The hound caught Helmold’s horse by the throat.

  Its jaws clamped down, taking the hound, horse and rider tumbling to the ground in a pile. The horse squealed and kicked its hooves wildly in the air, eyes rolling around in panic as the hound tore out its throat, spraying fresh blood everywhere.

  Helmold’s head struck the dirt, and everything went dark.

  He blinked his eyes open slowly, groggily, as if waking from a long nap. The first thing he became aware of was a bloom of throbbing pain in his temple, and an even worse one in his left ankle. Either broken or else badly sprained.

  A heavy object pinned his leg down. His horse. Its carcass was still warm, but it had gone deathly still.

  “Aric?” he called out, in a quivering voice.

  No answer.

  He twisted around to examine his surroundings and winced as a sharp stab of pain radiated from his ankle. It was as if the lad and his horse had vanished into thin air, for there was no sign or sound of them anywhere. Blood trickled from a cut on his temple, from the impact that rendered him unconscious.

  He had to find Aric. But he’d have to get out from under this beast first.

  Helmold gritted his teeth and braced himself against the cold ground. He reached down, slipped his hands underneath the horse's heavy body, and then pushed up. Trying to lift the horse so he could pull his leg free.

  His arms strained with the effort. Pain shot through his ankle like a fresh blow from a hammer. He paused to catch his breath, the throbbing in his leg pulsing with his heartbeat.

  He shifted, trying a different angle, pulling his leg, the weight of the horse pressing down harder. White-hot pain flared up from his ankle and he gasped, his vision going momentarily blurry. A sheen of cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

  With a grunt, he gave one last desperate tug and his leg came free, dragging over the rough ground. The pain peaked at that same moment, and a scream tore out of his throat before he could stop it. Then he lay back, panting, his leg throbbing mercilessly. The ground beneath him was cold, the chill seeping into his bones, but the pain in his ankle held his focus, unyielding and cruel.

  It occurred to him that the hound was also absent.

  Had it caught Aric?

  He couldn’t tell by the hush of the surrounding night. It felt as if all the whole world were empty. Aric Morholt might be in another world entirely.

  Or this could all simply be a terrible dream.

  He’d like that. He’d like it very much.

  Helmold closed his eyes, took a long breath in and let it out, and then tried to stand. He made it to one knee before realizing it would not happen. His right foot would hold him, but the left exploded in even more pain the instant he tried to put any weight on it.

  So he could sit here and await help, which wouldn’t come. Or he could crawl around in search of Aric, and hope the hounds didn’t come back to him first.

  Bad choices, the both of them.

  He supposed it would be foolish to hope Ser Aerin Morholt would come down the bend right now with his four comrades in arms, bearing a golden hammer.

  Helmold dragged himself over to a nearby tree, wincing as every slight movement agitated his pulsating ankle, until he could rest his back against its trunk. For a moment he closed his eyes and took deep breaths, doing his utmost to push aside the pain and think of what to do.

  No ideas came. The pain crowded them out, insisting on itself.

  Helmold opened his eyes with resignation and noticed something that sent a fresh spike of fear into his heart.

  Aric’s dagger lay on the ground some paces away.

  He remembered the lad had drawn it and held it close. But there was no sign of Aric, or his mount, or any of his other possessions. Neither was there a blood trail, nor body parts. No signs of a struggle whatsoever, as if the earth had simply opened up and swallowed him.

  The dagger’s presence had all manner of terrible implications.

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  Nonetheless, Helmold found he couldn’t pry his gaze from it.

  His breathing quickened with fear.

  “Go ahead,” said a voice from somewhere in the darkness. “Arm yourself. Better to die fighting.”

  A wave of ice rolled down Helmold’s spine. He glanced about but saw no one. The darkness seemed unnaturally opaque.

  “What have you done with Aric?” said Helmold, his voice high and shaky.

  All was quiet for a few moments. A silence as profound as the darkness.

  Then the disembodied voice answered.

  “I had been pondering what to do with Aric Morholt for some time. There was a small part of me which counseled mercy. Aric was just a lad, after all, influenced by his absent father and his harsh uncle and cousins. Cruelty is not so difficult to understand when one perceives its source. Another part of me considered an exercise of dispassionate justice. A quick demise, or exile, or some other punishment of that kind. Such a thing would be lordly and magnanimous.”

  “But after some introspection, I found I’m not that lordly yet.”

  Helmold thought he heard water. Gentle waves lapping at the shore of a pond, perhaps.

  Then heavy footsteps.

  Something emerged from the darkness as if the darkness itself were a curtain of blank ink.

