by halfhand » Wed Dec 01, 2021 8:23 pm
CHAPTER NINE
“Ring, ring. The Old Grim bell. Here comes souls of ink and eyes of coal. Run, child, run. The Wild Hunt comes.”
Shienaran children’s tale, author unknown.
Child Halfhand touched the side of his head as he felt the Light-cursed headache returning. It seemed to come more often midday, likely exacerbated by the swaying saddle. He could already sense the creeping aura announcing its presence. He could glimpse the crackling spider web forming in the periphery of his vision, almost like something was pressing against the glass pane of reality to break through. Viellain had once called them a “scintillating scotoma” but Halfhand could not recall the technical explanation. Regardless of what these annoying phenomena were, they always heralded the splitting headaches he had inherited from Tefike.
The annoyed Child of Light reached inside a pocket inside his traveling cloak until his fingers found the small paper wrapped package. He opened the wax paper and took out a piece of the willowbark resin and tucked it into his cheek, to allow its bitter juice to seep in his mouth. This seemed to be the only thing able to keep the migraines at bay. He glanced to see that there were only two sad crumbling pieces left. He will have to see if Viellain can decant more, otherwise the long days of travel will soon become nigh intolerable.
The three rode in blessed silence through the deserted Illian forest-lined road with Jena perched in front of Halfhand’s saddle in her usual seat. It was she who first noted the large furred body lying still in the middle of the road ahead.
Viellain gave a small whistle to Matese, and the pair trotted ahead to investigate. The Inquisitor looked down at the form briefly, without bothering to dismount. He looked back at Halfhand and gave a nod, “Just a dying wolf. Just give it a wide berth.”
As Halfhand rode by, he paused briefly to see that it was indeed a massive body wolf sprawled in the middle of the stone road. It was one of the largest wolves he has seen, and he has hunted his share. It has a dappled powder gray fur like a plume of smoke in a cold sky. It would be a pelt any trophy hunter would envy, except its body was covered in vicious wounds and caked blood as if it was turned through a lumber mill. Its chest rose just so slightly, and bubbles can be seen in its gaping chest wounds. It gave a soft groan.
“Wait.” Jena said, as she slipped down from her seat, landing next to the creature.
“What are you doing, child?” Halfhand looked in consternation. “Beware a dying beast. They do not understand your intentions. They are likely to lash out.”
“It do be in pain.” She says, glancing back up at him. “It do be a creature of the Creator. It should at least get the Last Rites and a merciful passing.” She had a familiar fierce look of defiance. Halfhand knew there was no point arguing with her with that look. And who is to argue against her interest in the didactics, at least.
The Child merely grunted, and gave his horse a nudge forward. “The Rites are not for animals. Catch up when you are done playing.”
Viellian had stopped ahead, watching in amusement while drinking from his flask. He gave a arched glance to Halfhand as he joined him, “You better check Materese the Healer for fleas when she is done there before joining us in camp.”
“I know of nothing that can drink your blood and survive.” Halfhand retorted. Let the girl have her childish compassion before this country crushes it from her. He continued on, “I would hate to run into whatever Illianer animal did that to a fully grown wolf.” He looked back at Jena, who was kneeling next to the beast’s head. She had a hand on top of its gray mane, the other on her knife hilt. She was whispering the Last Rites.
“Yes, that has been bothering me as well.” Viellain pondered, “Odd behavior for a wolf to crawl to a road.”
It was at this that Halfhand’s horse whinnied and stumbled on a shallow crater in the road. He swallowed a curse as he glanced down, to see that the crater was an imprint of a giant paw print in the stone pavement as if it was soft mud. That imagery immediately charged his mind with realization and his stomach with dread. It passed through his mind in an instant. The dying, savaged wolf, and the stone pawprints.
“Darkhounds.” Viellain’s mind was not even a second behind.
“Jena, get away!” Halfhand roared as he reigned his horse back towards Jena and the dying wolf incubating the birth of a new Darkhound.
It was too late and too far. As he raced desperately back towards Jena still tending to the incubating darkhound, a black storm of psychic energy exploded out from the wolf’s body as it finally succumbed to its cursed wounds.
