9. Daren Lee - The Charnel Feast

Chapter 7: The Charnel Feast

The first one was a gift.

It sprang at me, howling. Maw wrenching wide open, slobbering as that eyeless face surged forward to bite. The blood thundered in my ears as the smell - the horrid stench of it - hit me, wet and strong and awful, and I had both hands wrapped around the hilt of the Sinistral as I wrenched the black sword up in front of me.

-get back-

I stabbed. Straight out, both wavering hands on the hilt, and the Sinistral speared right into - through - that eternally hungry mouth.

The point bit. The crosspiece bit into my knuckles, as the sword punched through the Canker Eater's skull. Bone broke, with a sharp, splintering crack - Black blood, thick as slime, rolled down the Sinistral's edge as a full third of the blade speared through the ape-thing's head.

Not into. Through.

There was only the faintest resistance, like a knife through butter. The sword was so sharp as it parted that faceless skull, piercing meat and bone and brain without slowing. For one mad moment, those hideous claws flailed madly, hopelessly at me, unable to reach across the narrow distance-

And then it shuddered, closing itself around the Sinistral and falling. The sick, thrashing weight at the end of my sword went slack and leaden, hanging from the blade like an anchor. I found myself staring at it, transfixed by the stinking, cooling corpse that had tangled up around my weapon; the thing's head flopped back, legs dragging in the dust, fangs still flecked with slaver around the unstoppable edge that had cleaved it nearly in two.

But another one was coming at me, slower because of its huge, distended belly. It was howling, but I could barely hear it through the mindless hammer of my pulse, thinking only-

-stay the fuck away from me-

The sword. I had to free the sword. I had the vague idea of bracing my foot against the dead ape-thing's face, then yanking out hard - But something within me rebelled at the very idea of touching the Canker Eater's corpse, even as I realized I was covered in the thing's blood…

The thing's pack-mate showed no such hesitation. Those misshapen legs uncoiled, and it hurled itself forward. Bars of shadow fell across my face, as I glimpsed the horror's raking talons, those yellowed and sickle-bladed claws-

I hauled on the blade, hard. Blood - thick, lukewarm, like oil - was all over my hands, all over my face, and I set my teeth and pulled with all the strength I could muster. The sword, caught on something, came free so abruptly I nearly fell.

It tore out of the Twisted thing's skull, sideways, and took half its face with it: In the heartbeat before the bounding, hooting nightmare could sink its claws or teeth into me, I set my feet.

Swung, hard. Like I was swinging a bat, instead of a sword.

-slice-

…and cut it in two.

It was terrible and messy. The Sinstral came around at roughly chest-height, and cleaved through the ape-beast as it came down. Blood jetted - a geyser of it, a torrent - as black viscera spilled out from the ruinous cut, slithering like a welter of snakes from the great rent the black sword had made.

The Canker Eater shrieked, horribly, as its severed torso and arms went tumbling past me. I heard it squalling, thrashing as it hit the ground - the thing's legs thumping down at least a full meter from its torso, riling like worms as they curled up and died.

I caught a glimpse of those limbs, moving with awful slow motion as I staggered back, dry-heaving, half-blind as the others closed in for the kill. The blood was in my hair, in my eyes as I spat and retched, trying to get the wretched taste out of my mouth-

But then, I felt it. The rush, the surge of energy as [Charnel Feast] throbbed against my skin. I could feel it lifting me, buoying me up, between each heavy breath as I panted for hot dry air.

Like waking from a binge. Or maybe, just maybe, fading into one.

For a pressure was building within me. Covered in wet blood, I was shaking, and I couldn't stop. The Sinistral pulled at my hands, like a compass needle finding true North, willing me forward into the carnage to come-

There was a smell, even through the gore. Like burnt leaves on an autumn wind. A fire, being stoked to furious life.

My teeth clenched so hard, I thought they would crack; the numbing rush of adrenaline pushing air into my lungs, my head going light as I glared out at the world through a mask of gore-

Jesus-

The Canker Eaters spilled towards me - Wild and ragged shadows, bear-trap mouths gaping in faceless heads. Bared teeth shining, claws glinting in the dull light. They looked almost, but not quite, like men; Just enough for everything about them to be wrong and profoundly warped, that kindled a deep, primordial disgust that I couldn't - didn't - shake.

