---WOODROW---

He returned to see Claude and Ryne pouring water into the cooking pot. Claude brought out some onions from his farm and added them to the stew. Woodrow plopped the quail eggs in it as well before disappearing with Ryne into the kitchens to ready the quail. He sucked the blood on the other as Ryne plucked the feathers from their meal.

For three nights, this quaint routine continued. Woodrow trained Claude; the sounds of wooden swords rapped against each other, interrupted by breaths and soft grunts. Then a pause where Woodrow would correct Clauede’s stance or strike or parry, or even offer encouragement. Woodrow saw the determination and growing confidence in Claude’s eyes. His sword hand was not so soft anymore. After, when the cold winds from the mountains stirred and the sounds of owls echoed in the dark forest, the children supped on crops and wild animals, while Woodrow drained a forest critter of its life.

On the third night, Claude landed one particularly fast counter, aiming cleanly at Woodrow’s chest. Claude had managed to spin Woodrow’s sword so fast that it flew out of his hand. They all stared at Woodrow’s swordless hand, the tip of Claude’s sword hovering just inches from his chest. Ryne burst into animated applause from his spot on the church steps, sharing a proud look with Woodrow. They congratulated a gushing Claude.

Woodrow, in the spirit of the moment, acted his demise on the field, clutching his chest and pretending to stagger backward. His arms flew to his chest, pretending to close an imaginary wound. He gasped for air.

“Oh, woe is me, a runaway thief that stole from this monastery, to have been slain by such a ferocious warrior. Pray tell me your name before I perish.”

Claude and Ryne laughed at his performance, Claude’s a lower note than Ryne’s. Claude puffed his chest and raised his sword, one hand on his hip. He bellowed. “’Tis I, the Great Claude of House Clifforde. Sworn protector of Rothfield and its looming monastery.”

Woodrow made a sound as if he was catching his breath. He dramatically fell to the ground. The two boys ran to him, prodding him with swords and poles.

“Quick, make sure you got him,” Ryne said, tickling Woodrow as he kept rolling over.

Woodrow sprang up as their small fingers wriggled like worms on his sides, poking his ribs and belly and back. He ruffled both boys’ heads until they pushed him away, laughing. He bowed as both of them clapped. In that second when his head was bowed to the black grass, Woodrow felt light. It was a good feeling. To be able to perform but without the pressure of entertaining.

As he bent to pick up his sword, Woodrow said, “Keep this up and you’ll be wielding your father’s sword like second nature.” Once he stowed away the practice swords, he raised his brows towards the direction of the forest. “All right, go on home with you Claude.” As Woodrow looked to the dark forest, a thought occurred to him. “How are you able to travel through those thick trees?”

“I’m surprised myself,” Claude said. “It’s like I’m not even walking that far. It’s as if I passed a couple of trees and then I was there back at the farmhouse with Ma and always sometime around supper. She thanks you for the crops you give, by the way.” He smiled at Ryne. “Without you, I don’t how we would ever manage.”

Ryne returned the smile. “Think nothing of it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Woodrow saw Claude reach for Ryne’s hand. He squeezed it. “I mean it. Thank you for everything. You’ve done more for me, for us, than Lord Bahram ever did. I hope you get to share your blessing with the rest of the community you help raise.”

Ryne walked Claude to the edge of the forest. Woodrow watched him disappear into the trees before going to see where Wilbur had gone. Woodrow found him in the granges, bent low, inspecting the flowers that had not yet bloomed. They talked.

Wilbur voiced his concerns about Claude and Ryne’s friendship. He was being careful. Ryne joined them not long after and both disappeared down into the crypts. Woodrow returned to the granges, thinking of what the next night would bring. He looked at the training swords nearby. He imagined what Claude might look like when he got older. Would he have a physique like a soldier or be content with toiling the land? Would his friendship with Ryne endure?

Movement from the dark forest caught his attention. Woodrow instinctively reached for the dagger under his cloak. He called for his brothers. A few ways away from the main path, both sides of the trees moved like critters crawling away. Ryne and Wilbur appeared behind him just as the vines erupted from the ground and grabbed them both.

“Oh, not this again,” Woodrow said as he was carried into the tunnels. He closed his eyes and braced for impact, but the vines were unusually careful with him. He felt his body tighten when he felt the rush of air and as the vines settled him down… right to a tight dirt road that stretched on either end. Wilbur was nowhere in sight.

For a moment, there was no sound. The dark forest was behind him. Right ahead was nothing but boulders, or… the foot of a mountain. The same mountain they had seen in the distance, not far from Rothfield monastery. In the darkness, footsteps pounded, distant at first but growing closer, coming from his right. He ducked back into the first line of trees just in time to see a figure running through the path. Woodrow sharpened his eyes.

It was a woman, mouth open, panting. Her hair was cut short just below her chin, an odd fashion for a maiden. Stranger still was that she was holding a round shield as she fled, eyes wide, expression determined.

