Chapter Nineteen: The Boy who Stood his Ground

  The quiet of the forest surrounded Selriph’s senses. The chirp of crickets in the low grass around him. In front of him was Hagan, who kept a steady pace as he held up a lantern, the only source of light to navigate the darkened foliage. His steps were light but sure, each one whispering through the underbrush.

  Selriph felt apprehensive. His rational senses screamed at him: the surrounding darkness was like a constant reminder of the dangers of travelling at night. Accompanying that, he could not shake the feeling of being watched, perhaps by predators who were keeping their distance from the light, perhaps a figment of his imagination.

  He had to make sure his arcane senses flared. He’d checked again and again—nothing followed. Yet something felt wrong.

  “Are you sure we will make it back by midnight?” His voice shook, uncertain.

  Hagan glanced his way; the shadowed light of the lantern played across his face. “We should make it in good time,” he replied, his voice hardly louder than the rustle of vegetation beneath their feet. “The moon will be full tonight. Our way should be clear. But keep your wits about you. Might run into more of those wandering husks. Moonlight won’t be upon us yet.”

  Wandering husks. Mindless vessels that once were men—bandits, highwaymen, and unfortunate souls. Emmett had saved Selriph when he had run into them two days prior, when his mind was a hurricane. Selriph did not want to think of the foul magic at play that caused them to turn into such things. All he wanted was the warm, solid comfort of the lodge.

  Their journey continued in silence. The gnarled branches twisted overhead, interlocking to blot out the stars and the twin light of Threxia and Ralclune, in their third quarter and waxing gibbous, respectively. The usual peace of the woods felt muffled behind something, a subtle disturbance that felt alive.

  Selriph’s breath caught as he felt a subtle shift in the surrounding air. Pressure mounted, or rather, the pressure had arrived; it had been there, gnawing at him since they had come into the woods, subtle and almost unnoticeable to his senses. It was there. It wasn’t mere nerves. A wrongness, decay, something foreign.

  He slowed his pace, his eyes struggling to see in the darkness of the woods. His hands drifted to the estoc at his side. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in his senses beyond the physical.

  What came upon them was like a foul piece of damp, puffed–up wool. It wasn’t natural; the ambient energies in the forest twisted–bent around something unnatural.

  “Hagan…” Selriph murmured, voice taut. “I feel something. It’s—”

  “I feel it too,” Hagan interrupted, his hand immediately going to the hilt of his curved blade. His posture stiffened, eyes scanning the treeline. “Seen this before, whatever it is. It’s coming from there,” as he pointed northwards to the thick brush.

  Selriph turned and caught it. Movement between the trees–like a flicker of shadow, but real.

  “Stay close,” Hagan said, voice low. “We might have to fight our way out.”

  A sickly dark-purple mist crept from the soil. It curled around the foliage, curled around roots, and leaves wilted in its wake. Then, from the darkened woods, a hooded figure emerged—its robes tattered and reeking of rot. A purple glow from where the eyes would be was faintly visible under the hood.

  “Greetings, travellers,” it rasped.

  Selriph said nothing. Instead, he observed in silence, focused on reading the intent of the figure. Although all he could read was the menacing stride as it approached.

  The grin widened, impossibly so, as if the creature could taste his unease. “I feel your scent, young one. Been tracking you… a soft candle in this world of decay….”

  The tendrils of mist slithered around the figure; It was humanoid, no doubt–until he noticed the shuffling of limbs beside him. Dozens of them.

  Selriph’s voice cut through the rising tension. “Hagan… what is this…?”

  The older man’s expression tightened. “The one behind the husks,” Hagan muttered. “And likely the rot in these woods. Whispering Coven filth.”

  As if on cue, the limbs rose from the ground. From beneath him and behind him, humanoid figures sluggishly emerged from the darkness of the woods, clad in leather armour, rags, some barely clothed. The flesh was stiff, a pinkish-grey colour. Their eyes glowed with the same sickly purple.

  “Your handiwork?” Selriph called out, voice sharp. “The roaming husks? Blackened patches of forest?”

  A voice full of amusement issued from The dark figure as he chuckled. “You almost sound accusatory!”

  Selriph raised a single word of query carried into the woods. “Why?”