They screeched and gibbered, like jackals. Whooped and wailed, like the damned.

Made mad sounds, like beasts, like devils. As if their lipless maws were gates to hell, and what lay beyond was vomiting into the world.

Dimly, I realized I was screaming and gibbering too. For there were no rules now, no restraint, and the humming sword I held was all the reason I would ever need. I was lurching forward, and then I was running, running, headlong towards the pack, my feet pounding down.

I felt my tattered cloak catch the air, snapping out behind me like the flag of some ragged army, as I hit the ground sprinting. My legs burned - a good burn - as the world slipped past me in slow motion, like a dream.

The Sinistral rose. It spun in my hands, dancing red, white and yellow, all the colours of fire, as [Blade-bound] spread burning fingers beneath my skin.

Everything became a red-smeared blur.

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I'd never been in a fight before. Not one that mattered, not until Gabriel.

I'd fantasized about being in one, of course. The kind of stuff you'd see in games and a million movies; Slaying dragons in the ruin of the world.

Not this…insanity.

In the entirety of my pampered First World existence, I'd never thought - never imagined - that it'd come to this. Killing things with a sliver of sharpened steel, as every iota of their maddened being strained and snapped and fought to sink their teeth into my flesh.

I guess what I'm saying is: I let the Devil in the door.

I caught the first one with a ripping slash, a heartbeat ahead of the galloping slap of its prehensile paws. It wailed as it died, squirting gore from the great rent in its flank - matted fur and shreds of meat tore out from its side, as I whirled the Sinistral in a frantic rushing arc that made a drizzle of blood droplets fly off the blade.

An arm went tumbling, too. I didn't even realize that I'd cut through another with my backswing - still hauling the sword back, trying to stop myself from foundering on the welter of black and red underfoot - until I heard the wet slap of the pieces tumbling down from the air.

But then a blind, snapping maw bit at my sword-hand so fast, it almost cost me fingers. I felt the air of its closing teeth as I staggered back, my blood running cold; Stumbling, I hacked down, hard, heard bone snap as the Sinistral sliced deep into an ape-thing's spine - It squealed, a high, hooting note that hurt to hear, foundering in a slick of red-dyed mud.

I nearly went over, as the snarling, writhing fury tried to claw its way upright. It dragged its dead legs behind it, like it couldn't understand why they wouldn't move; Froth and noxious slime wept from the ragged gash on its back, and I had to turn away to lash out at the yowling carnivore horrors that pounding, shrieking, towards me.

The Eaters were churning and milling all around me, mobbing around me and onto me like starving dogs trying to bring down a bear. They were trying to ring me, to pull me down, but their own hunger betrayed them: growling, baying, they lunged at every opening, ploughing forward with ravenous and single-minded intent.

Some were biting and savaging each other to get to me first. Their snarling and yelping filled the world, as I swung the Sinistral at them, over and over again - Wide, desperate swings that bashed back claws and bashed in teeth, blood spattering my face and chest each time a frantic swipe found flesh.

I would have died there, if not for [Blade-bound] and [Charnel Feast].

If not for the black sword, most of all.

Nothing, nothing stopped it. In my hands, it was unimaginably sharp, and so perfectly balanced it felt like it could swing itself. It wove in front of me, like a fan - smooth, effortless, the gleaming flash of it passing through clawing arms and snapping jaws.

It went through meat and muscle and bone, moving so fast it looked like a series of whirling blades. It cut hands from arms, limbs from torsos and heads from trunks, the shrieking wounded dropping hard into the murk.

But still they charged, mindless of the injury I was dealing out, amid the mad tumult. Lunging from the shadows, made frenzied by starvation. Two tried to rush together, even though the space was too tight, and I put everything - everything - I had into a single scything cut across their collective abdomen.

Entrails spilled out, at my feet. They crumpled, as soft and boneless as stringless puppets, gurgling hot, close gasps from their sawtooth mouths; In the blank heartbeat before their collapse, I stepped forward and swung - hard - hard enough to send the next flying.

