This is the third and final part of a dark fantasy novella. To start the story from the beginning click here, or catch up with Part 2 here.
Hi, I’m Max, I write fantasy, science fiction, and genre stories as well as essays on the craft. Help support my writing by upgrading to a paid subscription, sharing my work, or dropping a tip in my hat over at ko-fi!
Here is the finale of a novella written years ago, set in my fantasy world of Breiar. To see more of the world click here.
VII.
“You must leave,” said the butler. Soren almost forgot that he was naked, his sword at his feet. “You must get out of here. The master knows you’re here, and you must leave.”
“Master? What? Who are you?” said Soren.
“Quiet!” said the butler in a voice too loud. “You must leave. There are… things happening in this house that he will use you fore. Things I cannot speak of.”
“There’s a blizzard out there, with wolves in the woods. Where do you expect me to go?”
“The wolves are back? The spirit of the woods is relentless. No, that does not matter. You are safer in the cold than you are here. You must leave!”
“I can’t leave! Who are you?”
“Soren!” A shout came from the rooms below. It cut off quickly. There was no second shout.
Soren had looked in the noise’s direction, and as his attention returned to his own surroundings, he saw the butler was halfway through a hidden doorway on the far side of the wall.
“Leave! If your friend is taken, leave him too. Leave for your life. I will not aid you while my master watches.” he said in a harsh whisper before closing the door and disappearing into the house once more.
Soren was alone.
Fear and confusion took him for only a moment. The world tumbling in his mind around him. He was standing in the bathroom of a manor in the far north, in a woodfarm that was not on the empire’s maps, a place where the denizens had fought the giants, a place where wolves had driven him, a place where a servant could appear from a hole in the wall. A place that was not safe.
Tommil was not safe.
Soren snapped out of his mind and looked about him. His clothing sat folded on the floor to the side of the tub. He began dressing quickly, sword within sight on the floor by his side. Within a minute, he was dressed and flew out of the bathroom, sword drawn.
“Tommil!” he said, his voice somewhere between a whisper and a shout. Soren realized the fear that had built up in an instant. There were people here. The only thing which cut the silence of the manor was the wind outside buffeting the walls. The weather must have turned its direction.
“Tommil!” he said again. Quieter this time, as he walked down the stairs into the foyer. It was lit as they had left it, oil lamplight and candlelight bouncing and twisting and fighting and combining across the dark walls, given a red tone from the tapestries hung at its side. Soren heard only the wind. “Tommil?” he said, turning towards the library. There was no one there. Silence and wind. The door was open within the library, though, the locked one. Soren did not investigate beyond seeing the absence of his friend within the newly opened room. He returned to the foyer and heard a sound that was not the wind.
It was a thump. The sound was like that of a book being dropped from too high and landing square on the floor. Soren turned his head towards the source. It had come from behind the locked door in the foyer, the room holding the fireplace. The room they could not enter.
Barred doors did not matter to Soren anymore. His friend was in danger. He ran towards the door, putting his weight behind him as he kicked the seam of the door, above the locked doorknob. Wood creaked and groaned. It did not open, but it had given quarter. He kicked again, and the door flew open.
The first thing Soren saw were the eyes of the woman. They were open, yet they did not see. She was on a great wooden table at the center of the room. Her eyes were open, gazing upwards. Vacant. Dead.
“Master,” said the calm voice of the butler and Soren’s eyes came awake. He left the gaze of the dead woman, and saw all about him. The butler, stood at the rear of the room, by a tapestry which must hide another doorway. But Soren’s eyes were drawn to the center of the room. Where a man stood and where his friend lay, gagged, on a table beside the dead woman. The man loomed above the pair, as Tommil struggled against ropes binding him to the wood. This was not any man, here was the figure from the portrait in the foyer. He held a knife in his hand and his eyes met Soren’s. His mouth moved as if he were talking but Soren could not hear the words.
He held his sword forward, voice resolute as he spoke: “Release my friend.”
