FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

There he was, floating amid a vast universe bereft of light and substance. It could not even be considered darkness — that was what people ‘see’ behind their shut eyelids.

It stretched endless, but it was not empty — his being filled the void, wafting like an autumn leaf, as if dreaming, but nothing could be further from reality. He could not dream, none of his kind could, that illusion of the mind had been long stripped from their nature.

So what was it? Did someone conjure his tainted soul and confine it inside an insubstantial receptacle? Summoners held possession of many unfathomable, loathsome rituals, so it was a possibility.

Thy living hath thy gift of thy Nedere.

A whistle reached his nonexistent ears, a feeble and ghostly voice that had no origin or discernible gender.

Gift pertains to Nonlife.

The disembodied, dimly conscious being grew bemused. What were those words trying to say? What was the meaning?

Break thy gaol. Bringan freedom.

But how? The discarnate entity was immersed in a sempiternal slumber. He had already forgotten how the flow of time felt. Why did the voice, authoritative despite its enervated aura, pressure him to interfere with the physical world when the mere action of moving a finger was impossible?

*Thy living hath thy gift of thy Nedere. *

Gift pertains to Nonlife.

Break thy gaol. Bringan freedom.

The voice chinkled, the wraithlike mantra shaking the very soul of the helpless heeder. The tone was not severe, but the bodiless entity could not bring himself to ignore the words. He needed to obey. He needed to bestir himself.

The formless spirit stirred, the void flicking by his abstract movements, all while the chant rang across the endless landscape.

While the phantom entity struggled to break through his forced hibernation, more words joined the chant. These vocalizations felt more earthly, more mundane. Those were echoes of the past, the memories of the living.

The long-gone expressions related events that transpired in streets, showcasing humans clad in keen metal, bearers of weapons capable of great destruction, and individuals calling upon the forces of nature to blast rock and flesh alike.

Voices came and went, but only one tone of voice remained consistent, one that belonged to a man with hair dark as coal.

He and many who had stood beside him commented about a peculiar weapon, a blade responsible for shutting down the echoes of many. The weapon exuded an aura black as obsidian, glowing with highlights that mirrored the liquid that ran inside the veins of the living.

The sword was named Dalavut, and the man with coal-colored hair was its current wielder.

*Thy living hath thy gift of thy Nedere. *

————————————————————————————————————————————————

The woods were silent. The only noises echoing across them were the snow crunching by the steps of boots and padded, canine feet.

Not even the wind whistled, and without its flow, the leaves did not vibrate and thus generated no rustle. Even the animals shut their song; hoots, howls, honks — all hushed into profound silence, as if the whole Frostscape held its breath.

Marek Blakesley paid no mind to the clues — as far as he was concerned, utter silence was his ally, a latent alarm that would give away any reckless attacker hiding in the shadows.

But that could not be said of his nonhuman partner. Sigrid’s eyes and ears were darting, catching sounds that only existed in corners of her mind, wings tightening against her sides, tail practically between her legs.

She was distressed.

“You worry too much, Sig. This place is dead as a doornail,” Marek said, trying and failing to ease Sigrid.

The she-monster snapped at the man located three feet ahead of her. “‘Dead as a doornail’?” She said, unfamiliar with that combination of words, but quickly shook her puzzlement out and focused on the uncertainty of their situation. “If it is a ‘doornail’, why keep your ax in your hand?”

“I nearly always keep a weapon in my grasp, even in bed. Have you not noticed?”

But Sigrid did not bother to answer that question, her head going back to twirl around, and given her ability to twist her neck like an owl, she looked like a broken compass. “They are not singing… I can not even hear bugs beneath the ground or inside the trees.”

“Sorry that I can’t explain what is happening here, Sig. But it was this or the manticores,” Marek glanced over his shoulder at Sigrid. “If you want, try flying over the forest and wait for me on the other side. Don’t think the two-headed monster could detect you that high.”

“No. No. No,” she stridently turned down the idea. “I am not going to leave you alone in this terrible place.” She rubbed her hands and glimpsed at the nocturnal sky, the northern lights and stars barely visible with the intimidating pines around, twisting branches eating out the little bright available. “Perhaps… perhaps Sig— I could carry you with my talons and soar through the air.”

“Not a chance.”

“I know you said you did not want to be pulled by a female, but… please, Marc. There must be something bad with these pinewoods…”

Marek sighed, weary of Sigrid’s paranoiac behavior. “We are two hours into walking. We must be midway through this grim park’s exit, yet nothing appeared. We are near the end. Just try to get the sting out—”

A beat thumped, the unusually eerie noise causing Marek to halt his talk. He remained attentive to that sound; perhaps he just stomped on something that made that weird noise.

One minute passed, and the beat resonated again. Is that coming from me? He raised his hand and pressed it against his chest to check the rhythm of his heart. Maybe this place did unnerve me after all. However, his chest pounded as usual.

The tempo increased as they advanced, and now he began to feel unsettled. He stopped in his tracks, and when Sigrid noticed, she caught up with the man, she imitated, asking: “What is the matter, Marc?”

“Are you feeling good, Sig? You aren’t panicked, right?” He inquired, not necessarily out of concern.

“Er-I… these pines give me the shivers, but I am good,” she fluttered her neck fluff. “N-no need to worry, I’m not that—”

“So is your heart pounding normally?” He interrupted her. “Do you hear a beating sound?”

Sigrid tilted her head and cooed, wondering what Marek was into. Regardless, she did not retort and closed her eyes and waved her ears in all directions. She scanned the surroundings for ten or so seconds, then opened her eyes. “No, nothing I have not heard during the last two hours.” She moved her taloned hand upwards and laid it on her breast. “Heart feels… well… slightly more nippy than usual… but nothing alarming.”

Marek pressed his lips tight. The beating did nothing but grow in cadence. The fighter’s eyes drifted around, trying to spot the minimal hint of something out of the ordinary. But dead pines were the only thing he could witness.

