Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Bloodied Trail

  Selriph felt the leathery texture of the saddle beneath him; the faint smell of charred flesh and ozone carried on the soft wind. The youth’s brow twitched as his mind attempted to comprehend the scene before him.

  If what he witnessed was a portrait, the background would be the sparse forest of the Danwen Woods. In the foreground was his outstretched hand, the hum of purple arcane energy—his electromancy fading, the faint static left behind from the recently discharged spell.

  Selriph’s hand found itself frozen in place, any further attempt at spellcasting all but ceased—not from fear, not from hesitation, but from pure bewilderment. His expression twisted into one of confused amusement, a stark contrast to the deadpan stare of his horse that gazed upon the same sight.

  Just a moment prior, Selriph had launched the lightning bolt that caused their would-be supper to convulse and buckle. The Dire Wolf pounced forth, fangs bared in a frenzy. Now, in the middleground of the scene before was the result: the wolf, tearing viciously into the flesh of the buck.

  Only by the time the wolf had already wrought a bloody cavity, blood soaked all over its muzzle, did Selriph understand: he had left Emmett in Fallbrook for two days with no sustenance. Nightwind could consume hay, but in his distracted focus on the town’s events, it had entirely escaped his notice that Emmett was carnivorous—the stable hand would not have provided anything appropriate for his consumption.

  The lack of prior protest and the Dire Wolf’s unreadable expression did not help its case. Only when Selriph had engaged the buck did Emmett take that as implicit permission to pounce, or rather, consume his long-awaited meal.

  Selriph let out a silent sigh as he dismounted Nightwind, his feet landing on the soft surface, almost like velvet. To his left, he glanced at the main road he had left. The roar of the river Veldorea had long faded since he had parted with the trail. The sun drew its golden rays behind it in a westerly sunset. Ahead lay the woods where he would make camp.

  He paced past the Dire Wolf, fully engrossed. The wet mulch of flesh mixed with the tearing and ripping, accented by the crunch of bones, as Emmett tore into the buck’s torso. Flesh, hide, and organs consumed—all at the corner of Selriph’s vision.

  Well… good thing I have rations.

  His thoughts turned to suppressing his mounting hunger, as he hadn’t eaten since the previous evening. Ahead, across the sparse, amber-shaded woods, he spotted a thicker cluster of trees flanked by a rocky alcove—visual cover from the main roads—perfect for his planned nightly activities: terramantic refinement.

  He led his mount by the reins, leaving his canine companion to its deserved feast. The steady rustles of leaves and snapping of twigs underfoot from their hooves and feet were intermittently paused whenever Selriph paused to gather loose pieces of wood for a fire. By the time he made it to his would-be shelter, he had gathered a pile of twigs large enough that it fell to the ground in a prickly shuffle.

  He then turned, scanning the forest for larger pieces of wood for his lean-to structure—a mix of long, thick, and smaller branches and natural insulation—leaves, ferns, pine needles; whatever he could scavenge in the sparse undergrowth.

  The passage of time went on as Selriph gathered the materials required for his temporary abode. As the deep blue of evening colored the skies, Selriph assembled his shelter, using the remaining fibrous materials from his previous nights in the wild.

  As he finished securing the structure, he shifted his attention towards the intended kindling for the fire. However, he jerked back in surprise—an unexpected addition decorated the expectant, mundane sight of the gathered twigs.

  Emmett had once again graced him with his presence, but not just him. He had left a blood trail through the forest, a result of hauling along the half-consumed carcass of the buck. Its innocent, expectant eyes perversely accentuated the dire wolf’s deadpan expression, as if patiently awaiting a commendation for dragging the spoils to its human companion.

  Selriph could only stare in dry exasperation, mirrored by Nightwind’s nonchalant munching just behind him.

  Selriph let out a burp, the faintest scent of venison clinging to the back of his nostrils. His gaze fixed on the carved stone before him, depicting the Holy Knights’ coat of arms—lion, blade, and shield.