Out of the periphery of his view, Soren saw a pile lay next to him, away from the fireplace and away from heat. A pile of chain and cloth and more. Tommil’s was not the first body to lay on this table it seemed.
The man’s words grew louder, continuing without cessation. “Irnam, by magic of your superiors, I demand the return of a soul. By the power of Kirad and the first Tower, by the words of Ulbash the First Freed, I gift a soul in blood. I demand the Mist barter. I reject the work of the weakest of gods, Irnam! I reject you! Return this soul from the Mist!..”
Soren ignored the shouts, stepping forward. “Release my friend!” he sad once more.
“The master cannot cease what has already begun” said the butler. “I gave you a chance greater than your friend and I understand its rejection,” the butler was walking the edge of the wall. He was approaching the pile of bodies, clothed some in the drab of servants, some in the thicker wools of working people, as much as he was approaching Soren. “But I cannot abide a threat to my master.” The butler reached a long handled ax, leaning against the stone. His next words were whispered, barely loud enough for Soren to hear: “I’ve already gone so far.”
“What darkness is this?” said Soren.
“Darkness which you should not have seen,” said the butler. He approached, raising the ax with a strength unnoticed by Soren beneath the rich clothing.
“I do not intend to fight you,” said Soren. “Release my friend and we will leave.”
All the while, the master’s rambling chant continued.
Soren took a step backwards, leaving more space in front of him. He stood in the most open part of the room, his eyes quickly searched. Yes, this was the best place. He was not a fighter. The king had chosen this team to do a job. Survival was a part of that job: Explore and Survey. That was their intent. They were given weapons as a for survival, not for violence. The surveyed land was useless if they did not return the maps to the king.
He thought of none of that.
He thought of Tommil. Bound. Gagged. Trapped in the manor of a madman.
The butler took another step towards him and Soren sprung forward. The chants continued over Tommil’s muffled cries and metal clashed. Soren’s sword glanced off the metal head of the ax. The ax whirled, momentum of the blow deflected by Soren’s blade, but deftly with the strength of the butler. It fell in a semi-circle, Soren’s eyes never leaving it, or the figure holding it, and came towards him again. Soren lifted his sword, pushing out the flat of the weapon against the edge of the ax coming towards him. Metal cried out once more with the defence as Soren slid backwards. This butler was strong.
Soren was fast.
He reeled back, turning with the force of the impact he deflected and pulling the sword to his chest before thrusting the point at the butler.
It was not fast enough. The ax, quicker than any assumption Soren had of such a weapon, came towards him in an arc, so wide that there could be no turn of defence. Soren did not feel his blade slice into the man he faced. He felt only pain.
He did not know the sound of an ax hitting bone. He would not. He heard nothing as he felt only pain. For only an instant before his eyes were pulled towards the hurt, Soren saw the wide eyes of the butler. Surprised at their own pain. His sword had run through the man’s gut.
Soren looked to see the blade of the ax leave his leg as the butler fell. Red blood rushed out of the wound into the cloth of his pants and onto the floor. Soren let go of his sword with one hand to press it onto the wound. Warm fluid immediately covering the hand. Pain began to blossom as the thrill of the fight subsided. Thoughts of himself faded as shouts rose above any words Soren could keep in his mind.
The master seemed to have ignored the struggle. The butler groaned as blood and bile left his body around Soren’s sword, still inside the man. The man looming above Tommil and the dead woman stared at the ceiling, shouting the names of the gods and horrific words along with them, The knife in his hand was outstretched, blood dripping down its blade. Soren did not see who the blood had come from.
The pain in his leg did not go away, but some energy within his body let him ignore it. There were more important things than the pain of the body. He stood and realized the false hope. Blood shot from his wounded leg and it buckled from under him. He could not move in time. There was nothing he could do to cease the ritual.
The butler groaned beside him, a dying breath.
He sounded so much like Arthur.
Do all final moments in pain sound the same?
Soren would not answer his own question with the death of Tommil. He would not allow the this ritual to continue.
He could not stand, but he could pull the sword from the dying man.