“You feel it too, right? Its nastiness, ” Sigrid articulated, but the words did not reach Marek, his senses too focused on a fantasmal hunch.

“Let’s keep moving,” the cloaked man turned ahead and marched. Sigrid regarded the man for some seconds but said nothing and followed him.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

The imaginary heartbeats kept hammering Marek’s mind for the minutes that continued, the ghostly pulsation now as frantic as his own beating organ.

The human had missed the instance when he increased his pace, trotting instead of walking, his mind too busy localizing a menace that very well might not exist, his hand beneath his cloak tipping on his longsword’s hilt the whole time.

His heightened eyesight only captured the form of his troubled, monstrous partner along the snow-clogged canopy of an empty and tuneless forest, now denser with haze. How extensive can this forest be? he practically growled, clenched jaws keeping his paranoid thoughts from escaping his throat.

So much was his inner turbulence that Marek overlooked the moment he got out of the woods. However, a bark from behind brought him up to his senses.

“Marc!”

Marek blinked into clearness and turned to the source of the shout. The constant misty cloud in front of his mouth gave away his panting.

“You have to stop,” she scooted to his location, her voice now reduced to a murmur, “you do not know what lies ahead.”

Sure I know: an outlet of this trepidatious place. That is what Marek was about to say when he finally decided to scrutinize his surroundings. It was a village, one abandoned long ago and left for nature to take.

It looked like Võshla, with some huts halfway buried in the dirt, but other buildings stood up to two stories in height — such structures were not residential, however, as no rooms seemed to be accommodated inside. The pillars were made of stone, but the hard material was not cut; instead, the limestone was stacked up and pressed against each other, with a few of these monoliths connected by five-foot-tall walls erected using the same architecture method.

Without the towering pines, snowflakes waned around and silently made up the layer of snow over the land, their trajectory mostly undisturbed because of the lack of wind.

“What place is this? Doesn’t seem to have been destroyed by the wyrm,” Marek mouthed as he surveyed the odd architecture with both caution and awe.

Sigrid’s eyes winced, but she composed rapidly. “D-do not know… Marc, please, let us move from here,” she pleaded.

For once, Marek was not going to argue back. “I vehemently agree.” The man swiveled with such haste that his cloak whipped the air.

The duo trotted, their vigilant eyes darting at the different shacks they walked past. Some stone buildings were dismantled, not in the violent, wrecked sense; it was more like they took the rocks that worked as foundations, and, with time, the monolith crumbled apart.

In one instance, Marek glimpsed a hut whose entrance was missing and caught up with something leathery. Curiosity seized his mind for a mere second, and he approached the hut. His sight lingered enough to discern that the pulpy was a human carcass, well preserved because of the cold.

Marek arched his upper lip and backed off, but a snapping sound made his shoulders skip, the man twirling around, ax in hand, ready to face whatever caused the sound. To his relief, it was Sigrid; she had stepped onto something noisy.

“Sorry,” she whispered. The owl-wolfess drew back her feet, but by doing that, she uncovered what hid below the snow — a frostbitten arm, remnants of skin still attached to the bone. Sigrid, being the untameable bird of prey she was, showed no fear or startlement. Neither did Marek, who caught up with his companion.

“A lost roamer. Nothing new. Let’s keep up.” Without a reason to linger about one or two corpses, both continued with their silent escape from the village. The deserted town was not particularly huge, and the party of two already neared the natural border.

But before catching sight of the woods, which, needless to say, Marek started to miss, they witnessed a looming building unlike any other in the village, the last obstacle between ghastly abandonment and exit.

Uncut stone made up its layout, shaped like a truncated pyramid, square base and all, albeit with a scraggy, arched top, eight-foot-tall pilasters on its four corners. The structure stood over a paved ground, with small stairs leading to its entrance — some jumbled gates created by nailing different planks together. The structure was more than twenty feet tall, but Marek suspected part of it was hiding underground.

The curious edifice resembled a temple to Marek, a chapel, but not a symbol of any god, known or unknown, embellished the outside. Was it an altar for the Spirits? Some forsaken God? Why did Marek care?

The man did not count the seconds he stood gawking at that unsophisticated yet outstanding temple-like structure; he even forgot about the imaginary beatings during his viewing. He shook his head and advanced. However, when Marek was about to round the chapel, he noticed that only his steps thudded, and Sigrid stayed behind.

“Sig? Don’t s—” The human’s face frowned, and his lips parted when he saw the she-chimera latching her sight on the village behind, her mane bristled, her eyes widened, and her posture crouched. She issued a growl.

Marek followed her gaze, ax firm within the confines of his hard grip. For the first time, Marek heard something besides noise coming from Sigrid, him, or the damned pulsations. A third crunching sound joined the village’s death whistle.

It was a human silhouette, not particularly tall. It looked ill-fed, with pale gray skin and clothes torn into tatters. Is that…? Marek shrunk his eyes into slits, forcing his eyesight so he could tell what exactly he was staring at.

Sigrid continued with her sibilant warning and expanded her folded wings in an attempt to scare off the potential attacker. But the newcomer disregarded the threats, completely dark orbs piercing through the silent night and meeting the gleaming, azure-colored eyes of the she-monster.

“Is that…” the human murmured. The humanoid entity flexed his fingers, crackling like twigs, his teeth bare and serrated like a rusty saw. “That thing is…” Sigrid stooped low, tail lashing the air, ready to pounce at any moment. “It’s the same corpse I saw inside the hut.”

As soon as Marek exhaled these words, the entity ahead released a high-pitched roar and rushed forward. At the same time, Sigrid came up with her own battle cry, an earsplitting shriek, and strode directly at the assailant.

