by J. T. Wright
Trent closed his Status with a shiver. He had needed to do this for reasons he could not explain even to himself. Now that the deed was done, he should be exultant. He should be screaming his victory and celebrating his progress. In truth, one small part of him was satisfied and gloried in his accomplishment. The rest of him was numb.
500 XP for a single kill meant Trent had completely underestimated the Trial Beast. He had toyed with the idea of confronting the Werewolf directly, certain that what the small Cat-Lizard could wound, he could kill. Had he done so, Trent would be the one with his skin peeled away by the creature’s howls. Trent’s body would have been chewed and discarded like trash.
He had still lost his only reliable weapon in this fight. There was no safety net here. No Orion or Sergeant Cullen to leap in and pull him out of danger. The only person Trent could be sure was in this Trial was Martin, a man who had tried to kill or at least injure him before he fled, leaving the boy behind.
Trent stepped closer to the corpse and brushed his fingers against the blade poking out of its back. The metal crumbled away at his touch, and Trent’s shoulders sank. The description of Liquid Silver provided by Appraisal had said the poison was highly corrosive. Confronted by the fact that he would have lost his sword no matter how he fought cut Trent deeply. He had to be smarter than this!
And he couldn’t linger, indulging in self-doubt and recriminations. He would be smarter, better. He would get stronger! Trent had thought that he could settle for a less than perfect clear of this Trial. He would kill a grey Werewolf and ten Wererats and leave. That would have been enough.
Now he called the boy who made that decision a coward. Trent did not know that person. Trent was a Swordsman and Survivalist, and this Trial would teach him what that meant. In return, he would show the Trial that Al’rashian warriors were not to be trifled with!
Trent reached down and grabbed hold of the Werewolf’s side. There was still work to be done. He heaved and strained to flip the corpse over so that he could Harvest it. No matter how he tugged or pulled, the Beast refused to budge. He had to cross its legs and pull its arms before the body finally rolled over.
The seven-foot frame looked no smaller in death, and Trent’s belt knife felt tiny in his hands. This must be done, though. He was weaponless in a Trial. He needed the drops the Beast would yield, and that loot would not appear until he Harvested it.
He lost track of time as he hacked and sawed at the corpse. The bonuses Harvest gave were not enough to make light work of this creature, not when he only had a knife meant for everyday tasks. Trent sweated as he fought a much harder battle to remove the Core than he had making the kill. Oddly, the Beast Core was the only item the Werewolf provided. Its hide and organs had no value.
A look into the Beast’s white eyes reminded Trent that this was a Beast modeled after an Awakened race. What he had hacked into, under different circumstances, might have resembled Martin before his transformation. It shouldn’t even have had a Beast Core! The Cores of Zombies and other human-like Undead were carried on the outside, in pouches. The same should have been true here.
Trent remembered a conversation he had heard at the beginning of his training. A group of recruits had argued whether Humans had Human Cores, and all had unanimously agreed they did not. Trent still believed that. The fist-sized Core in his hand was an anomaly, a quirk of the Trial.
The corpse at his feet disappeared, and three drops were revealed: Two six-inch-long teeth and a slab of meat. After all his work, and the realization that he had been cutting into an Awakened, the sight caused some of Sergeant Cullen’s favorite curses to bubble to Trent’s lips. He bit them back, but it was a near thing.
Appraising the items, Trent felt a swirl of disgust. The meat was the cursed flesh of an Awakened. Trent flung it into the bushes with a growl. That filth would not despoil his Storage. What kind of Trial was this?
The teeth he kept and even admired. They were the fangs of a Lesser Dire Wolf, a weapon- crafting material. Not even the memory of scratching Arakai’s ears could make him toss these away! Maybe he could use his belt knife or sharpening stone to carve them into rough knives or spear tips! The points of the fangs were sharp enough on their own that…
Movement caught his eye, and Trent lifted his head to stare down the path. With no one to stand watch, he should have been away the second his work was done. Another Werewolf was approaching right on schedule, and Trent was in the open, with no trap prepared. The teeth vanished into Storage, and Trent dug out a vial he had tucked into his belt.