“Irnam! I have given blood to bring you here. I call you from the Mist and I give a soul. I command the return of another! I-“ The shouts of the master ceased as Soren’s sword fell across his head. The blade had not slashed the man, but the hilt thudded against the his skull before metal clattered against the floor of the room and the master fell with a thud.
Blood had not ceased flowing from Soren’s wound. Pain flared up with the effort he took to move, sliding across the floor with each arm pulling him and one good boot squeaking against the red, wet, floor. He would not join the pile of bodies to rot in the corner. He would not let Tommil join them.
Hands pulled and a boot pushed as a trail of blood followed Soren crossing the floor. The master moved. Soren could see him, under the table. He lay on the floor, maybe as much surprised by the thrown blade as hurt by the blow. Soren did not have much time. The man groaned and began to stand up.
Soren crawled. He pushed himself, feeling the blood leave his body behind him, feeling thought leave his mind as the world grew unclear. The periphery of his vision clouded. The mist that the man had spoken of felt to approach.
The man who had spoken those words began to stand.
Soren’s focus was not on him. His vision tightened, pushing back the mist clouding in at its edges. The sword was not the only metal to fall.
Soren crawled and held in the grimace of pain he wished so badly to let out in anguish. His hand reached out as the master of the manor stood up.
Soren grabbed the knife the master had dropped.
With a final push of energy, Soren stood. His weight fell to the uninjured leg, but still the cut limb screamed with pain. Soren could no longer feel how much blood had soaked his pants. He had no energy for words as he threw his weight onto the man standing before him, the knife he held plunging into the master’s neck. The pair fell and air shot our of Soren’s lungs. He lay face to face with the man he had just stabbed. Words came forth coated with the choaking bubbles of blood:
“Irnam shall not hold me. Shall not hold my love.”
The master’s eyes did not close as he died.
Soren so badly wanted to close his own eyes. He wanted to relax, to fall into sleep. He wished for the mist at the edges of his vision to engulf him. Sleep would bring comfort.
A groan above him pulled Soren’s mind away from the world of death.
Soren could not stand. He tried to push his body once more, towards one final push. To leave the ground and stand over the table, to unchain his friend.
He could not.
The last thing Soren did before the mist engulfed him was reach up. He pushed as hard as he could, arm outstretched above him, still bringing pain to his leg.
He set the knife on the table above.
He hoped it was close enough for Tommil to take it.
A wolf howled beyond the walls of the manor. The sound cut through the thick walls of the room and Soren heard its cry.
The pack responded to its call.
VIII.
Outside, the wind howled, joining the calls of the wolves. Snow flew sideways. The wind threatened to hoist the heavy wooden door open, ripping it out of Tommil’s hands as he looked out at the dark night surrounding the manor. He struggled and closed the door, dropping the bar in place to lock the thing as he turned to look at his friend.
Soren slept on the floor of the foyer.
Tommil had moved quickly when the knife had been placed on the table. His bounds had been enough to stifle movement, but not so much to cease it entirely. He was not meant to have been bound for long anyway. Not with the look that the manor’s master had had in his eyes. He’d been able to move a hand to the cursed blade, coated with the blood of the man who had intended to sacrifice Tommil. He’d cut his bounds and pulled his friend out of that room as quickly as he could.
Tommil had wrapped Soren’s leg with as much cloth as he could find to stop the bleeding. It had been a smooth bleed, not coming in spurts or so red that it certainly meant death. After the pressure slowed the flow, Tommil had done the hardest thing of the evening. He left his friend on the floor of the foyer. He let him out of his sight once more in this accursed place.
When he returned from the second floor, bucket of warm water boiled in the tub, Tommil was awash with relief to see his friend lay on the floor still, chest rising and falling with tired breaths as he slept.
Tommil washed the wound in Soren’s leg and bound it in napkins from the kitchen, before stealing blankets from the bedrooms and wrapping his friend in them. The manor was growing cold in the night, but Tommil would not go back into the room filled with death to light the fireplace. His curiosity was strong, within the room he head seen shelves of books, and strange objects and trinkets strewn about – remnants of whatever magic had been attempted, but his fear of that dark power and his fear for his friend were stronger than any curiosity.
