Do you know the contradictory feeling of anxious comfortability that one might feel while waiting for imminent and unavoidable peril? Like a soldier perched upon the decrepit walls of his castle, longbow resting on his shoulder, looking toward the thunderingly dark and rolling clouds in the distance, knowing they were the omen foretelling his enemies' looming onslaught. Knowing that his brothers in arms, slumped in posture and silent, have already succumbed to the undeniable reality that they would not make it through the night with their lives intact. Yet, in this turmoil, the wind would be calm, and the song of a distant wood thrush would echo throughout the tall trees that swayed gently in the slow breeze.

Similarly, a cloaked young man, newly come of age and generally unfit for anything other than book-reading, sat together with a group of slumped and silent hoodlum-types in a packed stagecoach, heading for an expansive demesne where the very earth had been cursed for almost a decade, raising the lamented innocent from their desecrated graves, who now trudged around and attacked any who had not yet joined their undead ranks. Approaching these horror-lands, this young man certainly felt like that soldier perched upon his wall, facing unavoidable peril.

Kestrel's thoughts had long since halted, and though his mind was emptied, his worries were not. It was cramped inside the coach: he had been forced to sit in the middle of the wide satin settle bench, squeezed between the hefty shoulders of two rough men, and Kestrel thought that had he met them in some back alley instead of here he'd have promptly been robbed and perhaps beaten. Thankfully, time had proven that they were in fact not planning to rob him, so it was fine for the most part, but Kestrel preferred facing forward in the direction of travel, not with his back toward it. And the further they went, the road upon which they traveled only seemed to become less well-tread, more craggy therein a bumpier ride, which meant he was no longer able to escape into the world of dreams like he had done prior, totally in spite of the fact that his eyelids kept latching together on their own, and that his neck kept giving out under the pressure of having to support his now heavy and unbalanced head.

The wheels of the coach suddenly struck against rock as they kept rolling onward: Kestrel's eyes opened halfway as his neck slowly lifted itself from its previous limp state. Every fiber in his body pleaded with him to go back to sleep, but knowing it had become a futile effort, he took off his round glasses and rubbed his strained eyes before polishing the glass with the inner part of his cloak.

Not one of these thugs had said a word since each of them had sat down inside the stagecoach, and their crossed arms or stares out the narrow windows certainly hadn't invited any idle talk. Perhaps, had they been more open and welcoming, Kestrel might have eased the passing of time along with his ever-growing anxiety via the virtue of random small talk. He had however accidentally happened to glance at their icy stares earlier, and now he thought he may not have dared speak up either way. Considering Kestrel was without a doubt the smallest person in the carriage, and weak was he too—his skin seeming to cling to bone rather than muscle—even though he now reckoned himself a man, in their presence, he unwillingly became a young boy again.

Kestrel's eyes, lest they were closed, were always latched to random specks on the floor or his shoes. This was partly because he dared not garner the attention of the others, but truth be told, he was more spooked by the windows, or rather the blackness outside. His mind conjured conceptions of frightening things looking back at him through those narrow slits. Although he knew that wouldn't have been the case, somewhere deep within his core, the more primal part of his human nature kept him instinctively from looking. The night was deep within its hour and the sun had been slumbering for longer than he felt it should have. He thought if luck may have it, dawn might soon break the horizon, but he was never that lucky.

Kestrel's head tilted sideways as he involuntarily nodded off again, but the wheels striking uneven dirt and rock caused the coach to shake left and right and jump up and down, once more waking him right out of his momentary slumber. The wheels rumbled and rumbled as they tread over dirt gravel along with the clamping of a dozen hooves in front, but the forest outside was quiet, and eerily so, as not even the creeping wind rustled the trees, nor was the moon illuminating their path.

The coachman had hollered something before, about getting close to Hedgelen, the outermost village of this accursed place, but had noted that he was going at a slower pace due to the uneven terrain or something. "Faster! Go faster," thought Kestrel at that time, but it now had already passed a good few hours, and they still had not arrived. Perhaps they were already treading upon cursed soil, and that very notion made his heart feel as if it was choking him from the inside, but within the boundaries of the coach as he were, to the contrary, Kestrel felt oddly safe, as if the doors of the stagecoach were unbreachable and the walls impenetrable. The coach shook once more as it traversed over rough gravel, but soon seemed to slither over mud or dirt: a softer material that made little noise and kept the coach steady on its path.

"What a terrible night," he thought: his first coherent thought since many hours past. He tucked his hands within his sleeves trying to warm his fingers which had grown cold during the unrelenting night.