  The dark figure tilted his head. “We merely seek to restore this land to its true state.”

  True state? How can there be anything true about this?

  The figure’s glowing eyes twitched with curiosity. “Ah, there is much you don’t know. Even I didn’t. Not until the truth touched me.”, as he gestured, his movements crooked and unnatural.

  The raised corpses—bodies of fallen bandits and other unfortunate souls edged forward with his gesture. They shuffled, moving to circle the pair. Hagan’s grip on his sickle tightened, every muscle tensed.

  Selriph’s eyes darted around; Eight of them were closing in slowly. He drew his estoc in a smooth motion, its steel gleaming against the light of Hagan’s lantern. Arcane energy flickered in his free hand.

  The Dark Figure’s minions lunged forward—and Selriph met them head-on, his estoc as silver blue in deadly arcs, fire roaring from his offhand.

  Hagan moved like a drawn bow let loose.

  He stepped towards the nearest raised corpse, his curved blade swinging in a tight, efficient arc. The sickle’s tip found purchase under the creature’s chin with a wet crack as it tore clean through. As it crumpled to the ground, another closed from his left–he swung counterclockwise, the hook slicing low as it met tendon and bone, tearing through the creature’s left arm. It collapsed to the ground, and Hagan yanked his blade free from its ribcage with a sickening crunch.

  “Break left,” he barked, eyes flicking toward a gap he was carving through.

  Selriph surged forward, his estoc cleaving through a third reanimated corpse. The blade pierced through a ribcage like a carving fork through tender meat. With a pivot of his foot, he tore through bone in a slicing motion just as he extended his offhand and unleashed a fire bolt–searing orange flame that slammed into a mid-lunging corpse to his left, exploding on impact and tearing through its torso. It stumbled back from the kinetic force of the blast, then collapsed, flesh and bones charred.

  The two of them attempted to make a break through the small gap they created. Just as they were about to break free, a blast of purple magic struck near Hagan’s feet, sending him stumbling as the ground around the impact blackened with decay.

  From the shadows, the dark figure watched with cruel amusement. “Foolish,” he rasped. “Escape is futile…”

  More corpses emerged, the broken bodies of the ones they had defeated clicking and grinding as they began to fold back upright, their bodies willed into motion by the foul purple energies trailing from the figure standing behind. His fingers twitched with casual malice.

  Hagan didn’t flinch. “Keep pressing forward!” he barked. “We don’t let him trap us!” he regained his footing and whirled to re-engage.

  “Trying to!” Selriph snapped, parrying a clawed hand that reached too close, then slicing it clean off with a follow-up slash. He sidestepped a lunging corpse, and in its stumbled shuffle, fired a bolt of lightning, scorching across its back, ripping through flesh as it dropped to the floor. The scent of burnt flesh filled the air.

  “Keep up, lad!” Hagan growled as he moved beside him with grim efficiency, his sickle flashing in quick, deadly arcs, dismembering and dismantling with hardened precision.

  Selriph matched him, pushing fire and steel ahead in a rhythmic display. Each one buying space. The pair moved as one, a coordinated dance of steel and flame.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The Dark Figure didn’t follow—only watched. Its hooded head tilted, unreadable.

  “Keep going!” Hagan barked. “Once we are through, don’t turn back!”

  They broke through the last line—Selriph drove his estoc through a corpse’s chest while Hagan took its legs from behind—and then they were in the open, running.

  Selriph ran forward, Hagan in close step behind him. Selriph could feel another surge of magical energy, and the ground beneath them started to unravel, dark purple energy writhing, bidding the vines and branches that attempted to catch their feet. Behind them, the mass of bodies surged forward in pursuit, moving with an unnatural speed spurred on by magical energy from the Dark Figure.

  Unbeknownst to him, Hagan had not fully avoided the previous blast to his feet; He was running with a slight limp, barely avoiding the blackened branches. However, it didn’t take long for one to catch his stride, causing him to fall onto the forest floor. Hard.

  “Selriph!” Hagan shouted. His legs were now caught in gnarled, blackened vines.

  Selriph skidded to a halt, turning just in time to see Hagan with a reanimated bandit looming just over Hagan. Before Hagan could turn to defend himself, its claws tore into his back; the Woodsman cried out in agony.

