---WILBUR---
The trail to the mountains was obvious even without the map Wilbur had memorized. He followed the footprints and cart tracks imprinted on the muddy road leading to the looming Mount Lhottem. He had stared at its distant peak when he was on the granges of Rothfield monastery, coming up with vague plans on where to find the entrances to mine ores.
The dark forest already decided for him.
Analyzing the road, Wilbur observed the mess before proceeding. Dark trees slanted grotesquely on this crude path. The trunks were bent, not cut down by any axe or weapon. No carpenter could have done this. It was as if a huge creature rampaged through the forest in a rough line; pushing trees and smashing boulders, creating a new path that the villagers of Grant used to harvest ores for the priests of Rothfield.
He had never been inside the caves before in the other monasteries. He was forbidden to go out by Abbott Blake and Knox. It was fine. Wilbur preferred the familiar sights and colors of his garden and lab tools, anyway. Besides, Swithin and Ealhstan were more suited for working in quarries and mountains. Wilbur was just thankful he listened to Ryne’s stories and Ealhstan’s reports after their missions. At least he had some idea of the layout waiting for him in the depths.
He arrived at the foot of Mount Lhottem. Even though he, himself, was cold to the touch, Wilbur shivered when he saw soft, faint snow—not enough to cover the slope—drifting down from the mountain’s peak. He saw the tracks disappear into the mountain’s entrance.
Shadows engulfed him as he stepped inside, waving shadows cast by torches attached with iron clasps on the far end lighting a dark tunnel. Wilbur could see clearly that the rampaging force had smashed through the walls of this mountain and made the path that detoured towards the level rich with mineral deposits.
He also saw a man slumped on the wall near that tunnel entrance, head down and arms limp.
Wilbur ran to him and was quickly hit with the mouthwatering scent of sweet blood. He breathed out audibly, surprised and captivated by the sight and smell, the torchlight seeming to glow brighter on that wondrous red. Suddenly, the nights of not feeding crashed into him, wave after nauseous wave, and the only thing that would abate it was the spilling red nectar from this man. Wilbur bent down and saw the man bleeding from his brows down to his arms. His pants were torn, showing skinned knees and purple bruises marking his thighs. He looked like a lamb dressed in gravy. Wilbur did not notice his teeth sharpen, did not notice that his hand was behind the man’s neck, fingers digging into the skin.
The man hitched a breath, snapping Wilbur out of his daze. “Deeper in the mines… monsters attack… warn them…” And then his eyes glazed over and he breathed his last.
Distant sounds came from the cavern; a squeaking cart pulled by the men of the village, their shadows on the walls cast by their own torchlight. Wilbur withdrew into the shadows. Their gruff voices disturbed the silence.
“Why does it have to be at nighttime and not in the day?”
“As long as my family is being fed by the priest, I don’t care.”
“Would you look at this beauty? The path led us directly into such chunks! Our village could be known as a supplier for the other lords!”
“If we had a blacksmith, we could even forge these into our own weapons. We can even sell it ourselves.”
“The lords will capture you without a merchant license and guild card.”
As the men rounded the corner, Wilbur saw the load they were carrying; chunks of unrefined, coarse, ice quartz and other common minerals like iron and copper ores. When they neared the entrance, a strange sound came from the outside.
A low growl. Then a chilling howl.
The men stopped in their tracks. They looked at one another, holding their pickaxes high. He noticed that only two of them carried those tools while the rest simply had gloves. The one who looked like the leader stepped forth, signaling to the men to stay back. He did not notice the body lying at the entrance of the tunnel. How could he, when there was an awful wind, a rotten breath, that blew around the cavern? It blew out the torches on the wall and the ones they were holding. The leader swore and stumbled back, almost tripping at the dead man’s legs.
“Oh, Saints!” The leader or foreman swore. He scrambled to the man and checked his face, calling the man’s name, shaking his shoulders as if there was still life in him.
The other men spilled out of the cavernous tunnel and reacted the same to the gruesome display. They were checking his injuries when another eerie howl broke through the night. It vibrated on the walls, causing dust to fall from the cave’s ceiling, making pebbles scatter on the ground, and making Wilbur’s jaw chatter.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
A silence before a low growl and warm air entered. Wilbur saw a great head poke inside, sniffing the ground. Its giant head and neck were a mess of wild black fur. Its eyes glowed. When those eyes discovered the body lying on the ground, it bared its fangs and licked its lips. Its eyes took up the fearful men huddled together.
A beast, a wolf but larger than anything Wilbur had ever seen, crawled through the entrance, blocking anyone from going outside. The leader stared at its menacing red-yellow eyes.
“It’s a direwolf!” One of the men whispered, voice shaking.
“Impossible.”
The direwolf licked its teeth once more, baring its fangs at the group, salivating. Quick like the wind, he bolted through the men, snatched the body from the ground, and ran outside. One of the men fell to his knees. They planned on burying him, no doubt. When the foreman was about to charge ahead, two more direwolves entered the mountain’s mouth.
