"There you are, old fella," Traz said, wrapping the cloak around the unsteady, drunken man.
"Go back inside, go back inside, go back inside..." Prince Mikhail repeated like a prayer to himself.
Ilya wanted so desperately to be free of his krovbond. He would likely never understand that in some ways, the krovbond was a shield. To do the Emperor's will with no other thought, with no doubts or sentiment was much easier. You did not feel the warmth of the blood on your hands, or count the number of lives you took. There was only the pain of wanting to do the Emperor's will, or the relief of having accomplished it.
The girl obviously did not have the favor of the gods, as she wrapped a strong arm around the drunk man's shoulders and allowed him to lean against her.
"Poor old Dahlman! It's been a hard time for you, hasn't it?" she said.
"It has! It really has," The blacksmith said and began to cry.
Traz patted his shoulder as she began to lead him towards the Inn. Prince Mikhail gnashed his teeth and watched the pair without blinking. One body would have been easier to dispose of. Two was still manageable. The blacksmith was heavy, but the girl was small and lean. He could still carry both bodies in one trip.
He would have to kill the girl first, as she would be more likely to run.
"You believe me, don't you, Traz?" Dahlman, still in tears, asked and hiccuped.
"Oh, I... I... I suppose I believe... you saw something very odd and frightening in Chelblade," Traz said honestly.
"Monsters!" Dahlman insisted.
"Listen here, Dahlman, I'm looking out for you now when I say this... you can't just go around telling these stories about monsters eating children and crawling across your ceiling upside down, and speaking to you in a man's voice. Folks are starting to believe you're mad!" Traz advised.
"But it's true!" Dahlman insisted, raising his voice. "Every word of it is true!"
He stopped and shoved her arm away. When he turned to face her, he stumbled and almost pitched forward. Unseen, Mikhail scowled, impatient with the two. If only they had taken a few more steps before stopping, he would have been able to-
"You don't believe me at all!" Dahlman accused, his tears gone as his anger rose.
"Listen friend, the Pirchburg guard went out to Chelblade a few days ago, and you were right, something bad happened there indeed. They found a lot of bodies... and every single one of those bodies had sword marks on them, not claws or teeth or anything else. It was exactly as the Emperor's men reported when they came through."
"Lies! The Emperor lies!" the blacksmith roared. "He sent his men... and he sent that demon brother of his to hide the truth! He doesn't want people to know about the monsters because he feeds them! He feeds them our children! The Emperor--"
"Dahlman, STOP!" Traz yelled back. "I tried being nice, I really did, but you can't talk about the Emperor that way. If anyone hears you, you'll wind up in the dungeons for treason, and me along with you for listening!"
"Leave me alone!" the blacksmith slurred, and attempted to shove the girl away. Traz easily side-stepped the drunk. "Bunch of cowards... every... every one of ya! Cowards!"
"I tried! The gods know I've tried talking sense to you over and over, but I'm done, Dahlman. I'm done! On your own head be it! I won't have you back in the bar bothering our patrons and starting arguments any more. I'm done, you hear?!" Traz yelled back.
The girl stomped her way through the snow back to the Tavern, leaving the blacksmith to his fate.
Dahlman mumbled something unintelligible to himself, and staggered a few steps before tripping and pitching face first into a snowbank.
Mikhail sheathed his knife and frowned. He waited a moment to make sure the girl did not return, before at last slipping from the shadows and entering the street to where the blacksmith lay facedown in the snow.
The man heard his footsteps and struggled to sit up, but the Prince was too fast. With quick and practiced hands, he reached down and twisted Dahlman's head to the side, snapping his neck.
It took only a moment to clear his tracks. He did not even have to get rid of the body. When the man was eventually discovered, it would appear that he had died drunkenly of his own clumsiness.
Now, he could return quickly to Napolanva and the Princess. The image of her sleeping in his arms as he carried her into the Inn, of laying her down slowly so as not to wake her, and gently smoothing the stray hairs away from her face with one hand, immediately engulfed him. He stopped and clenched his fists. His hands... another image came to him unbidden, another woman he loved and his hands, shaking, but still wrapping around her neck. The woman closed her eyes and whispered something.
No! He would return to Napolvana, but not to the Princess. He would watch over her carefully until he could send her to Frem, but from now on, it would be best to keep his distance. He could not fight his feelings if she reached for him with her own hands again. He was too weak. He was too undisciplined.
He would also have to meet with the Emperor immediately. His messenger was already waiting at Napolvana. Ilya would take the girl and the troops home to Bludstone and there, she would be safer.
If it was a marriage contract his brother wanted to discuss, then he would agree, but he would also bargain for time. He could use the excuse of needing to investigate the rumors he'd heard in the north.
Mikhail moved through the woods silently. The citizens of Chelblade had likely all been disposed of. The Emperor would be pleased... but there would be other Chelblades-- other villages erupting in panic as the dark creatures grew ever more bold. Like rot on a tangaroot. It might look like just a spot, but when you cut the root open, the innards are putrid and runny.
Someday, his brother would reap what he'd sown. It was a shame that until that day, so many others would suffer in his stead.
Reaching his horse, Mikhail untied the line from the tree and began to lead him back toward the main road. There were too many low hanging branches to ride.
The woods were eerily silent that night. No dogs or wolves... no nighthawk or owl called to one another. Even the cold wind had died down and the branches were silent and unmoving.
It was because of that unatural quiet that he could distinguish a faint sound in the distance. It was a crunching sound, a wet chewing, bone-snapping sound that raised gooseflesh on even a monster like him. It was the sound of a predator feasting on what it had caught, of greedy sharp teeth tearing hungrily at flesh, snapping through bone to lap at the still warm and tasty marrow.
Not a wolf... not a bear...
There was no reason to investigate. It did not concern him, but he found himself turning toward the sound, moving stealthily toward the predator and its feast. He did not want to see, he did not want to confirm his suspicions, he did not want to know... and yet...
The dense forest allowed little moonlight to filter through, but he did not need it. He could hear it well enough now, and as he approached, he could smell it. The smell of death, of rotting human flesh, his constant companion for more than a decade. He knew it well.
He moved up and over a slight rise and the stench of rot and of something else... something bitter and musky hit him. He stopped and looked down.
In the hollow below, a dark creature was hunched over a small misshapen bundle. It was a being which seemed to be made entirely of shadows and teeth, with long spindly arms and legs It was so pitch black that it was hard to distinguish its form from the darkness around it, but something about it seemed spiderlike. It's teeth-- two long fangs and several rows of sharp spiky projections were the only parts of it which caught the moonlight. He could see them at a distance stained in bloody gore.
The thing continued to eat, ripping another strip of flesh from the bundle it held tightly in its arms and chewing wetly.
A man could be driven mad by seeing such a thing, the blacksmith was proof of that, but Prince Mikhail stood and watched as if in a trance. His lip curled in disgust, and his stomach turned at the stench and the sight, but he did not move.
When a small hand fell limply from the bundle, he sucked in a sharp breath, and the creature heard and looked up sharply.
Two red eyes stared into his own. The creature let out a long, threatening hiss.
Mikhail, shaken from his trance, quicky drew his sword.
The creature opened its mouth, its face contorting horribly as it moved its thin, stretched lips over the rows of sharp teeth. In a voice that seemed to gargle with the blood it had consumed, it greeted him in the old language.
"Suhbraht," it growled, and the broken, gravelly sound that followed that word sounded like it was laughing.