“Tommil?” came a quiet voice.
The man turned to his friend, laying on the ground.
“Sleep friend, sleep.”
“You saved me?”
“What else was I to do?” said Tommil with a smile.
“We must leave,” whispered the man on the floor. His voice sounded so tired, but there was a purpose behind it.
“We cannot with this weather and your wound.”
“We cannot stay with whatever evil was brought to this place.”
A howl outside seemed to punctuate Soren’s statement.
“It was the evil of a grieving man,” said Tommil. He walked over to his friend and sat down, back against the wall. The foyer was still lit, though candles cast shadows everywhere. “I found a diary, I think of the butler you fought. The man’s wife died and he could not abide that.”
“He thought to rip her soul from the Mist and back into her body?”
“I think so.”
“What magic could do such a thing?”
“You heard his words, speaking of the Corruptor.”
Soren nodded. They would not say the name of Kirad in these walls as the master had. Not this night.
“Tomorrow, with better weather and clear skies, we can continue our journey home,” said Tommil. “We may find our horses out in the woods.”
“Hope looks good on you, friend.” Soren did not look hopeful though. “The butler spoke of the wolves as if they were spirits of the forest.”
“He may be right,” said Tommil. “They attacked the manor only as the master shirked his duties to protect the forest.”
“Then they may not have attacked our horses once we left them behind?”
Tommil rest a hand on Soren’s shoulder and smiled. “Glad to see you can take the burden of optimism back.”
Soren laughed and winced at the movement.
“Rest, friend,” said Tommil. “Rest.”
“I’m not so tired,” said Soren, but with a grin that betrayed the lie.
“I’ll walk the manor, you rest and I’ll be prepared to find our horses when the sun brings the morn.”
Soren smiled and settled into the blankets wrapped about him, only the slightest of grimaces at the movement. Tommil watched and worried. His friend may not be able to move at all tomorrow, horses or no.
He shook his head, trying on some of the optimism his friend always carried and decided to set about his task. He’d prepare for them to leave this accursed manor and set out towards home. The word never felt so good in his mind: home. He thought of the warm Kudran sun as he left his friend to sleep.
Tommil started with the room he feared most. He looked about the gore-filled room that had been barred when they entered the manor. The master might have been proud. The visage of his locked great room now matched that of the crimson tapestries his family had chosen for the foyer. Bodies sat where they had fallen. Tommil did not think to count those piled in the corner They were not many, but what is many when looking upon death? The carnage was horrendous, but Tommil saw only the woman on the table. She had not died as a part of this. Her world may very well never have known the evil that had beset this home after her passing. The crumpled heap of the master, bloody and dead on the stone floor, sickened him. Not the death, nor the violence shown in the tableau displayed, but the actions of the man. Those made Tommil wish to wretch.
No good could come from magic. Tommil forced his gaze to leave the dead woman survey what had been hidden from them as they entered the manor. Shelves and tables filled the great room. The room had been designed for a cozy feel. Its architecture gently pressed in with a slightly domed ceiling extending from the curved walls. The floor felt a step lower than the rest of the house, and the centered fireplace would have given the space a comfortable, quiet atmosphere. That had been ruined by the addition of the items the master had brought in.
The room had become a third library, with shelves lined with books and papers, open and thrown about, marked up and bent. The research of a madman. Tommil read some of what was open and wanted to look away in disgust. They spoke of the gods in ways that Tommil had not grown up hearing. They spoke of the powers of the mountain Hlutiel and the magicks that descended upon the world ages ago and how best to harness them. They spoke of things Tommil knew in his heart were sin, things he knew the peoples of the world were not meant to trifle with.
If these books were here in the north, then where else in the empire were they being read?
Tommil left the great room and stole a bag from the pantry: canvas, still holding detritus of rotting tubers grown in the dense northern soil. He filled it with books and papers from the shelves in the great room. There would be a record of the atrocities committed here. He would return this to the king in Kudra. Something may be done and Tommil would do his part in bringing justice to this place.