  Without thinking, Selriph summoned a crackling orb of lightning into his left palm. He raised his arm, focused his breath, and fired at the reanimated bandit. It impacted the main body. The orb held shape as the force of the impact sent it flying back into the main body of pursuing corpses before electrified purple sparks tore through the ranks, knocking a handful of corpses off their feet.

  Then he was at Hagan’s side, yanking him up by the arm. Hagan grunted in pain, trying to gain his footing as he tested his leg.

  Behind him, the corpses were reorganising in a lethargic, haphazard shuffle of flesh; the figure was strolling casually as he forced the broken corpses back upright with his magic.

  Selriph looked up at the woodsman. Noticing his injured and slightly blackened leg. “Are you alright? We need to keep moving!

  “I… I can’t, boy,” he muttered. “Gonna only slow you down.” Blood soaked through the back of his tunic.

  “Run, boy. Save yourself! He cannot get both of us.”

  “What?” Selriph snapped. “You can’t be serious–”

  Hagan lunged forward before Selriph could finish his protest, meeting the oncoming mass of broken bodies with his sickle. The adrenaline fueled his focus, and he tore through flesh and bone once more.

  Hagan shouted. “I can’t hold them all forever, go! I will manage somehow.” The urgency was evident in his voice.

  But Selriph didn’t move—not yet. He looked down the path, then at the treeline. He could run. If he left now, he could then head east, out of the forest, well before this madman could catch up with him.

  Hagan had permitted him to run.

  That was logical. After all, all that mattered was placing distance between him and the capital.

  It guaranteed survival. Choosing to stay meant fighting. A risk, that both of them could fall to the mass of flesh. Their fate was spelt out in front of them: reanimated as mindless husks.

  The choice was straightforward.

  No obligation to a foolish prison break.

  But now…

  Selriph looked again at Hagan—bloodied, teeth gritted, but holding the line.

  Inconceivably, he took a step forward, and then another.

  Then the boy planted his feet as he stowed away his estoc, the cool night air rushing into his lungs, a bracing signal of his audacious choice.

  Fire burst into one palm, lightning into the other. No restraint. No holding back.

  He hurled both spells forward in tandem, the twin bolts spiralling outward like vengeful serpents. The flames roared, devouring three corpses in an instant to the left of Hagan. The lightning tore through a cluster of reassembling flesh, scattering it like brittle glass.

  Hagan turned to look at a boy standing with his two hands outstretched, each hand brimming with flame and sparks.

  Selriph said flatly, “You deal with the big one; I’ll handle his toys.”

  The Dark Figure snarled, his amusement melting into fury. “Impressive! But outnumbered, you still are.” Another gesture, another wave of darkened mist. More corpses rose, assembling from any bodies that could still walk.

  Without hesitation, Hagan drove forward, muscles coiled with fury, cutting through the shambling dead like a blade through rot. The Dark Figure loomed just ahead—almost within reach—when he suddenly raised both arms, dark energy spiralling skyward, a spell on the cusp of release.

  Selriph saw it—a telltale flicker of blue light, the beginnings of a casting gesture, accompanied by a low hum. Hagan was just out of reach, his sickle embedded in the bone and flesh of a corpse. The woodsman desperately struggled to free it, the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air.

  The thing is going to….!

  “Hagan! His arms! Quick!” Selriph shouted.

  Selriph drew the estoc in one fluid motion, moonlight dancing along its steel. With a sharp breath and a shout, he hurled it at the woodsman.

  The blade spun end-over-end through the smoky night, a streak of silver tearing through the haze.

  Hagan’s eyes widened. He turned—just in time. His hand shot out, despite the onslaught of flesh and the sting of pain in his body. He caught the weapon by the hilt with a grunt of effort.

  It settled in his palm as if it belonged there.

  The Dark Figure’s head snapped toward him. “Fool, you cannot—”

  The words never finished as two streaking bolts of flame and lightning screamed from Selriph’s palm, hammering into the roiling darkness the figure had summoned, splintering the spell and forcing him to stumble back.

  That was enough to give the opening the woodsman needed.

  Hagan charged, boots pounding the forest floor. Barely avoiding the lunges, two more from the now thinned-out horde.

  With a precise, brutal arc, he swung the gleaming estoc.

