He and Fawkes had been scouting the perimeter of the red-leafed oak thicket for almost half an hour. They hadn’t gotten closer than two hundred feet from the treeline, though. Fawkes had been firm on that point, insisting the sun needed to climb higher in the sky before they set foot inside the eerie circle of trees.
“Patience,” she said, squinting at the treeline as if expecting it to move, Fyodor at her side, sniffing around. “Places like these always seem quiet… right up until you cross their doorstep.”
Biggs and Wedge circled above, giving Hunter a bird’s-eye view of the grove. The thick crowns of the trees cast heavy shadows, making it difficult to make out any details at ground level. Still, as far as Hunter could tell, nothing seemed to be moving.
The grove appeared to be made up of three concentric rings of towering oaks, their red leaves still and unsettling in the morning light. At the very center stood another tree – ancient and gnarled, its twisted branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. It dwarfed the others, and it made the ravens feel uneasy, their usual chatter replaced by a tense, wordless silence in the back of Hunter’s mind.
“You said Elder Rook told you about this place?” he asked Fawkes. “There’s a tree at the center that’s giving the ravens a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.”
“We won’t go much further past the treeline,” Fawkes said. She pulled a spyglass out of her left sleeve, raised it to her eye, and peered at the grove. With her worn tricorne perched atop her head, Hunter couldn’t help but think she looked like a character from a Pirates of the Caribbean spin-off – though one with far sharper edges.
“Why’s that?”
“Rook said there’s nastier things the deeper you go,” Fawkes replied, lowering the spyglass. “Or so the stories say. Evil spirits and the like. Near the treeline, things are relatively safer. Well, twigmen notwithstanding, of course.”
“Has he been here himself, then?”
“No – or if he has, he won’t admit it. I’ve met some tight-lipped men in my time, but that one takes the cake. There are spymasters in Quortain more forthcoming than him. Less paranoid, too.”
“He talked to you, though,” Hunter observed.
“That’s because I gave him the scoop on what’s going on in the Valley of Ghosts. It was an information exchange type of thing.”
Hunter blinked, surprised.
“Didn’t we swear to the Brethren never to breathe a word of what we saw?”
“Those two pelt-wearing diddlers are lucky I didn’t feed their tongues to the low-dwellers,” Fawkes said, voice sharp. “As far as I’m concerned, I owe them no oath. In fact, I have half a mind to track them down and send them to their Ancestors.”
Hunter’s expression hardened, his lips a thin line as he searched for the right response – and found none.
“Will that bring Reiner back?” he finally said, but his words rang hollow.
“If it would, I’d already done it.”
She looked away, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the treeline. And in that moment, Hunter knew – no matter how well she tried to hide it, grief still had its claws buried deep in Fawkes’s heart, still raw and unrelenting.
“Come,” she said and she turned toward the grove. “I’m in the mood to hurt something. Badly.”
***
Caution thrown to the wind, Fawkes burst through the treeline like the Kool-Aid Man crashing through a wall, saber in hand and a murderous glint in her eyes. Hunter followed, ravens perched on his shoulders. Fyodor trailed behind, ears pinned back against his skull, hackles bristling.
From the outside, the thicket had looked foreboding. Whatever unease it had stirred from a distance, though, was nothing compared to the suffocating menace that enveloped them now. The moment Hunter stepped past the treeline, a notification blinked into view:
“Fawkes?” he called out. “System says this one’s a dungeon too.”
“A what?”
“A dangerous place, like that Tomb of Nevnassir cave from yesterday. Though this one has a threat level of ‘low’ – whatever that actually means.”
Fawkes narrowed her eyes and scanned the eerie grove, as if looking for something to stab.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
From the outside, the Blood Grove had looked foreboding, its twisted trees and shadowy undergrowth hinting at the menace within. But now, standing inside it, the place radiated an unnatural wrongness that hit like a physical force. The air felt heavier there, humid and clinging. Towering trees formed a claustrophobic canopy overhead, their bark dark and gnarled.