  His thoughts drifted to Calli’s request, driven by her distress over Aedan’s absence, a sentiment shared in the undercurrents of the village folk as Selriph made his leave earlier in the day. As reluctant as Selriph was to jump to hasty conclusions, the concerns had merit. Aedan had never once failed to arrive in a timely manner for the dark moon, much less miss it entirely.

  Of course, matters beyond his control might have delayed Aedan. Perhaps he’d even been stopped at the very same mountain pass Selriph was trying to cross—the irony of that notion eliciting the briefest chuckle mixed with a hiccup from the youth, causing the dire wolf’s ears to twitch.

  Selriph took a deep breath, the scent of woodsmoke and damp pine helping him recenter his thinking. He hated to admit it, but he and Calli had an unspoken consensus despite his churning reluctance: the rumours of a disturbance in the forest—by a spirit, according to the whispers—gave much cause for concern, both for Aedan’s fate and for Selriph’s trek through the main body of the Danwen foothills come sunrise.

  So he agreed against his better judgment. After all, he was headed east. Even if he didn’t explicitly divulge that information, he promised to keep his eye on the main roads, a ‘detour’ on his way to his cryptic destination.

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  Nothing more, nothing less.

  No sign of him so far… perhaps I had passed him? Maybe he would even be in Fallbrook by tomorrow.

  He paused, gently tracing his fingers over the flames, the fire licking and ebbing with his movement, a response to the soft hum of pyromantic control in his idle gesture.

  No… at the very least…

  Selriph considered the most inconvenient possibility for tomorrow: that he would run into Knight Aedan on the road. This meeting warranted keeping the conversation brief, just enough to fulfil the core of Calli’s humble request: handing the stone to Aedan and, by proxy, delivering word of his safety on this return, the server girl's memento in tow.

  Should I disguise my visage to be safe? No … if Aedan mentions the meeting and the inconsistencies in my appearance are brought up with Calli…

  Selriph gestured his palm down, the flames responding to his call, softening as he came to a sensible course of action.

  Better to keep the conversation brief, just send him off to Fallbrook…

  Then his mind paused, not because of the viability of his chosen action, nor because of an unforeseen complication.

  But because of his internal mention of the town’s name, his mind wandered to something far more mundane. Something that has bitten at his mind since he first entered the town.

  Why was the town spelt Fallbrok in the first place if the locals pronounced it Fallbrook?

  The inane thoughts accompanied him in the background of his terramantic meditations until the evening’s end. By the time he resigned to slumber, Selriph would have his answer, after his memory traced back to the unique typography of the door of the humble lodgings during his stay:

  R?m Thr? in the Stag’s Head Inn.

  The gravelly trail crumpled under the soft treads of Nightwind and Emmett. Ahead, the thick fog painted over the growing thickness of the Danwen foothills. The cold clung to the air, barely held back by Selriph’s cloak and garments, mist forming from the warm air that escaped his nostrils.

  Amidst the dull, persuasive grey, the looming silhouettes of the Greyspire mountains resembled a spectral, dreamy silhouette rather than the eye-catching grandeur expected of their scale.

  Around them, the sun’s glow dispersed in the gloom, the branches of the overhead foliage like leafy appendages that dotted Selriph’s vision.

  If the Knight Aedan veered off into the woods to investigate in this weather… It might partially explain his absence…

  Selriph’s gaze had scanned the trail since they departed, but dirt and stone revealed the reality: no sign of any horse tracks or footfall veering into the woods. Or rather, the paths showed no markings, as if no one had passed through for months.

  How is this possible? This is the main land route between the eastern province and the core. How can it be this…deserted?

  Selriph knew that this was pointless musing and speculation, driven by the complete void of information. He had to focus on the main point of his journey and the upcoming fork in the road; not metaphorical, but literal.

  To the northeast, the mountain pass, where Aedan had likely come from. To the southeast? The old abandoned mines—the only viable path Selriph was willing to brave. His other choice carried the risk of recognition—unwanted attention drawn from his canine attendant.

