The women had retreated to their own room. This was no place for them now. One of the brothers had gone with them. He was no older than eleven, visibly shaken by the events of the young night. Von Bolstedt couldn’t blame him. Commoners weren’t raised for this.

The men were in a private room, the oldest son, two woodsmen and von Bolstedt himself. Schimmel had volunteered to keep watch by the door. It had been a good choice, Adebar had thought cynically. His babbling wasn’t needed now.

“Not lookin’ too bright, is it ‘arry?”

The man called Harry shook his head.

“With yer father gone, it's never looked quite so glum.”

The other man, whose name Adebar didn’t know, let out a curse, hammering his fist on the simple table that, on better days, would’ve seen the wife count the day’s profits.

“It shouldn’t’ve gone like this! Damn it, I’ve doomed ye all!”

The room turned even quieter. Lars, the eldest son, let out a sigh.

“Don’t think you stayin’ away and not warnin’ us would’ve made things better.”

The woodsman quieted down. Lars went to retrieve a bottle of cheap, red wine from behind him, pouring the stuff into clay cups. It was a hint sacrilegious, but, right now, even a foppish Altdorfer like Adebar couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You’ve done right by my sister, Herr,” Lars addressed him, offering one of the cups, “though she may not know it yet I do. I cannot thank you enough. It’s likely we’ll all be dead by mornin’, but I’d rather not lose her so…senselessly.”

Frankly, he hadn’t put much consideration into the act, merely acted.

“Death holds little horror to me, Lars, but none of us need to meet it earlier than necessary. Especially not those of us who still stand to have so many years left in them.”

It was a platitude, maybe, but it seemed to be pleasant enough.

“So, you think she’ll make it out of ‘ere?” He looked over at Harry, finding it quite hard to nail the man down. He looked like an owl, wise eyes, hook-nose, framed by wild hairs.

“If the gods will it, yes. Otherwise we won’t make it through the next hour.”

As if to spite him, the Beastmen waited the full night, only running at the door when the first rays of the weak sun pierced the grey clouds above.

They’d shut most of the windows when the creatures had begun hurling spears or shooting arrows up at them in retaliation for their own shots. Eventually they ran out of handgun rounds. Only a single crossbow and Schimmel’s blunderbuss remained, but they decided to keep the latter for the final engagement in the narrow corridor.

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They’d tried to tally the ever changing mass of animalistic horrors, coming in at about four dozen of the creatures, not counting the hounds that slinked around the outskirts of the throng. They further wagered that they’d maybe slain a dozen or so foes in the previous night, and had otherwise picked off around ten more. The herd was impressive, but they always became more eager to band together when hunger forced them to, Harry had told von Bolstedt in a quiet moment. They could either bring down prey no single band could face on its own, or, if all failed, fall upon one another to sate their hunger. They lived savage lives, and deserved neither pity or remorse. Not that any of the survivors were willing to give any quarter. From the fact that, by morning, the Beastmen seemed a lot more sated, and they could see butchered carcasses everywhere, it was clear they wouldn’t receive any either.

“Taal’s ‘orns, they’re nearly through!”

Lars was correct. The final stand had begun. The birch door stood no chance against an actual effort to break it, and soon the whole inn shook to braying, and the report of Schimmel’s gun fired through the holes the monster’s created. It was a bloody harvest, a reaping of lead, but the mutants seemed to only be goaded onwards by the prospect of bloody death. They carried up the steps, ran into the door. It was hacked from its frame, the men received them with everything they had. Schimmel’s gun barked a last time, covering three goat-headed monsters in deep, red wounds. Harry fell a heartbeat later, skewered by a wicked, gnarled spear, avenged by von Bolstedt’s quick blade. They were overwhelmed, fighting their way backward, into rooms, Adebar, Schimmel and Lars fell back to the room they’d spoken in earlier in that night, where the women and youngest brother held out, their last companion howled maddened vengeance as he was hacked down in the corridor, his own axe covered in all manner of viscera. Whatever guilt the man had carried, he would not be weighed by it any longer.

How long could they hold out like this? Soon they faced the larger, armoured breeds, one broke through, hacked at Schimmel, the messenger let out a shriek, Adebar’s rapier licked out to bite deep into the beast’s torso, sinking in twice before the thing seemed to be willing to give up its life. It was only Lars with his longknife who saved von Bolstedt from certain death, holding off a gnarled, twisted spearman with devil horns and the face of a child.

They came on and on and on, arms felt like lead, blood flowed like water, soaking the floorboards. Schimmel was hit on the head by a club. Much to von Bolstedt’s surprise, it was Lars’ mother who took his place, bludgeoning an oncoming monster’s head with the shrill cry of those tired of sitting back while others died for them.

Suddenly, the chaotic monsters were no longer alone in their beating of drums. Through the mist of slaughter, Adebar heard the strong, clarion call of a hunting horn. Even the Beastmen paused for a heartbeat, before the onslaught continued as before.

Again the horn blared. It was a call, a call to spite the dark forces.

Maybe it was just Adebar’s mind, nursed on a diet of wine and theatre plays, but that horn awoke something in his innermost heart, touched reserves he hadn’t known he possessed. It was the horn of Taal, Lord of the Hunt. The hammering of hooves became an army of epic proportions, the souls of the valiant dead come to avenge and deal death, the wild hunt of the ancient Taaleutens, come to scour, to drive and scatter to the winds.

The last beast fell at his feet, and no more of them came.

Stiff with pain and exertion, he stumbled over to another room, throwing wide the windows. In the blinding radiance of the pale snow, the spilt blood was stark and striking, the riders and their victims a dream-vision of ancient, less civilized days.

“Blessed Taal,” he intoned with thankful reverence, “hail to your folk.”