“Was this the work of that faerie girl? The one who rescued the prince?” asked Wattling, eyes wide in his fleshy face.
No, Rayghast knew this wasn’t the Lady Butcher. He’d been obtaining information on her for weeks. Spies discovered her relation to the hidden town of criminals in the Greltan woods. The Nest or Den it was called; a place where magical folk still visited, and mercenaries contracted work. Rayghast tried to gather what information he could on her, and by now, he had a clear picture. The faerie was the first and only being to ever breach the fortress at Dul Tanen by creating a doorway from thin air. Rayghast wanted her dead.
“She doesn’t tear people apart,” he said. “The Butcher is a skilled swordsman. The cuts from her blade are clean and precise.”
As for the scorched flesh, it was possible. Dozens of his men had been turned to ash in the Tacornian woods well over a month ago. But still, this recent attack was not the work of the Butcher girl. Why burn the victims and tear them to shreds at all? It was wasted effort. With her magic, the faerie could incinerate them.
“Was it one of those, uh, creatures?” asked Cronhold, voice wavering. Sometimes, it was hard to tell if he shook from nerves or absurd old age.
“I have reason to suspect one, Your Grace,” the soldier said. “It made such horrific noises, like a bear or wildcat, but it stood on two legs. I barely escaped with my life, Your Grace.”
“It’s possibly the same creature that attacked the peasants in the slums,” suggested Shaff, and Cronhold’s face lit up with recognition.
As if in response, Rayghast’s magic leapt, pouncing on Shaff’s words. A new magical creature.
Rayghast stalked out past the council table; a maelstrom-like sound rushed in his ears as he hastened to the courtyard.
“Your Grace?” called Shaff, armor clanking behind him, the other soldier in tow.
“Take me to the site,” Rayghast said, mounting his massive warhorse.
“It’s too dangerous, Your Grace.”
Dark magic pulsed in his chest. Use me, it said. Yes, use me . . .
“Not for me,” Rayghast stated, then spurred his horse onwards. The sound of hooves behind him said that Shaff and his men followed.
Night fell by the time Rayghast arrived at the scene of the vicious slaying; only an hour’s ride, indeed, far too close to Dul Tanen. The soldier’s flickering torches illuminated what was left of the bodies lying scattered across the road. The dead soldiers had been utterly ravaged by claws, bloody gauges pierced their thick armor. However, their bodies hadn’t been eaten. This wasn’t a normal animal hunting for food. This was a purposeful attack meant for the mere enjoyment of killing.
Rayghast snatched a torch from Shaff and knelt down to examine a body. The blackened flesh on the hands of some soldiers was oddly familiar to him. Dark magic in his veins thrummed in recognition of a similar power.
Whatever these creatures were, they were unlike any others on this continent.
Rayghast stomped into the woods, and was swallowed up by the dense foliage. The torchlight created spectral, snarled shadows from the branches of the trees. An owl hooted, deep and forlorn, a ghost’s moan in the darkness. Rayghast followed the footprints of a claw-footed beast with a massive gait. Shaff and his men unsheathed their swords, keeping in close range of their king.
Unnecessary, Rayghast thought. He could handle this creature on his own, whatever it was.
Magic shoved against his skin, trying to break out of its container. Rayghast let it seep through his feet, subtle enough not to draw the attention of the soldiers behind him. Black smoke wove through the leaves and dirt, twigs and grass around him, draining the natural life. Thriving plants shriveled and withered away. He may have given the land this abundance, but the magic could easily take it away.
Heavy footsteps pounded against the earth. Something enormous huffed and sniffed within the dense tree line.
Shaff and his men whirled, chasing shadows, hunting for the source of the sound.
Rayghast’s magic lured the beast to him, and he did not quake when two luminescent yellow eyes peered out from the shadows.
The creature materialized, as if from the darkness itself. Its nostrils flared, slitted pupils dilated and then constricted as it honed in on Rayghast in recognition
This was no faerie. No vampire. No werewolf, even. This creature was entirely new.
Part lizard, part wildcat, a hellish mutt with a striking human-esque face: pale cheeks, a human nose, mouth and forehead. A strange indigo half-moon symbol sat between its brows. The torch flames emphasized the shadows across its grotesque visage. Dark magic drifted from its shoulders like a cape.
Shaff and his men gasped and stammered.
“What the fuck is that?” one of them squawked.
Rayghast’s magic thrashed in response to the creature’s similar dark power.
How strange that this beast possesses the same magic. But Rayghast didn’t have time to ponder what it was or how it came to be there.
He unsheathed his broadsword. The creature’s pale human lips drew back into a sneer, its furred tail thrashed, and dark magic flew from its shoulders directly at Rayghast.
That was one major difference: the creature didn’t need to make a physical connection in order to use the magic like Rayghast did. It had control over its power.
Rayghast ducked, the force of the magic slamming into two of the soldiers behind him. He knelt, shoving his hands into the dirt. The screams behind him only encouraged the darkness to pour from his fingers. Magic tunneled through the earth and leapt up, surrounding the creature.
For a moment, their powers battled, like two men grappling in a fist fight. Then the creature snarled and broke through Rayghast’s magic. Black smoke puffed away into nothing.
The beast charged him. Claws elongated, it pulled its arm back. Ebony flame swirled around each sharp claw.
Rayghast blocked the creature’s strike with his sword, but it was larger than him, brawnier. It pushed aside his blade and swiped at his arm.
Those claws dug deep and burned, but Rayghast didn’t feel pain like a normal human. The magic inside him heightened his tolerance and muted the agony.
The wound was worth it—the creature had left itself wide open.
Rayghast swung, his blade making contact with its strange furred, scaled chest. A deep red gash bloomed. The creature staggered backwards.
It opened its mouth. Words came out in a kind of screeching grunt. It was a language Rayghast didn’t know, but he regarded the creature’s furious expression, the way it clutched at the wound. The beast was cursing him in its native language.
