The Revenant- Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Lycurgus stared warily at the growing line of attackers—they were all centaurs. There was no way he could outrun them. They each carried a javelin and a round, metal shield, with a vicious spike on the boss at the centre. One or two wielded a war hammer, or flail. Slowly, they trotted forward, leaving no gaps in their single, long rank. Lycurgus knew they would attempt to surround him. If they succeeded in doing so, he would have little hope, but having been leader of a werewolf pack for over half a century, Lycurgus knew how to intimidate opponents.

Picking up one of the dead warrior’s javelins as a weapon, he unfastened the shield from his arm. The circle closed in, preparing to block off any route of escape. Lycurgus rushed towards an individual, well aware that the enemies behind him would follow close by, closing the gap. However, just out of reach, he flung the shield.

There was a sickening crunch, and the target’s helmet dropped to the ground in two pieces. Lycurgus vaulted quickly over the fallen warrior, retrieving his shield, and ran towards the village. The pandemonium caused as one half of the circle hit the other could well give him just enough time to reach the shelter of the buildings, where he couldn’t be easily surrounded. However, he had only got half way there when the sound of many heavy hoof falls was close behind him.

A bolas whirled through the air; tangling Lycurgus’ legs and making him trip. He rolled onto his back, barely managing to deflect a sledgehammer blow from the thrower. Knocking the enormous weapon to one side, he created an opening in the centaur’s guard, and jabbed the javelin through. The wound was superficial, but provided enough of a distraction for Lycurgus to slice the cords of the bolas with the edge of his shield. Standing, he didn’t get far before he was instantly caught in an expertly thrown net—the rest of the group had caught up with him.

**

In the end, Vadir had been the only person willing to go to the trading-post. Raphael felt slightly bad about that. Vadir had already rescued them from wild dogs, fought the Wendigo, and taken them to the village—asking nothing in return. Nobody else would risk walking across the tundra, so the responsibility, again, had fallen on him. He’d even taken them back to the balloon to pack it up, and sort through any supplies that might be salvageable. Fortunately, the journey had gone by without incident, and the edge of the small trading post was now in sight.

“There’s mist ahead.”
“But we’re so close! Surely we can’t get lost in a little fog now.”
Vadir stopped. “You don’t understand. It’s so cold here that any moisture in the air instantly freezes to the ground. The only time you ever get fog is...”
The trading-post lay open like an empty shell. There were no lights on in any windows. Barrels and crates lay splintered and broken across the icy ground. A hatchet stood rigidly out from one wall, spattered with blood, accompanied by a smeared red handprint that ran around the corner of the building, thankfully vanishing from sight.
“It knew we were coming. It’s waiting.” Vadir walked forwards, unsheathing the strange, curved blade. Reluctantly, the three travellers followed.

The damage to the settlement was worse at the edge than in the middle. It gave the eerie impression that Wendigo had somehow attacked from everywhere at once, leaving the survivors nowhere to flee except... “Could anybody here still be alive?”
Vadir pointed to a small, relatively unharmed hut at the centre of the trading-post. “I’ve seen this before. The people that live through the initial attack all clump together in the same place, where they keep Wendigo at bay by burning fuel. When the fuel runs out...” he tugged at the hut door, revealing a small, neat hole near the handle, just big enough for a single rotting, skeletal arm to reach through. “...there’s nothing left that can stop it.” A gaunt, thin figure leapt out of the hut with a thin, reedy growl, catching Vadir unawares and knocking him down. His blade skittered and spun away across the icy ground, just within reach, though Vadir had no way of retrieving it. Both arms were occupied keeping the struggling, clawing Wendigo at bay.

**

Sipho crashed around Eldred’s tower; picking up various bottles and jars. He could recognise the ones he needed easily enough. They were all moulded in the shape of skulls and crosses—a warning to anyone fumbling for medicine in the dark—poison. It wasn’t the toxic properties he was interested in, however. When mixed in the right proportions, they could be made into various tonics and potions, some of them incredibly powerful.
“We have to find Siegbert. It would take far too long to go on foot, even if we could, so we’ll use magic.”

“But...” Nephele tried to find a way to say what she wanted without being impolite “...you’ve never been good at alchemy. Even if you could make a way out of here, what if something went wrong? What if someone else got in the way you got out?”
“I’d make sure. It would only work one way, only work once.”
“But how could you even do it in the first place?”
“With this.” Sipho guiltily held up a small, chunky crimson ring, attached to a loop of mythril chain. “It’s a philosopher’s stone. Eldred’s had it for years, kept it secret—he said it would be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands, but now it’s the only way we can make a portal to the outside world.”