Another man sitting opposite him by the window had his forehead planted into the dusty wooden sill, limp and snoring like a beast. Kestrel looked at the man and imagined himself in his clothing. Roughened brown cloth, stitched together by unskilled hands. His shoulders were kept warm by a heavier and dirtier cloak than Kestrel's. By his side could be seen a faint sheen, reflecting orange light from the rusty oil lamp swinging back and forth from the ceiling of the coach. It was the pommel to a handle, though, Kestrel didn't know if it was connected to a dagger or a sword. Either way, having it poking into your back must not have been particularly comfortable in these conditions.

He leaned back a little further trying to relax, but each time the terrain shifted from dirt to gravel or mud to rock, the two men beside him would sway and push him from side to side: he was trapped in between! And to top it off, he noticed that they appeared to be sleeping as well! Kestrel sighed shallowly as he hid behind his thin autumn cloak tailored for finer folk than that of his current company. He looked around once more from the inner linings of his cloak: at the sleeping hoodlums next to him, the snoring one in front, and one more hoodlum beside that one. Mercenaries, perhaps. He believed they must've been. Why else would someone travel here if it weren't for gold? Well, Kestrel wasn't traveling here for gold, so maybe they weren't mercenaries.

"These people must've lived terribly rough lives", he thought, since even in these conditions they could nod off peacefully without any apparent worry. Kestrel then once again imagined himself: this time comfortably on top of his feathered mattress back home, tucked in under his puffy duvet that always emanated a fragrance of soap and daffodils. Perhaps he could rest like this, but the almost guttural snoring that bored through the air was far too loud for Kestrel to continue immersing himself within his imagination. The fragrance of daffodils was particularly difficult to imagine as well—being surrounded by folk who hadn't seen soap let alone water for god knows how long!

The hoodlum next to the snoring man—a woman clad in boiled leathers and a pointy hat whose wide rim shaded part of her face—shoved her elbow into his ribcage, jolting him right out of his dreams back into reality.

"What's going on?" he muttered, stumbling somnolently over his words while looking around the coach before shooting his dimmed gaze out into the forest to see if he could spot something out there.

"You snore too loudly," said the hat-wearing woman. Her words were soft-spoken and husky, but seemed strained, almost as if she had no air left in her lungs.

He scoffed and leaned back, resting his hand on that shiny pommel.

"What's a woman doing coming along anyway? Trying to get yourself used?"

Kestrel could barely see them as they bickered, but he shivered upon hearing the man utter the word "used". What kind of world had he entered? For a moment, Kestrel felt lucky he'd been born a man.

"You want to know what I'd do with you?" the man said. "First, I'd start by taking off that hat of yours so I could see your eyes. I'm a romantic you see. Then, I'd take your red little mouth and shove my hard-"

The coach tilted violently and suddenly—this time clearly not from a rock—and came to a halt as the horses began neighing. Kestrel felt it. Something had pushed against them. He involuntarily looked up, making eye contact with the man before him. His wide eyes mirrored Kestrel's.

"What the fuck was that?" said one of the men next to Kestrel in a low voice.

"I don't know," said the man with the vulgar voice, drawing his dagger slowly. He crouched over to the coach door and put his hand on the handle.

"Don't!" whispered one of the men.

The vulgar man tightened his grip but did not turn the door handle.

The silence quaked, and the air seemed to grow thicker. Kestrel swallowed globules of saliva until his throat felt all dried up and stiff. Without forewarning, the coach once again was pushed by something that made it almost topple over, as if a large pine bear had tripped and fallen onto it. The carriage shook back and forth. Kestrel gripped onto his part of the bench to try and remain balanced, but the others were not so nifty, stumbling into each other. The horses neighed and squealed and in that cacophony was heard the splitting of flesh and crunching of bone. A frantic knocking on the coach door split their attention, and they could hear the coachman's strained voice yowl in panic, "open! open! open the damned door!", and the vulgar man who had kept his grip tight managed to open it and shove the coachman inside before slamming it back shut.

The gorging slurps of meat outside seemed to grow fainter.

"What's going on out there!?" cried one of the men, gripping the hilt of his sword tight and standing up.

"A b-beast! Some kind of beast!" said the coachman.

"What, like, a wolf?" asked the vulgar man.

"A beast! What kind of fucking beast makes those noises!?" said one of the men.

"Nay, you're right. That canny be no beast," said the coachman whimpering. Kestrel felt his heart sink in terror. The grim tales his grandmother had told him around the hearth, they were true after all.

"Monster," muttered Kestrel. It just came out of his mouth, he didn't even mean to say it. As soon as the word left his lips he thought he would get mocked. He always did get mocked. He tried to look away, but his eyes met with the coachman.

"Aye, lad. Monster," the coachman said, nodding his head, eyes wide as the moon.

The sloshing of blood had died down completely, though the dying neighs of a horse could still be heard. The silence got the better of Kestrel. He put his hands to his mouth as tears fogged his eyes. His lungs pushed out air yet craved for more. His breathing became hard and fast.