There were over thirty yards between the two inhuman entities, a second barely passing when the two collided, a rising strike connecting with the midsection of the walking carcass, avian knives sinking into its flesh, and lifting the humanoid from the ground. In normal circumstances, that attack would have marked the end of an encounter, but the corpse did not fold — it did not even issue a cry of pain.

The underfed creature’s claws nicked the chimera’s arms, drawing red points on her scales. But whether that hurt Sigrid, she did not show it. She withdrew her right talons, keen nails swishing out of the opponent’s guts and causing bowels to unravel out of the body, Sigrid now pretending to lash out at the head.

Despite the grotesque wound, no river of blood flooded out of him — that creature was practically drained of vital juices.

A scaly arm lunged toward the bony head, but slender arms intercepted the attack, taking a groan out of Sigrid. Against his starving build, the creature possessed inhuman strength and blocked the she-monster’s attack.

“Sig!” Marek broke off from his trance and dashed ahead to help Sigrid.

But help was not necessary. Sigrid was merely taken aback by the individual’s formidable resistance, but she continued being the superior monster. She stopped pushing claws to the head and instead grasped at the thin arm, stretching it to the side. With one arm buried in the monster’s insides and another locking a limb out of the way, the owl-wolfess had only one bladed weapon available — her beak.

Sigrid snapped, rigid and sharp scissors tearing the flesh at the neck of the cadaver-like entity. The flesh squelched, and the bone cracked, Sigrid not bothering to hold the strength of her bite back. The monster struggled for a bit, legs kicking about, left arm now scratching at the avian’s neck, tearing a few chunks of fur.

When Sigrid noticed that gouging the neck of the monster was not enough, she violently jolted her head. In one swift jerk, the head of the humanoid monster ended up separating from his shoulders, the flesh screeching like birch bark.

Marek arrived only to see a head plunging into the snow. The fight had been too quick for him to do anything meaningful.

The corpse went back to his intended state: dead stiff. Sigrid removed her left arm from his stomach and, with the other arm, flung the headless body against a wall.

“Bwarg! Ewrg! Bad taste! Awful!” Sigrid wailed, spitting dark-red, near-liquefied tissue, arms frantically wiping her beak. “Nasty! Spoiled! Get it out!”

“Sigrid, calm down.” Marek stood in front of his partner, trying to appease her. “It is dead. The monster is dead. Try to be silent.”

The owl girl gagged more before lowering her head and brushing her beak with the snow. “Gw— that tasted horrible.”

“What did you expect? That was a corpse.”

“A corpse? Corpses are not supposed to move !” She said, disgust weighing her eyelids half-closed.

“That was an undead. A ghoul, if I have to guess.”

“G-ghool?”

There was no time for explanations as Marek and Sigrid heard the faint crunch of snow. Their eyes darted around and found more walking corpses approaching. They came from the buried shacks, appearing from corners, and others crawled through the walls and ceilings of the stone structures, spider-like.

Marek did not number the dead, but this was a unique situation — they were almost twenty. Males and females, young and old, the undead manifested in several shapes and forms. In life, Marek concluded, these rotten creatures used to be residents of this hamlet.

“I telled you to not go into this nasty place,” Sigrid uttered, squatting down.

“Excuse me, the expert , and everyone fucking else, missed to mention there were zombies in this part of the Frostscape,” Marek remarked.

Sigrid growled, but no rebuke came out of her.

“You tested their strength. You think we can defeat them all?” Marek asked, eyes never leaving the horde surrounding them.

One claw touched her neck, where the undead scored a gash. There was no blood, but the attack tore superficial skin. “Claws are strong; wolves would not cause me this much damage. The last one might have been stronger than greys, but their hide is tender,” she peeked at the disemboweled ghoul. “They are hard to kill. They care not about shredded guts. But I think we—”

A ruthless crackle reverberated across the village, the booming sound drawing the eyes of the two travelers to its source: the stone chapel. A second eruption whacked, and that snobby, wooden gate splintered, pieces landing in an arc twenty feet in front of the entry.

Marek and Sigrid gaped at the temple, a hole leading to mordant darkness contrasting with the pale grey of the rock. No, it was not pure blackness — a pair of golden points shone from within. Somehow, these two sources of light turned the scenery even more sinister.

The ghostly lights hovered out of the gravelly maw, looking like will-o’-wisps. The yellow dots showed up in the dim, nocturnal light, exposing themself as a pair of eyes attached to an emaciated head. He was another undead, but his appearance differed from the other ghouls.

Hair long and greasy, black like cinder, his skin showcasing gray magenta, reminiscent of a withered rose. His upper body, fat-free but with defined muscles, was exposed to the arctic air, a ripped, black kit the only garment that concealed his modesty, assuming he still had any left.

The new undead stood still on the rocky floor with his head tilted up, golden irises concentrated in the twilight. His sight looked distant, as if what he saw was no longer how it once was. Next, he lowered his face and gazed down at the snow-white monster, a gesture that Sigrid rejected with a growl.

The very atmosphere spelled conflict, and Marek stealthily drew a dirk from his belt.

The threatening noise that came from the avian entity had no effect on the undead, and now his eyes slowly shifted to the human, the supernatural look generating a shiver in the fighter. Similar to what the she-monster did, Marek twisted his upper lip and groaned.

“Thy Gift of Nedere,” the monster spoke, his voice firm like laws on stone and smooth like wine, defying his withered and dried throat. It was like his voice did not emanate from him. “Thou whom my help callest—”

A swash cut the air, and a missile hustled directly at the talking cadaver. The metallic projectile might as well be a speeding bolt, and few individuals had the attuned reflexes to dodge it without foreseeing the hand motion.

The corpse stayed in the spot, not dodging the dirk, but the throwing weapon missed the mark, a bone-like hand snatching the piece of metal amid the air.

“Go back to your grave, zombie.” The words of the human were harsh and bold, but after witnessing that sleight of hand feat from the cadaver, Marek strained not to give away his astonishment.