The Sinistral's edge carved through it. Swerved into it, lifting and hurling the thrashing form - limbs pinwheeling, split asunder - away into the trees with a whack of splitting impact.

I'd lost count of how many I'd put down, even as I turned from the one I'd just obliterated. The Canker Eaters had been devils, from a distance; Close up, they were wretched, stinking of bacteria and foulness, their matted pelts no shield against the Sinistral's pitiless edge.

Their black, tarry blood streaked my arms to my fingertips, crusted gore clinging to my shoes. The rancid reek of them made me gag, but - arms burning - I hacked the Sinistral through an unreal face-that-was-not-a-face, flecks of rage spraying from its foaming jaws, splitting the thing's skull all the way down to the neck with a hollow click of bone-

Even as the sundered form flopped back, limbs kicking in death as it fell, I could feel the breath rushing in and out of my chest. It felt like my collar was strangling me; I tried to control it, tried to drag it free so I could breathe, but a great drum soundtrack was thundering inside my head, its rhythms and individual beats rolling out - faster, faster - as I waded through the flickering dark, one fresh corpse at a time.

I swallowed, choking down vomit as fleshy pulp slid down the Sinistral's gleaming edge, over my hands. The night air was cold, freezing cold, but it felt like I was burning up; Half-blind, through a red haze, I heard a snarl, the galloping slap of paws-

I thrust. Jammed the Sinistral forward, as the stink of diseased flesh filled my nostrils, as a wide mouth of erupting fangs and lashing tongues snapped towards me. I felt bone crack as the blade went in, pushing through the Eater's ribs and into the organ-meat below; It kept snapping, biting chunks out of the air as it tried to reach me, swinging its blind, snuffling head from side-to-side as if trying to gnaw on the sword impaling its chest.

For one mad moment, I could see straight down the red, pulsing cavern of its mouth and gullet-

It yowled, as I twisted the blade. Shrieked, as the point slotted through its ribs, and sliced sideways into the thing's heart. I had to wrench my head back, away from the talons that raked at me, so close I felt the wind of their passage - Holding the thrashing, squalling horror at bay as I died an inch at a time…

-that's the last one, that's all of them, there can't be any more-

And then something slammed into me from behind, snarling and snapping, and nightmare teeth sank into my flesh.

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There was one more.

The most cunning, maybe, or simply the quietest. Something - some vestigial instinct - had held it back, when I'd torn through the others. Somehow, somehow, it knew and feared the sword of black iron; In the moment before I could wrench the sword free from the swiftly-cooling corpse, it launched itself off the stone at full stretch.

An immense bound, driven by the knotted muscle of its legs.

No, I had time to think, as I felt the burning pain of claws digging into my back. It tried to tear my throat out, but the cloak had confused it - the fanged maw clamped down on ragged cloth, fouling the bite even as great jaws snapped shut on the meat on my shoulder.

I screamed, as hot pain spiked through me, ripping up through my flesh.

It was hideous, crushing; my arm went numb as I lurched forward, half-bent beneath the weight. I tried to wrench free, tried to hurl the creature away, but there was a taut, springy strength to its clutching limbs, and I could already feel its fangs gouging into my flesh-

I had the Sinistral in one hand, but I couldn't reach the bastard thing, no matter how I thrashed. It was silent, dreadfully silent, as it latched onto me like a lamprey - I felt my bones creak beneath the relentless pressure, red pain shooting through my limbs as my legs gave beneath me; I could see that lipless mouth worrying my flesh, exposing the teeth and rotted gums in a permanent leer as the choking stench of wet and matted fur filled my world.

Not like this-

Talons raked my side, my ribs as I toppled forward, mind empty of all thought except tearing the hideous thing off me. The Eater's malformed shadow stretched over mine, phlegmy drool and blood spattering my face as the Sinistral's humming blade clattered against the ground, hot stinking breath on the nape of my neck.

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In a moment, it would chew through the cloak. In a moment, my collarbone would snap. And there was nothing, nothing I could do except thrash and flail and scream and-

But I didn't fall onto the stone, as my legs gave way. As I fell, face-first, towards the unforgiving ground.

Instead, I fell through.