For a brief second, with his awakened eyes, Halfhand could swear a tiny glimmer of ethereal energy winging skyward like a departing soul. But that would be impossible. Animals did not possess souls, especially not a base animal like wolves. But, it was overshadowed by multiple black tendrils rippling up from the swirling dense form covering the body. They pursued its target, a black maw high into the sky which snapped close like a towering bear trap.
Then the extension of violent energies sucked rapidly back into it source, which was now encased in a boiling pool of primordial evil that was the proto-darkhound. Its reanimated body’s eyes blinked open, filled with infinite void. With its first instinct on the corporeal plane, it raised its jaws and snapped at the thin girl who was the closest witness of its raising.
It is to Jena’s credit and to Halfhand’s pride that the young girl acted in the only way that ensured her survival. Her prized hunting knife came down, piercing through the snout of the new Darkhound and nailing it to the ground. That bought her one second, but that was enough time for her to roll back and dive into the nearby treeline before the Shadowspawn recovered, shaking its bear-sized head free.
Jena had paid enough in her studies to clearly recognize what she faced and its danger, even if she had never seen one before. Jena had read through Rakin’s Complete Threat Dossier cover to cover at least thrice. At the time, Halfhand has been amused about her interest in fantastic creatures that she would never encounter in the southlands in her lifetime, but it was her curiosity that saved her life now.
But even being aware of their existence was rarely enough. A darkhound by itself was an apex creature of the shadow that few were equipped to handle. For Halfhand and Viellain, a week’s preparation with specialized tools may be enough. To face one unprepared on the open road, would be a suicide run. A normal Darkhound was impervious to most mortal weapons, and even a glancing bite or splash of blood could be lethal. This giant black beast, covered in a rippling black sentient ooze before them could only be a Greater Darkhound.
The only sane move was for the two Children of Light to flee on horseback, to sacrifice the Troiasian girl, and to put enough miles between them. Better two survive, then three to die. A lesson for a girl’s wasted empathy in a cruel world.
But as the embryonic Greater Darkhound howled its chilling cry, black ichor dripping from its snout, and pounced after Jena, Halfhand found himself quickly dismounting from his horse. He grabbed his Iron Warhammer, the only available weapon with enough stopping power for a Darkhound. He raced after the beast, his mind racing, trying to form a desperate plan.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Viellain with the same mind galloping to the edge of the treeline, and leaping from the horse’s back to grab a tree branch, his sharp Manus claw allowing him to grab the bark easily, quickly vanishing into the canopy. Halfhand hopes the Questioner had a better plan than him.
Sightings of isolated Darkhounds through history were spotty as there are few witnesses surviving any encounters. They were harbingers of doom, capable of great destruction, and a relentless hunter. Once a Darkhound had its prey in its sight, it was a matter of inevitability. Born from the tortured and corrupted wolves, they possessed blood and saliva filled with life poison, speed and an unnatural regenerating body that makes most mundane attacks useless.
So it was due to an intersection of many luck factors that Jena was lucky today to survive so long, a feat that few others in history could even boast. She was well acquainted with woods such as these from childhood, and she navigated as she fled through a practiced zig-zag maneuver that allowed her precious minutes. And importantly, she kept her mind a level below pure panic, likely due to the entrained memory burned into her from a similar flight through the woods.
But most importantly this was a Darkhound in its infancy, unfamiliar with the new corporeal body that it inhabited and the new physics of the natural world. While the liquid evil consumed the mortal flesh and replaced it with preternatural machinery, it was still learning the body. The biologic nightmare moved in a jerky halting movement like a novice puppeteer, smashing into trees and tumbling on the ground, leaving chunks of its decaying wolf flesh scattered on brambles. It had not yet mastered its sight and senses as it tumbled clumsily but still eerily fast after the fleeing Troasian girl, closing the gap second by second.
Twice, it approached close enough to snap at her heel, and even a glancing scratch would have been quickly lethal. The first snap was barely deflected by a sharp projectile from the treetops that struck its head with enough momentum to turn its jaw at the last second.