After glimpsing at the piece of metal, the creature addressed the man who tried to kill him, “Bad-mannered. But how much soever thou art, it cometh unsurprisingly,” the undead tossed the dagger to the rock. “At length, thou hast always been a roisterer. Is that not true, sellsword ?”

“Huh?” Marek grimaced. Did he… no, a coincidence. A human this far into the Frostscape is most likely a sellsword.

“No need to take my words like a lee. I know who thou art, sellsword. Or shalt I say, Marek Blakesley?”

Sigrid barked, and Marek drew his ebony-red sword, two magical blades forming an X at the level of his chest. Every stranger who uttered Marek’s surname without his consent was subsequently deemed a foe.

“Thine anger and confusion art well-warranted, sellsword,” the undead continued, bothered in the least by the hostile display of the invaders. “How could a being like myself, who hath risen from thy grave, know thine name?”

“Someone in hell told you about me, I presume,” Marek growled through his teeth.

“My soul, soever evolved it mayst be, hath never left this plane. Thine name came to me in my slumber,” Marek narrowed his eyes and frowned. The garrulous corpse raised his hand and pointed at the human ahead. “Thy Gift of Nedere. Thy spade, whose mettle is as red as blood and as black as obsidian, betold thee. Dalavut, that is its name.”

Marek’s mouth went dry, and his jaw went slack. Every second that monster kept talking, the situation seemed to worsen. He knew his name, his old profession, and his weapon’s name. And everything because his longsword told him so?

The warrior looked at his partner from the corner of his eye. She was all bristled — her mane, tail, and even her wings were almost prickly. Such an awful situation.

“I solicit thee to give thy spade back. Its tree was not made for living hands.”

Marek had to take a fleeting beat to decrypt the undead’s words as he was unfamiliar with the dialect spoken. “Aren’t your thin, sharp fingers good enough to sever flesh?”

The undead clicked his teeth. Having the time to observe the enemy more deeply, Marek realized the corpse lacked lips, and since its yellow eyes had not blinked once, there were reasons to believe lips were also absent. “My claws art deathly, and they have failed me never. But I do not seek the spade to only cleave through flesh and bone… I needed it to ascend .”

“Yeah. That sounds incredibly not wicked,” Marek deadpanned. “Let me guess, kill everything that crawls over the land?”

“I plan to bring thy Nedere back to Gebaten. To twist life and break the limitation of thy flesh. I plan to turn thy earthly plane into thy land that the Nederian Princes had coveted, as they had planned ages ago.”

The chimera barked once again, leaning forward, hardly controlling herself. The undead glanced at her in disapproval. “Keep thine wanton at bay. Its wailing is starting to buzz my ears.”

But Marek paid no attention to the last words; he was mulling over the statement emitted by the undead, eyes widened like plates. He composed, his eyes once again shrinking and his mouth snarling hatefully. “You… you were part of the Undead Overlords,” the undead stared back at the human. “The damned armies that tormented us for decades until Seolvor itself intervened.” For the first time, the creature showed some discomfort, hissing at the mention of the god’s name. “You are no ghoul… You are—”

“A vampyre. Indeed. And not a paltry lesser, mind thee. Back when my kind walked on this plane, I was an individual of great countenance.” The monster composed and moved one leg ahead, extended his right arm into the air while moving the left to his chest, all while acting in a fancy way. He was making a classy bow, face pointing at the hard floor. “I am thy Eleventh Lieutenant under the command of Lord Azej, thy Profaned Youth,” he raised his head, eyes shining proudly. “ *Madakai Striigori, * that is my name.”

The metaphoric leash snapped, and Sigrid burst into attack, shrieking beastly and wings impelling her with eminent speed, snow blowing up and splashing Marek.

“Caud-pie.” Madakai uttered, and the entire horde of ghouls began their assault.

Marek tried to reach Sigrid, but failed — she no longer had ears for coherent words.

Two ghouls charged at the tackling chimera, but they utterly failed to slow her down. The ghoul to her right took a lashing wing, whereas the one on the left took a talon. The two were flung aside like grains after a wheat head got pounded, one of them even losing one of his arms.

When Sigrid reached the foot of the chapel, she used her wings to leap in one go against the vampire. With her speed and strength, the crash should have hustled the thin undead back to the pitch-black maw of the temple, but the surprises were plentiful that night. When the collision happened, the vampire backtracked no more than six feet, his bare feet pressing against the rocky platform, shattering the floor beneath, hands grasping both avian arms.

Madakai stopped a monster that could easily brawl with a polar bear, and he did not even grunt.

The vampire shouted a sharp breath, no fog coming out of his mouth. “Haggar beast.” Hisses were the only response to that remark.

“Sig!” Marek’s words failed to reach Sigrid; the she-chimera was too far and angry to hear any non-violent language. Now, he was left alone amidst a rotten platoon. And they were not focused at all on the feathery monster — their hollow eyes were engrossed in the human with the cursed sword.

“Crap!” Marek barely got to defend against the overwhelming rain of knife-like nails, parrying and eluding the incoming attacks, some of which leaked through his defense or struck his cloak. The fighter twirled on his heel, and both weapons cut through the file of enemies, their fingers and other chunks of tissues flying through the air like hail.

But just as Sigrid commented, they felt no agony. Lacerations were ineffective. Lost fingers were a nuisance as lost claws were easily replaced by stumps of bones. No form of damage short of severing limbs and cutting heads would make them flinch or halt.

It would hurt Marek to admit it, but he needed to withdraw before the number of enemies increased.

Clenching his teeth, Marek crouched low and swung at the legs, causing ghouls to crumble to the ground and giving him a gap to escape. Even knocked down, mutilated ghouls persisted in their rakes, claws stretched at the man. Boot stomps put their decayed head into eating dirt and snow, and Marek got out of the trap of fangs and nails.

