Dolwillen lost over fifty of his honour guard to arrows. Many of Dolwillen’s knights leapt over the ditch and charged into the wood. The confined space between the trees split them up, leaving the knights vulnerable to the vast number of archers. They were surrounded, dragged from their horses, and dismembered within the violent swarm of steel.

The Rídwigan speared into the remaining honour guard.

Dolwillen was saved from a similar fate as the left flank of his irregulars returned and engaged the King’s Scéotend.

The few knights who survived the Rídwigan charge tried to group up, but the nimble Rídwigan surrounded each knight, speared their horses, and rode the fallen knights down.

Guntard dissuaded the Rídwigan from getting too close with loud bangs and flashes.

I want to see somebody burn, not dance to flashing lights and loud noises.

Guntard's heart beat against the central bone in Dolwillen’s chest. It was warm and sticky. His skin wriggled under its soothing influence. Dolwillen focused on the sensation and took several deep breaths.

Much better.

He sheathed Beceorfan.

Guntard is right, the chests should be opened now.

Dolwillen reached into the depths of the bloody ditch and pulled one out. He placed the chest on the horizontal side of the half-turned wagon. The latch slid open with a satisfying pop. He grasped the lid with both hands and eased it back.

Packed among wads of linen and encapsulated in Feorhhord Gimcynn, lay a pulsing heart the size of his head. He caressed its jagged edges and smooth plains within the confines of its protective box. His gauntlet clinked against its surface.

It was his favourite. A huge Heoruwearg, a rabid wolf, driven into a frothing wreck by excruciating mutations and the loss of its pack.

I paid a fortune for this creature.

With great reverence, Dolwillen touched the symbols on its surface, making them shine with a dirty yellow glow. A haunting howl echoed across the battlefield, sending a shiver of pleasure along his spine. The beast was freed and it bounded towards him, desperate to destroy its tormentor. Three minutes passed. As soon as the Heoruwearg was close enough, Dolwillen sent it a shock of pain.

The Heoruwearg staggered. It ran at him again. He exerted more pressure and watched the heart beat faster. The Heoruwearg tried to run away. Dolwillen didn’t let it. Through a series of shocks, he guided the rabid wolf into the wood. Screams suffused the air. Dolwillen left the Heoruwearg to its own devices and reached for another box.

*

Hrolf lent against a tree, panting. His spear, shield, and new bow were propped against it too. He was positioned at the western edge of the northern wood at the Færtún battlefield. Duke Mánfeld’s knights and the Rídwigan clashed beyond the treeline a hundred yards from his location.

A young Scéotend, called Sture, stood next to him.

“Gods those knights are scary,” said Sture. “I’m glad the Rídwigan returned in time.”

Hrolf grunted.

Why was it that, every time I try to avoid the army, I end up in the thick of it?

“You listening, sir?”

If I ever discover which imbecilic administrator promoted me, Hrolf Cottrell, a mere freeman cattle herder, to a Fíftiesmann, I’ll order my half company of Scéotend to shoot the bastard.

“I hear you.”

Sture looked remarkably happy. He was about fifteen, barely three years older than Hrolf’s eldest son.

“You’re a tough one, sir. So courageous, you don’t even acknowledge the terror of the enemy!”

Where did the lad acquire such an impression?

“And you talk too much. We have a moment of respite, don’t waste it.”

Sture nodded so vigorously, his ill fitting helmet fell off, along with a small clump of brown, curly hair. He scooped the helmet up and plonked it back on his head.

“Yes, sir; any orders?”

“You ever given flowers to a girl, Sture?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, don’t give them Hogweed, even if it is a pretty flower. You’ll end up on a battlefield, rather than a bed.”

“Yes, sir.” The lad shuffled his feet, breathing rapidly.

Hrolf grasped Sture’s shoulder and pointed, “Climb that tree and tell me what’s happening. I’ll give you a leg up.”

Sture scrabbled the trunk. After ten seconds he managed a decent grip and sprung into the lower branches.

“Half the enemy is dead or fleeing and the remaining enemy troops are being surrounded. Ah! Some of them are coming this way. We should go fight them off, sir.”

“Leave that to our other flank. They’ll fight better if they know their backs are covered.”

“Right you are, sir. You really know your tactics, sir!”

Hrolf massaged the bridge of his nose. He supposed this was actually his seventh tour. He’d be embarrassed if he’d learned nothing. He beckoned over another green horn and had the lad spread his instructions.

Sture tumbled from the tree, “Great…big…slavering…rabid…wolf” He groaned, “Coming this way, sir!”

