the grass he crouched deep, exchanging his vision for stealth. With intense focus he slightly parted the half-frozen grass in front of him in such a way the it made no sound, revealing a bull moose. Contorted in a horrific manner, neck crushed to the point where it looked like a run-over bag of bones. An animal fit to be the king of any forest, other than this one, reduced to a mangled cadaver; steam still rising from the bloodied shards of bone piercing out of its neck. Only a select few of the creatures that lurked in this forest had the ability to do this. And the fact that the hunter found this bull moose uneaten told him, that whatever had killed it, knew it was being hunted. Hurried, the hunter turned his attention to the gloomy cabin once more.

Cracked roof-tiles, barely held in place by rotted husks of what had one been nails, threatened to fall upon him, should he get too close. The windowsills bore faint carvings, strange and alien to his tracing hand. Broken glass scattered by his feet; faded colours staining each shard. His eyes went to the door, having rotted to a husky plank barely held up by rusty hinges that looked ready to give. He tried to peek into the cabin between the cracks, but despite having the moonlight at his back he saw nothing. Though, while he saw and heard nothing, the smell of fear lingered. And not only that, but it was stronger than it was a moment ago. He reached out to push against the door.

The door didn’t feel the way it looked. It felt sturdy and slick as if it was freshly carved and painted. Opening the door revealed an unnatural nothingness. Filling the door frame was absolute darkness that went right up to the doorframe’s edge like ink in a cup. A faint memory drifted to the top of his mind, carrying old knowledge along with the guilt of a mistake made long ago. Magic. And it was magic of such calibre that he trembled to think of the being that had commanded it.

He considered leaving it but found that curiosity had taken hold of him. He took his arrow and carefully pushed it into the darkness. When he felt no resistance, he decided to wager the tip of his little finger. As he felt nothing but a pleasant warmth, he took a step. Once he was inside, he was amongst candlelight and the fresh smell of lavender, and despite the lived-in feeling of the room, he was alone. Or so he thought until he noticed a crib in the corner underneath a dreamcatcher.

The dreamcatcher itself was unlike any he’d seen before. Instead of wood, string and feathers, it was made of golden threads, ivory and something he saw but couldn’t understand. What he saw looked like dim stars hanging at the end of each golden thread. They looked as though they should be blinding, but they were not. He thought the crib ought to catch fire, but it didn’t. Cautiously he walked up to the crib and peered down at a child who looked so insignificant he was compelled to ignore it. He reached for the dreamcatcher, and as he touched it, he felt a surreal serenity, unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

Old instincts screamed for him to remove his hand. Had his senses not been what they were, he wouldn’t have snapped awake to his hand smoking as if burning. He let go and it stopped. No burn marks and no pain. He felt as though his fingers ought to be cinders, yet they were just as they were. He looked around, and though he couldn’t be certain, he felt as though the room was less lavish than before. Everything looked slightly more worn.

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The child let out the slightest whimper. And the hunter, startled by the sound, nocked his arrow once more, ready to fire at the child. Arrow trained at the crib, he peeked over the railing, making the child visible. Piercing, sharp, and cold blue eyes met his, sending a shiver down his back. The child was silent as though aware of the danger the arrow possessed. Then a sound like hail upon ceramic roof tiles suddenly filled the room.

Tree Crawler. He’d been tracking it for days, it had been killing deer and other prey in the area, and he would go hungry if it was not taken care of. He would have shot it down from a tree if he’d been able to go on unnoticed, one shot in its foremost joint, and it would shrivel and die. Much more difficult to take on one which is alert, because it no longer exposes its vulnerable underside. He would have one shot at killing it, and that would be the moment before it killed him. Tree crawlers pounce on their prey, lifting their entire upper bodies and slamming down with a row of a thousand spear-like legs. Those that survive that live to feel blunt, yet barbed pincers crush their neck.

