There’s not one, but three of them.
These aren’t wolves. They’re monsters.
The soldiers are up; swords raised. They’re wearing no armor at all, because they’ve been asleep in their bedrolls.
I count three men. Another is down; a dark, lifeless shape beside the fire.
The wolf-creatures become a blur.
One of the horses goes down with a high-pitched whinny, its large body crashing onto the snow with a heavy thud.
The others are pulling hard against their restraints, trying to get away.
It’s futile. One of the wolf-things attacks a second horse, going straight for its jugular.
Where is the coachman? Where is Janvia?
My thoughts race. I should go out there and help, but what can I do?
I have no weapons.
I’m not a warrior.
Those beasts would tear me to shreds.
Besides, I can’t even move. My entire body is paralyzed with fear.
All I can do is cower under the blankets, listening to the sounds of men screaming as they’re torn apart by monsters. I hear the terrified cries of the horses, then Janvia’s shrill scream, tapering off into nothing but…
The sickening crunch.
Of a gigantic maw clamping down on warm flesh.
The cries of the soldiers grow more desperate. I hear grunts. Hoarse, laboured breathing.
Then, finally, footsteps, crunching in the deep snow.
A man, breathing heavily, staggering, trying to run.
Go, I urge, willing him on, because although father’s soldiers treat me with disdain, that alone isn’t reason enough for me to want them dead.
But he isn’t fast enough.
There’s a rush of wind. I catch hints of the beasts’ deep, musky, scent. One of the wolf-monsters growls; a raw, primal sound that sounds almost triumphant. I see its shadow as it surges forward, running down the poor soldier.
Crunch.
He’s gone.
All of a sudden, there’s nobody left.
The horses are dead. The soldiers are dead. Janvia is dead. The coachman is dead.
It all happened so fast.
Unable to take it any more, I look away, covering my head with the blankets.
The sound of flesh being torn apart; of bones crunching…
It’s sickening.
I’m overcome with a sudden urge to throw up, but I swallow it back down, not daring to make a sound.
I don’t want to draw their attention.
Sooner or later, they’re going to sense that I’m here.
They’re going to come for me.
I can’t even get out of here, because the door is locked from the outside.
The only thing I can do is to force myself to be very, very still. I can barely breathe.
Please, go away.
I don’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.
The monsters feast on the carnage for what feels like an eternity.
But all of a sudden, they’re finished, and I hear paws padding softly around my carriage.
Encircling me.
The wolf-creatures growl menacingly.
Go away! I want to scream. Haven’t you had your fill? Do you really need to devour me, too?
Claws scratch against the door.
I poke my head out of the covers and desperately search for something I can use to defend myself, but the cabin is bare.
Maybe I can cover myself in enough layers of blankets that their sharp teeth won’t penetrate.
Don’t be silly.
There are three of them, and they’re huge, each beast about the size of two grown men.
They’ll finish me off as quickly as they finished off my entourage.
The guards, Janvia, the coachman…
They’re all dead!
I’m all alone, just short of making it to the promised refuge of Corvan Duthriss’s castle.
So close.
I was so very close.
I’m sorry, Kastel, Aderick…
There’s a loud thud as one of the cursed beasts sinks his teeth into the carriage’s wooden door.
In the moonlight, I catch sight of a pair of impossibly long and sharp bloodstained fangs as they pierce through the last line of defense.
I scuttle backwards, into the corner, trying to make myself as small as possible.
The fangs are withdrawn.
Crunch.
The damn thing bites through the door again. There’s a crack in the wood now. A few more strikes, and it will well and truly splinter.
But then another of the wolves lets out a low, reverberating growl. There’s an uptick at the end, as it turns from growl into a sort of inquisitive whine.
Almost as if it’s asking the other one a question.
The beast that’s currently trying to break down my door stops and gives off a dissatisfied grunt.
The third one snarls.
Far off in the distance, a bird chirps, its sweet, cheerful song completely at odds with the carnage all around me.
Sweet, little bird. A harbinger of the coming daylight.
Have you saved me?
To my astonishment, the monster doesn’t attack my carriage again.
I hear footsteps on snow; so soft I could be imagining them.
Then, there’s silence, punctuated only by smatterings of birdsong and the faint rush of the wind.
I don’t know how long I remain under the blankets, tensed and listening for any trace of the monster-wolves.
A crow caws. The birdsong grows louder.
The cold isn’t as bad as before.
The musk-smell of the wolves is gone, replaced with the metallic tang of blood.
At last, I summon the courage to emerge from the blankets.
I look outside, peering through blood-flecked glass.
Through the skeletal branches, dawn is breaking, painting the sky a delicate shade of lavender.
Why it look so beautiful when there are bodies strewn all across the ground?
4
CORVAN
In the early hours of the morning, I walk down the corridors in silence, enjoying the peace and quiet of my own castle; this ancient, roughly-hewn stone fortress.
Edinvar, it is called.
In the Old Language, it means Immovable Heart.
I enjoy being able to walk freely, without being stared at furtively; without being abjectly feared.
The servants are just beginning to rouse. Today is the day they get to sleep in late, because on this day, I demand nothing of them but that they rest and enjoy the day at their leisure.
It is Seinmas, the Seventh Day, when the seventh Fury, Hecoa, The Goddess of the Dead, supposedly created her Underworld and drew all the malevolent spirits into it, curing the world of its ills.
What a load of horseshit that turned out to be.
I’m still here, aren’t I?
Ill-fated spirit I may be, but I’m no tyrant.
Let the people rest.
I’m not one to demand that they dress me or prepare me meals. The Furies know… I don’t need those kinds of meals anymore.
As for the other things…
I can draw my own bath.
Keep my own chambers neat.
Shave my own chin.
Cut and braid my own cursed hair.
Because even though my demands of them are fair and honest and I pay them generously, making sure they are well clothed and fed and have comfortable lodgings, they fear me.
But considering what I’ve become, I can hardly blame them for that.
I stop at a large window, admiring the new glasswork. The artisans have followed my instructions to the letter. So they should, because they charged me to the point of bloody extortion, but I appreciate good craftsmanship, and Tyron has enough wealth to go around these days.
Set into the thick wall above the inner entrance gates, this window allows a view into the outer courtyard, where all visitors and newcomers must pass.