Or so he thought, a tug from his cloak reminding him of his plummeting state of affairs. He turned back, ready to cut clean the arm hooked on his cloak, but when the fighter glanced behind, a hand equipped with natural knives lashed out at his head. Beheading was avoided, but three red lines were drawn on his face by a female ghoul.

Bitch. He sliced back with Dalavut, achieving what the ghoul could not: beheading. With the first death with Dalavut scored, Marek expected the blood surge to arise and to get rid of pain and wounds. Sigrid was close, and it was a risk, but he was running out of options.

But the surge never came. The incision that burned on his face was not alleviated.

The spade, whose mettle is as red as blood and as black as obsidian, betold thee.

Its tree was not made for living hands.

Marek’s grip hardened on the longsword, knuckles going white inside the gloves. Is this cursed thing against me? Marek thought, alarmed and frustrated.

With no time to hang up on the sword’s real motives, Marek continued to scramble away from his restless attackers. He noticed that a few thralls abandoned the insistent harassment and swirled back to the temple. They were going to aid Madakai in killing Sigrid.

Groaning, Marek sidestepped and zigzagged, avoiding cuts by scarce hairs, until he found a place where he could lie his back against a wall, a spot beside a buried shack whose entrance was blocked by rocks. For the next stressful moments, Marek swung both weapons, drawing curves in the air, repelling the undead horde like they were a swarm of bats. Despite everything, he was not free of damage, and one or two strikes would pierce his defense and smack an arm or a leg, bonelike nails nicking his skin.

Occasionally, Marek would try to glance at the battle in the rock dome. Both Sigrid and Madakai left the even ground and flew at the uneven top of the temple, more and more ghouls joining to take down the owl-wolfess.

Marek analyzed the situation and concluded that the more ghoul renounced harassing him, the more defensive the attackers became. Madakai’s plan consisted of taking the she-monster down, who apparently was too much for the vampire to handle, to then go for the lone human wielding the ‘Gift of Nedere.’

The maggot-headed bastards are keeping me at bay while they kill Sigrid. I need to get out of here—

A weight plunged over his back, and Marek fell to one knee, the sword impaling in the soil to stop his face from kissing the ground — a ghoul had pounced from behind the rampart, taking him by surprise. Pointed fangs pinched his neck, but the manticore hide fulfilled its role, and no blood spilled.

The remaining horde wasted no time and rushed at the human, ready to tear him to shreds and retrieve the sword. Marek needed to get on the stick the next instant or get devoured like a cat in the middle of a pack of hounds.

A desperate dart of his eyes revealed an outlet for his problem: a gap with access to the hut at his right. It was an antique egress window, but it was wide enough for his body to access. On the spot, Marek struggled to stand, unsheathing Dalavut from the ground. Then, out of nowhere, he threw the accursed item directly at the window, a faint clank signaling the sword making contact with the floor.

For the first time since the nightmare began, the ghouls hesitated, their empty eyes tracing the arc of the tossed item. Yeah, you want the damned sword, not me. What are you waiting for?

As if reading his mind, the troop of putrid creatures shifted from the human to the thrown blade, which gave Marek the necessary time to counterattack.

First, the monster clinging to his back, barely caring about the man he was attacking a second ago, caught an ax with his head. Second, Marek rushed toward the window, slicing two legs during the trajectory. And third, the fighter executed a slide, flat against the soil, toward the window, not without slashing the groin of a couple of monsters.

Ghouls crumbled either legless or footless, creating a meat barricade that clogged the window as soon as Marek scurried into the shack. The cloaked man dropped into the dark room, not missing a beat in turning to the window where a group of undead fought with the narrow space and other inert zombies to slip inside.

Marek found a table and kicked it to the spot below the entrance; he got over the wood and started to chop ghouls. The mutilated bodies began to stack up in the middle of the access, and in a matter of seconds, the reckless attack ceased.

The human stood panting, heart pounding strong in his ribcage — one heart, in fact: with the entire battle, he forgot about the illusory beating and when its unnerving throb disappeared. He got his repose, but the battle was far from over. He killed — overkilled — two or three pairs of ghouls and mutilated others, but about a dozen were still active. Active and ready to murder Sigrid.

Time favors the immortals. They could keep Marek trapped in the shack after Sigrid was dispatched, a moment by which they would take their sweet time to tear him apart.

“Not a fat chance.” Marek turned back and retrieved his sword from the obscured room, the unreal palpitation returning to his head in the act. So, it is the sword. It beats in the presence of the undead. Dismissing the secrets of Dalavut for the time being, he unhung the mocha-colored textiles from his back and untied the knots, willingly unveiling the item for the first time since he came across the Frostscape.

This device, a rectangular length of bright gray metal, was a complex mechanism, with several alloyed pieces meticulously crafted and assembled. It was a gift from the nation Marek had served just after his guild was forcefully dismantled. He was saving this weapon for the wyrm: it was his secret weapon. Besides, it was not very good against individual, small targets.

Nonetheless, its might was the bane of crowds. And these zombies had busted Marek’s hump for enough time.

A clank signaled the end of Marek loading the device with the projectile. “Now, to get out of here…”

Meanwhile, outside the hole amassed with a fleshy mess, the ghouls dared not blink as they watched. They had orders to keep the human at bay while their master got rid of the winged manticore. Once their lord had his hands free, he could join the rest of the horde and put an end to the unworthy wielder of Dalavut.

A thud echoed, and the pile of gory remains crumbled inside, leaving the access clear. The group of ghouls, five without counting those who can only crawl, showed no reaction to the sudden noise, empty eyes staring at the darkness within the buried shack.

Two seconds and all the undead around witnessed a silvery bright — one spinning rapidly at the head of one of the monsters, splitting her skull in two; the weapon stopped only upon stabbing into a rampart. This time, the zombies reacted, rushing to the window, but their visit had been foreseen by two missiles that impaled their eyeholes, one blade for each zombie.