For the second close miss, Jena felt the hot breath at her nape and made a gamble to dive between the forked trunk of a tall, aged oak. She managed to clear it before the Darkhound slammed into the oak’s bulk, cracking the tough old bark nearly in half, and tumbling to its side, stalled briefly.
It was at this opportunity that Halfhand charged in, letting his Regalia of LIght flow through the Warhammer, hoping for a lucky strike. But, almost as if it could sense the Child of LIght’s approach, the Darkhound’s liquid-like body twisted, moving in a way impossible for a canine’s skeleton, its spine popping and snapping unnaturally. More akin to a snake uncoiling and striking, it leaped through the air to meet the Child of Light.
With no other choice, Halfhand swung with his charged warhammer, but as if distance and time stretched around the spectral beast, the hound seemed to slip just around the cold iron as if the weapon was moving in slow motion. With the venomous maw closing in on his face, Halfhand let the momentum of the missed swing twist him as he dropped hard to the ground.
He could see the black obsidian teeth closing empty barely inches above his falling face, the glowing bottomless eyes that briefly looked down at him, before the momentum of the hound carried him past Halfhand as he slammed hard into the ground.
The fall knocked Halfhand’s breath away, and it took him a dangerous second to roll back onto his feet, knowing his intense vulnerability. He turned just to see the Darkhound springing again through the air when a heavy gray blur slammed into the shadowspawn.
The mass of gray fur and teeth wrestled with the shadowspawn on the ground, and six of its kin appeared around them. Large gray wolves. Halfhand hesitated as the new threat, as he debated switching to his longsword. It seemed he got a brief lucky reprieve but odds were even slim now with a pack of feral wolves too.
But the ferocious newcomers seemed to pay little attention to him. The wolves circled the two locked combatants, scruff arched, deep growls brewing, their intense predator eyes only for the darkhound. Was it possible that the wolves were drawn here by the Darkhound?
There was a crack and a pained whimper, as the initial gray wolf fell limp at the foot of the Darkhound. It regarded the newcomers with a wide grin filled with blood daggers, its black body grew larger, swelling until it was twice their size, rippling with undulous spikes. It was an intimidating sight, but the rest of the wolf pack did not hesitate. They charged it as a unit, jaws ripping at the lurking Evil wearing their skin, as ichor and blood splattered over the forest floor, charging the air with stench of sulfur and iron.
These wolves were apex predators of the Westlands, muscle, sinew and teeth crafted and honed by thousands of years of the Creator’s hand for the purpose of killing. But, they were like toys compared to Darkhound. It was something else, of an Ancient Evil and cunning that mortals could not challenge, and these wolves were mortal flesh . And it was starting to now master its corporeal shell to reach the cruel potential of a Greater Darkhound.
The wolves showed no lack of ferocity or courage, almost more than just animal instinct. But in the end they could not surpass the clear gap in strength. It was a slaughter, from which Halfhand could not look away. The Darkhound tore into the canine assailants with glee, inflicting wounds designed for pain and torment. Wolf after another fell in terrible writhing agony, as the Darkhound gleefully rolled in the blood and entrails as it bounced from one target to the other. Its jaws and teeth seem to morph and change from jagged shredded lances to cruel lamprey suckers, the more to inflict pain.
Halfhand just wanted to scream at the remaining wolves to run, but the wolfpack continued to the bitter end. Through the horrors, he could see Jena seemed to be hiding behind the damaged oak.
Halfhand raised his warhammer again and approached the terrible slaughter, knowing that this blood may have bought him the only chance to end it.
As the Darkhound sent the last standing wolf flying limp like a ragdoll through the air, there was a huge crack. Behind him the cracked oak tree began to fall. Jena’s face peaked around the falling trunk from where she had leveraged the leaning tree with her legs. Above, Viellian leaped away from the tree’s top where he had steered its fall.
However, the Darkhound sensed the shadow falling upon it, and leaped out of the way. In mid-flight, it lurched as one of the still wolf bodies lunged up with its last strength and locked its jaw on its haunch, dragging the Darkhound down.