An arrow narrowly missed the woman’s shoulder. She stopped in her tracks, bent low on the ground to cover her neck and chest, and raised the shield to block another arrow aimed at her throat. The woman removed the arrow that was stuck—it was a shield made of tough leather, rough wood, and animal bones, Woodrow saw—and resumed charging through the path. More footsteps followed hers as men appeared on the path. Men raising wooden clubs and arrows.

Brutes or bandits.

Woodrow had seen them on the road, some nights. They always looked the same; filthy, matted hair, mostly bearded, strong, wearing the hide of the first animal they killed, usually a wolf or bear.

Two archers crouched and drew their strings as the club-wielders chased after the woman. She would not make it to wherever she needed to go if she kept blocking the arrows while the other brutes closed the distance. Woodrow saw the woman’s resolve weaken. She knew she would not make it.

Woodrow aimed; his dagger flew towards the brutes who were running towards her, hitting the one closest to her in the ankle. He screamed, face contorting into pain. The brute staggered back onto the man behind him so that they both tumbled to the ground. The woman took this moment of luck and sped away. Woodrow was impressed; even with that weight slowing her down, she still had the strength to carry on.

The brute clutched his ankle, moaning, his fingers curling at the sight of Woodrow’s dagger sticking out of his leg.

“Where did this thing come from—no, don’t pull it, you idiot!” He waved his arm around and pointed to the woman. “Cut her head and bring it back to the chieftain.”

“Well, I’m glad that I won’t feel guilty in doing this,” Woodrow muttered under his breath as he sped out of the woods and onto the growling brute on the ground. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to the brute as he pulled out his dagger.

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The man howled as his comrade backed away, staring at him. But Woodrow did not hear the screams or see the men. His vision only saw the bright red blood calling his name, dripping from the surface of the dagger. When a single drop of that delicious red was about to drip, Woodrow did not let it go to waste. He held the dagger high above his mouth and let it fall on his tongue.

He closed his green eyes and felt the rush of wind within him. He must have more. Woodrow opened his eyes and saw the terrified face of the brute. He smiled.

“Come now, where is your bloodlust? You had it mere moments ago.”

The man’s eyes were wide. His lips quivered. And then he screamed for mercy as Woodrow stabbed both ankles and feet of the brute. Woodrow turned his attention to the other and similarly injured him. He cradled the man’s neck, two fingers shushing the mouth. Woodrow kissed the brute’s earlobe, whispering soothing noises into his ear.

“Now long now,” Woodrow whispered. “I will kiss you better.”

The brutes stared at him, the thoughts in their head pinning them in the spot. His eyes darted to the side when the archers caught up with them. Woodrow snarled, revealing his pointed teeth.

“Demon,” the man whispered. His comrade joined him. “Demon!”

Then they were silenced. Not by Woodrow, but by a low growl that vibrated through the forest. It snapped the bloodlust from Woodrow. He became aware of the man he was holding, the sheer terror on their face.

“No,” the man began to whisper. “Not now… not now…” He looked around wildly, scrabbling away. His hands clawed the earth.

Woodrow retreated to the dark forest, his head dull and aching. The archers held each other’s arms. They looked at each other, at their comrades down the path, to the trees, uncertain of what to do. Woodrow felt the ground shake. Somewhere in the forest, a creature was prowling. He heard, not far from where he hid, the sound of rocks scattering. Woodrow thought that perhaps the vines themselves would dispatch the brutes, but a high-pitched howl, as if a great number of wolves beckoned to the moon as one, rang through the night. The archers ran back.

“Come back, you bastards!” the brutes on the ground called.

Woodrow waited in the shade of the trees. If the men feared him, they were now mortified at what made the sounds. They backed away, kicking the ground with their bleeding limbs, shoulder to shoulder, hands bone-white as they held their clubs. Their eyes were glued to the end of the path where they came from.

Dust poured from the mountain slope. When Woodrow looked up, he saw the great beast. The night clouds parted just in that moment. The beams landed on her fur.

The creature’s fur glowed under the moonlight. Woodrow saw its pointed ears first, then its brown eyes, its snout sniffing the ground. It paused at the end of the path, ears pricked, eyes fixed on the two men bleeding, begging.

“Oh, Saints, no, please, no, not like this… please not like this.” One of the men began to pray. Oh, now, he begs the Saints, Woodrow thought.

The creature was beautiful. Seven times the size of a horse. It walked gracefully towards them, fur white as the stars, from head to paws. A direwolf, from the stories of old. Was this what Ryne meant when he said he felt something off in the forest? The direwolf calmly stepped towards the men, and the night heard the men’s fear. As she crept closer, ever so daintily, Woodrow saw that the creature was female.

The direwolf sniffed the blood on the ground. She licked it, and her eyes, big as windows, followed the trail of blood to the quivering men. Only then did she lick her lips.

