The wind howled like a feral beast, lashing through the twisted branches of the forest and driving icy needles of rain into Polter's flesh. Each drop stung like a lash, soaking through his tattered cloak and chainmail to bite at the scarred skin beneath. His mare struggled against the sucking mud, her hooves sinking deep with every labored step. The world around him was a bleak canvas of grays and blacks, the days and nights bleeding into one endless shadow as he pressed ever northward. The memory of Gero pulled him onward—a relentless specter that gnawed at his thoughts like a festering wound.

  Villages had become ghost towns, their inhabitants hiding behind barred doors and shuttered windows. Eyes watched him from the cracks, wary and fearful, as if sensing the storm of violence that trailed in his wake. When words were offered, they came grudgingly—a nod here, a whispered rumor there. A lone rider, they said—a hard man with a scowl that could sour milk. Some had seen him; most had not. Each morsel of information was a thread, and Polter wove them into a tapestry of desperate hope.

  But now, under the iron-gray sky that pressed down like a tombstone, hope tasted bitter on his tongue. Through the relentless curtain of rain, a dark shape loomed on the trail ahead. Polter narrowed his eyes, wiping a mixture of rain and sweat from his brow with a bloodstained glove. His mare sensed his tension, ears pinning back as she snorted nervously.

  "Easy, girl," he muttered, though his own heart hammered against his ribs.

  As he drew closer, the shape resolved into grim reality. A horse—black as midnight—lay collapsed on its side, legs twisted at unnatural angles. The saddle hung askew, one stirrup torn away, leather straps flayed open like eviscerated flesh. The beast's flanks were sunken, ribs protruding through mud-caked skin stretched tight over the bones. Flies buzzed around open wounds, their drone a morbid serenade. Polter's breath caught in his throat. He dismounted slowly, boots sinking into the mire with a sickening squelch. The stench hit him—a rancid blend of blood, decay, and wet fur. He approached the fallen animal, each step heavier than the last. The iron bridle with its distinctive wolf's-head bit confirmed his dread.

  Gero's horse.

  He knelt beside the creature, resting a trembling hand on its neck. The flesh was still warm, but the eyes stared into nothingness, clouded and lifeless. Beneath the jaw, a savage gash yawned wide, tendons severed and bones gleaming white amidst the gore. Blood had pooled beneath the head, mingling with the rain to form dark rivulets that snaked through the mud like blackened veins.

  "Dammit," he whispered, voice barely audible over the wind's mournful wail.

  He rose, scanning the surrounding forest with predatory intent. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their skeletal branches clawing at the stormy sky. The only sounds were the relentless patter of rain and the distant rumble of thunder—a symphony of desolation.

  "Gero!" he bellowed, his voice raw and edged with desperation. Silence answered. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

  Polter's hand moved to the hilt of his sword—a reflex honed over countless battles. The grip was familiar, the thorns etched into the metal biting into his palm until droplets of blood mingled with the rain. The pain anchored him, a sharp reminder of the reality he faced.

  Footprints led away from the carcass—many and muddled, crisscrossing in chaotic patterns as they headed deeper into the woods. He counted at least two dozen, their edges sharp despite the downpour.

  "Hold on, you stubborn bastard," he growled, mounting his mare once more. "Just hold on."

  He urged her forward, plunging into the dense underbrush. Branches whipped at his face, tearing at his cloak and leaving thin cuts on his cheeks. The mare protested with a nervous whinny but obeyed, driven by Polter's unyielding will. As daylight waned, shadows stretched long and twisted, the forest transforming into a labyrinth of darkness. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—a metallic tang that set his nerves on edge.

  Blood.

  He dismounted, deciding stealth would serve him better than speed. Tying the mare to a low-hanging branch, he continued on foot, moving like a wraith among the trees.

  Voices reached him—a guttural murmur punctuated by harsh laughter. He crept closer, slipping behind a gnarled oak that afforded him a view of a clearing beyond. A group of men had made camp—a motley crew of fourteen, by his count. They gathered around a roaring fire, their faces cast in flickering shadows. Weapons were strewn about: swords, axes, crude spears. Armor cobbled together from scavenged pieces clanked as they moved.

  At the center of the camp, tied to a splintered post, was Gero. His head hung low, dark hair matted with blood that oozed from a gash above his brow. His clothes were torn, revealing bruises blossoming across his muscular frame. Rage surged through Polter like a black tide, threatening to consume him. He gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles whitened.

  "Should've killed the bastard when we had the chance," one man grumbled, poking at the fire with a stick.

  "Boss wants him alive," another replied, a sneer twisting his scarred face. "Says there's a bounty."

  "More trouble than he's worth," a third spat, taking a swig from a flask.

  Polter's mind raced. Fourteen men—trained killers by the look of them. He was outnumbered, but not outmatched.

  Time to even the odds.