The Darkhound twisted around like a boneless viper, shredding at the wolf with its razor teeth. But even nearly sawed in half, the wolf refused to let go until the oak finally crashed down on them both. The pinned Shadowspawn raised its blood-drenched muzzle and howled, a haunting chill of a wail that froze the blood of everyone in the area.
Halfhand roared through the howl, and slammed his warhammer down on the beast’s head with all his strength and will. It was like striking pure rock. There was a peal of energy blacklash from the collision of two opposing forces that bounced the hammer back, almost tearing his shoulder out of its socket. The Darkhound’s head was flattened into a dark liquid which seethed and boil with agitation, starting to reform.
Halfhand fought the numbness in arm, holding steady to the warhammer, charging it to bursting with the power of his Light, and then sending it crash once more down on the reforming Darkhound.
There was a violent storm of malevolent psychic energy from the strike as the ambient light around almost seemed to dim to twilight, as the primordial being explosively dissipated. Halfhand stumbled backward, but stayed on his feet. It was ended.
Robbed of its shadow possession, the decayed shell of the darkhound was now nothing but rotting flesh that crumbled to fetid dust in front of him.
Halfhand let his warhammer fall to the forest floor. He breathed out the heat of battle. The entire front of the warhammer was caked in thick red rust as if it was exposed to a decade of corrosion.
He looked up at the aftermath at the bloody wolf bodies scattered around Jena unharmed, but her clothes soaked with mud and covered in scratches from tree branches. Viellain slid down a nearby tree, his Manus carving a trail down the bark to slow his ascent. He jumped down the last few feet, landing softly, and with a tug, retracted his hook-and-chain with his off hand. He moved from one wolf body to the other, with a surgical cut at the top of their spine to ensure their complete death, and not to be another Darkhound seed.
“You okay, Jena? You did not get a injury from the darkhound?” Halfhand asks. Jena merely nodded, still half stunned, her face blanched at the bloody slaughter in front of her.
“We should go.” Viellain says. “You have dispelled it, but who knows what it may draw.”
“You two go to the horses. Give me one second.” Halfhand leaned against the oak tree and pushed until it rolled off slightly, exposing the last wolf, the one that held onto the Darkhound to its end. It breathed raggedly, its body a tortured mass of wounds. Somehow, it had shifted so it could touch the decaying shell of the Darkhound, her snout resting intimately next to the crushed skull. But, it looked back at the Child with its fading golden eyes, with too much intelligence for a wild animal. He could swear he could see a sign of resignation in those sad eyes. It locked its gaze with him
It neither struggled or whined, but just concentrated on its labor of breathing. But it was as if it knew what must be done. It had a look of acceptance of its fate. Even in its abject state, it had a sense of nobility, its brilliant red mane no less beautiful which could not be marred by its ugly wounds.
It closed its eyes knowingly as Halfhand drew his sword, as the Child of Light granted it the stroke of mercy.
But before he turned, he paused. He has never done this for an animal, but he laid his blessed hand on the peaceful body and he spoke the Last Ritual of Peace for the red-maned wolf. But he did not feel silly. He felt a presence of something that is anathema to the Tenets. The reflection of a soul leaving the broken body. It touched back at him for just a somber moment. There was a sense of sorrow and regret. It was only for a fraction of a second before it dissipated, but it was enough to carve a deep trough of doubt in his heart.
He carried that heavy doubt as he left the woods, following the trail of destruction back on to the road to the waiting horses.
Viellain and Jena were there, he watched mutely as the Questioner hand the girl her hunting knife that he had recovered. “I have cleaned it of the poison, child. This weapon is suited to you, worthy of a Name, bathed in Darkhound blood. Shrike.” This was as emotional as Viellain could get.
This seemed to have brought Jena out of her exhausted stupor, she received it with a tired flicker of pride.
And then a distant howl interrupted this somber moment, a familiar howl of ancient evil that chilled the blood. Then a second and a third. Closer and closer.
There were no words lost between the three. The Darkhound had sent out a cry of help and now a full pack of nightmares were approaching.
They fled as fast as the horses could gallop, trying to outrun what could not be outrun. And yet even with the certain knowledge of the approaching terrors, Halfhand was still haunted by the uncertain meaning of a wolf’s soul.