"Calm down boy!" said the vulgar man, but Kestrel couldn't hear him. It was as if his ears blocked all noise but his own loud breaths. He mewled as tears streamed down his tired face, but then he felt two hands clutch his cheeks softly. His chin was lifted and his eyes met the green eyes of the woman.

"Breathe, it's okay," she said calmly, stroking his cheeks. Kestrel felt his head be placed upon her shoulder. It was tough leather, but it felt softer than anything in the world. "Shh, shh."

"Cut it out, we don't have time to cater to sniveling babies," said the vulgar man but was immediately met with a sharp glare from her. "Tsk, women," he muttered.

"I don't hear it anymore, maybe it's safe to go outside," said one of the men.

"You don't wanna go outside, lad. Trust me," said the coachman. But it was true: it was very quiet. Kestrel did not think the quiet a blessing, however. That's how it began, after all, with the eerie silence of the black forest.

"Yeah, no, we gotta go outside. No horses, no carriage, no travel" said the vulgar man. He looked over to Kestrel, still in the woman's embrace. "You better start manning up, or I'm gonna make sure that thing eats you first. Got it?"

Kestrel averted his eyes. He didn't want to take advice from a man who had wanted to "use" the woman who now held him like a caring older sister.

"I'm fine, now," muttered Kestrel blushfully as he gently tore himself off of her. "Thank you."

"We should go outside," said the woman, and Kestrel's eyes grew wide. "No way," he thought. The one who had just kept him safe was now going out into the dark abyss that was the outside. Kestrel wasn't willing to part with her, but he didn't want to go out there. But yet, he wasn't going to sit alone in the carriage like some child. He was, after all, come of age—a full-grown man.

"I'll, I'll go too!" he said as he stood up.

"Good," said the vulgar man.

"No, you canny go!" said the coachman pleading.

"Shut up, old man," said the vulgar man before pushing him over. The coachman tumbled and fell onto Kestrel who barely managed to catch him with his weak arms. The vulgar man turned the handle slowly and pushed the door outward, peaking his head out. Kestrel thought the very darkness itself seemed to seep into their carriage. The man took a step out, looked around, and sheathed his dagger. He turned around with a smirk and cocked his eyebrow.

"Coast's clear everyone."

As he turned toward the horses, a dark figure sprang from the shadows and snatched his body away, out of sight. His death cry was silenced by a bloody gurgle before his bones were snapped and his flesh torn. The coachman leaped forward and slammed the door back shut.

"Dear mother, O' mother, may your love nurture us in the dark, may your warm embrace soothe our souls, as we rest upon your life's bosom. . ." he said in prayer, grinding his hands together.

"Praying's not going to save you," said the woman reaching for the lantern above them. "Do what I say and you'll live, got it?"

The two mercenaries that remained nodded in agreement, but the coachman had other ideas.

"We're doomed, you fool. Doomed!" he cried. "We canny hope to survive. You'll find your efforts come to naught. Only the mother can save us now!"

"Fine," said the woman. "The rest of you, follow my lead!"

Kestrel froze like a scarecrow on a winter field.

"You too, young man!"

"Y-yes!" said Kestrel as he drew forth his dagger.

The woman reached for the door, but as she did, a powerful paw with yellow claws like teeth broke through the thick hull of the coach. "It's not possible!" thought Kestrel. He had been told it was too sturdy for anything to break through! The gnarled, rotten paw lurched further inside the coach before tearing off a large piece of the hull. The woman ducked for cover as the outside came into view. There, for just a moment, Kestrel saw two white eyes. Dead eyes. But they quickly vanished, and shortly after the whole carriage was rammed by the thing outside, and this time it did topple over. Everyone inside heeled and hit the wall—now floor—hard. They scrambled back up and the men seemed ready to die without a fight, but there the woman shouted, "fight! fight for your lives!", and the men drew their swords and stood up. The woman drew her own weapon—a dagger—and held the still-lit lantern in her off-hand.

It was quiet for a moment, but not for long. A terrible, consecutive shriek, like the cry of some sort of cursed bird, split the air, and the whole stagecoach bent and creaked before the front of it was ripped off its hinges.

"Charge!" cried the woman, and they stormed out of the broken vehicle, but Kestrel remained. He stood holding his measly dagger with both shivering hands. He liked the idea of helping. You could even say he wanted to help. But his legs just would not move. Those three swung at the abhorrent beast, but Kestrel still didn't get a good look at it. He saw one of them be struck down into the dirt, and then the coachman saw his chance of escape and ran, but the beast lurched at him. There was a lot of blood—Kestrel didn't see this; he heard this. The coachman's wheezing cries got him moving his feet suddenly, and he began taking slow steps forward.

