Disclaimer: This chapter contains the first instance pronounced gore and graphic violence. While it has been tagged in the story, this is one of the chapters that really warrants the tag. You have been warned,

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Natural Karma

  A heavy stillness hung in the air; the bear, its auburn eyes staring at them. Selriph had expected the beast to charge, his estoc ready to thrust at the first sign of movement—even in its mangled ?and quiescent state; it could easily maul them. In the corner of his vision, Hagan’s readied stance echoed his own caution.

  Those moments stretched like molasses in their consciousnesses—the beast fidgeted, both of them eyeing for the first sign of a strike. Selriph heard the subtle shuffle of leaves and grass behind him as Relia retreated behind a bush, her eyes averting both the danger posed by the bear and its macabre state.

  The moment it strikes… pivot… strikes its legs, then backstep.

  And yet the bear did not strike. The beast simply watched, standing there as if it pondered the very notion of adhering to its primal instinct to pounce on the prey before it. Selriph could almost detect a flicker of hesitancy in the animalistic intelligence before him, something between fear and uncertainty—if it could even feel that.

  Then the first sign of movement—not a lunge, but a stagger. The bear groaned and buckled under its weight—the reeling motion of the beast met by a reflexive jerk from Hagan and Selriph. Its legs crumpled as its belly slammed onto the forest floor with a thud; a faint, perceptible tremor travelled up to Selriph’s legs.

  And then silence, save for the ragged breaths of the beast that came with the rise and fall of its exposed ribs, laid bare through the deep lacerations in its hide. The beast lay there, as if content in its state, with not a sign of struggle to get back up.

  Hagan lowered his sickle, his furrowed expression replaced by a faint wariness mixed with the slightest hint of pity. Or perhaps sadness. Either way, it compelled the burly woodsman to approach the beast, his eyes appraising the grievous injuries before him.

  Large cuts marked the bear’s flank, about a centimetre in width, which criss-crossed through the matted brown fur. The shoulder and spine showed exposed bone, as if they had undergone surgery. Most gruesome of all, however, were the exposed, convulsing organs—a mix of guts and viscera was visible in a messy symphony of pained convulsions and gore.

  Hagan muttered, his voice low with a mix of sympathy and revulsion. “By the gods … what could have done such a thing?” The bear growled and twitched, but this time the woodsman did not step back, only inched his way closer to the beast.

  Selriph, who sensed no immediate danger from the bear, snapped his gaze to where Relia had retreated, just out of view, behind a cover of foliage. With her safety assured, he could finally focus on the bear.

  What could have caused it? Had to be a larger beast—an ogre? Gryphon? A dire wolf pack? What kind of—

  He interrupted his train of thought as he examined the cuts.

  No… this looks more like…

  Selriph recognised it; the lacerations were anything but rough, inconsistent with a rending or tearing of flesh from a predatory scuffle. Instead, clean edges marked the cuts, almost surgical. The angle of the wounds suggested that something sharp-edged—perhaps a blade—had cleaved its way through the poor creature lying before them.

  His mind shot to Thorne’s greatsword. Could it be possible that he was the artist responsible for this tapestry of wounds? The damage his weapon could inflict would be consistent with the injuries before him.

  He perished the thought, a combination of suppressing the unwelcome possibility of Thorne being a stone’s throw away, along with the unlikeliness of it. Though cruel, Throne wouldn’t have taken glee in such a spectacle; he’d have ended it swiftly and decisively—a bestial display of pain was far beneath him.

  Unexpectedly, he caught Hagan kneeling beside the bear, hand placed in a comforting cup over the bear’s marred shoulder.

  The woodman’s voice came, low and calm, wary of stirring the beast. “Lad… the beast is no threat to us. It needs our help.” His head pivoted, allowing him to catch the cautiously approaching boy, estoc still in his hand.

  “You can mend flesh, can’t you, boy? Shera lady taught you that, no? You can help it, relieve its plight.” His voice rasped in his near-whisper.

  Selriph’s eyes abandoned the bear as his head jerked, now fully focused on Hagan, driven by the sheer absurdity of Hagan’s suggestion. His voice came with? agitation and pure befuddlement. “I can hardly stitch wounds brought about by an oversized rodent. To heal something like this?” His eyes reflected the briefest moment of genuine contemplation before he continued, “It would take an extremely powerful healer. I am far from someone like that.”

  Hagan turned back. “We have potions. They could give the beast a chance at life.” As his free hand drifted towards the pouch that hung over his shoulder.

  Selriph protested, his voice low but firm. “We cannot waste our limited supplies on the beast. It would take three, maybe five vials to even stabilise its condition!”

  Hagan turned back, ?his hand holding an uncorked vial of golden-red liquid, its contents ready to be tipped over the beast’s flank. “I will not abandon the beast to its fate. It can be saved.” His voice was emphatic.

