Beside Sybil and Wilhelm, all the other sorcerers he had met so far seemed inclined to murder him. This lot didn’t seem friendly per se, but at least they weren’t hurling spells on sight.

Lunden cleared his throat. “We left Machen almost a week ago. Ruffa here, our tracker,” he pointed at the muscular woman beside him. “Was quick to catch a whiff of dark magic.”

“Nothing recent." The female sorcerer, Ruffa, said. "A lingering scent, rank and foul. It was old, aye, but equally persistent.” Her companions nodded matter-of-factly.

“Just as she described, we didn’t have any other starting point, so we followed the scent to its origin. Our progress was slow. The trees twisted their branches to form barriers, roots snaked across our path, and unseen forces pushed against us, impeding our journey. The trees shifted from their places, and the paths we tread scraped off behind us,” Lunden said, pausing for dramatic effect. “In the end, though, nothing stands between a Luparius and his target. We found the source of the trail on the second night. A pack of wolves, but these weren’t your ordinary beasts of prey.”

Ben leaned toward Briacco and whispered, "What’s a Luparius?"

“Professional monster slayers, Master Umber.” He muttered absent-mindedly. He was engrossed in the Luparius leader’s narration. Under other circumstances, Ben knew he would have received a history lesson on the spot.

Ben looked at the sorcerer retinue with renewed interest. Literal monster slayers. Even the one of his own age. The boy’s delicate features were a stark contrast to the state of his clothes and weapons. Ben couldn’t help but feel a little jealous; while he had roamed who knows how many far-off locales, Ben had been stuck at St. Dunsany’s with his evil caretakers.

Lunden lifted his hands so that everyone could see the glass bottles. One contained a tuft of coarse fur, and the other held a viscous, glowing substance. “These wolves, y’see, had been tampered with. Twice as big and thrice as vicious, they were. They put up a formidable fight, persistently attacking us until the crack of dawn, but we managed to prevail in the end.”

“Fortune be praised,” said the sickly-looking Luparius, closing his eyes and clasping his hands in prayer.

Lunden chuckled. “That’s Humbert right there. He’s a nervous wreck, but he’s got a knack for the trade. As I said, after our little skirmish with Mother Nature, we examined the carcasses, hoping they could shed light on our situation.”

“Cut to the chase, Colmain. What’s in the bottles?” Amycus demanded.

He turned to the centaur, Amycus, and complied. “This, my friend, is none other than warg fur and ectoplasm. Y’see, these wolves weren’t originally spirits. I mentioned before that they’d been altered. Take into consideration that we also found this oozing out of their wounds. I’d say our culprit is not a rogue sorcerer but an evil apparition. A bestial one at that. Do you understand where I’m going with this? Not too many monsters match this description.”

Meda gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. “A barghest.”

The stout bulldog sorcerer stepped closer, twirling his mustache with a mischievous glint in his eye. “That’s our safest bet as of now. They usually take the form of a black dog and are extremely territorial. This one would’ve sought to establish its dominance over the local wildlife and then infected them with its corruption. Hence the wargs we encountered.”

Lunden crossed his arms and sighed, shaking his head. “It’s just as Murley says. What’s been bothering me is how the barghest sneaked into the Blackwoods in the first place. After all, the woods are under your protection; are they not Elder Garland?”

The treant replied in that slow manner of his. “A new century approaches, and a new darkness stirs with it... Our young guest here recently clashed with the Raven Coven in nearby Dunport-Salem... There might be some connection.”

All five Lupari turned their attention toward Ben for the first time since they had entered the grand hall. He could feel his face turn red as a beet. Lunden shot him an incredulous look. “What, this greenhorn? He doesn’t look old enough to have attended his first Mag Mell lessons!”

Amycus nodded in agreement. “That was my first impression, too, but Elder Garland has corroborated his story.”

“Hey! You’re not helping,” Ben retorted at Amycus. Why does no one believe me? Ben thought angrily. He felt a strong need to prove himself in front of these seasoned sorcerers. He pulled the wyrdknife out of his pocket and held it in front of him for all to see, a smug smile on his lips. “Here, evidence. Just like your warg fur and ecto-whatever-it’s-called.”

“Oh-ho! A genuine wyrdknife if I ever laid eyes on one,” Lunden said, quickly approaching Ben and wresting it from his grasp. He was transfixed by it, twirling it around and even biting its steel to verify its authenticity.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

After his initial excitement had passed, Lunden returned the wyrdknife back to Ben with a disappointed look on his face. “Here you go, boy. I had the spark of an idea, but that would require us to know how to use the wyrdknife’s inherent magic.”

Briacco’s face lit up with comprehension. “I see where you’re getting at, Master Colmain! Forged by witches as it were, the barghest should be attracted to the use of cursespells like a moth to a flame.”

The young Luparius, who had been quiet until then, asked, “Wouldn’t it create a different type of magic, like a relicspell, since it’s linked to an object—the wyrdknife—rather than being cast by a witch?”

Lunden smiled and clapped. “That’s my son! I see Murley hasn’t cut you any slack on your lessons, eh, Corin? And under normal circumstances, you would be right, too, but the wyrdknife is no ordinary object. Witchcraft’s approach to magic differs from sorcerers’. As it was enchanted through the use of cursespells, it should retain enough of that essence to attract the barghest,” he said, turning around to face Ben and crossing his arms. “If our friend here could use it, that is. Who are you, and what brings a lone boy like you into Machen?”