"Please, no!" cried the man who was still standing before the beast tore him to pieces too. Kestrel finally made his way outside the carriage. He looked at the monster almost in awe. It was a four-legged thing, rotten and dank. The back part of its body almost seemed to belong to that of a dog or a wolf, but the further forward you went, the more it grew in size. Large, tumor-like growths bulged outwards from its chest and thighs, and its lanky arms had grown long. It dragged itself around with those two paws, its hind legs doing very little of the work. Despite its unnatural and hulking shape, it moved in quick bursts of movement. Too quick. The final things Kestrel noticed were its snout that stuck outwards and sagged, its jaw that dangled loosely revealing its broken and bloody teeth, and a metal chain that seemed to have become one with its deformed neck. Now that he was standing outside, he could hear the beast gasping for air, wheezing and hacking. Was it being choked? It jerked towards the woman who was last standing. She swung her lantern in front of her while backing off, and the beast was hesitant to approach.

"It fears fire!" she cried.

"Fire!" thought Kestrel as he began digging around in his small pack. "Aha!". He took out a bottle of black liquid—lantern oil. He had brought it to make sure he never ran out of light in this dark place. But now, he was thinking of using it all.

"I have oil!" he cried, waving the bottle in the air. The woman gave him a look for split second.

"Pour it on the wagon! Now!" she commanded him. Kestrel began fumbling with the cork of the bottle, not managing to get it open as his hands had been sweating for a while. The woman took a notice of this as she swung her flame at the beast who grew more confident by the second. She quickly moved toward Kestrel and grabbed the bottle, then smashed it open on the floor of the stagecoach. The monstrous creature moved in now that it had found its chance, but reeled back when the coach blazed into hot flame. After having broken the bottle open onto the floor, she had proceeded to break the lantern on it as well, setting it aflame. Soon, the flame became a fire, and the fire became uncontrolled and wild. The creature fled back into the black forest with spastic movements, letting out a terrifying screech. The treetops they could see thanks to the light of their new bonfire swayed along the path the creature tread, and eventually, they stopped swaying. The distant screeching on the treetops turned into whispers, and soon all was quiet except for the crackling of burning wood and the groans of a man in pain.

One of the mercenaries—the man who had been beaten first—lay wounded on the ground. He managed to sit up, putting his hand to his stomach area which was colored red crimson.

"We have to get you fixed up," said the woman as she leaned down to take a closer look. "This looks bad. . ."

"Damn," said the man, coughing up a half-hearted laugh. "Couldn't you at least have said something encouraging before I die?"

"I'm sorry," said the woman who began applying pressure to the wound.

Kestrel strode up slowly and looked at the injury. It was bleeding profusely. Some pressure wasn't going to stop it now. They needed to coagulate the blood. He had learned this in his medicine classes back at the academy.

"I can save him," he said, leaning down and digging around his small pack.

"He's gone," said the woman, a gentle sorrow tinging her words.

"It's sad, but she's right. I've seen many men die. They looked just like me," said the man before smirking at the boy, but it was only to mask the pain he was feeling.

Kestrel finally found what he was looking for: gray monkshood, a medicinal flower. He squashed it in between his hands until it formed a sticky substance. "Move," he said before closing in.

"What are you doing?" said the woman.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," said Kestrel confidently. His change in demeanor took the others off guard, and they promptly let him do his thing.

"Cut his clothing open, I need to touch skin," said Kestrel to the woman, and she complied using her knife.

"We're certainly not shy here, are we?" said the man, wincing as Kestrel rubbed the contents of his hands into the wound. "Fuck, that stings," he groaned. Soon, the wound that had bled profusely only trickled, and then it formed a purple scab, hard to the touch.

"We have to bandage it," said Kestrel digging around in his supplies.

"How do you know all of this?" asked the woman suddenly.

"I," began Kestrel, busy with what he was doing. "I, uhm, studied it."

"A schoolboy? All the way out here? Gods, what has this world come to. . ." said the man. The woman assisted Kestrel with bandaging the man's stomach area, and after using up the whole roll of bandaging cloth, they were finally done.

"I feel good as new," said the man, cringing in pain.

"It'll pass as you heal," said Kestrel.

"Good to know." He sighed in relief. "Hey, thanks. I owe you my life."

Kestrel blushed. "It was nothing. I mean, like, I studied it, so for me it's easy."

"Don't owe him your life yet," said the woman as she looked down the dirt road. "We still have to get to Hedgelen."

"Let's just stay here until dawn breaks. It shouldn't be long," said the man.

"They say the night here is longer than any night. This fire might extinguish by then, and who knows when that, "thing", returns. Better to move now when we know it has fled."

"He's in no shape to move anywhere," said Kestrel.

"He'll tough it out," said the woman before turning to look at the man, cockily smiling at him.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

All that may die, should die

Prithee, my love, be by my side

Fall unto my dark bosom's lie

To me abide, my heart ever nigh

After all

Though now apart, together we died

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

End of prologue.