His bag full, Tommil looked at the fireplace. The house was cold. He and Soren had accepted that, but he could light a fire. He could warm the place. They were not leaving tonight. Why suffer in the cold? He shook his head. Better to leave this room, to seal it and ignore it. Posterity would ask what happened here, but Tommil and Soren would not be present for the inquest.
He looked about the room once more. Dead bodies lay bloody on the ground, but one sat pristine on the table. He felt most sorry for her.
Nothing could be done for the door Soren had broken to access the room. The latch was gone, and he had splintered the wood beyond repair. Tommil closed it as best he could, a vain attempt to separate the horrible room from the manor he had explored only hours ago.
In the foyer, he could hear the wind howling amongst the wolves outside. The beasts had not stopped their calls, but they had not grown closer. Tommil stood in the foyer, listening to nothing as the sounds of the world outside washed over the silence within the walls. He looked at his friend, asleep once more in his bundle on the floor. Tommil sighed: he was so tired. He’d join his friend in rest soon.
Shaking his head and returning his mind to reality, Tommil quickly went to the secret study behind the library and removed the diary written by the butler, he added it to the books stolen from the occult shelves, left the sack by the boot cleaner in the foyer, and went to the pantry to grab what measly provisions remained in the house.
When he felt as satisfied with the preparation as his mind would allow, Tommil returned to the foyer, canvas sacks prepared by the door, and he sat down next to his friend. Tommil pulled a blanket over himself and held it close. But he did not let go of his sword, retrieved from the great room as soon as he had tended to Soren’s wounds.
Even as he fell asleep his hand held tightly to the handle of the blade.
Midnight passed.
Tommil woke to the violent scream of anger erupting from the great room.
IX.
The roar shook the walls of the manor. It came from the rooms below, the door to the stairs and the foyer was open, but were it closed, the sound would have ripped through the master bedroom just as well.
Tommil and Soren sprang awake, the latter man with a cry as the pain from his leg hit him harder than the rush of waking up in fear.
“What was that?” Soren said.
“Stay,” said Tommil, standing up with a jolt. The sword still unsheathed in his hand.
“I shall not!” Soren said, fighting to throw the blankets from him and stopping only as his leg forced him to.
“You cannot move,” said Tommil harshly. “Don’t reopen that wound.”
“What will you do?” asked Soren.
The roar answered.
“What have you done?” screamed a demonic voice from within the great room. The shout almost hurt Tommil’s ears as it rang throughout the manor.
“The master?” said Soren.
Tommil didn’t answer. He did not want to speak of the evil. He still wished to deny it was happening. This was a nightmare. This was not how life happened.
Crashing came from within the room. Things breaking. Things thrown. Sounds of splintering wood and shattering stone. Another roar bellowed from the creature behind the broken, closed doors.
As if an answer, Tommil heard Soren groan. He turned to see his friend standing, the entirety of his weight split between the uninjured leg and his shoulder pressed against the wall.
“My sword,” he said through the pain.
Tommil reached down to the floor and grabbed Soren’s blade, unsheathing it as he did so. He looked at his friend. Fear and determination and pain filled Soren’s eyes. Still, his friend’s gaze made Tommil feel better. He gave his friend the blade.
They were not alone.
They had each other now.
Tommil knew his face did not share the resolute visage of his friend. That did not matter. That is why they traveled together. His fear could be true. Soren’s as well. But he did not come here alone. Tommil would keep them alive through caution, Soren would through courage.
“We stand?” asked Tommil.
Soren grimaced with a smile. “As well as we can.”
“Same as always, then,” said Tommil, smiling despite himself. The pair turned to face the doors of the great room. The crashing within the room had suddenly ceased.
The swords in their hands reflected the dim lights that remained flickering. Many of the lamps within the foyer had since burned through their oil. The house was dark. This was not silence, but Tommil could not distinguish what the sound in the room ahead was. He took a step closer, a step away from his friend. His footfalls, leather on stone, were not without noise, but they could be quiet enough. Tommil willed them to be quiet enough.