He couldn’t fight this Beast, but he had the Throw Skill. A hit to the creature’s eyes might blind it and give him a chance to escape. He might even get lucky and the corrosive liquid…
Instead of thumbing the wax-covered cork out of the vial, Trent took to his heels, activated Dodge and Dash, and ran for all he was worth. It was not a lumbering, mindless, grey Werewolf streaking down the trail. Trent saw black fur coming at him, and this new creature moved with a purpose!
This was no stomping hulk of muscle but a sleek, fast, killing machine. Trent had caught sight of bright white teeth, exposed by the curled lips of the black Werewolf, and he knew even with a sword he was not a match for this creature. Where had this Beast come from?! Trent had watched for hours and never seen a color besides grey.
Trent focused on the path before him and pushed his legs for all they were worth. His eyes sought a break in the brush that he could duck into. He doubted very much that he would have an advantage within the confines of the trees, but it was worth a try. He clutched the vial of poison in his hand tightly. When the Beast caught up, Trent would make it regret doing so before it tore out his windpipe.
And the black Werewolf was catching up. Its steps were light, and it made no attempt to conceal its approach. It wanted Trent to know it was coming. It howled, and Trent bunched his shoulders, expecting a beam of red light to scorch him, but the Beast was merely taunting him with its hunting call. The Beast needed no special Skills for this prey.
Trent spotted a break in the brush and a flicker of white on the path ahead of him at the same moment. A second Beast was approaching, low to the ground and speeding forward like an arrow released from a bow. Trent caught sight of another pair of canine teeth and flung himself into the break. His sudden shift in momentum was too much for his fledgling Acrobatics, and Trent hit the ground hard.
Flipping to his back, Trent lashed out with his feet and prepared to throw the vial in his hand. The white Beast was in the air, leaping towards its target with teeth bared. That target wasn’t the breathless Swordsman on the ground. The Wolf had launched itself at the black Werewolf that had been mere feet behind Trent. White feet hit the Trial Beast’s chest, and whiter teeth tore a chunk of flesh from the Beast’s shoulder. The Werewolf snapped at the animal, but powerful legs pushed the white creature up and over. The Werewolf’s jaws closed on air.
The larger Beast howled and spun to reach for the retreating attacker. A rustling noise from the brush was the only warning it received as a second animal burst from cover and teeth once again torn into its skin. The Werewolf dropped to its knees as its right leg refused to hold its weight. A third attacker came for its left leg, but the black Werewolf was ready for it. The animal yelped as heavy claws ripped into its side and sent it spinning away.
Wolves, natural wolves acting together, continued to harass the wounded creature. The largest, the white shape Trent had assumed was leaping for him, tried to keep the Trial Beast’s attention by attacking from the front while its pack-mates played a gruesome game of tag, but Trent could see the Werewolf had already adapted to these new adversaries.
The wolves had come for blood and left bleeding. Surprise had allowed them to cripple one of the Werewolf’s legs, its arm and teeth were unhampered. Loss of mobility kept it in one place, but the Werewolf was far from finished. Trent could see the wound in its leg had stopped seeping already, and the torn flesh was beginning to seal.
The black Werewolf had been preparing to unleash a sound attack on the white Wolf when poison entered its veins. Its head went up, and a red light exploded harmlessly in the air as it howled in agony. Seizing the opportunity, the white Wolf lunged up to grab the Werewolf’s throat in its powerful jaws. The Wolf’s teeth sunk in and, branching its legs against the larger Beast’s torso, the Wolf pushed itself away.
Blood sprayed out to soak white fur. The Werewolf’s claws slashed to knock the white creature to the ground. Trent expected to see the smaller Wolf’s shoulder torn away by the blow. Yet, while the animal was struck to the ground heavily, the claws failed to penetrate its hide. The rest of the pack continued to strike at its legs until the critically injured Werewolf slumped to the ground, defeated.
The white Wolf pushed up to its feet and howled. Unlike the cry of the Werewolf, this sound was clean and fresh, resonating within Trent and bolstering him. The rest of the pack joined their leader, and for a moment, even Trent felt the urge to throw back his head in victory. When Trent found the pack leader’s ice-blue eyes on him, the urge quickly faded.
The Wolf looked smaller than it had when Trent thought it was attacking him, smaller even than Arakai had been. Standing erect, this creature only reached Trent’s waist. Seven more limping forms left the cover of the trees to stand all around Trent.
