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Familiar Threat

Idris

I dris thrust his dagger into the abomination’s neck with a wet crunch, black blood spurting onto the muddy grass. The creature let out a low whine and slumped at his feet, defeated. Thank the Fates .

What had once been a wolverine had become grotesque with disease: gnarled black horns pushed through the top of its head, sharp bony claws protruded from its paws, and a sick red glow was fading from its eyes. This hadn’t been Idris’s most challenging kill—not by a long shot—but the creature had been vicious and stubborn, and he was glad the fight was over.

The Oath tattoo that ringed the base of Idris’s throat tingled faintly as his kill was reported to Lord Haron’s magical Oath Ledgers in Fenrir City. Fifteen years of hunting monsters, and the sensation still grated on his nerves.

Track, kill. Track, kill. His duty wore on him lately. Weariness was a sign of weakness, he knew—yet still, he chafed.

With a sigh, Idris wiped the flat of his blade on the cursed animal’s matted fur, sheathed the dagger, then rose out of his crouch, his knee joints creaking. He took in his surroundings. Broken branches and bent saplings evidenced the struggle, but otherwise, the moonlit forest was peaceful. He scented livestock in the distance, woodsmoke. The heady aroma of stew, so tantalizing he could almost taste it. What he wouldn’t give for a hot supper and an ale right about now.

Months had passed since he’d last ventured out of the wilds. As a Knight of the Order of the Valiant, he was tasked to keep the rest of the realm blissfully unaware of the existence of monsters like this one. It’s why his current proximity to civilization wasn’t a comfort, but a concern. Year by year, monsters encroached on the quaint towns of Fenrir Territory from their spawning grounds deep within the Western Wood. This cursed wolverine had been the closest yet, and that troubled Idris.

This was no time for dwelling, though.

Idris tromped across the clearing to retrieve Halgren, his greatsword, which had been wrenched out of his hand during the fight. As he slid the sword back into place at his hip, his clavicle twinged. The old scar—running from his right pectoral, over his shoulder, and across his back like a baldric—tended to ache when the weather got cold, hindering his range of motion. At thirty-five, Idris was by no means an old man, but his body was nonetheless worn.

And bleeding , he realized, staring down at his hand. The wolverine had bitten him; slimy black saliva slicked his knuckles, mingling with the ooze of blood from the puncture wound. The slobber emitted a rotten-carcass scent, mixed with a familiar cloying sweetness that turned his stomach. Curse the Fates for giving him the gift of scent magic—the reek made him want to wretch.

Careful not to get the black sludge on any clothing or gear, he wiped it on the beast’s fur as he had his dagger, then got to work on cleanup: building a fire, burning the diseased body, cauterizing his hand to keep the venom from spreading, and waiting until the only trace left of the abomination was ash. Then he dragged a few felled branches over to cover the evidence of the fire, hiked a mile south to escape the stench of burnt hair, and made camp.

After a scant supper of foraged mushrooms, Idris spread out his bedroll and laid down on his back with Halgren at his side. A lengthy sigh gusted out of him, curling into the starry night sky. The first freezes of autumn had come to these hills, hardening the ground and Idris’s tired muscles. Normally, he fell swiftly into slumber; while he’d wake at the slightest sound of movement in the underbrush, his body knew the benefit of rest. It was a skill he’d honed after years spent roaming the wilderness—but tonight, sleep evaded him.

It was the damned wound: aching as if it’d already festered. Idris sat up, peeled back the crude bandage, and inspected his skin in the pale glow of the gibbous moon. In spite of his efforts, the veins in the back of his hand had already turned black.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, and swiftly packed up his bedroll.

While it was unfortunate that the monster had ventured so close to civilization, tonight, Idris was glad. He hoped the nearby town was big enough to have a proper apothecary—one who wouldn’t mind being woken in the middle of the night for some antiseptic and a healing tincture.

One who wouldn’t ask too many questions.