The next projectile weighed seven hundred and seventeen pounds and was wrapped in scaly and furry hides. It was Marek, Dalavut in one hand and metal rod in the other.

“You bunch of maggotsnack. Want the fucking sword? Then take it through your heads!” The ghouls hissed and charged at the prone man. But rising to his feet was a trivial matter, and in no time, Marek was ready to stand against the remaining four undead.

Madakai might have peeked into his life, but he was not omniscient; otherwise, he would not have underestimated the ex-sellsword. He has heard that vampires used to be prideful and arrogant. It was pleasant to confirm that the fact remained truthful after many centuries.

The four ghouls did not stand a chance. One by one, they succumbed to his blade, the rod of assembled metal working as a second weapon, its weight enough to crack the skull and make them recoil. It was also an excellent shield, the item screeching when it parried the claws of the assailants.

Two beheadings and three legs cut clear later, Marek was free to advance at the temple ahead, the numb ghoul forced to crawl futilely behind the human; their chance to catch up with the fighter and the sword was now remote.

It took Marek scarce seconds to pinpoint Madakai and Sigrid, both still in front of the gray frustum, the latter beset by several zombies, all pinning her down to the ground. And with the vampire lieutenant standing in one piece, it was evident she was about to lose the battle.

Damn it all! I should have listened to Sig. She may not know that zombies plagued this awful place, but she knew it was dangerous. You, Blakesley, are damn stupid!

With no time to reproach himself, Marek ran as fast as he could, sheathing Dalavut and retrieving Iousterard from the rocks.

“I hope Sigrid wasn’t in the wrong when she said she was resistant to flames,” He panted. “She would need that inhuman endurance if she wants to get out of here with most of her body uncharred.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————

Utter disbelief.

So far, the creatures she had faced across the Frostscape had relied on their size to stand against her. Polar bears, Terror Sickle, trolls, and even Gruhulla — the bigger, the mightier. Only she was the exception to that unspoken rule. Only she was the anomaly.

“Haggar beast.”

But right now, she witnessed how that absolute law of the wilderness crumbled apart. There, in front of her, stood someone who looked like he had suffered undernourishment for seasons, whose stomach was so tight that it could not contain functional organs, with his thin claws digging into her arms.

And despite everything, that ostensibly broken man, barely taller than Marek, stopped her rash charge. Her shrunk, blue eyes crashed against the vampire’s, a pair of rings of molten gold in the middle of a sea of pitch.

“Be-se a vampyre’s might, firk.” Madakai rocked and twisted his upper body, lifting Sigrid from the rock platform and flailing her body against the edge of the temple’s entrance as if she were a dusty eiderdown. The stone cracked, tiny pebbles flew around, and Sigrid let out a yelp.

Her feathery body dropped to the floor, the shock causing her wings and arms to tremble. She was about to stand, but a set of thorns punctured her left shoulder and forced her onto the flagstone with a bang.

With the monster pinned to the ground, the vampire prepared to impale his right hand at the chimera’s head, fingers pressed together to form the point of a spear. The limb lashed out, but a set of talons seized the arm, barely preventing the razor-sharp limb from piercing her collarbone.

“Else-when, curiosity would have forced me to keep thee alive, but thy Gift it is unbeer.” The undead spread his jaw, keen fangs glistering like polished stone despite his demi-deceased state. He edged closer to the fuzzy neck of the monster, ready to drain the blood out of her body.

The only thing he got to taste was a plumed limb as one of Sigrid’s wings sprang directly to Madakai’s face.

“You… You nasty thing! ” The chimera boomed a shriek overflowing with indignation, far from defeated. By flapping her wings, Sigrid found the impulse to recover her footing, the hook on her shoulder doing little to stop her.

Ignoring the burning sensation on her upper arm, Sigrid unleashed an onslaught — claws, pecks, and wings lashing out with lavish savagery.

Madakai released his piercing grab, needing an additional arm to defend against the raging she-monster. The lieutenant’s movements were like nothing Sigrid had witnessed: every time he leaned aside, ducked, or sidestepped, a faint image of the undead followed as though he left an imaginary, former self where he used to stand — a literal blur. Similarly, his pendulous head depicted gilt lines in the air, a trail of gold left by his vivid, unblinking eyes.

Gashes started to carve the body of the vampire, his swift eluding insufficient to escape from the onslaught. Vampires were beyond physical harm, but they could not afford injuries that would impair their maneuvers. In no time, Madakai fumbled, and a fan of white feathers struck his right, throwing the almost weightless body out of the granite platform, a brutal avian creature trailing behind.

Both anomalies shifted the arena from cold, hard stone to chilly, soft slush — and in this case, it was Sigrid’s turn to press the enemy down.

The floor mutated into a cloud of dust and hoarfrost as both nonhumans traded strikes. Natural weaponry sliced the air, astray slashes cutting the soil and pulverizing dirt. Sigrid’s size put her at a disadvantage, taking more hits of the two, but her unnaturally hard hide shielded her from injurious damage.

On the other hand, Madakai’s speed helped him to elude crushing attacks, Sigrid only getting to cut and peck air, dirt, and the light from his irises; likewise, his condition as undead disregarded wounds that would otherwise be enfeebling to living beings. Nevertheless, the lieutenant was in obvious peril — the owl-wolfess was undeniably too much for his withered body to bear.

When the rigid muzzle’s aim turned true and drove forward his head, a skinny arm was needed to stop the vampire’s skull and brain from being gored open. Sigrid snarled and barked, her nostrils flaring and leaking with dirt and blood, a consequence of her missed attacks. “Wlatful wanton.” Madakai spat up, seeping disgust through his fangs.

What an irony.

Too engaged in her battle was Sigrid that she failed to notice a weight on her back puncturing her body. In a matter of a second, the sensation augmented — first, a meddlesome sting; second, an intense biting.

The horde of ghouls beset her.