  He circled the perimeter, moving silently despite the treacherous footing. The first sentry was half-dozing against a tree, his spear propped beside him. Polter slipped behind him, clamping a hand over the man's mouth as he drew a dagger across his throat. Warm blood spilled over his glove, and he eased the body to the ground without a sound.

  Thirteen.

  He moved to the next, a lanky youth humming tunelessly as he relieved himself against a bush. Polter's sword pierced his back, the blade sliding between ribs to puncture a lung. The youth gasped, a crimson froth bubbling from his lips as he collapsed.

  Twelve.

  A twig snapped underfoot, and a third sentry turned, eyes widening in alarm. Before he could shout, Polter hurled his dagger, the blade embedding itself in the man's eye socket with a wet crunch.

  Eleven.

  Shouts erupted from the camp as they discovered the bodies. Men scrambled for weapons, eyes darting into the darkness.

  "Spread out! Find the bastard!"

  Polter retreated deeper into the shadows, drawing them away from Gero. Two men ventured into the woods, peering into the gloom.

  "Come out, coward!" one taunted, brandishing a mace.

  Polter dropped from a low-hanging branch, landing behind them. He dispatched the first with a swift slash across the hamstrings, the man collapsing with a scream. The second spun around, but Polter was faster, driving his sword up under the chin and into the skull.

  Nine.

  The remaining bandits regrouped, forming a tight circle near the fire.

  "Show yourself!" the leader demanded—a burly man with a bushy beard and a wicked scar across his throat.

  Polter stepped into the firelight, his face a mask of cold fury. "Let him go," he said, nodding toward Gero.

  The men laughed—a harsh, mirthless sound.

  "Look at this fool," one jeered. "Thinks he can take us all on."

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  "Last chance," Polter warned.

  "Get him!" the leader roared.

  They charged as one, a tide of steel and fury.

  Polter met them head-on, sword a blur as he parried and struck with lethal precision. He sidestepped a clumsy swing, his blade finding the gap between a man's breastplate and helm. Blood sprayed as the bandit fell.

  Eight.

  An axe whooshed past his ear; he ducked, kicking out to shatter the attacker's kneecap. The man screamed, collapsing into the mud where Polter silenced him with a swift thrust.

  Seven.

  Pain flared as a blade grazed his side, but he ignored it, spinning to face his assailant—a wiry man with teeth filed to points.

  "You're dead meat," the bandit hissed.

  Polter's response was a boot to the chest, sending the man sprawling into the fire. He writhed, flames engulfing him as his screams filled the night.

  Six.

  An arrow zipped toward him; he raised his arm, the shaft embedding into his bracer. He broke it off, eyes locking onto the archer perched in a tree. With a fluid motion, he drew a throwing knife and let it fly. The archer toppled from the branch, neck pierced.

  Five.

  They circled him warily now, the confidence of numbers eroding.

  "He's not human," one whispered, fear flickering in his eyes.

  "Shut up and kill him!" the leader snarled.

  They attacked together, attempting to overwhelm him. Polter danced among them, every movement economical, every strike deliberate. He parried a sword, redirecting it into another bandit's chest.

  Four.

  A hammer swung toward his skull; he caught the haft, wrenching it free and using it to cave in the wielder's face.

  Three.

  A dagger sliced his thigh, but he retaliated with a backhanded slash that opened his attacker's throat.

  Two.

  The leader stood alone now, chest heaving, eyes wide with disbelief.

  "Who... what are you?" he stammered.

  Polter advanced, blood dripping from his blade. "Your end."

  The leader charged with a roar, swinging his greatsword in a wild arc. Polter sidestepped, driving his sword into the man's gut and twisting. The bandit coughed blood, sinking to his knees before toppling face-first into the mud.

  One.

  Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and the moans of the dying. Polter turned to Gero, who watched him with a mixture of relief and awe.

  "If you’ve been following me you shoulda came here before they knocked half my bloody face off," Gero rasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  Polter sheathed his sword, moving to cut the ropes binding his friend. "Couldn't let you get off that easy."

  Gero chuckled weakly.

  A slow clap echoed from the edge of the clearing.

  "Well done," a voice drawled—smooth, tinged with mockery.

  Polter spun, hand returning to his hilt.

  A figure emerged from the shadows—a knight clad in ornate armor that gleamed even in the dim light. His helmet bore a long, pointed visor, and a cloak of rich fabric draped from his shoulders.

  "Sir Sverenert of Molotharlyt, at your service," he said with a mocking bow. "You've made quite the mess of my men."

  "Your men were scum," Polter replied coldly.

  Sverenert shrugged. "Perhaps. But they were my scum."

  He drew his sword—a finely crafted blade that shimmered ominously.

  Polter nudged Gero toward the treeline. "Go. I'll handle this."

  Gero hesitated. "You're wounded."

  "Go!"

  Reluctantly, Gero retreated, disappearing into the shadows.

  Sverenert watched with amusement. "Sending him off to die in the woods? How noble."

  Polter said nothing, circling slowly as they sized each other up.