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There was no warning, none at all. I had one arm out before me, as we went over in a thrashing, struggling tangle; In the mindless frenzy of that moment, I had the vague idea of rolling hard, to break the deathgrip of the teeth gouging into me-

And then I was sinking, plunging into the puddled darkness on the ground.

What the f-

Everything went grey and blurry, as the shadows closed over my head. The vise of that hideous, crushing bite went slack, and I gasped at the abrupt relief - but then a wave of bewildering dizziness crashed over me, the sensation of being pulled in every direction at once…

The cloak, a tiny voice whispered to me, as sudden cold rippled through my form.

It's the cloak that's doing this-

I disappeared. Through stone, through branches, through air. There was a rush of speed and nothingness, a sense of the world blurring at its edges…

And then I was falling, down into the shadow of a twisted tree. My feet slammed down on stone, pain shooting up my legs as I felt my knees buckle; For one surreal moment, I realized I was behind where I'd been standing, the Eater still in the act of tumbling through the space where I had been.

I heard its teeth snap shut on empty air, jowls flapping, jaws grinding. It swung its eyeless head from side-to-side, face a plastered mask of gore, like it couldn't understand what had just happened-

But it was facing the wrong way.

The Sinistral hacked down - a final, splitting blow - and cut the devil's grin in half. The black sword kept going, carving through the spine and torso, until both uneven halves tumbled away from one another.

The ape-thing fell in two pieces, and neither moved as they hit the ground.

I sank down, too. Try as they might, my legs just couldn't seem to hold me up any longer; but that was okay, because my arms were giving out, too. All of a sudden, the Sinistral had become impossibly heavy, too heavy for me to hold-

The point scraped a narrow groove into the hard-packed ground, as my knees folded beneath me. I leaned on it, both hands folded over the hilt, fingers bleeding and stiff, limbs on fire and locked with effort.

My shoulder still ached abominably, but the pain was somehow less intense, and I was grateful for that - Even I didn't dare look. Not yet.

I'm alive, I thought, sick and shaking like a leaf. I'm alive, I told myself, my stomach rolling inside me. Mouth tasting of blood and metal and raw meat, as my gore-soaked shirt flapped wetly against my chest.

The ground was scattered with bodies, and parts of bodies. An astonishing tapestry of shorn heads and scattered limbs, tattered forms slumped in death. Something rattled, faintly, and I looked down.

A severed mandible was sliding down the sword's razor edge, teeth still glistening pink.

I threw up.

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After-

After, when the grip of bilious nausea had cleared, I realized that I was making a sound between laughing and panting. A mad, wheezing sound, one that hurt me deep in my side and made me feel sick all over again.

With an effort of will, I made myself stop. Squeezed my eyes shut, shutting out the tableau, until all I saw was swirling blacks and reds.

Stop it, I told myself, as hard and cold as I could.

You can go crazy later.

Don't fuck this up again.

My head was spinning, and I couldn't stop thinking about the sick, slippery feel of my sword sliding through an Eater's guts. The stench of it, the tacky feel of half-clotted blood on my arms and face as the others bayed and snapped and leapt-

No, I thought, forcing it down. Bottling it up.

I thought of home. Not the flat I'd shared with Claire, the loft I'd only begun - clumsily - to make my mark on, in that strange, alien city I'd never truly come to trust. Home, with Dad and Mom and everyone I'd ever known.

The clean smell of it, where everything was safe and peaceful and in its proper place.

I would find my way back to them, I told myself. Somehow.

That, I swore.

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Slowly, so slowly, the triphammer of my pulse eased to something approaching normal. I swallowed, dryly, as I pulled myself to my feet - the fingers of my good hand tangled with the grip of the Sinistral, the left hanging limp at my side.

I could move it, though every motion made a dull ache radiate through the very marrow of my bones. I felt the bruises mottling my skin, but nothing seemed to be broken, not really. That was something, at least.

I wanted nothing more than to be elsewhere. To leave this place of butchery and falling ash far, far, behind. But the forest rose up on all sides, and the cliff I'd fallen from was treacherous and sheer, and I honestly didn't think I could make my way back up.

Even if I could, I wasn't sure if I should.

There may be more of those things, a tiny voice whispered to me, and I felt a slow shudder working its way through me.