These two were smaller than the first, but still greater in size than any wolf Wilbur had encountered. They circled the man on opposite sides, tails swishing in their game of ambush. The group swore and murmured and moaned. They will meet their end here. They quailed under the direwolves’ stares and retreated, bumping their shoulders against one another and looking back at the tunnel.
Too late, the other wolf blocked their escape route and bit into the arm of the closest man to him. He screamed and fell back, exposing his leg to another bite. The foreman moved; he pushed the men out of the way and hit the lesser direwolf on the head. It yelped and stumbled back, dazed. The other men scampered away, dragging their injured friend with them. Unfortunately, this exposed the foreman to the second lesser direwolf.
One bite to the neck and the foreman collapsed on the ground, dropping his weapon. Blood flowed from those fangs like how one squeezed water from wet fabrics. The wolves tore into him, making Wilbur wince and squirm. The men escaped through the main entrance.
They did not get too far. The greater direwolf returned. He finished the injured man with a bite through the chest.
In the middle of this, Wilbur’s thoughts ran. Did they come from the dark forest? Had monsters always prowled in its depths? If so, Ryne wasn’t safe! None of them were. Not Claude.
He pushed the thoughts away. Before anyone else was attacked, Wilbur, weak and dizzy, stepped in front of the greater direwolf and blocked the claws that swiped the men. It pierced his chest, taking the full force of the swing. The men did not look back to see him fall.
He was not used to this kind of physical pain and centuries of being unharmed made him feel this was the first time he had been injured gravely. Wilbur did not bleed, but he was not healing either. He was not used to pain that lingered. The greater direwolf sniffed him, confused by his off scent. It was then he noticed a man standing at the entrance, a rusted sword in his hand.
“Run,” he told him. His companions kept bolting through the mountain path, not bothering to look back, arms flailing into the dark. Instead, this man took his sword and pointed it at the greater direwolf.
Wilbur noticed that his sword was shorter and crudely made. He probably made it or commissioned a blacksmith’s apprentice to make one, desperate for arms, as a means of defense. The greater direwolf growled and snapped its teeth. Wilbur noticed the familiar pattern of their swishing tail. The wolf pawed the ground. Near the tunnel was the sickening crunching sound of a body being devoured.
“It’s going to charge,” Wilbur said weakly.
The man leaped out of the way just in time to avoid the beast flying towards him, but he was simply a common villager with no fighting experience holding a clumsy rusted sword. The greater direwolf swiped at the man and hit him square in the chest, shoving him back into the mountain cave. He dropped his sword. The greater direwolf chased after the weaponless man, trampling on Wilbur’s body, its claws sinking into his shoulder, chest, and legs. Wilbur groaned and yelled, rolling onto the ground. Yet, Wilbur still managed to find the strength to kneel himself upright. He steadied himself and ran towards the greater direwolf, stepping on its tail.
Wilbur was not much of a fighter, so he only used what he knew. He used himself as a distraction and bait while the man ran. The greater direwolf spun around and growled at him, letting the man run to collect his sword. The wolf sunk its teeth on Wilbur’s shoulders and Wilbur punched him in the eyes. Two of the lesser direwolves had run off in the chaos, perhaps full of their meal, or wanting to chase the other two men that were still running on the path back to the village.
The greater direwolf kept swiping and biting at Wilbur. Some swipes, Wilbur dodged, but some swipes he received in the chest, arms, and face. Wilbur grunted. He felt weary. He screamed when the greater direwolf bit his arm hard. But as direwolf and monk struggled, the man plunged his sword directly into the greater direwolf’s chest.
The greater direwolf and Wilbur both fell to the ground. It whimpered. Wilbur felt so weak, he was afraid that if he closed his eyes, he would not make it home. His vision was failing. All his thoughts swam away.
He was vaguely aware of the man helping him up. He felt warm and cold and the man’s sweat and breath were the only things keeping him from fully floating away.
“…in the village, maybe someone can help… why would they send us into the forest knowing… monsters appearing… all right…” the man kept saying. The greater direwolf had retreated somewhere. Wilbur felt it move away. His head ached, noticing once more the fresh pool of blood on the floor.
And then the world turned black.
Wilbur regained consciousness not long after. His lips were pressed on the man’s neck, and he felt his tongue and throat move, drinking something heavenly. The man he tried to help and who had tried to help him was hugging him. Or no, Wilbur was hugging the man, supporting his neck and back, keeping him from falling over.
Wilbur had fed on the man he tried to save. The man’s eyes were unfocused, mouthing words noiselessly. When his senses returned to him, Wilbur dropped the man to the ground. He wiped the blood from his lips even though most of him wanted more. "No. Oh, no." Wilbur said.
The man was mumbling something, pale lips pressing together to form a name. It could have been his wife, could have been the name of his child. It could be a place that he was seeing as his eyes glazed over. When Wilbur felt him breathe his last, Wilbur stared. He swore loudly, voice echoing in the cavern, and kicked the ground. Gently, he touched the man's cheek, mumbled an apology, and Wilbur sank his teeth once more and drained the last of the man’s life.