  "You fight like a demon," Sverenert continued. "But you're weary. Bleeding. It won't take much to finish you."

  "Then come and try," Polter challenged.

  "Very well."

  They clashed, swords meeting with a resounding clang that echoed through the trees. Sverenert was skilled—each movement precise, his strikes powerful yet controlled. Polter parried, but the impact jarred his injured arm, pain lancing up to his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give ground.

  "You're slowing," Sverenert taunted, pressing the attack. Polter deflected a thrust, countering with a slash aimed at the knight's neck. Sverenert blocked, the force vibrating through their blades.

  They traded blows in a deadly dance, feet shifting in the slick mud. Polter's vision blurred at the edges, exhaustion threatening to overtake him. Sverenert feinted left, then drove his shoulder into Polter's chest, knocking him off balance. Polter stumbled, knees hitting the ground.

  "Yield," Sverenert demanded, pointing his sword at Polter's throat. Polter looked up, eyes burning with defiance. He said nothing, Sverenert smirked. "So be it."

  As he thrust downward, Polter rolled aside, the blade plunging into the earth. Seizing the moment, he slashed at the knight's exposed leg. His sword bit deep, and Sverenert cried out, staggering back. Polter rose unsteadily, swaying as he leveled his sword.

  "You bastard," Sverenert spat, blood seeping from the wound.

  "Had enough?" Polter challenged.

  Sverenert's eyes blazed with hatred. "This isn't over."

  He backed away, keeping his sword raised defensively.

  Polter leaned heavily against a tree, his breath ragged, his body trembling as the adrenaline drained away, leaving only the dull throb of pain and the sticky warmth of blood spreading beneath his armor. His sword hung loosely in his hand, the blade notched and smeared with gore. He stared at it for a moment, then slid it back into its scabbard with a sigh. His other hand pressed against the wound in his side, the ache growing sharper with every passing second.

  "Polter!" The shout rang out, and moments later, Gero pushed through the underbrush, his hulking form darkened by mud and blood. His face was a grim mask of concern and exhaustion, though the corners of his mouth curled in something that might have been relief. "Still breathing, are you?"

  "Barely," Polter muttered, straightening with a wince. "It's done."

  Gero glanced at the bodies strewn across the clearing, a battlefield carved from chaos. "Looks like it." His gaze returned to Polter, narrowing as he noticed the blood staining his side. "You're bleeding."

  Polter waved him off. "Just a scratch."

  "A scratch? You’ve got half a dozen scratches and one nasty gash. You’re as stubborn as a mule." Gero stepped closer, reaching out, but Polter shrugged him off.

  "I’ll live," Polter said, managing a weak smirk.

  Gero snorted, clapping a heavy hand on Polter’s shoulder. "Aye, you will. Too bloody stupid to die, though not for lack of trying."

  Polter winced at the weight of the gesture but allowed himself the faintest of smiles. "And you’re still uglier than a butchered boar."

  "Flattery will get you nowhere, pretty boy," Gero retorted, his lip curling in something that could have been amusement or disdain. "Come on, let’s get the hells out of here before that cunt brings another dozen mirthless bastards. Not that you'd mind another go, would you?"

  Polter chuckled faintly, though it turned into a grimace as the movement tugged at his wound. He limped warily through the dense foliage, Gero took a moment to gather up a half decent short sword and some ragged bits of mail, his own possessions were a bloodied ruin worn by one of the dead men. Polter arrived at his mare, who stood waiting, her ears flicking nervously. "Get on," he said, nodding toward the saddle as he tightened the reins.

  "You sure you’re not going to pass out on me first?" Gero asked, eyeing him skeptically.

  Polter shot him a glare. "I’m fine. Move."

  Gero hesitated for a moment, then hauled himself onto the mare with a grunt, the horse shifting beneath his considerable weight. Polter followed, climbing up behind him despite the fiery protest of his muscles. They rode in silence, the forest swallowing them in its damp, oppressive embrace. The rain had stopped, but the air was still thick with moisture, the scent of wet earth and blood lingering like an unwelcome companion.

  The stillness was broken by the low rumble of Polter’s stomach. Gero turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "You’re growling louder than that knight’s hounds."

  Polter smirked despite himself. "Killing fourteen men works up an appetite."

  "Near fifteen," Gero corrected, his voice dry. "Don’t forget the knight. Though I suppose you let him scurry off with his tail between his legs."

  They rode on, the faint light of dawn beginning to seep through the trees. The mist curled around them like a living thing, swallowing the path ahead and the carnage behind. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of hoofbeats and the distant cry of a bird somewhere in the fog.

  Polter’s stomach growled again, louder this time. Gero snorted, the sound somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "Next village we find, breakfast is on me."

  "Make it a feast," Polter said, his voice low but laced with the faintest hint of humor.

  "After what you did back there, I’ll see they roast you a whole damn pig," Gero replied. "But don’t expect me to carry you if you collapse before we get there."

  Polter didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. South, ever headed south.