  The shimmering liquid met the exposed flank of the bear. Almost immediately, the bear shook in protest, no doubt from the burn of the potion. Flesh struggled to stitch itself back together. The bear lunged its maw at Hagan’s hand, who pulled back an instant; some contents of the vial dripped uselessly onto the forest floor with a sizzle.

  Selriph instinctively raised his hand, pulsing with a faint brown glow. Two strands of arcane energy shot into the ground next to the bear’s paws. The loose dirt stirred as two mounds formed, encasing its front paws, restraining its movement.

  Another swift gesture came, this time to restrain the beast’s back legs. Earthen mounds, compacted and hardened by the swirling brown terramantic energy, gripped the beast in place.

  Selriph poured a further concentration of magical energy into the mounds, expecting it to lash out, but unexpectedly, it unbarred its fangs as Hagan moved to comfort it. His hand cupped gently over its neck, imperceptibly mumbling under his breath.

  With the beast safely restrained, Hagan soothed it as he continued to pour the vial’s remaining contents into its worst wounds, half-stitched from the previous administration of the healing brew. The creature’s protests ceased, and the rest of the liquid flowed, somehow abated by Hagan’s soothing murmurs and comforting strokes.

  Hagan pulled his hand back, placing the empty vial on the forest floor, and he reached for another vial.

  Selriph found himself torn. He could sense Hagan’s sympathy for the beast and restrained himself from outright condemning the action. The fact was spelt out in front of him; one vial barely made a dent in the sheer quantity and severity of wounds. Exposed organs and bone were still plain to see, far exceeding the healing capabilities of the supplies that lay in Hagan’s sack.

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  Selriph spoke, forcing his voice to portray the slightest hint of empathy. “Hagan… I know the beast is in a right state. But even if we stabilised it, whatever—whoever inflicted the wounds on this beast still lurks.”

  His eyes darted to the sides of his vision. “In this state, it would easily succumb to the thing responsible!” Selriph stepped forward, his steps weighted and empathic, his hand on the woodsman’s shoulder as he was about to tip the contents of another vial “We need to think about our mission, to save Vick. Whatever is lurking might even soon be—”

  He felt it, a presence, like noticing an unseen blemish. No doubt he only noticed it now as his focus on the situation had dulled his passive perception.

  Something was about to emerge from the foliage beyond the bear’s slumped figure.

  As if cued either by Selriph’s magical display or by his statement, a shuffle came from the thick foliage the bear had stumbled out of mere moments ago. This time, instead of a clumsy shuffle of fur and torn flesh, a humanoid figure came through in a poised and proud stride.

  A suit of black chainmail covered the man’s upper body from neck to waist. A headman’s axe rested on his exposed shoulders; the razor-sharp edges bore blood that stained its otherwise polished sheen. His legs bore padded leather pants, no doubt a compromise between mobility and protection.

  As the figure examined Selriph through his helmeted visage, a spark of recognition shot through. “What do we have here? Looks like my handiwork has drawn my prey to me.”

  Prey? There is only one hunt he could be on.

  The man was not of the Templar Order, no discernible markings. But others besides guards and Templar Knights would be upon him. Bounty hunters and mercenaries were aplenty, and the bounty had drawn them on his head.

  Selriph brandished his estoc at the man. His other hand hung at his side, still humming with arcane energy. The figure theatrically withdrew a folded piece of parchment from the pouch that hung by his belt. Selriph could discern the inked silhouette of a sketch through the rays that filtered from the canopy above.

  The man’s voice came, clear and with a hint of satisfaction: “Ah, no doubt, the gods have graced me. You there, boy.” Selriph flinched slightly at the man’s words. “Unless you want to end up in the same sorry state. You are coming with me.” As he subtly cocked his head to the right, to the bear. “Bounty didn’t say you had to come in one piece.”

  The axe met the ground with a soft thud as it dragged behind the man; the blood staining the verdant undergrowth. Selriph took a step back cautiously. “I take it you are responsible for that mosaic? I assume I will end up in a similar state should I… resist?” His voice was laced with inquiry, but also anger.

  “Clever boy. But you are mistaken.” Selriph’s brows twitched before the figure continued. “The beast’s fate is to die, to succumb to a greater predator. I merely accelerated that process.” Even though Selriph could barely see the man’s face, he made out the slightest grin of malefic pleasure.

  Selriph felt his blood boil, welling up as the muscles around his chest tightened. Not only was this man associated with the Templars, but he was just like him. Sadistic, arrogant, and pompous.

  He wanted nothing more than to exact vengeance.

  The bear seemingly echoed his thoughts; a low growl escaped from behind the man. Hagan had his hand on his sickle, ready to strike from his kneeling position. The axe-wielding bounty hunter didn’t seem to pay them any mind, as if they were insignificant before the prize before him: the runaway mage, youth, deserter.