The howls behind grew louder and louder.
[b]CHAPTER NINE
[/b]
“Ring, ring. The Old Grim bell. Here comes souls of ink and eyes of coal. Run, child, run. The Wild Hunt comes.”
Shienaran children’s tale, author unknown.
Child Halfhand touched the side of his head as he felt the Light-cursed headache returning. It seemed to come more often midday, likely exacerbated by the swaying saddle. He could already sense the creeping aura announcing its presence. He could glimpse the crackling spider web forming in the periphery of his vision, almost like something was pressing against the glass pane of reality to break through. Viellain had once called them a “scintillating scotoma” but Halfhand could not recall the technical explanation. Regardless of what these annoying phenomena were, they always heralded the splitting headaches he had inherited from Tefike.
The annoyed Child of Light reached inside a pocket inside his traveling cloak until his fingers found the small paper wrapped package. He opened the wax paper and took out a piece of the willowbark resin and tucked it into his cheek, to allow its bitter juice to seep in his mouth. This seemed to be the only thing able to keep the migraines at bay. He glanced to see that there were only two sad crumbling pieces left. He will have to see if Viellain can decant more, otherwise the long days of travel will soon become nigh intolerable.
The three rode in blessed silence through the deserted Illian forest-lined road with Jena perched in front of Halfhand’s saddle in her usual seat. It was she who first noted the large furred body lying still in the middle of the road ahead.
Viellain gave a small whistle to Matese, and the pair trotted ahead to investigate. The Inquisitor looked down at the form briefly, without bothering to dismount. He looked back at Halfhand and gave a nod, “Just a dying wolf. Just give it a wide berth.”
As Halfhand rode by, he paused briefly to see that it was indeed a massive body wolf sprawled in the middle of the stone road. It was one of the largest wolves he has seen, and he has hunted his share. It has a dappled powder gray fur like a plume of smoke in a cold sky. It would be a pelt any trophy hunter would envy, except its body was covered in vicious wounds and caked blood as if it was turned through a lumber mill. Its chest rose just so slightly, and bubbles can be seen in its gaping chest wounds. It gave a soft groan.
“Wait.” Jena said, as she slipped down from her seat, landing next to the creature.
“What are you doing, child?” Halfhand looked in consternation. “Beware a dying beast. They do not understand your intentions. They are likely to lash out.”
“It do be in pain.” She says, glancing back up at him. “It do be a creature of the Creator. It should at least get the Last Rites and a merciful passing.” She had a familiar fierce look of defiance. Halfhand knew there was no point arguing with her with that look. And who is to argue against her interest in the didactics, at least.
The Child merely grunted, and gave his horse a nudge forward. “The Rites are not for animals. Catch up when you are done playing.”
Viellian had stopped ahead, watching in amusement while drinking from his flask. He gave a arched glance to Halfhand as he joined him, “You better check Materese the Healer for fleas when she is done there before joining us in camp.”
“I know of nothing that can drink your blood and survive.” Halfhand retorted. Let the girl have her childish compassion before this country crushes it from her. He continued on, “I would hate to run into whatever Illianer animal did that to a fully grown wolf.” He looked back at Jena, who was kneeling next to the beast’s head. She had a hand on top of its gray mane, the other on her knife hilt. She was whispering the Last Rites.
“Yes, that has been bothering me as well.” Viellain pondered, “Odd behavior for a wolf to crawl to a road.”
It was at this that Halfhand’s horse whinnied and stumbled on a shallow crater in the road. He swallowed a curse as he glanced down, to see that the crater was an imprint of a giant paw print in the stone pavement as if it was soft mud. That imagery immediately charged his mind with realization and his stomach with dread. It passed through his mind in an instant. The dying, savaged wolf, and the stone pawprints.
“Darkhounds.” Viellain’s mind was not even a second behind.
“Jena, get away!” Halfhand roared as he reigned his horse back towards Jena and the dying wolf incubating the birth of a new Darkhound.
It was too late and too far. As he raced desperately back towards Jena still tending to the incubating darkhound, a black storm of psychic energy exploded out from the wolf’s body as it finally succumbed to its cursed wounds.