Now what? I thought, looking around. Trees stretched away in every direction, until they vanished into the grey veil of night. It'd gone silent, at some point; a perfect, serene quiet, with not so much as a bird's chirrup to scratch the heavy stillness.

A kind of despair began to settle on me, as I took my first, tentative steps in one direction, then stopped. Turned another way.

It all looked the same to me. I had no map, no bearings; Just the cliff behind me, and a black sea of twisted trees ahead. The fog slithered around my shoes, the air thick with rot as I turned again, every step crunching too loudly against the gravel underfoot.

My shoulder throbbed, the entire time. Now that the adrenaline of the fight had ebbed, the myriad of aches and pains were making themselves known, with a vengeance - the cut on my ribs burned like fire, and I was a mess of contusions and bruises.

There was a deep gash in the meat of my thigh, just above my knee: I couldn't even remember how I'd got that one, or how I hadn't noticed it before. I recalled, vaguely, claws finding me, breaking the skin but going no deeper, and wondered how something like that was possible-

The glyphs for [Forgebound Resilience] itched, as if in answer.

I thought about infection, and fever, and wounds going black with necrosis - But there was nothing I could do about it, not now. As I limped forward, over the dust and muck, towards the treeline, I wondered how far I'd get, before I fell over.

God, I was tired. I could barely feel my feet.

Just have to keep going, I told myself. Keep going, until-

And then, with no warning at all, my phone rang.

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My heart jolted, shock snapping me upright as the sharp, mechanical ring sliced through the silence. I froze, breath catching in my throat, the exhaustion that dragged at my bones momentarily forgotten.

It shouldn't work here. It couldn't - it was a piece of my old life, utterly useless in this waking nightmare.

Yet it rang, shrill and insistent, shattering the oppressive quiet.

Trembling, I fumbled with blood-slick hands to pull it out. The sound made me wince, setting my teeth on edge. I could only imagine how far it'd traveled, and who - or what - might've heard it: I'd never thought the damn thing could be so abominably loud, and why hadn't I set it to silent…?

The cracked screen glowed, faintly, UNKNOWN blinking across it. For a blanket moment, I just stared, stunned-

Because this was impossible.

Because this couldn't be happening.

My hand shook, as I lifted the phone to my ear. Number fingers leaving a smear of half-dried gore on the screen, as I whispered-

"-Who…?"

My voice came out as a croak. Low, rasping, like I'd ruptured something in my throat.

Then, with mounting hope: "Claire…?"

It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. Instead, I heard-

"Pledger three-eight-seven-five-four-one. You are instructed to maintain communication. Please hold."

The voice was digitized. Electronically neutral. Crystal-clear, and without affect. There was no background noise, none at all - I felt a frisson of confusion course through me, at the surreal aspect of it, my jaw working as I tried to find the words…

"Wait-" I said, nearly stammering, now. "You don't understand: I need help, I don't know where I am…!"

Nothing. No answer - Just silence. My nails dug into my palm, as I clutched the phone so tightly, I thought it might crumple.

Come on, I thought, a sick trepidation churning in my gut.

Come on, come on, come on-

Then-

"You have gained a new Rank of Renown," the voice carried on, without ceremony or preamble. "You may select a Blessing from si-"

There was a blurt of white noise, so loud I flinched back. Static crackled from the speaker, and for one terrible moment I thought the call - my only lifeline - had ended. But then the voice started up again, in all its passionless neutrality:

"You may select a Blessing from four available Virtues. Calibrating…"

Four. Why four? It'd been six a moment ago, hadn't it? I gnawed my lip, thoughts racing, chasing each other through the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind. I could feel a dozen, a hundred questions crowding each other, all ready to spill forth-

Who are you? What are you? Where am I?

Do my parents know?

Can I really get Claire back?

Where's Gabriel?

I stopped myself. Forced a deep breath, filling my lungs.

The absolute impersonality of the voice on the other end of the line…There would be no arguing with it. No pleas for aid or succor.

No second chances.

"From Might, [Onslaught] - While this Blessing is active, successive blows are imbued with increasing levels of force."

"From Fortitude, [Rejuvenate] - Acceleration of the natural healing process. Minor wounds may be closed within minutes, with major injuries recovering over days."