Hrolf ran for the tree line, then ran straight back, “Get on the ground, play dead!”

Most of his half company reacted and dived onto the leafy ground. Three of them weren’t fast enough.

One soldier stood still, picking his nose.

Horses and men screamed as the Heoruwearg ploughed through the riders and into the wood. With a wet snap, the three slow Scéotend were trampled into the ground as the Heoruwearg struggled to squeeze between the trees and ran further into the wood, leaving an avenue of leaning trunks, snapped branches, and broken soldiers.

Sture threw up. Hrolf squatted and patted Sture’s back.

“What…what was that?”

“A Gréatian,” said Hrolf.

Sture did an impressive job of looking confused.

“A normal creature enlarged by magic, that one looked sick though, poor animal.”

“Poor animal? Are you crazy? That thing tried to kill us-” Sture pulled a water skin from his belt and drank, “-sir!”

Hrolf’s half company gathered around him.

“Looked like it wanted to run away to me.” Screams and howling erupted from the north, “And now it’s run into two-thousand terrified soldiers with pointy sticks.”

“I want to go home,” said Sture. A tears waded across his mud streaked cheeks.

Hrolf dragged Sture upright and dusted the leaves from his arms, “Me to lad, but first, we’re going to show that creature a way out of here.”

“No, no way. I refuse.”

Several other Scéotend echoed Sture’s words.

“That’s enough, you liverless goslings!” said Hrolf. “We’re not going to fight, we’re helping the Heoruwearg escape, before it slaughters everyone.” He shouldered his bow, gripped his shield, and prodded their backs with the butt of his spear, “Move!”

The Scéotend shuffled through the avenue of bent trees, with fearful grumbles and much protesting, but as long as they kept moving towards the fight, Hrolf let them be. As they neared, He caught glimpses of the monstrous creature, rampaging through the two opposing lines of Scéotend and Irregulars.

The Heoruwearg was at least ten feet longer and five feet taller than the massive lynx Sir Wulfslæd’s troop fought.

I’ve no horse and armour like Sir Wulfslæd and neither am I a six-foot, five-inch, muscle bound terror, like Cempa.

He gripped his spear tighter.

The Scéotend and Irregulars were too busy fighting each other to kill the Heoruwearg and there was little chance of Hrolf and his half company dispatching it either. The only thing he had was a plan.

The Heoruwearg continued to pounce on both sides, killing tens of soldiers with every jump, bite, and sweep of its paws. Before Hrolf could reach the fight, both sides broke, fleeing in all directions, regardless of their allegiance.

Hrolf’s half company was swept into the rout. Thirty seconds later he was alone. No subordinates, no Sture, just him.

And the Heoruwearg.

Hrolf stared at it.

The beast stared back.

The Heoruwearg lowered its body and its shoulders rose above its spin.

Hrolf ran and the Heoruwearg pounced, jaws snapping. He wove between the trees towards the ditch while the Heoruwearg’s hot, noxious breath warmed his back. Hrolf focused on the banner he’d spied between the trees, swearing inside his head with every anxious, flailing leap of his tired legs.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

The light increased and Hrolf shot through the treeline. An overturned war wagon lay in the ditch where a short man, with a twisted smile, scuttled between boxes. Cautious of impaling himself, Hrolf dropped his spear and shield, ripped his bow from his shoulder and dived down the bank into the water.

The wagon shattered.

The Heoruwearg belly was above him. Unable to hold his breath after sprinting, Hrolf abandoned the scant protection of three feet of muddy water, gulped a breath, then dragged his body through the mud away from the beast as fast as he could.

The Heoruwearg cried out, but Hrolf didn’t dare look behind him. After a couple of minutes it ran off. Hrolf snuck back for his gear, then ran north.

I’ll watch the remains of the battle from as far as I am able to run. Big teeth filled Hrolf’s thoughts. Likely further than I deem possible.

*

“What hideous abomination is that?” said Audovera.

Firgen didn’t bother answering. So far he’d seen a grey wolf the size of a small house, a thirty foot black bear, and a red stag with antlers as big as his carriage.

Pretty sure those are Gréatian, but they look nothing like the elegantly proportioned beasts of the Wúduwésten.

The stag charged into his Wígárberend, tossing aside armoured men and horses with each sweep of its antlers. The creature had comparatively short stocky legs, weird bulbous flesh, and an oversized head and neck.

The least majestic stag I’ve ever seen.