The sense of dread wasn’t just in the air – it was in the ground beneath their feet, in the trees looming overhead, in the faint, coppery taste that clung to the back of their tongues. Hunter couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, and he found himself glancing over his shoulder more than once, half-expecting to see the treeline behind them closing in, its twisted branches and tangled roots creeping together to seal them inside.
“There they are,” Fawkes said, and there was a grim eagerness in her voice that sent a shiver down Hunter’s spine. For a moment, he wasn’t sure which was more unsettling – the grove or the edge in her tone. She pointed ahead, her finger steady as a blade. “Can you see them?”
Hunter squinted, his gaze following her gesture.
At first, he saw nothing. The ground was littered with jagged roots and patches of moss that seemed to pulse faintly, as though the forest floor were alive. Patches of thorny undergrowth choked the paths, brambles glinting like razor wire. Then, faintly, shapes began to emerge – twisted and wrong, barely distinguishable from the gloom.
“Are thοse the twigmen?” Hunter asked, voice barely louder than a whisper. Fawkes didn’t bother answering. Instead, she drew her flintlock pistol and fired into the air.
The crack of the shot shattered the grove’s oppressive silence, the sound reverberating through the trees like a warning. Or a challenge. Hunter flinched at the sudden noise, his grip tightening on the glaive. Fyodor let out a low growl, gaze fixed on the shadows around them. The grove seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
“Come out, then!” Fawkes called, cutting through the heavy stillness. “What are you waiting for – a formal invitation? We’re here, aren’t we?”
As if rousing from a deep slumber, the grove stirred, the faint creak of branches and the rustling of unseen movement breaking the stillness. A light breeze swept through, carrying with it the soft rustle of leaves as well as whispers, barely audible, distressingly unintelligible.
From the shadows of the undergrowth, something began to take shape, emerging with a jagged, unnatural grace. At first, it looked like a cluster of gnarled roots dragging themselves forward, but as it stepped into the dim light, its form solidified.
The creature stood just shy of human height, its body a mass of intertwining branches and bark twisted into the grotesque semblance of limbs. Its head was a hollow knot, jagged and splintered. Two pinpricks of sickly red light glowing where eyes might have been. Crimson sap seeped from them down its featureless face, like a slow bleed. The whispers grew louder, merging into a dry rasp that seemed to emanate from the creature itself. It took one ponderous step toward them, its gnarled feet barely making a sound on the forest floor, and then another.
Another notification popped up in Hunter’s HUD.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“Quick, use your Mystic’s Eye!,” Fawkes hissed at Hunter. “Use the ravens as a medium, like we said!”
Biggs and Wedge hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic about the idea, and he wasn’t much more confident. Still, the urgency in her voice left no room for argument. Furrowing his brow, Hunter focused on the shambling creature.
“Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “Guys, give it your best.”
He sensed them tense through the connection, bracing themselves for what was to come. Following their example, he called upon his Essence. The lines of his Mystic Sigil flared to life beneath his skin as his Mystic’s Eye activated.
This time, though, he didn’t let the torrent of incoming knowledge flood his mind directly. Instead, he channeled it outward, guiding it through his familiars, their presence acting as both filter and conduit.
Unlike any other time he’d used this ability, the feedback’s usual jarring kick was muted. For him, at least; as the knowledge surged into the minds of Biggs and Wedge, he felt them flinch, gasp, and squirm. For the usually jovial and unshakable familiars, it was a startling first. A pang of guilt twisted in Hunter’s chest as he felt their discomfort through their shared connection. A thought creeped in that he’d betrayed their trust by exposing them to something they hadn’t signed up for.
Then, at last, the distilled knowledge entered his own mind, its flow smoother than ever.
“So?” Fawkes shot him a glance over her shoulder, blade at the ready to meet the Bramble Blight. It had covered half the distance between them, each step faster and bolder than the last.