"From Precision, [Hunter's Instinct] - Enhancement of sensory input. Enemies may be detected through sound, movement, intent and infection status."

"Of Wrath, [Vengeance] - All physical capabilities are temporarily enhanced, upon injury."

The words hung in the air, stark against the welter of gore and broken bodies I'd left behind me. Each one was a flat, mechanical stab, as dispassionate as an automaton; Despite everything, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of grim satisfaction.

For I'd been right - there was no one on the other end. No operator, no watching technician. Just an algorithm, a protocol; a ghost in the machine.

And somehow, that made it easier.

Because if it was a person - if there was someone who could see me now, bathed in blood and ruin, half-mad with pain and grief - I might've screamed. Begged, even.

But I would have been wasting my breath. For it didn't care where I was, or what I'd done: Only what I'd do next.

"Pledger three-eight-seven-five-four-one," the voice resumed, indifferent to the silence that followed. "Selection is required. Failure to choose will result in default allocation."

I could hear my ragged breaths echoing in the stillness, as I came to a stop. Part of me wanted to hurl the phone into the darkness, but that would've been suicide. Instead, I ground my teeth, the Sinistral hanging loose in my free hand.

In the screen's sickly glow, the blood and spinal fluid that ran down the blade gleamed a flat and oily black.

Choose.

[Rejuvenate] was my first thought. I had a sudden vision of myself, dying from infection or blood poisoning or one of the countless horrors long thought forgotten - the image so vivid, so real, it brought the taste of quinine and bile to my mouth.

But I knew, even then, that it wouldn't be enough. [Onslaught] and [Vengeance]...There would be more bloodshed, wherever I was going.

More butchery. More carnage.

I'd barely survived my first fight. If this happened again - when it happened - I had the abrupt, sinking feeling that I wouldn't be as lucky.

And yet-

And yet, even with them, I would still be lost. Walking in circles through the forest, with no way out.

I looked up, toward the thickets that loomed just beyond the clearing. Black, twisted silhouettes against a sky too cloudy to show the stars.

Every tree looked the same. Every direction, equally wrong.

There were no paths here. No signs. No roads. Just the forest, and the horrors in it.

A cold certainty began to settle in my gut. If I couldn't find a way out soon, none of the other Blessings would matter. I could bleed slower. I could hit harder - but I'd still die out here.

Alone.

Lost.

Forgotten.

"[Hunter's Instinct]," I blurted out, before I could change my mind. "Give me [Hunter's Instinct]."

"Blessing confirmed."

There was a click, and the call ended.

I had a moment to think Wait- and then Is that all there is? before a sudden chill coursed through me. It traveled up my spine, spreading beneath my skin in icy fingers-

There was a hiss, like molten steel plunged into water. A sharp, stinging sensation, like I'd been branded - receding, as quickly as it'd come. Before I could cry out, or even flinch. But I could feel the new glyph etched into my flesh, slithering into place just above [Charnel Feast].

And then-

All of a sudden, the darkness had become a little less absolute. Everything was in shadow, in a twilight of a greenish cast - Enough to catch the shape of things in the dark, the shape of things in cold green relief.

"Jesus," I whispered, in awe.

Because the forest was alive with motion. I could see - sense - things scurrying beneath the trees, cast in spectral green. I couldn't tell what they were, not really, only that there they were no threat.

I caught myself. No immediate threat.

I couldn't truly see in the dark, not really. By my guess, everything became unfocused at roughly twenty meters, like I was looking through a wide-angle lens. But the peripheral vision, the sensitivity to movement-

That was astonishing.

I won't lie: It was a revelation.

Fascinated, I padded forward. The many creatures moving all around me - loping or skittering - I couldn't pinpoint precisely where they were, or detect their exact movements.

I simply knew where they were going, and where they would be.

I felt an invisible weight lift from my shoulders, one I hadn't even known was there. A kind of relief coursed through me: I wasn't blind, at least. That was something.

As I trudged along, I racked my mind, trying to think of what I was supposed to do in a situation like this. Food, shelter, fire…I didn't know how to make any of those things. I'd never had a reason to.