  The creature possessed the frame of a giant bear, its fur a deep crimson bordering on black, and paws that dwarfed Helmold’s head. The claws at the ends of those paws were thick, black and hooked like the talons of a bird of prey. Its tail curled upward to where it was visible from a frontal view, and it was no bear’s tail. It was the tail of a scorpion.

  Truly, this was no bear at all.

  A nest of five great serpents grew from the place a bear’s head should have been, each snake’s trunk as thick around as a strong man’s arm. But only two of the five heads were serpentine. The other three were human. The first one had long, dark hair, an oblong head, and angular features. Antlers sprouted from that head, and there was a feral gleam in his eyes as he gazed at Helmold with an unnerving eagerness.

  The other two human heads belonged to Aric and Aerin Morholt.

  Aric was crying quietly, eyes downcast, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Aerin stared off into space, dazed, mumbling gibberish words.

  Helmold’s eyes went wide. His mouth dried up, and he stopped breathing. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat anymore, but somehow he knew it was hammering against his ribs. His gaze locked onto Aerin Morholt's face and the sight shattered any lingering hope within him.

  There would be no rescue, no heroic charge to turn the tide. The ally he had counted on was gone, destroyed by the evil they fought against.

  It wasn’t fair…

  “Now I can chastise the Morholts at my leisure,” said the voice in the dark. “Perhaps even make something useful of them, in time. And by the time that transpires, I will have had my revenge in full measure.”

  “M-monster…” Helmold stammered.

  “Yes,” said Redmane.

  He walked out of the supernatural darkness next to his beast, reached out to pat its shoulder.

  “This didn’t have to be your fate. You should have stayed loyal and spared yourself. I had no quarrel with you.”

  The Magister leaned over and snatched the knife from the ground.

  “You don’t even know what you are,” said Helmold, as he fought to keep his voice steady. “You’re going to destroy everything. Consume everything. They kept you chained in that hole for a reason.”

  Redmold stared silently at Helmold for several interminable moments.

  Then he came closer, crouched down in front of the Magister.

  Helmold’s throat tightened as he swallowed, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Cold sweat broke out on his brow. He held Redmane’s gaze even though every instinct in his body fought him.

  Redmane smiled. Then his gaze shifted to Aric’s dagger.

  He grabbed hold of Helmold’s hand and pulled. Stabbing himself in the shoulder. Helmold let out a yelp of surprise as he felt the weapon punch through skin and into muscle. His gaze centered on the trickle of blood which now flowed from the wound.

  Redmane leaned in closer. So close they were nearly nose to nose.

  “I want you to imagine the life of a small, pitiful creature who cannot defend himself. He is entirely at the mercy of his jailers, and they are not merciful. No, they are cruel and ignorant. They delight in your pain. You ask the gods why? Why have I found myself in this wretched state? What have I done to deserve it?”

  Redmane drew out the knife and stabbed his own shoulder again, keeping his grip over Helmold’s hand.

  “But the gods do not answer. Nor do your torturers.”

  Stab.

  “And those few who see your terrible suffering and feel compassion must either force it down or forget they had any, for they are as powerless to stop your torturers as you are to stop them yourself.”

  Stab.

  “Impotent anger is this creature's dearest companion. He comes to understand that he lives in a world full of the cruel and the kind, the powerful and the powerless. A world where the monstrous prosper and the innocent toil beneath them, living lives of hardship and privation, only to die ignoble deaths, their vitality wasted, spent in service to the uncaring, the ungrateful, the undeserving.”

  Redmane stabbed himself again, with Aric’s knife in Helmold’s hand, and smiled.

  “Perhaps you judge me correctly, Helmold Brecht. Perhaps I shall consume it all, as I have done in prior incarnations. I have no great desire for that outcome, but you may have the right of it. The power of Kraal the Devourer was vast. And I, Redmane, may not be its equal.”

  Redmane withdrew the knife from his own chest, spun it in his hand, and slammed it into Helmold’s shoulder.

  It was one swift, brutal motion. The dagger struck so hard its point embedded into the trunk of the tree behind Helmold, effectively stapling him to it. Helmold’s cry of pain echoed through the air as he clutched the weapon’s hilt, a single tear mixing with the glistening beads of sweat all over his face.

  Redmane rose to his feet, grinned down at Helmold Brecht, and walked away from him.

  “If that should be how this ends, then perhaps it is best. Perhaps this world deserves to be consumed.”

  Helmold closed his eyes tightly, gritted his teeth and pulled the dagger free. There was another blossom of pain as blood flowed freely from the wound.

  When he opened his eyes, he wished he hadn’t.

  Five heads loomed over him. Two serpents and three men. The Morholts stared down at him with eyes full of terror at their own fate, stammering apologies, pleading for help.

  But in time, even they joined in the eating.

  PATREON