  Soon, the fork in the road came, the north-west breeze gradually rolling in, bidding the fog away, the amber-green thicket slowly filling his vision as Selriph glanced down at his patchwork map.

  Still no sign of Aedan… he should be in Fallbrook by now.

  Reassured by his half-hearted resolution—an attempt to convince himself he had merely missed the knight — Selriph tightened his core once more, subtly shifted his weight right, and Nightwind resumed her trot.

  The clearing scene—the fog wafted away by the westerly winds—almost reflected the lifting of the burden of responsibility. After all, Selriph knew that even Calli, in her concern, couldn’t reasonably expect a single ‘servant of the light’ to comb through the entire area in search of the tardy knight.

  And so they continued; the trail began its upward incline. Emmett, either enthused at their route or reading Selriph’s intention, paced ahead, keeping just within sightline.

  Or rather, that was what Selriph thought the wolf was doing. For the beast paused, its snout buried in the smooth, almost pristine, untouched trail.

  Then it stared into the brush and then back to Selriph, as if trying to convey a message—one that the youth could not immediately understand.

  “Emmett…?” Selriph mumbled as he approached the wolf on horseback.

  The dire wolf stared back as its paws began to sweep the trail, like a maid brushing off dust with a dust-ridden trinket. For a second, Selriph’s mind conjured the image of Aera’s—his childhood friend's—trusty domesticated canine, clawing playfully in the greens of the Falnu estate grounds.

  But this was no playful indulgence—it was deliberate, if the wolf was even capable of such a thought.

  As the veneer of dust and pebbles was scraped aside by Emmett’s surgical movements, the reason for the wolf’s action became evident: the dull grey of the gravelly path made way for dark, dried-over crimson painted into the firmer earth below.

  Selriph’s eyes widened, a chill running down his spine, and the implications suddenly ran into him like a stake through his heart.

  His eyes darted down to the pristine trail just ahead, the deliberate, artificial, unblemished state now starkly clear.

  Then Emmett trotted off again, as if following an invisible thread, with little choice. Selriph dismounted, a mounting sense of dread babbling as he drew his estoc, bidding Nightwind to stay as he followed the wolf into the woods.

  He knew there was only one thing Emmett could be leading him to—a sight he was far from willing to witness—yet drawn there by an indescribable mix of curiosity and coercion from the server girl’s sincere plea.

  Selriph tightened his grip on his now drawn estoc, the crunch of his boots on the uneven forest floor like a building prelude.

  As they entered the clearing, the signs of struggle marked the trees, with gashes cutting through the thick bark and loose pieces of debris scattered around.

  With it came the metallic scent of not just blood, but the unmistakable, pungent smell of death permeating the air. Its source came into view mere moments later. On a rocky outcropping, bathed in the oncoming sunlight as if ushered into attention by the gods above, lay a figure in the unmistakable garb of the Holy Knights of Aurelion.

  But it was not the deceased’s status that brought dread through Selriph, but its state, for it had been impaled by earthen spikes that erupted from the ground, leaving the corpse in a contorted, unnatural pose.

  The knight’s armour? Rended and twisted. The spikes pierced the body in a dozen places. Over it, a thick blanket of leaves and damp earth, as if the very earth sought to dishonour the corpse.

  Selriph’s eyes darted to the foliage, simultaneously met with the low growl of his dire wolf companion, cutting through the silent dread surrounding them.

  Slowly, the unsettling quietude made way for the crumble of stone, rock, and dirt, like an untuned song of the forest. From beyond the brush, the earth began to coalesce into a crude, golem-like figure, as if crafted by an unskilled artisan.

  Made of earth, held together by means far beyond the physical—likely spiritual, mystical—standing a full blade’s length taller than Selriph.

  Then it stepped out, brought into full view, its face a featureless facade, one that brought a presence, a pressure.

  The spirit of the forest had manifested for its latest victim.