  He took another menacing step forward. “So what will it be, boy? Keep your entrails, or I’ll bring your head in a rucksack?” With his axe raised, ready to strike.

  Selriph’s eyes flicked, as if seeing an unseen signal—in the direction of the woodsman and the wounded beast.

  “Neither, go through him first.”

  In an instant, the energy around Selriph’s offhand faded and flashed back. Two bursts of earthy-hued energy burst forth, missing the figure as he calmly tilted his body away from the projectiles, striking the ground just behind him.

  With it came the sound of crumpling dirt to the right, where the bear lay, mixed with the stirring of earth from behind the bounty hunter.

  He paid them no mind.

  Then a flash of steel came as Selriph lunged with his estoc.

  The axe-bearing man calmly backstepped, his axe ready to come down on the gap in Selriph’s opening strike, the weapon’s reach poised to cleave straight through the boy’s shoulder tendon.

  That was the first mistake.

  But the blade did not meet flesh.

  In the back-step, he felt the sensation of hard earth through leather; a newly conjured earthen mound Selriph had brought to life. The result of the projectile that had supposedly missed its mark. The unexpected sensation caused the bounty hunter to pull back ?his swing at the last second, stumbling back in retreat.

  The second mistake.

  A bound of hardened rock trapped his other leg the instant it hit the ground in his hasty backstep. His eyes flashed to see the boy’s now outstretched palm holding him in a place with earth, his concentration fully honed on maintaining the earthen shackles that bound the assailant.

  “You little pissant, your hat tricks won’t save you,” as he brought the metallic hilt down on the mount to free his leg.

  That was his last mistake.

  The man felt a crushing weight of what felt like a battering ram through his back; bones cracked from the sheer force of the impact. In the blink of an eye, he found himself prone on the ground, the sheer force tearing his feet out from the earthen shackles that bound him.

  He hastily turned over on his back, the muscle protesting the move as he looked up to see the source of what had taken him by surprise.

  The looming figure of the bear shadowed him like an eclipse as its paws bore down on him. He raised his arm in a futile defence as the animal raked through his unarmoured forearm, displaying a raw strength that betrayed its physical state.

  A discordant symphony of animalistic growls from beast and man, along with the unrhythmic crunch of bone and rending of flesh—a lethargic display of fury from the injured beast.

  The chainmail started to rip apart under the vicious assault of the angered beast, driven by the sheer animalistic desire to rip its tormentor to shreds. The man, finding focus through the intense pain that now wracked his body, landed a punch on the beast’s eye, causing it to stagger back.

  He desperately reached for his axe; he had a split-second opening to follow with a pommel strike, enough to force the bear to reel. Then he could—

  That hope was dashed in an instant as brown energy erupted around his outstretched hand, earth encasing it, just as he was a mere half-inch from the hilt.

  He turned to its source. The face of his would-be quarry bore a cold, steely, unfeeling gaze that betrayed his young features. Cold hate brimming to the surface.

  “You little fuc–” as he found the wind knocked out of his lungs as the bear came down upon him once more.

  The only sounds that escaped him now were the pained screams of a man being torn apart by a vengeful beast. A far cry from the poised, pompous, confident air and stature he once held.

  As the display played out to its logical end, Hagan ran up to Selriph. His hand grabbed the boy, his face contorted in abject horror and disgust. “Lad, enough! He’s beaten,” Hagan said, but Selriph’s hand remained outstretched, holding the mercenary’s arms in place, as his torso became a mangled mess of ripped metal lattice, flesh, and exposed bone.

  Hagan’s eyes widened at the expression borne on Selriph’s face. Coldness, like a frost killing all warmth and life, glazed Selriph’s eyes—a chilling fury and thirst for vengeance mirrored in the beast nearby. The very sight sent a chill down Hagan’s spine, as if he had seen the face of a night wraith.

  Slowly, the spectacle came to an end as the gory symphony reached its conclusion. Growls faded, and only the splashy sounds and faint gurgles came as the man breathed his last—if his lungs were even still capable of that.

  And then silence, save for the ragged breathing from the beast, as it smacked its paws down on the gory puddle of carnage it had wrought before it silently turned. Hagan could almost perceive the bear giving a knowing glance to Selriph, as if acknowledging their mutual disdain in an uncanny display of intelligence.

  Then it wandered off whence it came. Content.

  As the hum of magic faded, an oppressive silence permeated the woods. For what felt like an eternity, no one spoke. Hagan stared, his face contorted into a discordant mix of disbelief, disgust, and shock. His gaze looked past the boy’s visage, his neck frozen in place, as if held by an invisible force that restrained him from turning back to see the results of the gruesome spectacle.

  A faint rustle—its source—broke the silence. Relia carefully emerged from her cover.

  She was now the second witness of the aftermath.

  With it came a gut-wrenching scream as the women turned away and retched onto the undergrowth.

  Only then did Selriph finally break out of his cold trance.