The Gréatian attacked whatever was closest to them, the majority being Firgen’s troops, but from time to time they would drift into the enemy formations, butchering everything in their path until they spasmed, or howled, and charged back towards Firgen’s lines.

Nothing could hold the beasts back, they left huge gaps in Firgen’s shield wall, giving the enemy Wígárberend and Byrnwiggendas a way in where their superior mobility, training, and armour gave them an overwhelming advantage.

A woman, hair plastered to her skull with blood and sweat, sprinted towards Firgen’s entourage. She had a magenta band tied to her arm, marking her as a messenger.

Ebýr ushered her through.

The woman bowed.

“Head up,” said Firgen. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“The beasts are impervious to wounds, Sire. They heal as fast as we hurt them, but the pain only makes them more violent.”

“Then take out their legs.”

“We tried that sire. No one is strong enough to cut through them.”

“Ebýr, have the runners bring oil and fire to the front. Messenger, accompany him. I want to know how it goes.” He tossed her a flask of watered brandy, “And drink up. Can’t have you collapsing.”

She nodded and gulped the contents of the flask, her hands trembling.

“Easy lass or you’ll make yourself sick,” said Ebýr.

The messenger saluted and held the flask towards Firgen.

“Keep it,” he said. “And pass it around with anyone willing to get close enough to one of those things to douse it in oil.”

The messenger tucked the flask into her shirt, “Thank you, Sire.”

“You’re welcome, now get moving,” said Firgen.

Ebýr patted the back of his saddle and the woman leapt up behind him.

“Stay alive Ebýr. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Ebýr snorted, “That’s a flexible brief. If this doesn’t work, we should retreat.”

“Very well.” Firgen’s hands repeatedly squeezed his mount’s reins as the pair galloped off.

*

Eight boxes lay open before Dolwillen. His left hand held a telescope to his eye, while his right spidered between the yellow stones. Even through the thick leather underside of his steel gauntlets, he could feel the hearts thumping. The stone against his chest squirmed every time he manipulated one of the creatures.

A delightful sensation.

The creatures were a little tricky to keep on track, but his diligent practice over the last few weeks made it easier than he’d thought it would be. Perhaps he should try one more. A little something for the King.

He wiped the muck of several plates.

Bull, Lizard, Wild Boar, Stoat, Buzzard. There are so many to choose from. The buzzard is too tricky to control. It always flies off. The lizard will be too cold and the stoat isn’t tall enough for me to see. That leaves the bull or the wild boar. Horns or Tusks. Which is better?

A great cry came from the wood, interrupting his thoughts. Dolwillen’s entire body vibrated. He was sure the trees shuddered. Men and women from both sides tumbled from beneath the trees. They’d given up on trying to butcher each other and were running as fast as they could.

He snorted at their foolishness and reached for the bulls chest.

There was a flash of grey, a splash, and wood splintered everywhere. Dolwillen was knocked face first into the ditch. He coughed and spluttered as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Water drained from every gap in his armour.

Hot air rushed over him. A warm, silky fluid seeped through his armour and down the back of his neck.

Guntard was looking beyond Dolwillen’s shoulder. Guntard appeared both terrified and delighted.

I’ve never seen someone look so conflicted.

Dolwillen turned.

He stared into the vociferous crimson maw of the Heoruwearg and blinked. It had forty two teeth. Its breath was a noxious mix of viscera, half cooked flesh, and wet dog. Its muzzle was covered in fleshy dangling protrusions and throbbing yellow veins. The creature’s hide was peppered with weapons all at different levels of expulsion as the beast healed itself.

“Shoo, shoo, go away,” said Dolwillen. “I’m busy.”

The Heoruwearg stared at him, dribbling pounds of drool onto Dolwillen’s head.

“The enemy is over there.” Dolwillen reached as high as he could and scratched under the Heoruwearg’s chin, “Good dog, now kill.”

The beast lunged.

Dolwillen dived.

The Heoruwearg missed, then sent him flying into the bank with the upswing of its muzzle.

Dolwillen cracked his face against the ground and bit his cheek. His head leaked. He needed to find the Heoruwearg’s heartstone but the creature had scattered all the chests when it jumped in the ditch.

I’m going to die.

“Save me!”

“Must I, your Grace?” said Guntard. He sounded far away, “You will be at the mercy of the Scéotend if I do that.”

“No one is firing at us and it’s better than being a chew toy, your heart won’t survive those jaws either.”

“I suppose not. Crawl, your Grace, death is slobbering on your heels.”