The sound within the great room continued. Closer now, it sounded like pain. Like crying, but broken, different.
Tommil took another quiet step forward, willing himself to join the silence about the manor. He leaned close to the broken wooden door. Seeing the timber splintered at Soren’s blow hurt Tommil more than he thought it would. It reminded him of burning the wood their first night in the trees. How long ago that felt. Peeking into the room he saw darkness. What little light from the foyer that could make its way in through the damaged doorway did not light the room. The darkness seemed oppressive. It was more than dark, more than black, more than the mere absence of light. Tommil took a step back. He turned to whisper to Soren.
“DO NOT HIDE FROM ME,” growled a voice within the darkness. “LOOK UPON WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”
Tommil jumped back at the cry. He stood closer to Soren as sounds crashed from within the room ahead of the men.
“Light, Soren, get us light.”
Soren looked to protest. The sword in his hand looked ready for use once more, but he did not. He felt his leg. He knew what a liability he would be. No willpower could route the pain that already pressed in on the wound .He turned, hobbling towards the tables on either side of the entrance to the house. Tommil did not let his gaze leave the dark opening. Soren reached the candelabra sitting atop the entryway table and lit each candle. One at a time, the foyer grew slightly brighter. Tommil heard footsteps from the darkness.
“I cannot cry,” said the voice. Quieter now. “I have tried, but I cannot even bleed tears.” The broken door opened outward and a figure left the portal. Darkness seemed to follow the shape that walked towards Soren and Tommil as it left the great room. It was if a shroud surrounded the man walking towards them. The figure of the master of the manor.
“You killed her,” said the figure. “You killed her with my own blade.” It was the man, but not. Anger and death filled his eyes. Writhing hatred contained in each iris. Beneath each eye, a slit where black blood oozed down the face. It was as if no beating heart pushed the fluid out of the wounds. Gravity took the blood downward out of the slits. Tommil noticed the knife in the figure’s hand.
The figure stepped forward. One shambling step closer. He did not walk like a man. He was something else now.
“You will die,” it said laughing a mirthless laugh. A dark grin formed above the slit in the man’s neck where Soren had cut. “The spell works. The blood and the blade can return a soul from Irnam’s grasp.
“Your blood will bring her back.”
The figure sprang forward, trails of darkness following it. It moved too fast. The unnatural speed and gait were a horror of their own. Tommil could not react other than to hold forward his blade. No slash, no stab. His sword became like a pike in his panic, held forward against the evil that rushed him. The figure did not stop. It ran itself through, walking against the blade and slamming its weight and speed into Tommil.
The man and the monster fell to the floor. The figure ignoring the blade set in the center of its body. It clawed at Tommil.
Soren yelled with pain and with fear as he stabbed at the creature with his sword. The blade jerked into flesh, blunter after facing the ax, as it hit the master square in the shoulders, but there was no blood. The monster reacted only with a turn of his head and a look of pure malevolence.
Tommil used the distraction. With all of his remaining strength, fighting through the exhaustion of travel, of running, of horror, he pushed. He threw the figure off of him before rolling away.
“Out!” he cried to his friend. “Out into the cold!”
Tommil raced as Soren turned to open the barred door at the entrance of the manor. Tommil reached it before his injured friend. He lifted the bar and opened the door with a shove letting the wind carry the door open. Cold rushed in and candles flickered out.
“Give me your blade!” said Tommil as Soren limped towards the door. The man gave him a worried look. “Run. Leave me and hid in the darkness. I’ll keep the man at bay.”
“He doesn’t bleed, Tommil. What do you hope to do?”
Tommil could not answer. The monster of a man stood and charged with dark speed once more, his eyes on the door, then on his quarry. His eyes were on Soren, injured and closer. Tommil stepped forward, ducking beyond his friend as he swung his blade with everything left within him. He heard a crack as the steel struck bone in the master’s leg. No blood came forth as bone rent around steel. The man threw his arm towards Tommil and slapped him with a force Tommil felt in his entire body.