A fragment, from some long-ago civics class: Find a river, then follow it downstream.

Water, I told myself, gripping the Sinistral's hilt tighter. Find water.

Curiously, I wasn't hungry or thirsty. But the thought of water - cold, clear water - made my throat go dry, the need to be clean nearly overpowering.

I lifted my head, straining with every newfound sense to listen for the gurgle of running water…

Instead - faintly, ever-so-faintly - I heard the clop of distant hooves.

A breeze passed over my aching body, a secret wind that brought with it the sickly-stench of rot.

Of decay.

Of blight.

A fog was rising. Tendrils of mist wound their way between the trees, snaking forward like questing fingers. I heard the click of iron against roots, against earth, against stone…

The hairs lifted, on the back of my neck.

Slowly, so slowly, I turned.

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Through the fog, steed and rider were mere grey shapes. I watched their slow approach, as they resolved into view - an abrupt, unreasoning fear rooting me in place, though I didn't know why.

The warhorse was large, some eighteen hands, and black. Even from here, I could smell the corruption that threaded through it, the noisome things that squirmed beneath its ebony flesh. The destrier's mane was a nest of writhing cilia, tipped with translucent quills that writhed in constant motion.

The rider-

The rider was worse.

He was draped in a long, grey cloak, a cloak stitched with faint patterns - abstracts of faces. Beneath it, he was powerfully built, the edges of his tarnished armor giving his darkness a regal outline and shape.

There was a sword in his gauntleted hands. A sword of red iron, of volcanic steel. Stars danced in the folds of his cloak as he held the great cruciform blade at ceremonial rest on the saddle's horn, with the point straight up.

I realized, right then, that I should not - could not - be here. Anywhere, anywhere in the world but here.

Now.

I started to back away. Thinking, with a mad stab of hope: He hasn't seen me, he doesn't know I'm-

My phone buzzed, once, against my hip. I felt my blood run cold, my eyes rolling down, down to the glowing screen.

"Pledger three-eight-seven-five-four-one. Alert."

No, I thought. No, no-

"Alert. An Apostle of the Wrack is approaching."

The rider raised his head. Light seeped up from his gorget, underlighting his face.

His face-

I felt my heart flail in my chest, my mouth all stoppered up with terror.

He had no face.

Just a skull. Staring, from beneath the grey cowl. Otherworldly radiance gleamed on the tall horns - needle-straight and jagged-edged, like twin stilettos dipped in oil - of the black circlet that crowned it, burning with an eerie non-light.

"Retreat is advised."

Damn you, I thought, with formless, tiny spite. I wanted to push myself down into the undergrowth, to make myself small, invisible…But of course, it was already too late.

I swallowed, thickly, thinking only of cool water, and suddenly afraid of the loneliness that was coming before death.

For this, I knew, was Death. Crowned and inexorable, a rider atop a pale steed.

As if sensing my thoughts, the undead horror nodded, once. With solemn deliberation, it dismounted, stepping carefully but without haste between the twisted trees.

In the deadly silence, it lifted its sword to a one-handed guard, leveling the point at me. Hot yellow light shone in the fleshless sockets of its eyes, glowing like midnight suns.

With its free hand, it beckoned.

All right, I told myself, through the cold tingle beneath my skin, the dryness in my throat. I was panting, like a wounded animal, breathing hard through my mouth. It was all I could do, the only way I could fight down the cold, creeping fear that gripped my heart in freezing fingers, and squeezed like it would never let go.

All right, then.

A tiny spark of defiance ignited in my curdled guts, sour but stubborn; I drew on it, willing it to catch, even as my numb fingers curled around the Sinistral's hide-wrapped hilt. The sword hummed in my shaking hands, rising - instinctively, without thought - in a two-handed grip.

I could feel the eagerness in the black sword, the power that crackled and shivered along its fierce edge as [Blade-bound] thrummed in sync.

Let's fucking go.

TO BE CONTINUED

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Blessings:

b) Precision:

- [Hunter's Instinct]

No prey may escape the Chosen of Hekatoncheires.

As the predator scents blood on the wind, so shall you sense your foes, by their breath, by the beat of their hearts, and by the foulness that runs in their Twisted blood.