Dolwillen scrambled up the ditch. Guntard was twenty feet away, pressing symbols in a slow, deliberate manner. Sparks trailed after his fingers. The staff glimmered. A dull red light flickered from the Feorhhord Gimcynn.

A torrid wave swept over Dolwillen. It was difficult to breath.

“Hurry, your Grace.”

With a nauseous heave, Dolwillen dragged himself into a half crouch and floundered forward, panting. He crumpled at Guntard’s feet, drenched in sweat and ditch water.

“Well done, your Grace. Turn around. You might want to see this.”

Dolwillen felt his skin crawl.

My life is in another’s hand. Disgraceful.

Guntard lowered his glittering staff at the Heoruwearg. The heat radiating from the staff was immense. It was like standing next to a furnace. Every breath Dolwillen sucked down was coarse and dry.

His vision separated; Dolwillen watched himself watching the creature.

What is going on?

A myriad of coloured threads streamed towards the base of Guntard’s staff from every direction, weaving into it like the ribbons on a maypole. The world softened to a dingy grey as a dimpsy light enveloped the landscape. A searing haze spread from the tip of Guntard’s staff.

Is this magic? Where is the light and fire?

The ground steamed, then boiled, as heat rushed outwards. Rocks exploded in its wake, casting clods several feet into the air.

The haze flowed over the creature. The animal howled. Its fur ignited, the softer parts of its exposed flesh bubbled. Its eyes and nose popped first, then its teeth spilled into the ditch with a splash. The creature’s tongue disintegrated as its wounds sprayed chunks of cooked meat. Dozens of white hot weapons and arrows dropped from the beast’s hide and splashed into the boiling water with a hiss.

The creature bucked and whimpered within the haze for a whole minute. The magic ended with the Heoruwearg still standing. It began to growl. Dolwillen snapped back into his body. Guntard was running.

Dolwillen limped after him, “Where are you going?”

“I need a new spot. Even with the Cwylla in full swing, the barrier and the heat spell consumed all the surrounding magic. I can’t cast spells without it.”

“Why not use the Feorhhord Gimcynn?”

“If I use it, all my subsequent spells would be nowhere near as powerful. Even with the stone, all I’ve done is piss it off. Do you want to stay and see what happens, your Grace?”

“Do something.”

“Of course, your Grace. I would not have thought to do so myself had you remained silent.”

How could anyone be so dense?

“Why are they so hard to kill?”

“Because you made them that way, your Grace.”

“You must break the spell.”

“I’ve no intention of getting close enough to remove the stone from its body while it’s conscious.”

“Smash it’s heart.”

“It swallowed it’s heart while your face was in the ditch, something I wish I’d thought of years ago.”

“Then you will have to kill it.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

The ground trembled as the Heoruwearg chased after them.

“Are we there yet?”

“See for yourself, you seem to have the hang of it now.”

Dolwillen looked at his hand. His veins were black, throbbing with strength and power. The subtle shades between colours disappeared, repainting the landscape in the brightest, most primal hues.

Too bright.

“Don’t look at the magic directly, your Grace. You will damage your sight.”

He shook his head and the world returned to normal.

How can one focus on a subject indirectly? There are more pressing matters than Guntard’s theoretical Drýcræft though.

The Heoruwearg was back. Its body was fully restored except for its eyes, which were filled with a yellow veined, waxy white fluid.

“How did it find us?”

Guntard was playing his staff again, “By looking indirectly I imagine, your Grace.”

Yet more mystical nonsense.

Guntard began to rapidly tap his staff, pouring colourful onto the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t distract me. If I press these in the wrong order, we could both die, you more likely than me. This is not an element I am familiar with.”

Fresh, untainted air rushed into Dolwillen’s nose. The sounds around him became dull and distant, cutting him off from the shouts and screams. He frowned at Guntard, then swirling shadows on the ground tugged his gaze to the sky.

Clouds streamed in from all directions to the spot above the snarling Heoruwearg. The clouds greyed as they reached the centre, where they churned anti-clockwise, twisting ever closer to the ground.

The Heoruwearg was plucked from the muddy earth with a frustrated howl. It spun amid the raging clouds, then disappeared.

“Is it coming back?”

Guntard shrugged, “Does it matter, your Grace?”

“I want to watch it fall.”

“Perhaps recovering the control of your pets would be a better use of your time, your Grace. It looks like both sides are retreating.”

“I’ve won!”

“And if you wish to have anyone on your side remain living so you can keep saying that, I suggest we return to the wagon now, rather than later.”

Dolwillen smiled, “Lead the way, Guntard."