For a brief second, with his awakened eyes, Halfhand could swear a tiny glimmer of ethereal energy winging skyward like a departing soul. But that would be impossible. Animals did not possess souls, especially not a base animal like wolves. But, it was overshadowed by multiple black tendrils rippling up from the swirling dense form covering the body. They pursued its target, a black maw high into the sky which snapped close like a towering bear trap.
Then the extension of violent energies sucked rapidly back into it source, which was now encased in a boiling pool of primordial evil that was the proto-darkhound. Its reanimated body’s eyes blinked open, filled with infinite void. With its first instinct on the corporeal plane, it raised its jaws and snapped at the thin girl who was the closest witness of its raising.
It is to Jena’s credit and to Halfhand’s pride that the young girl acted in the only way that ensured her survival. Her prized hunting knife came down, piercing through the snout of the new Darkhound and nailing it to the ground. That bought her one second, but that was enough time for her to roll back and dive into the nearby treeline before the Shadowspawn recovered, shaking its bear-sized head free.
Jena had paid enough in her studies to clearly recognize what she faced and its danger, even if she had never seen one before. Jena had read through Rakin’s Complete Threat Dossier cover to cover at least thrice. At the time, Halfhand has been amused about her interest in fantastic creatures that she would never encounter in the southlands in her lifetime, but it was her curiosity that saved her life now.
But even being aware of their existence was rarely enough. A darkhound by itself was an apex creature of the shadow that few were equipped to handle. For Halfhand and Viellain, a week’s preparation with specialized tools may be enough. To face one unprepared on the open road, would be a suicide run. A normal Darkhound was impervious to most mortal weapons, and even a glancing bite or splash of blood could be lethal. This giant black beast, covered in a rippling black sentient ooze before them could only be a Greater Darkhound.
The only sane move was for the two Children of Light to flee on horseback, to sacrifice the Troiasian girl, and to put enough miles between them. Better two survive, then three to die. A lesson for a girl’s wasted empathy in a cruel world.
But as the embryonic Greater Darkhound howled its chilling cry, black ichor dripping from its snout, and pounced after Jena, Halfhand found himself quickly dismounting from his horse. He grabbed his Iron Warhammer, the only available weapon with enough stopping power for a Darkhound. He raced after the beast, his mind racing, trying to form a desperate plan.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Viellain with the same mind galloping to the edge of the treeline, and leaping from the horse’s back to grab a tree branch, his sharp Manus claw allowing him to grab the bark easily, quickly vanishing into the canopy. Halfhand hopes the Questioner had a better plan than him.
Sightings of isolated Darkhounds through history were spotty as there are few witnesses surviving any encounters. They were harbingers of doom, capable of great destruction, and a relentless hunter. Once a Darkhound had its prey in its sight, it was a matter of inevitability. Born from the tortured and corrupted wolves, they possessed blood and saliva filled with life poison, speed and an unnatural regenerating body that makes most mundane attacks useless.
So it was due to an intersection of many luck factors that Jena was lucky today to survive so long, a feat that few others in history could even boast. She was well acquainted with woods such as these from childhood, and she navigated as she fled through a practiced zig-zag maneuver that allowed her precious minutes. And importantly, she kept her mind a level below pure panic, likely due to the entrained memory burned into her from a similar flight through the woods.
But most importantly this was a Darkhound in its infancy, unfamiliar with the new corporeal body that it inhabited and the new physics of the natural world. While the liquid evil consumed the mortal flesh and replaced it with preternatural machinery, it was still learning the body. The biologic nightmare moved in a jerky halting movement like a novice puppeteer, smashing into trees and tumbling on the ground, leaving chunks of its decaying wolf flesh scattered on brambles. It had not yet mastered its sight and senses as it tumbled clumsily but still eerily fast after the fleeing Troasian girl, closing the gap second by second.
Twice, it approached close enough to snap at her heel, and even a glancing scratch would have been quickly lethal. The first snap was barely deflected by a sharp projectile from the treetops that struck its head with enough momentum to turn its jaw at the last second.
