Chapter 7: Interludes
Hey, thanks Anti-Sean.
Anyway, Happy Friday Update, everybody.
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The beast moved skillfully above its prey. The long, slender branches bent and quivered but made no sound as it moved across them. The beast was a hunter.
Below, two men in full Royal gear huddled about a fire. The flickering light cast short, pure shadows about them. Around them, a moonless night hid most of the forest from their weak eyes.
“Did you ‘ear somthin?”
“Ach! Bjorn, yer such a yellow-bellied coward. Those fairy tales of the pointy-ears keeping you up at night again?”
“Shut up. I don’ trust these woods. They have eyes.”
“It’s just the pointers.”
“I tell ye its not. I can feel a…a presence. An aura of malevolence.”
“Big words for a man with such a small mind and such a small c*ck,” Tymar spit. He immediately filled his rotted mouth with a roasted hen’s leg. The succulent meat burst its fluid over his lips and down his scraggily, brown beard.
Above, the hunter grinned. He slipped his legs silently over a firm branch and settled in against the massive width of the tree. The pungent odor of life and roast hen wafted upward, warming his body.
“Besides,” Tymar spoke over the mouthful of hen, “It’s not even like the pointers are gonna do anything. They’re worse cowards then you.”
Bjorn stood up, rubbing his hands against his bare arms. The fire did well enough to warm the flesh against the coming winter. But he still felt cool; goose bumps raised the flesh of the meaty appendages.
“Ye didn’t grow up around here; you don’t know how it is.”
“Of course, I don’t. Why’d I wanna grow up near a sh*thole like this fer? I grew up in a real city and I don’t care about yer damned country superstitions.”
“I still don’ think we shoulda taken this shortcut through the wood.”
“Coward.”
“You dunno how it is around here, Tymar! My ma’ told me the story of the beast and how it followed their caravan from Divi’sad.”
“Yeah, I had yer mam once. Not terribly skilled if you catch my drift,” Tymar quipped as he swallowed a mouthful from his flask. Bjorn grunted with frustration.
“It followed them south, real smart-like.”
“And wha’ would a beast be doin’ in that city?”
“They say it was there searching for the heretic.”
“They say? And the heretic?” Tymar erupted into laughter.
“Yeah, they say and yeah, the heretic. The heretic—you know the one—the heretic that saved the city single-handedly from the Troll War.” Tymar rolled his eyes. “Anyways,” Bjorn continued, “they said the beast was there looking for the heretic. They say he wanted a challenge but was too late. The heretic had fled east after the battle had ended.
“So the beast was angry. He followed the caravan my ma and pa were on tweny’ years ago south. Every night, someone went missin’. Every mornin’ their body showed up dead.”
“Is that the best you got, country-boy? We’ve got mice in my city scarier than that yarn.”
Bjorn’s face darkened; his eyes squinted. “Nah, there’s more. See, my mam and pa and a few others survived. But only ‘cuz the beast turned off the trail to settle in this wood.” The other soldier guffawed. “Don’ believe me if you like. We still have soldiers gone missing. And the pointers speak about the beast, too!”
“And if the pointers say it’s true, than it must be. Gullible.”
“They say it walks on two legs and four—both man and beast. It protects their cities, it kills any guards that wander too close. They say it bathes in the blood of the dead.”
“Yeah, an’ I bet it has a twelve-foot c*ck, too!” Tymar laughed, swigging another mouthful from his flask. “It was just a damned troll.”
“What?”
“Just a damned troll that followed that caravan. There are enough of the beasts hanging around in these parts—not wanting to return to their own blasted lands. That an’ I hear they like the taste of gobber flesh.
“And there was no heretic either. That was a company of the King’s best that stopped that incursion.” Tymar scratched himself and belched. He leaned against the wide tree, letting the natural curve of its bark support his back. With a sigh, he undid the belt around his waist, his gut stretching beyond the confining leather to its proper position.
For a moment, all was silent except for the crackle of the charring wood in the fire. Bjorn tried to readjust; he had thrown a cloak over his bare arms to keep the warmth of the fire in. Beneath the bear-fur, his anger simmered.
Above, the hunter reached around the tree, pulling his body to the side cloaked in shadow. With the
invocation and his claws, he was a perfect climber. He was as silent as a ghost, as well.
“Bah, why we headin’ south anyway?”
“The whole company’s being repositioned. Something about some disturbance in Norda Saam or Legend. A priest or sumthin.”