He fell to the side as he saw the master slowly walk forward, sword still stuck in his leg. Soren was gone. He’d gone outside.
***
Soren looked about the darkness beyond him. He carried a candelabra from the foyer, but the light he held only made it harder to see about him. He sheltered the flames as white snow whipped around in the cold wind. There was nowhere to go. The forest edge stood in the distance, visible in the thin light reflected off of the snow. There were the other buildings of the woodfarm behind the manor. There were options, but nothing would work. Nothing would save them. A wolf howled in the woods beyond sight. The pack responded.
He walked as fast as the pain in his leg would let him. Warm liquid ran down his calf. The wound had opened again.
A wolf howled in the night and many answered.
“Spirits of the woods,” said Soren, whispering his thoughts aloud. He took another step in the snow, another step towards the edge of the wood.
A roar erupted behind him. Soren hoped the master chased him. He hoped the monster of a man followed him into the darkness instead of hurting his friend. He wished more than anything he could help Tommil. He wanted nothing save for his friends survival. He could not lose another friend on this journey.
The snow was thick. It had piled high as it fell through the day.
Another howl came from the pack.
Soren remembered the plants around the manor, the ones Tommil thought kept the beasts at bay. He wanted to do nothing more than help his friend. All that remained for Soren was hope. He pressed forward.
A black cry came from behind him. The monster had spotted Soren and the light he carried.
Just a little further.
Finally, he reached one. A wreath of dried bulbs and leaves sat atop a wooden stake at the edge of the trees. Snow dusted the top of the herb but it had not appeared to soak into the thing. It looks strangely unaffected. Soren hoped again. He felt it within him, the wish for this to work, the yearning for his friend to survive, the nostalgia for home and for the bright light of the day.
He set the little flames of the candles to the base of the plant, and as if by magic, the wreath of dried bulbs and leaves flashed alight in an instant.
A howl in the distance, closer now.
The monster rushing towards him.
Soren turned and saw the darkness flying through the snow. It was as if there was a darker night within the air about the undead master.
“The next plant!” he cried in a whisper to himself. Trudging through the snow towards another stake holding an herb. He could not feel his feet yet still the pain of his leg radiated up his body. The mist pressed in on the edge of his vision. He wouldn’t make it to the next stake.
Before he could take another step could move, a shadow raced before him. A blur of darkness and grey leapt over the flaming plant. Another followed, then another. Soren stood still as the pack of wolves rushed past from the woods.
The monster, the man who was once the master of this woodfarm, looked up with horror as the first wolf hit him. With open jaws, it leapt towards the monster, teeth gnashing against the bloodless throat of the figure.
The monster let out a yell that was cut short as the second wolf struck. It could not make a sound as the rest of the pack continued the assault.
Snow remained white as the wolves tore the body of the monster to shreds. Soren fell beneath the burning plant, the heat of the flame a comfort to his broken body. His vision was losing focus and he could barely watch the horror before him. The wolves were relentless and the body of the monster was no more.
The assault ended. The monster was gone, lost in the flurry of snow and darkness. Over the vacant snow where a body had been, the pack was still. Their heads were down. It looked as if the beasts were mourning. Then one lifted its head, snout pointed to the clouds above. It let out a howl that rang through the clearing. The howl was louder than the screams of rage from the monster. The pack joined in. At once, all the beasts let out a singular mournful cry towards the sky. It was grief incarnate.
A cry for the death of the trees they were a part of.
Then silence.
The wolves turned towards Soren. They didn’t move, couldn’t move. The pack ignored him, walking past the burning plant and returning to the forest of the woodfarm.
The wind seemed to have calmed. The silence of a winter night approaching its end pressed in as light appeared on the edge of the treetops.
Soren had never felt so alone.
A tear began to fall, then ceased, frozen on his face as Soren saw the shape of Tommil appear in the doorway of the manor.
“He survived,” he whispered to himself with a smile.
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