For the second close miss, Jena felt the hot breath at her nape and made a gamble to dive between the forked trunk of a tall, aged oak. She managed to clear it before the Darkhound slammed into the oak’s bulk, cracking the tough old bark nearly in half, and tumbling to its side, stalled briefly.
It was at this opportunity that Halfhand charged in, letting his Regalia of LIght flow through the Warhammer, hoping for a lucky strike. But, almost as if it could sense the Child of LIght’s approach, the Darkhound’s liquid-like body twisted, moving in a way impossible for a canine’s skeleton, its spine popping and snapping unnaturally. More akin to a snake uncoiling and striking, it leaped through the air to meet the Child of Light.
With no other choice, Halfhand swung with his charged warhammer, but as if distance and time stretched around the spectral beast, the hound seemed to slip just around the cold iron as if the weapon was moving in slow motion. With the venomous maw closing in on his face, Halfhand let the momentum of the missed swing twist him as he dropped hard to the ground.
He could see the black obsidian teeth closing empty barely inches above his falling face, the glowing bottomless eyes that briefly looked down at him, before the momentum of the hound carried him past Halfhand as he slammed hard into the ground.
The fall knocked Halfhand’s breath away, and it took him a dangerous second to roll back onto his feet, knowing his intense vulnerability. He turned just to see the Darkhound springing again through the air when a heavy gray blur slammed into the shadowspawn.
The mass of gray fur and teeth wrestled with the shadowspawn on the ground, and six of its kin appeared around them. Large gray wolves. Halfhand hesitated as the new threat, as he debated switching to his longsword. It seemed he got a brief lucky reprieve but odds were even slim now with a pack of feral wolves too.
But the ferocious newcomers seemed to pay little attention to him. The wolves circled the two locked combatants, scruff arched, deep growls brewing, their intense predator eyes only for the darkhound. Was it possible that the wolves were drawn here by the Darkhound?
There was a crack and a pained whimper, as the initial gray wolf fell limp at the foot of the Darkhound. It regarded the newcomers with a wide grin filled with blood daggers, its black body grew larger, swelling until it was twice their size, rippling with undulous spikes. It was an intimidating sight, but the rest of the wolf pack did not hesitate. They charged it as a unit, jaws ripping at the lurking Evil wearing their skin, as ichor and blood splattered over the forest floor, charging the air with stench of sulfur and iron.
These wolves were apex predators of the Westlands, muscle, sinew and teeth crafted and honed by thousands of years of the Creator’s hand for the purpose of killing. But, they were like toys compared to Darkhound. It was something else, of an Ancient Evil and cunning that mortals could not challenge, and these wolves were mortal flesh . And it was starting to now master its corporeal shell to reach the cruel potential of a Greater Darkhound.
The wolves showed no lack of ferocity or courage, almost more than just animal instinct. But in the end they could not surpass the clear gap in strength. It was a slaughter, from which Halfhand could not look away. The Darkhound tore into the canine assailants with glee, inflicting wounds designed for pain and torment. Wolf after another fell in terrible writhing agony, as the Darkhound gleefully rolled in the blood and entrails as it bounced from one target to the other. Its jaws and teeth seem to morph and change from jagged shredded lances to cruel lamprey suckers, the more to inflict pain.
Halfhand just wanted to scream at the remaining wolves to run, but the wolfpack continued to the bitter end. Through the horrors, he could see Jena seemed to be hiding behind the damaged oak.
Halfhand raised his warhammer again and approached the terrible slaughter, knowing that this blood may have bought him the only chance to end it.
As the Darkhound sent the last standing wolf flying limp like a ragdoll through the air, there was a huge crack. Behind him the cracked oak tree began to fall. Jena’s face peaked around the falling trunk from where she had leveraged the leaning tree with her legs. Above, Viellian leaped away from the tree’s top where he had steered its fall.
However, the Darkhound sensed the shadow falling upon it, and leaped out of the way. In mid-flight, it lurched as one of the still wolf bodies lunged up with its last strength and locked its jaw on its haunch, dragging the Darkhound down.
The Darkhound twisted around like a boneless viper, shredding at the wolf with its razor teeth. But even nearly sawed in half, the wolf refused to let go until the oak finally crashed down on them both. The pinned Shadowspawn raised its blood-drenched muzzle and howled, a haunting chill of a wail that froze the blood of everyone in the area.