“A heretic?”
Tymar laughed again. “Damn, boy, let it go. Ain’t no heretic. Tha’s just your mam’s story to keep you ‘round, sucking on her teat since no one else wants that rotten flesh.” The soldier scratched his crotch. “Jus’ a small disturbance, some group of ‘adventurin’ types’ makin’ trouble.”
“F*ck you! If its jus’ a small disturbance, why move the entire company?”
“Rumors are of a war brewing. I heard the King destroyed the bridge ‘tween Legend and Norda Saam. So, we’re heading south-east to take care of the vagabonds and then to join with a full contingent of the army.” Tymar pointed his finger squarely at Bjorn. “And we better make it there first. You keep slowin’ me down and I’ll beat your ass. Then I’ll leave you fer dead in this forest so the pointers can have their way with ye! We’re gettin’ there first—so I can take those vagabonds out and make Captain-at-Arms.”
“Bah. I gotta sh*t.” Bjorn murmured as he stood.
“Don’ go too far, wouldn’t want the monsters to get ye.”
“F*ck you.” He cursed as he moved away from the firelight. The soldier found a nice solid tree to lean against, protecting his white ass from view of his vulgar superior. He dropped his pants and leaned.
Tymar murmured too himself. The booze—some homebrewed concoction created by the backwoods villagers he had been forced to watch over—was the strongest drink he had ever had. Even now with his two—or was it three?—swigs, the warmth was beginning to make him lightheaded. He took another swallow and nearly choked as a sharp pain spread through his arm.
Tymar twisted. A loud pop sounded as a flash of pain spread through his dislocated shoulder. He tried to move his head, tried to scream. An arm held firmly against his mouth, turning the scream into a muted wail and preventing movement.
Cold, sickly flesh rubbed against his chin. Dark strands of hair fell into his face. He rolled his eyes, trying to take in a view of his attacker. All he could see was the pallid flesh of a forearm and unnaturally long fingernails. Both were covered in spots with fresh earth.
The hunter opened his mouth, pushing forth a small gust of air.
Tymar shuddered as the scent—heavy with death and wet soil—passed by his face.
“You should have listened to your friend’s warnings. This is
my forest.” The hunter tightened his grip, sliding his arm up slightly; baring the soldier’s neck. He opened his mouth, pristine white fangs elongated. They pierced the warm flesh. A torrent of blood flooded his mouth.
He could feel and hear the soldier’s pulse. It had been a high, racing beat at first. Now the beat slowed, deepened. Tymar’s attacks lessened in frequency and force.
It all stopped completely.
Rhynos released his victim, allowing the corpse to keel over unnaturally. He leapt from the tree, landing inaudibly.
Bjorn had come back around the tree, his pants still halfway down his legs. One arm held the waistband of the ragged leathers, his other hung limp, like his mouth, with shock.
Rhynos grinned widely, revealing the monstrous teeth in his mouth.
Bjorn snapped into action, pivoting awkwardly while hiking his pants upward. He was in motion long before his belt was even tightened around his waist.
He hit something hard—a tree probably you fool! His mind screamed—and fell back onto the dirt. Rhynos stood above him; leaned in.
“A good thing I let your ‘mam’ and ‘pa’ live, eh? You’ll be a tasty little snack.” He leaned in closer, breathing his foul scent onto the soldier. “Although, I have to agree with your friend; your ‘mam’s’ flesh was a little rotten, even for my tastes. Nor was she very skilled in bed.”
Something in Bjorn snapped; his reason probably. He drew a dagger and punched it into Rhynos’ chest.
The vampire laughed as he leaned back. The metal had easily pierced his clothing and now was lodged between his ribs. He pulled the metal out carelessly and flung it to the side. “You’ll pay for ruining my shirt,” he spit.
Bjorn rolled backward, somehow pulling himself into an awkward run.
“Yes, RUN!” Rhynos bellowed. He withdrew a wand from his satchel. Focusing his arcane control, a blob of energy sputtered from the tip. Instantly, the blood and dirt upon the vampire vanished.
He slid the wand back into his satchel and turned toward his fleeing prey. “Run,” he spoke in a sing-song voice, “Run. Lead me to your friends and to the heretic.” Happy for the first time in decades, Rhynos moved to follow Bjorn slowly. He savored the scent of fear, sweat and urine that hung in the air—an almost visible trail, a beacon, left by the soldier.
It was good to exist.
