Farox bloodsnow's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Farox tracked the wounded monster from the pass. Blood dotted the frost in a thin line. The trail did not run toward the village. It ran sideways, up a ridge of broken stone. One monster was not the threat. The den was. If more waited there, no trader would ever use his road. He followed the blood to find the nest and end it. The trail led to a ruined watchtower. Its stone walls had split with age. Weeds grew from the cracks, and the top was broken open to the sky. Farox crouched behind a fallen block. His owl dropped to his shoulder, pale talons gripping tight. She stared at the dark doorway and clicked low. He drew the rusty sword. Inside, the smell hit him first. Rot and old blood. In the center of the floor sat a heap of frozen bones, streaked dark, scraps of meat still clinging. Deer bones. And longer bones that were not deer. Against the far wall slumped a dead man in torn gear, a cloak rotted to rags, a knife still at his belt. An explorer. Someone who had tried this pass before Farox and never left it. The owl screamed. Farox spun. A tall gaunt shape unfolded from the shadow of the stairs. Grey skin stretched over ribs. White eyes, no color in them. Its mouth opened on rows of needle teeth. This was no pack hunter. This was what the pack had served. It lunged, claws out, faster than its thin body should allow. Farox took the first swipe on his shield. The blow rang up his arm and numbed it. He stabbed low. The sword skidded off hard grey flesh. The creature raked his shoulder, and warm blood ran down his chest. He stumbled back against the bone pile and nearly fell. The owl dove at its face. The creature flinched and swatted at the bird. That was the moment. Farox drove forward with his whole weight behind the shield. He pinned the thing against the broken wall. Loose stones gave way behind it. He pushed harder, shoulder to iron-banded wood, legs driving like he had driven the leaning tree. The creature shrieked. Its own clawed foot slipped on bone. Farox raised the sword and brought it down on the exposed throat. Grey blood sprayed. The thing shuddered and went still. Farox dropped to his knees, breathing hard. The den was clear. No pack remained, only this one dead master and the bones of those it had hunted. His road was safe from the monsters of the pass. But he looked at the frozen bones again. The owl landed and pulled a strip of cloth from the pile. A scrap of a map, inked by hand, marked with a route he did not recognize. Someone had charted a different path to the coast. Farox folded the scrap into his belt. He was not the first to try this road. He needed to learn why the last one had failed. After Farox regained his composure it was time to head back home to make sure all was set in place before setting off.