It was outside, waiting for him and trying to get in. He drew his knife, normally for skinning; it would now serve as an impromptu spearhead. He ripped a banner off the wall and grabbed the torch-stand beside the door. He bound the knife to the torch stand with deft hands so that it wouldn’t slip even as he stabbed the beast. A cold sweat broke on his forehead, and the clattering stilled. In the dead of silence, another whimper came from the child so as though to remind him of its presence. Then in the very next moment, the door was burst open, and a five-meter long eyeless monster was screeching at him. He took a stance, a spearman’s stance from a life long since lived. It charged at him, and then as though pulled, it changed direction and charged the child.

It prepared to pounce, but the moment before it slammed against the crib, a thunderous clap sounded in the room so loud that it broke the windows. The creature was shot back, past the huntsman and into the wall beside the front door. He charged the creature while it was squirming on the floor, though as he thrust his spear, the crawler twisted and shielded its exposed underbelly with a part of its body protected by its hard and bark-like shell. The knife loosened it’s make-shift bindings and stuck to the shell as it pulled away. Now he was facing a creature, capable of killing a pack of wolves, unarmed.

The creature shrieked and charged the now unarmed huntsman. The creature toppled him, and a hundred points of blinding pain appeared first from his feet, then his knees and finally his stomach. By no wish of his own, he opened his eyes and saw the creature atop of him. Looking down, he saw that the creature stood with its legs stabbing through him into the wooden floor beneath. He was nailed to the floor, and he knew what was next. He closed his eyes, listening as the snap of mandibles like blunted axes grew closer to his head.

The huntsman waited for what seemed like an eternity, only prolonged by the pain in his lower body. Then, as if to remind him, the baby from the crib cooed. He could barely see the crib from between the legs of the crawler on top of him. But peering over the top of a rotting crib was the once insignificant child, now looking much dearer to his eyes, staring at him imperiously with those same icy eyes. Eyes that commanded action. The creature was about to crush his neck but stopped at the sound of the child.

In one terrifyingly smooth motion, the crawler turned towards the child. Seeing the intention of the creature, his heart raced. The commanding eyes of the child turned wet with fear. Then as if the spirit of his youth possessed his bleeding body, he yanked loose an arrow from his quiver. Before the creature even finished its turn towards the child, the huntsman pulled himself by one of its legs. His back slick with blood, he slid back underneath the creature. The creature, so preoccupied with its attack on the child, didn’t even react to his manoeuvre. With a bloodied hand, he stabbed the arrow into its abdomen repeatedly until the shaft splintered and broke, leaving the arrowhead embedded in the creature’s soft underside.

A deafening screech came from the creature as it twitched and jerked itself away from both the crib and the huntsman. The huntsman pulled himself towards the crib and rested his back against it. He pulled another arrow and readied himself. It was not over, it wouldn’t die unless he managed to hit a vital organ. Abysmally small and impossible to locate in the present circumstances. With one exception; the foremost joint, separating the head segment from the body segments.

If the creature had eyes, they would be seething with hatred, or so he thought. Not only was it ‘looking’ straight at him, but it was also trembling, and he was sure it was not due to the pain inflicted. This time the creature crawled slowly towards him, in an unorthodox straight line that made him shiver. His vision was blurring, and the world seemed to drain of colour. His strength was leaving his body. He didn’t hope for another burst of strength; instead, he climbed to his knees and clutched the arrow above his head with both hands.

Sensing his challenge, the creature reared once again. Exposing a wetted underbelly and to his life-drained eyes, the candlelight glistening on the bloodied underbelly seemed like a sea of stars. He fell unconscious then, as he and the creature fall towards each other.

The hunter awoke to the sound of birds chirping, and the feeling of bright sunlight hitting his eyelids. He groaned as he pushed aside the dead tree-crawler, its body stiff and heavy with death. He climbed to his feet, pain reminding him of the fight the night before. His wounds had miraculously healed; only faint scars were now visible. The cabin now had the same appearance on the inside as it had had outside when he’d first found it, rotten and ready to collapse. The crib was still barely standing. And within was a sleeping infant, clutching a lock of golden hair.