Halfhand roared through the howl, and slammed his warhammer down on the beast’s head with all his strength and will. It was like striking pure rock. There was a peal of energy blacklash from the collision of two opposing forces that bounced the hammer back, almost tearing his shoulder out of its socket. The Darkhound’s head was flattened into a dark liquid which seethed and boil with agitation, starting to reform.
Halfhand fought the numbness in arm, holding steady to the warhammer, charging it to bursting with the power of his Light, and then sending it crash once more down on the reforming Darkhound.
There was a violent storm of malevolent psychic energy from the strike as the ambient light around almost seemed to dim to twilight, as the primordial being explosively dissipated. Halfhand stumbled backward, but stayed on his feet. It was ended.
Robbed of its shadow possession, the decayed shell of the darkhound was now nothing but rotting flesh that crumbled to fetid dust in front of him.
Halfhand let his warhammer fall to the forest floor. He breathed out the heat of battle. The entire front of the warhammer was caked in thick red rust as if it was exposed to a decade of corrosion.
He looked up at the aftermath at the bloody wolf bodies scattered around Jena unharmed, but her clothes soaked with mud and covered in scratches from tree branches. Viellain slid down a nearby tree, his Manus carving a trail down the bark to slow his ascent. He jumped down the last few feet, landing softly, and with a tug, retracted his hook-and-chain with his off hand. He moved from one wolf body to the other, with a surgical cut at the top of their spine to ensure their complete death, and not to be another Darkhound seed.
“You okay, Jena? You did not get a injury from the darkhound?” Halfhand asks. Jena merely nodded, still half stunned, her face blanched at the bloody slaughter in front of her.
“We should go.” Viellain says. “You have dispelled it, but who knows what it may draw.”
“You two go to the horses. Give me one second.” Halfhand leaned against the oak tree and pushed until it rolled off slightly, exposing the last wolf, the one that held onto the Darkhound to its end. It breathed raggedly, its body a tortured mass of wounds. Somehow, it had shifted so it could touch the decaying shell of the Darkhound, her snout resting intimately next to the crushed skull. But, it looked back at the Child with its fading golden eyes, with too much intelligence for a wild animal. He could swear he could see a sign of resignation in those sad eyes. It locked its gaze with him
It neither struggled or whined, but just concentrated on its labor of breathing. But it was as if it knew what must be done. It had a look of acceptance of its fate. Even in its abject state, it had a sense of nobility, its brilliant red mane no less beautiful which could not be marred by its ugly wounds.
It closed its eyes knowingly as Halfhand drew his sword, as the Child of Light granted it the stroke of mercy.
But before he turned, he paused. He has never done this for an animal, but he laid his blessed hand on the peaceful body and he spoke the Last Ritual of Peace for the red-maned wolf. But he did not feel silly. He felt a presence of something that is anathema to the Tenets. The reflection of a soul leaving the broken body. It touched back at him for just a somber moment. There was a sense of sorrow and regret. It was only for a fraction of a second before it dissipated, but it was enough to carve a deep trough of doubt in his heart.
He carried that heavy doubt as he left the woods, following the trail of destruction back on to the road to the waiting horses.
Viellain and Jena were there, he watched mutely as the Questioner hand the girl her hunting knife that he had recovered. “I have cleaned it of the poison, child. This weapon is suited to you, worthy of a Name, bathed in Darkhound blood. Shrike.” This was as emotional as Viellain could get.
This seemed to have brought Jena out of her exhausted stupor, she received it with a tired flicker of pride.
And then a distant howl interrupted this somber moment, a familiar howl of ancient evil that chilled the blood. Then a second and a third. Closer and closer.
There were no words lost between the three. The Darkhound had sent out a cry of help and now a full pack of nightmares were approaching.
They fled as fast as the horses could gallop, trying to outrun what could not be outrun. And yet even with the certain knowledge of the approaching terrors, Halfhand was still haunted by the uncertain meaning of a wolf’s soul.
The howls behind grew louder and louder.