“There’s half a page of stuff here,” he said, eyes still glazed over as he parsed the incoming information. “It says something about a curse that leeches vitality. I’ll fill you in on the rest later.”
Hunter stepped into position beside Fawkes, raising his glaive as he shifted into a defensive stance. The Bramble Blight was almost upon them, its jagged limbs tearing through the undergrowth with alarming speed. Fyodor slunk close to his side, low to the ground, as if instinctively guarding his flank. Overhead, Biggs and Wedge took to the air, but their flight was unsteady and sluggish. They were still shaken by the backlash from the Mystic’s Eye.
“I’ve fought something like that before,” Hunter said through gritted teeth. “Don’t stab – slash at its vine parts. They’re like its muscles and tendons.”
Fawkes nodded without taking her eyes from the creature.
“This one’s mine,” she said. “Stay back.”
Hunter opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get a word out, Fawkes sprang into action. The creature was still a good fifteen feet away, but she closed the gap in a blur of motion, blade gleaming as she surged forward.
The Bramble Blight raised what could only loosely be called an arm, as if to warn Fawkes to keep her distance. But there was no stopping her. With a fluid motion, she slashed along the limb’s length, severing the vines that bound it together. The arm collapsed to the creature’s side, now nothing more than a lifeless tangle of twigs and branches. Thick crimson sap oozed from the severed vines down the Bramble Blight’s arms, but if felt any pain, it gave no sign. Its glowing eyes stayed fixed on her with the same unrelenting drive.
“Watch out for that curse!” Hunter called.
As if on cue, the Bramble Blight began to tremble, its wooden parts emitting an eerie, dry rustling that sent a shiver through the air. Its eyes flared brighter, and the same reddish radiance that burned within them seeped outward, enveloping Fawkes in a sinister glow. Spectral briar vines took form around her, pulsing red as their thorns dug into her.
With an audible gasp, she danced away, her movements quick as ever but uncharacteristically shaky. She nearly stumbled over a root, regaining her footing just in time. The link between them was almost visible, a shimmering line of reddish Essence that seemed to siphon vitality from her, channeling it back into the Bramble Blight. Hunter could swear he saw the severed vines around its limp, dangling arm slowly knitting back together.
Its strength somewhat restored, the creature went on the offensive. Fingers like brittle twigs curled and uncurled at the end of its intact arm, eagerly grasping at the air as it reached for Fawkes. Still, it was nowhere near fast enough. She sidestepped the attack with ease, then retaliated with a flurry of sharp, calculated strikes. Each cut severed vital vines, leaving the Bramble Blight’s other arm dangling limp and useless.
The curse continued to siphon away Fawkes’s vitality, the ghostly, thorny vines shimmering with a pulsing blood-red radiance. Yet, she didn’t seem overly concerned. She was toying with her prey, studying its reactions and testing its strengths and weaknesses. Her playtime was about to be cut short, though; two more forms emerged from the underbrush, already moving to intercept her.
“Look out!” Hunter shouted. He positioned himself between Fawkes and two incoming Bramble Blights, glaive raised, direwolf at his side. Biggs and Wedge swooped in and blasted one of them with Ill Omen.
The ravens continued pelting the creature with bursts of their lime-colored magic, but to little effect. They didn’t even slow it down. The Bramble Blights’ affinity for curses doubled as a shield too, it looked like.
Keenly aware of the two additional Bramble Blights approaching, Fawkes moved in to finish the first one. She danced her deadly waltz, her blade flashing as it slashed and cut, severing the vines that held the creature’s form together. It was easier said than done. Though she’d cut it down to a pile of twitching twigs and broken brambles, its baleful stare – and with it, the vitality-sapping curse – remained undiminished.
“Grimnir’s beard!” she swore, and flung something small at the creature – a ceramic ball no larger than her thumbnail.
The effect was as instantaneous as it was spectacular.