Sigrid shook her body and extended her wings, flinging those clinging to her backside. But the ghouls were more stubborn than wolves, and their teeth and nails did not stop at nicking her silky form, peeling off a handful of her outstanding remiges.

Forced to untighten her pinning over the undead master, Sigrid used one talon to brush aside the invaders and her beak to poke their faces, juiceless pieces of flesh flung in all directions. She could not avoid their putrid, scentless blood from flowing through her throat, the poor owl monster battling not to throw up amidst the struggle.

Madakai seized the distraction and tried to slip from Sigrid’s lock — he should not be wasting his time battling a pest when the human hoarded the Gift of Nedere.

A pressure coiling on his leg shattered his immediate desires.

“Filthish wanton. Art thou eager to die for mere cattle?” His only response was a scratching snarl. “So be it.”

Madakai was about to join his slaves in their raid, but Sigrid had other plans — she expanded her wings with storm-like strength, swiping the mutilated zombies through the snow, and snapped at the vampire. Rathidic fingers found her ribs and thigh, the scant difficulty in bypassing the monster’s defenses puzzling the lieutenant.

In haste, Sigrid sank her talons into the back of the vampire; afterward, she levered her wings, and, in a swift movement, her feathery limbs flapped downward, propelling both creatures into the air and blowing an ample amount of slush into the surroundings.

This was the first time Sigrid soared in the sky with a sizable, ‘living’ weight under her arms. The vampire was surprisingly dainty, but with his superhuman strength, Sigrid could very well be lifting an ox. Aware she could not be in the air for long, the she-monster tried to pinpoint a place where she and Madakai could brawl without intervention.

She chose the temple’s rocky top.

“Take thine hands off me, firk.” Madakai battled in the sky, his restricted attacks drawing red, superficial lines across the she-chimera’s body. When that did not work, stretched gnashers thrust right above her breast, red liquid streaming down the wound, Sigrid stifling a pained shriek — the ache was beak-clenching compared to the extension of the injury, feeling as if seething water was flowing out of the wound.

Anguish made Sigrid lose control of her ability to fly, and she and her unwilling passenger crashed against the granite-made, jagged crest of the chapel, an audible crack resonating throughout the ghost village.

The impact left her stunned for a couple of eyeblinks, but Sigrid recovered fast, eyes breaking in search of her cold enemy. She got to spot Marek tens of yards away, his back against a wall and facing ten or so ghouls.

Realization came to her as a flash, her instincts seizing her mind over when she detected the undead of blazing eyes for the first time. She neglected Marek. Her ward. Her friend.

Stoopid. Stoopid, Sigrid! You did it again!

Peddles rolled out, and the noise made Sigrid rapidly gyrate her head at the source of the noise.

“What a good wanton thou art,” the vampire spoke, not crackling a bit despite his injuries, his left shoulder now twisted unnaturally. “Segregating me away from thine arch.”

Even if she understood what the vampire said, she would not give him the benefit of dialogue — he only got a disdainful shrill in return.

Madakai stopped and started to trail his tongue through his lips, the muscle moisturized despite his dried-up physique, licking the chimeric blood into his depths. “Interesting smatch. I have not savored such spicy liquid during my centuries walking these lands.”

His right hand reached his deformed joint, and with one steady jerk, the shoulder cracked and went back to its natural position. “Notwithstanding, dadless art thine efforts. Both of thee must bend the knee. Thy Shard of thy Princes will find a worthy master, and thy Nedere will return to reign it all.”

“ Cold one! ” She shrieked and dashed forward, her enemy welcoming her with bared claws.

Sigrid lost track of her surroundings; the only important thing in the world was those gilt orbs hovering and blurring around, and the importance of extinguishing their gleaming.

Madakai played defensively this time, knowing he could not defeat the chimera in one-to-one combat with his current physical condition. So he stood enough until his thralls crept up the top of his improvised slumber chamber.

For the second time that night, Sigrid found herself surrounded by undead forces, the height of the stone structure failing to keep the horde away. The zombies crawled like spiders, nails from both hands and feet clicking against the rocky layout.

Meat squelched, bone snapped, and Sigrid’s stomach tightened as her beak unwillingly chunked and swallowed rotten tissue. Despite her efforts, her smooth frame started to accumulate injuries — unimportant at first, but as the skirmish continued, her body began to burn and ache, and red stained one-fifth of her white, natural coat.

Her endeavor was outstanding, but even pain eroded the most powerful entities of the Frostscape — a weakness that her enemy was freed from.

Claws reaching her canine heel marked the beginning of her downfall — literally, as after that, she stumbled, and Madakai wasted no time and tackled the avian monster out of his abode. Sigrid rolled out the ceiling, and a couple of zombies joined her in the fall while others waited hungrily at the base of the building.

The mass of undead pinned Sigrid the moment she hit the ground, restraining her movements like an ant troop would restrain a cricket. Only seven ghouls stood relatively unharmed, with others crawling almost limbless, but with Sigrid’s burning sensation, she failed to break the grapple immediately.

A silhouette landed six yards in front of her, the body making the least of noises when his feet touched the flagstone as if the creature were as heavy as a pigeon.

“Dadless. Did I not warn thee?”

Madakai approached his harassed target, his hand once again shaped like the head of a sword. He shrank his posture, preparing to spear toward the monster who had done nothing but meddle with his goal.

Right before propelling ahead, the vampire caught sight of the gleam of a blade, along with a cloaked man holding it high in the air. The magical ax flew out from the man’s hand, and the lieutenant halted, dropping his attack to adapt a defense — but the spinning projectile was not looking for him; instead, the silvery weapon flung at Sigrid’s way, right above her pinned silhouette, and the whirling ax sliced three harassing ghouls.

The cloaked human knelt in the middle of the corpse-filled path between the walls, a curious metallic rod held by his two hands, with the rear end supported against his shoulder.

“Take cover, Sig! Out of the rock!”