Ben explained his situation as well as he could without mentioning Sybil and Wilhelm. “So, I left the orphanage and am currently seeking the Two-Faced Man. I was on my way to Dool, when they… Brought me here. And I’ve managed to shapeshift the wyrdknife twice now, by the way.”

Lunden nodded in approval and let his heavy hand fall on Ben’s shoulder. “Couldn’t wait for those Circle folks, huh? A man after my heart. Yes, I can see this working if what you say is true. One last thing…”

Lunden kept mumbling to himself when he suddenly shoved Ben into the center of the grand hall. Ben turned around, confused, and felt a surge of uncertainty as he saw Lunden waving at his son Corin to approach him. He turned his gaze back to Ben, a broad smile on his face.

“I have a deal for you—Benjamin Umber, was it? Show us your handling of the wyrdknife. Show us you’ll be more than bait if you're to do what I require of you. Help us get this barghest, we’ll personally take you to the Two-Faced Man, and throw in a share of the reward to boot. As long as you’re with us, no harm will befall you. This, I swear. Not a bad deal, wouldn't you agree?”

Ben considered the offer. The thought of going back into the Blackwoods wasn’t all that enticing, but what was he supposed to do instead? Remain in Machen for an indefinite amount of time, until someone else resolved the matter, if it was resolved? Then again, the wargs Lunden described did sound very dangerous.

Corin, the young Luparius and apparently Lunden’s son, walked to Ben and stood in front of him. They were in the center of the grand hall. His demeanor was calm, but defiance clung to his eyes. It rubbed Ben the wrong way.

“I accept your deal.” Ben said.

Lunden clasped his hands. “Good! In that case, a sparring session with Corin would suffice, I believe.”

“A what?” he asked, examining his opponent. He wasn’t feeling so convinced about the whole thing anymore.

Corin gave Ben a curt bow, and immediately started drawing air in. The air around him suddenly turned cold. When he spoke, his breath was visible. “Congeal, Frozen Tool.”

He stretched his right hand to the side and the surrounding moisture instantly froze. A few motes of icicles at first, they quickly conjoined and grew until they formed a deadly-looking scythe made entirely out of ice. “Here I come!”

Corin lunged at Ben and swung his ice scythe in a horizontal arc. Ben slouched to the floor on all fours, barely ducking the attack. “Hey, what’s your problem—”

Swoosh. Without giving Ben any respite, Corin had already swung the ice scythe again, this time meaning to stab instead of slash. He rolled on the floor, hearing the ice break against it right beside his face.

Briacco gasped, fearing for his safety. His two centaur companions were stoically silent. Ben scrambled up to his feet and spun. Corin held his glacial weapon with one hand while repairing the edge’s damaged ice with the other.

He tried to get into the zone. He knew his magic wouldn’t work if he wasn’t in the right state of mind. He doubted Corin would sit idly by and wait for him, though. Corin’s ice scythe was now repaired; he held its chine hanging by the floor, the shaft crossed behind his back, and his free hand now pointed straight at Ben. His expression remained as solemn as a statue.

“Congeal, Cutting Hail.” Corin’s voice resounded with magic. A cool wind rose from behind him, and as it passed abreast of his outstretched hand, it turned into sharpened sleet.

He wasn’t about to give Ben the chance he needed. He crossed his arms in front of him to block the attack. Initially harmless, the attack then intensified, ripping through his clothes and leaving cuts on his arms and legs.

It’s now or never, Ben thought desperately. He took a deep breath, tried to remember how it felt, and said, “Repel, Void Push.”

Nothing happened. Well, at least I tried, Ben thought. He turned to run towards the exterior of the grand hall, attempting to escape the situation. Instead, he fell to his knees; the sleet had frozen his soles solid to the floor. Corin approached him, his weapon held high.

Ben concentrated on the scythe’s form, attempting to mimic what he saw. Without conjuring a mental image, he decided to emulate the ice scythe by drawing the wyrdknife and holding it aloft. Corrin swung the scythe at him.

His arms vibrated and immediately ached. He was now holding a scythe identical to Corin’s, albeit made of a wooden shaft and iron chine. He had successfully blocked his opponent’s Frozen Tool.

Corin was surprised, but quickly recovered. He took a step back, charged the ice scythe all the way behind him, and readied a finishing blow. Midway through its delivery, his father stepped behind Corin and grabbed his wrist.

Lunden beamed at both Ben and Corin. It looked out of place in such a rough face. “That’s enough, son. You both fought well. Ben, your spellcasting needs work, but it is true that you can tap into the wyrdknife’s power,” he turned around to Ruffa, who had been avidly enjoying the duel. “What do you think?”

She sniffed loudly and snorted. “It does smack of dark magic. Yes. I can see this working, Lunden.”

Briacco approached Ben and helped him stand up. Corin dispelled his magic, and the ice around his feet melted into a puddle. He was feeling a little disconcerted and mad. There was no denying the difference in skill between Corin and himself. Granted, Ben was new and Corin had been born into this life, but even so, it was enough to dampen morale.

Briacco confided in Ben. “No one is pressuring you into this perilous hunt, Master Umber. I would understand if—”

Ben motioned for him to stop. What was it that Wilhelm had said? Power comes with a price, he reminisced. There would be no growth as a sorcerer, he realized, if he didn’t expose himself to others’ magic and the occasional danger presented by the World That Is Not. “I’ll do it. I’m in.”

Lunden clapped dramatically. “Commendable choice! Lads, welcome the new, temporary addition to the company.”