Armour

Chapter 4:Werewolf Bites

Richard’s agonised howls shattered the midnight stillness as his garments tore asunder, rent to tatters by the monstrous transformation overtaking him. Instinctively, my hand flew to the hilt of my sword, though my heart yearned to reach the man within the beast. Desperate, I sought to pierce the lycanthropic veil with words.

“Richard! I beseech thee—some fragment of thy soul must yet remain! Resist this abominable change!” I cried, my voice trembling with hope and dread.

Alas, my pleas fell upon deaf ears. The creature that had been Richard turned upon me, his claws rending my humble raiment and flesh alike. Pain wracked my body and I cried out, summoning the other knights from their uneasy slumber. Roused by my distress, they swiftly encircled the beast, blades and bows drawn, forming an unyielding ring of steel.

Trapped and desperate, Richard’s bestial form saw no path to escape, yet still he lunged at valiant Sir Winston. With grim resolve, Winston’s blade found its mark, piercing the creature’s heart. The lycan collapsed, lifeless, the curse at last stilled.

A heavy sickness settled in my gut as I surveyed the grim tableau. One of our company lost—and on the second day of our quest! How long had Richard borne this dreadful curse in silence? And what foul sorcerer or witch had condemned him to such a fate?

Once the grim task was concluded, we returned in sombre silence to our encampment, the shadows of dread lengthening about us. The prospect of venturing into the caverns weighed heavily upon our hearts, yet we understood that this perilous path was our sole means of reaching the accursed tower—the very place where Eliza awaited rescue.

I could only hope that our efforts would be met with gratitude from the lady herself, for I harboured little expectation of such courtesy from her father, the illustrious yet insufferable Lord Albert IV.

The forest, lush and impenetrable, pressed in upon us with a relentless profusion of emerald leaves and tangled undergrowth. Amidst this verdant labyrinth, there stood a monstrous blossom—its petals vast and glistening, its gaping maw capable of swallowing a grown man whole. I had oft heard whispered tales of such carnivorous flora—Venus flytraps of prodigious size—but never had I beheld one with mine own eyes until that fateful day.

“Steady,” Chester commanded, his voice low and resolute as we pressed onward through the seemingly interminable woodland. The forest played tricks upon our senses; each glade and thicket appeared uncannily familiar, as though we wandered within an endless loop. The same riotous blooms and ancient trees emerged again and again, their repetition so precise it threatened to unravel the very fabric of our minds.

Garrett’s voice rang out, sharp with vexation. “This accursed forest is repeating itself!” he declared, his anger echoing through the tangled boughs. His frustration was shared by us all; despair crept into our hearts, and I confess, I doubted whether we would ever emerge from this endless green labyrinth alive.

“What are we to do?” Oswald cried, his voice tinged with desperation.

“We press onward,” Winston replied, though sorrow shadowed his countenance.

“If only Richard were with us,” I murmured, my words heavy with longing. “He would surely know the path to freedom.”

Chester, ever blunt, interjected with chilling finality. “Richard is lost to us. I suggest you reconcile yourself to his passing.” His words were cold, yet the pain of losing a companion was not so easily cast aside.

In that moment, an arrow whistled from the canopy above, missing its mark by a hair’s breadth. A voice, raw with frustration, cursed from the treetops. Instantly, we drew our weapons and scanned the verdant heights, searching for our assailant. Within moments, the archer loosed another shaft, this time striking Oswald in the knee. He howled in agony, unleashing a torrent of curses at the unseen foe, who, as fortune would have it, had exhausted his quiver.

“What is it you seek from us?” Garrett demanded, his voice quavering with panic.

A reply came, cold and measured: “We elves do not look kindly upon human trespassers in our realm.” The speaker’s words were laced with warning.

Anger flared within me. “To the Abyss with you!” I shouted, unable to contain my rage.

“I do not wish to bring harm to any soul,” the elf called down, and with a nimble leap, he descended from the branches, revealing himself at last. Though slight of stature—no more than five and a half feet—he bore the unmistakable poise of a master archer, his bow still in hand.

Chester glared at him, suspicion etched across his face. “I do not believe you,” he spat.

“I am a healer,” the elf declared, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I can mend all wounds and cure all ills.”

Winston scoffed, laughter bubbling forth. “With magic? That is the most preposterous claim I have ever heard!”

“Allow me to demonstrate,” the elf replied, unwavering. “Permit me to make a small cut, and I shall prove that magic is real.”

Chester hesitated, then relented. “Very well. But mind you, do not sever a vein.”

“Fear not,” the elf assured him. He drew a slender blade, made a shallow incision upon his own hand, and began to chant in a tongue unknown to us. “Okrum seccum ordum!” he intoned, his voice resonant with power.

Before our astonished eyes, the wound closed, leaving not even a scar. In that moment, we knew that true magic dwelt within this forest, and that the elf’s gifts might yet serve us in trials yet to come.

“How shall we escape this wretched forest?” I inquired, my voice edged with anxiety.

“With this,” the elf replied, producing a spool aglow with otherworldly light—a marvel wrought by magic alone. The luminous thread, measuring nearly a hundred feet in length, unspooled at his command and traced a path sharply to our left. Though its workings defied our understanding, we resolved to trust in its guidance, for it seemed our sole hope of deliverance from this accursed wood.

“Farewell, travellers! Our paths shall not cross again, of that I am certain. Fortune favour you on your journey,” the elf intoned, his words hanging in the air as he vanished without a sound, leaving nought but the shimmering thread behind.

Oswald grimaced, pain etched upon his brow. “Well, that was an encounter unlike any other,” he muttered.

“Permit me to tend your wound,” I offered, stepping forward.

“Only do not botch the spell,” he jested through clenched teeth.

Summoning my courage, I began the incantation. “Okrum seccum ordum,” I chanted. To our astonishment, the arrow dissolved into nothingness, and Oswald, emboldened, rose and took several tentative steps along the glowing path. The rest of our company, myself included, followed in his wake.

It was not long before the oppressive forest yielded, and we emerged into the open air. Relief swept over us, and grateful sighs escaped our lips.

“Thank the gods!” Oswald exclaimed, his joy infectious. I shared his elation, though my thoughts soon turned to the next trial—those infamous Shellish Caverns, our destination.

“We must make for the south,” Garrett declared, gesturing with conviction. We obeyed, and before long, the shadowed mouth of the caverns loomed before us.

“Are you all prepared?” I asked, casting my gaze over the assembled company.

“We are ready,” came their resolute reply.

With hearts steeled against the unknown, we crossed the threshold into the caverns, uncertain of what perils awaited. Here, at last, was the very essence of danger—here, the true spirit of adventure awaited us all.