“Oh, Saints…” Woodrow said as the wolf, quick as lightning, pounced on the men and devoured them. I suppose it was a mercy, to end things quickly. He winced as he heard the sickening crunches, sharp canine fangs grinding bones, of jaws snapping shut. There was the smell of blood again, rich in the air. His impulse urged his body to stand below the wolf and catch the blood pouring from its mouth.

When she was done, the direwolf licked its paws and wiped the red stain on the edges of its lips. Then she sniffed the ground once more, looked at the other end of the path, and bolted to where the lady was heading.

“Oh, no.” Woodrow immediately followed suit, weaving through the branches.

The amount of blood he tasted from the brute did not even replenish most of his strength. It only awakened him. He was not sure if he was strong and fast enough to catch up to the direwolf giving chase. He did not wish to see the woman between its teeth.

Lights appeared on the edge of the road. As Woodrow chased after the direwolf, he saw the familiar sight of a village. Torches were mounted everywhere; on this village’s wooden borders, on the makeshift wooden towers, and inside, where small houses were packed together. The woman just made it in time on the village’s borders. Scouts from the towers rang a bell, Woodrow saw their own archers climb on the towers and poised to shoot the direwolf if it came too close. Woodrow hoped they knew to aim at its eyes. His dagger was ready in his hand.

The woman stopped short where the light of the torches reached its limit. She collected her breath and turned slowly around to meet the wolf. Instead of welcoming her, the gates of the village swung shut.

For a wild moment, Woodrow thought that the woman planned to be a sacrifice as the villagers ran and hid since the direwolf could easily swipe down that pathetic border. The woman stared at the wolf, stone-faced.

“You fool,” Woodrow muttered under his breath.

Woodrow was about to throw his dagger, aiming for the wolf’s neck, when the forest behind him slithered past. Woodrow dug his heels. So did the direwolf. She sniffed the ground, then the air, and for once in this night, she looked apprehensive. She pawed at the ground and began to retrace her steps, ears pricked, tail alert.

And then the forest brambles shot up from the ground. They formed a small wall, much more menacing than the village defenses, curling and whipping at the direwolf. She snarled and bit at one bramble before darting away. Woodrow observed that these were the similar brambles that attacked them on their first traverse through the dark woods. Why they did not protect the woman from the bandits was a mystery.

Woodrow noticed as the briars rose that the woman picked up a scabbard from the ground. She unsheathed the scabbard and revealed a sword not unlike the one Claude inherited from his father. Except this one was polished. She did not sheath it until the direwolf was long gone. Only when the briars and sharp branches slinked back into the dark forest did she relax her posture and breathe hard. She whistled to the guards to let her through.

Then she turned around and paced forward, looking side to side, and said in a loud voice, “You might as well come out.” Woodrow froze. “I saw you as you stopped those brutes from attacking. A flash of red hair. Since the forest does not attack you, I think you’re safe.”

Woodrow waited in the shadows. Revealing himself will alert them to the existence of the monastery. Should he remove his monastic robes? No. Something in him wanted to play the monk for a long while. He had been playing it for so long…

Woodrow stepped out of the dark forest and into the light of the torches hanging on the walls of her village. As he stepped closer, he showed her his dagger in his hand and put it back in his cloak. He saw the archers aim at him. The woman was alert, her hand gripping the scabbard firmly. Woodrow held her gaze as removed his hood, revealing the bright red of his hair.

“That’s a rare color. Where are you from, foreigner?”

“Wish that I knew, miss. Memory’s a bit foggy. But what I can tell you is that I was separated from my brothers in the forest back there.”

“A pretty monk that can use a weapon lost in the middle of the woods. Pray, can your other brothers fight?”

Woodrow didn’t know why, but he wanted to keep telling the truth to her. Or as much of the truth as necessary. His first instinct was to charm her, but he knew that he could not resist what would come after he used his power. And those arrows were right above him. He responded. “Well, they can certainly land a hit. But two of them prefer to be docile and heal.”

The woman held his gaze. She secured the scabbard on her hip. “I have never heard an order of clergy that fought before. Do you have a name, monk?”

“Woodrow.”

The woman stared him down. She shrugged at the name. “Come inside my village, Woodrow. Capable as you are, you saw how the great beast that prowls these parts at night.” She held out a hand in the air, signaling the men that she was her guest. The drawn bowstrings relaxed.

Woodrow walked closer and stopped at a respectable distance. The woman searched his face. Woodrow thought it was a good move; she had to memorize the face of a stranger. Woodrow analyzed her in turn; the short hair that fell just below her chin, her stern eyes. Her clothes. She was not dressed like an ordinary maiden with a cloth that covered her hair and a long skirt. She wore a soldier’s light armor. Her chest was covered with a thick pad made of animal hide and bone, like the shield she now carried. Instead of a skirt, she wore pants and boots.

When the wooden gates opened to receive them, she said to Woodrow, “I’ll tell them you got separated from your brothers while hunting berries in the forest. They would crowd on you if I tell them you’re a monk who knows how to fight and has the speed to down a brute twice his size.”