A Master Is Born

Untitled Part 2

                                                                                II

"I've never seen anything like that."

He looked up from the ground. He could see Culgur and the others. They were sitting by the fire pit, all their faces set in stone. Nearby, a giant carcass.

Arsen was stooped over on a log that had been fastened into a bench. He was drenched in sweat and his face was slashed. The mage stood before him, murmuring, radiating a soft yellow light into his flesh.

"What happened?" Roscoe asked. His voice was so low, he wondered if anybody could actually hear it.

Culgur stepped over and kicked the body of the fenris. The massive horned wolf was scragglier than Roscoe remembered. In fact, its giant bones were practically protruding from its flesh, and all over, patches of hair were simply gone. It was gaunt and sharp and the deathliest thing he had ever seen. A viscous black paste seemed to drip from every crevice of its being, a nauseating mist literally surrounding it.

"They were all like this," Culgur said, his hard body littered with minor cuts and scrapes. "Something's not right. They've been stricken, but with what, we don't know."

Maven rubbed his giant club. "Godda couple oveh there," he explained, motioning to the woods. "Ain'evuh seen'em that biggerr fast."

Roscoe scanned his brain for any memory of what had happened. He had thought for sure he was a goner—how in Prim Ordal did they save him?

Arsen must have recognized the look of ashen disbelief on Roscoe's face because the fast chaser said, with his own disbelief, "They attacked all of us but you."

"But it came at me," Roscoe said. He was sure of it—it was the last thing he had seen before the black-out.

"No," Culgur said. "Roscoe is correct, the Alpha did attack him." His eyes narrowed as he stared right into Roscoe, through Roscoe. "But you repelled it, and not with your weapon."

Arsen nodded. "It's like it was afraid of you."

Roscoe couldn't believe it. Afraid of him? He was the weakest and least experienced of the chasers. If anything, the fenris would smell the fear in his blood. Roscoe was wiry but his comrades were men. The only thing that had saved him was sheer luck, if only he could remember how.

"Can'du nuthin wit 'em," Maven growled. He plopped his large behind on the makeshift bench as Arsen looked over, agitated, before quickly relaxing with Telmore's glowing hand. "Ainno butcha wanna zombie wulv," continued the giant hunter. He lowered his big club to the ground. "Ayessays we cudder lussis gout tamorrow den."

Roscoe swallowed. From time to time he would read up on zombies, always just for fun though. They were typically called the undead and the blighted. But today? There weren't 'zombies' around today. As far as Roscoe was concerned, the only 'zombies' this land had ever seen were wiped out in a time before times, when the last of the ancient darkeners were eradicated. Nowadays? Any talk of zombies was the talk of lore. Products of fantasy. A forgotten horror from years detached, long lost to the folds of time.

Culgur's jaws were tense. "Tell me, mage, will it spread?"

Telmore, who had been silent for most of the night and who was usually silent for the majority of the excursions, pulled away from Arsen. He stroked his beard, as seemed his way, and then exhaled. The wisps danced briefly on his chin.

"It is a strange circumstance..." he began, in his meandering tone. "I shall meet with the like-minded in Douselmeir. We will bring the carcass there for closer evaluation."