  The Dark Figure twisted to raise a spell—but the blade found flesh first.

  The cut was clean, as though wrought by a perfectly honed butcher’s implement.

  His arm—his casting arm—flew free from his shoulder in a spray of blood. With a wet thud, the severed limb hit the earth.

  A howl escaped the Dark Figure. The sound was raw and hollow, primal, almost beast-like.

  “You dare… You DARE—!” he shrieked, staggering back, clutching his ruined stump. His eyes blazed with corrupted energy, his withered creatures now in full light, contorted with hatred and fear. “You insignificant beast!”

  He slammed his remaining palm to the ground. Necrotic energy burst outward like a shockwave, curling into every fallen corpse. Bones twitched. Hands clawed at the earth, the fallen poised to rise again.

  “Finish him, Hagan!” Selriph called, already channelling more magical energy.

  Selriph’s fingers danced through the air like a conductor. Each movement birthed bolt, orbs, and streaks. Flashes of orange-red and purple streaked in every direction, each bolt guided in a coordinated barrage of movements.

  The projectiles flew through the air, twisted between the undergrowth and trees. They struck limbs and torso. Each corpse fell on impact.

  Meanwhile, Hagan moved like a man possessed. The sound of crackling bone came as he finally pried the sickle free from the stirring corpse behind him.

  Hagan charged at the figure as he flung the sickle at the puppet master, poised to cleave through his frail body.

  The figure flung its remaining hand up in a protective gesture, and a barrier of dark purple formed in a haze.

  He raised his sickle and made contact just as the necromantic barrier shimmered to life.

  The barrier shattered from the impact, the sickle bouncing off and landing in the underbrush. The muscles around the figure’s eyes widened in shock.

  Hagan didn’t hesitate as steps finally brought him in striking distance. In a swift motion, he lunged with his other hand and drove the estoc upward, straight into the figure’s chest. The force of the blow lifted the frail humanoid from the ground.

  The dark figure gasped. Dark ichor spilt from the gaping wound, his gnarled fingers clawing helplessly at the blade buried in his chest.

  “No… this..” he rasped.

  His body convulsed, twitching as the threads of dark magic holding it together frayed.

  Around them, the remaining undead wavered. Their cohesion unravelled. They staggered and twitched as the energy holding them also flickered.

  “Hagan! Move!” he called out.

  He dashed across the battlefield, weaving through stunned corpses, eyes locked on the dying Dark Figure. Poised to make one last act of defiance.

  Selriph would not let that happen.

  Mid-stride, he poured arcane energy between his two palms; The sound of a miniature explosion emerged from his hand as the orange, searing, fiery flame came to life. Volatile and concentrated, barely contained in a shell of mana.

  Hagan ducked and rolled away just as Selriph unleashed it.

  The firebolt exploded from his hand, hurtling towards the figure like a comet.

  It struck the Dark Figure dead-centre, right where the estoc lay embedded.

  The explosion ripped through the clearing, engulfing the corpse-wielder in a blossom of flame, the air filled with the roar of the blast.

  Like puppets with cut strings, the remaining corpses fell at once, to the sounds of shuffling leaves and flesh hitting dirt. The dark glow faded. The mist receded. The oppressive pressure in the air evaporated.

  Then, silence. Accompanied by the stench of burnt flesh in the air.

  Where the Dark Figure had stood, only charred flesh and bone remained. Selriph’s estoc lay embedded in the mangled collection of bones. The ground below was scorched and indented from the explosion.

  Selriph dropped to one knee. His hands were tingling from adrenaline and the aftermath of magical exertion.

  Across the clearing, Hagan slowly rose, brushing soot from his cloak. He limped over, eyes scanning the battlefield with grim satisfaction.

  He looked down at Selriph, voice low and steady.

  “Well done,” he said. “That was … damn impressive.”

  Selriph looked up, firelight flickering in his eyes. “We did it...”

  Hagan nodded. “Yeah. Thanks…”

  Selriph furrowed his brow. “For what?”

  Hagan turned to face him fully. His expression, though neutral, held a subtle curve Selriph hadn’t anticipated: the briefest hint of gratitude. He took a breath, then said quietly yet firmly.

  “For standing your ground.”