Sigrid, with three fewer cadavers pressing her to the ground, did not think twice and leaped out of the square base, the remaining ghouls failing to give her a halt.

The chimera did not end her flight when thunder boomed out of Marek’s device.

The human’s body recoiled, and a projectile escaped from the end of the metallic rod, a cylindrical piece gyrating with such a speed that no human or beastly eye could detect it.

Way faster than Marek’s dirk throw, swifter than a crossbow’s bolt, the missile closed the distance in no time, the emotionless visage of Madakai barely taking a glimpse of the tiny pipe when this one bolted above his ringed irises.

Dalavut’s images of Marek’s past were mostly vague. Madakai’s knowledge about the fighter’s life was superficial and not at all detailed. However, he saw pictures of weapons of immeasurable destruction, inventions comparable to arcane spells, capable of reducing wood to ashes, blowing stone into shrapnel, and puncturing layers of metal as if they were clay.

Cognition came to the vampire lieutenant, but for his misfortune, it came at the same time the missile struck the wall of his chamber, right above the gaping entrance.

There was a muted ting of metal crashing against rock. A hundredth of a second later, the very sound of the roaring skies reverberated, and hell unleashed from the flying container.

Sigrid barely got to touch the natural soil when a shockwave jolted her body forward, a wave of fire following shortly after.

No reaction came from the ghouls beneath, the blast tearing their skin and the subsequent flames burning their flesh. Not even their bones got out intact.

The force of the conflagration was such that the foundations of the chapel collapsed, tons of rocks crumbled, boulders bounced around and flung through the air, and arrow-fast peddlers darted across the snow.

Sigrid would have taken more damage if it were not for Marek shooting right above the entrance. And talking about Sigrid, the explosion blasted her away from the temple, partly helping her dodge the fire and the speeding rocks.

It might appear the eruption lasted several seconds, but since the projectile tipped the wall and the village fell into silence once again, only seven seconds passed.

The looming structure was wrecked. The ghouls scattered into chunks of burned meat. Madakai was nowhere to be seen. When the catastrophic event reached its climax, the wind returned to the region, albeit feeble, with dust clouds now joining the dancing snowflakes.

With no delay, Marek dropped his rifle and rushed to assist Sigrid. “Sig! Sig!” He approached the lying white body, a few of her beautiful feathers blackened because of the fire, blood spots fouling her wintery fur, and a trail of vivid blood leaking down from a gaping wound close to her breast. “Sig! Wake up!” He restlessly shook her body, mentally praying that the explosion had not killed her.

This is my fault. She told me not to come here. But I was reckless. It’s always recklessness. Me and my fucking foolheaded and selfish doings!

A timid cheep came out from Sigrid, telling Marek she was alive. Thank Seolvor. Marek sighed in utter relief, but he panted regardless, anxious.

Her eyelids quivered open, revealing the steely blue of her mirrory irises, shining as a torch in the middle of the gloom. “Marc…” she coughed, soot pouring out of her beak. “W-what… what was…”

“Forgive me, Sig. I— I should have listened to you.” His eyes were half-closed, and his face was pained. “This place… was cursed all along. The explosion… I had no choice… I needed to get rid of that… that bloodsucker!”

“Marc…” Sigrid whispered, slowly lifting her upper body high. “Do not— it is alright, Marc. It was I who left you behind. I am the one to bla—”

“No, that is bullshit and you know it! I— my selfishness almost got you dead!” He bellowed, the frustrated cry making Sigrid jerk her ears back. He remained kneeling on the snow for a brief moment, his ragged breath barely diminishing, his sight unfocused.

A touch on his shoulder made his body skip and his face rise, brown eyes connecting with silvermist orbs. “Easy. Easy, Marc. Hasty hoomans commit mistakes.” Marek blinked. “Your friends are out there, fighting manticores alone. Your burden is heavy, Marc. Yes, I should be more persuasive, but that is my fault. Do not be harsh with yourself.”

Marek was about to say anything, but the words died in his throat, his mouth freezing halfway open. He could not believe Sigrid. How naïve could she be?

She was taking comfort in a lie. She was fine dying for a lie.

Nonsense — Marek could not care less about the manticores. He could not care less about delusional volunteers. All this travesty of a journey had been planned by him. For his sake! And his partner was not even aware of that.

Marek clenched his teeth, rage sizzling in his stomach. Why did you put me in this mess, Imbi?

He wanted to say something, was about to cry out all the lies, Imbi’s and his.

A radiance reached his eyes from below, and he glanced at it — Iousterard just returned to his grasp.

“Wonderful blade,” a sweet voice remarked, and Marek’s eyes rose to stare at Sigrid. “It always goes back to you. Me thinks— I think it is loyal to you.” She cast a smile, her face just as radiant despite the char and the blood.

I deserve no loyalty.

He huffed and stood to his feet. “Let’s get out of this fucking place. I had enough of this damned forest.” He said harshly, no longer concerned about breaking one of Imbi’s rules. “Going to eradicate any ghoul that may still be ‘alive,’ then I need to retrieve my—”

Something cut Marek off from his talk, something ghostly. Not a noise or a smell, but a feeling boring into him like daggers. His hunch drew his sight to what lay beyond the wreckage, and there, at the woods’ boundary, two yellow dots shone maliciously.

It was too far for Marek to discern accurately the entity behind the woods, only details observable being limited to the will-o’-wisp orbs and trails of smoke. He was hurt, there was no doubt, but considering his otherworldly nature, that might not mean anything. Marek heard a mute hiss, fangs flashing white in the darkness, after which the golden circlets of eyes disappeared in the arctic gloom and, with them, that unnerving hunch.

Sigrid grunted as she stood and followed Marek’s gaze. “He lives…”

Marek did not listen to his companion, too frustrated at himself to catch her words. Then, he clicked his tongue.

I should’ve pushed my luck with manticores.