The ceramic ball struck the creature’s twisted mass and shattered on impact, releasing a blinding flash of white light followed by an eruption of searing heat. Flames roared to life, crackling and hissing as the incendiary contents of the pellet ignited, clinging to the Bramble Blight like a living inferno. The creature flailed, its vines and branches writhing as the fire consumed them, burning impossibly hot and bright. The air filled with acrid smoke, the sharp tang of burning sap mixing with the metallic bite of chemicals. It only took seconds. The once-menacing Blight was reduced to smoldering embers and ash, its curse dispelled.
“What the hell was that?” Hunter asked.
“Pyrophoric pellet,” Fawkes said, rushing away from the still-blazing remnants of the creature and toward Hunter. “Alchymical white phosphorus.”
“What? Isn’t that a war–”
Hunter would have to save his objections about using Geneva Conventions–restricted weapons for later; the remaining Bramble Blights had reached them. One lunged straight at him, its arm – a jagged, vine-laden limb – raised high to deliver a brutal slam.
He planted the butt of his glaive firmly into the ground, angling the weapon’s tip downward until it aligned perfectly with the oncoming attacker. It was a maneuver lifted straight from the manuals of the Italian Masters, an old anti-cavalry trick designed to turn a charge into a death sentence. And while the Bramble Blight was no horse, the trick worked just as well: the near-mindless creature impaled itself on the glaive for massive damage, its own attack cut short.
Quick as greased lightning, Fawkes didn’t hesitate. Her blade flashed, slicing through the Bramble Blight’s tendon-like vines with surgical precision, leaving the creature heavily crippled. Without missing a step, she pivoted to face the other one.
Fyodor, his initial fear of the creatures finally shaken off, moved with predatory grace. Circling the second Blight, he lunged at its back, his powerful frame slamming into the creature and driving it off-balance. The mass of twisted wood staggered, its spindly limbs flailing as it struggled to stay upright under the weight of the direwolf’s assault. Fawkes moved in and crippled that one too, saber cutting through vine and bramble alike.
That left Hunter awkwardly stuck, his glaive firmly embedded in the first Bramble Blight. The creature twitched and shifted, its severed limbs hung uselessly at its sides. They were at a stalemate, locked in what felt like an absurd staring contest. Unfortunately for Hunter, he had no curse-inflicting gaze attack. But the Bramble Blight did, and it wasted no time unleashing it.
The red glow in its eyes flared with sudden intensity, and Hunter felt the curse hit like a weight in his chest. Spectral-looking briar vines wrapped his body and limbs, burrowing into his skin wherever they touched it. A cold ache coursed through his veins, and its slow, draining pull began sapping his Health.
A quick glance at his combat log confirmed what he already suspected. He’d been afflicted with Blood Curse of the Penitent, a damage-over-time effect that drained his Health as it healed the wounds of the Bramble Blight. It wasn’t fast, but it still stung like hell.
Okay, don't panic, he thought.
First things first, he had to get his glaive free. The Bramble Blight’s arms hung limp for now, but the blood curse was already working its insidious magic. The vines Fawkes had severed were knitting themselves back together, inch by inch. How long before the Blight could simply raise one of its grotesque limbs and deliver a bone-crushing blow to his face?
Not long enough, he reckoned.
Not willing to wait and see, Hunter gripped the haft of his glaive and yanked. The vines and twigs entangling the blade, however, refused to budge. In fact, they pulled him closer to the creature as he strained. The Bramble Blight took advantage of his proximity, using its glowing eyes to deliver another curse at point-blank range. The spectral thorns wrapping him shone brighter and pulsed faster as he was inflicted with another stack of the curse, and the rate at which it drained his Health doubled.
As if things weren’t already bad enough, the other remaining Bramble Blight – the one Fawkes was in the process of hacking down to a stump a few feet away – switched targets and blasted him with another stack on the curse.
Shit, Hunter though, as his vision turned blood-red.
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