Believing that with the common foe vanquished, he was about to be attacked by the Beasts himself, Trent used Identify. Winter Wolves, one and all, with Levels ranging from 14 to 18. Trent could not see the pack leader’s Level, even with the recent increase to Identify.
Trent had three vials of Liquid Silver left, two of which were still in Storage. He doubted they would be as effective against the Winter Wolves as they were on a Were-Beast, but anything that could cause steel to crumble had to burn flesh.
The pack leader padded towards Trent, and the lesser Wolves made way for his approach. Trent touched the vial tucked in his belt, grateful it hadn’t fallen out or broken when he flung himself aside. He eased it out. When the Winter Wolf leaped for him, Trent would smash the vial against its head. He would probably be burned as well. He could deal with pain.
“You are alone, Hunter?” The pack sat as one as their leader spoke. Trent almost dropped the poison in his hand as the Wolf continued, “This is a bad place to hunt alone. It is always bad to hunt without a pack. These trees are filled with the Moon Cursed, and you smell like a cub. Where is your pack, Hunter?”
The pack leader sank to his haunches and peered at the silent Trent. The rest of the pack licked at their wounds, seemingly uninterested, but their ears were turned to catch Trent’s reply. Trent straightened from the crouch he had dropped into and considered his reply.
“I have no pack,” he said at last. “I am alone here.”
“No pack? You will die here. Your teeth are dull, and you lack even the metal fangs your kind like to carry,” the pack leader rumbled. “You hunt well. The kill was mine, but your aid made it possible. You may hunt with us. If you wish.”
The offer came with a mental invitation, an invitation to join a party, to join the pack. Trent felt the proposal and wanted to accept it. He wanted to join this pack on their hunt. It would be safer, and there were things he could learn from the Beasts; he was sure of it.
But there was a problem. While the pack leader spoke with dignity and his voice contained age, he was new to his post as leader. Trent was certain of this because whatever Skill the Wolf used to form a pack was akin to the Awakened race’s Leadership. Someone with that Skill could not join a party unless the one forming the group had a Skill level higher than his own. Trent, with his Level 3 Leadership, was unable to accept the Wolf’s offer, despite wanting to.
The mood changed when the pack leader’s offer met a wall. His hackles raised, and the other Wolves stopped tending to their wounds to stare at Trent with lips curled back. Trent responded to the hostility by pushing his mask up and leaning forward.
Violet eyes met the Wolf’s gaze, and the pack leader felt shaken. An ancient force peered out of those eyes set in the Al’rashian’s unlined face. The Swordsman was at a disadvantage. His Level was lower, he was outnumbered and unarmed, but there was no fear on that face or in the Warrior’s scent.
“The Truce holds, it must not be broken.” A young voice speaking old words. The pack leader’s hackles lowered, and his head dropped to his chest in shame as he remembered where he was.
Outside of this Trial, he and this Swordsman would be enemies. However, inside, only the Moon Cursed could be hunted. The Winter Wolf had nearly broken a rule that would have turned his own subordinates against him. He might have killed this two-legged warrior only to find all teeth in the Trial lunging for his throat.
The words left Trent’s lips and he felt they were correct. The phrase came from a corner of his soul, near where his Bond had once been. As he tried to pull out their meaning, to examine how he knew to speak them, the hole within him ripped the words away. He was left empty and unanswered. Only a lingering instinct remained, one which told him to stand his ground. To stare the pack leader down and…
“An offering,” Trent took a meat skewer from Storage and held it out, “in the name of the Truce, and in hopes that the hunt will go well for all.”
The Winter Wolf extended its neck and gripped the gift carefully. As the still-warm meat touched his tongue, drool leaked out over the Wolf’s fangs and he pulled it from the skewer, hardly bothering to chew it before swallowing. Trent found that the gazes the rest of the pack threw his way had lost their tension and turned plaintive.
Seven more skewers were taken out, and Trent gave each of the Wolves one, making sure that his eyes held theirs, and it was the Beasts that looked away. He made the offering, but there was no weakness in it. Tails began swinging as Trent used Balm to heal the Wolves of their injuries; the charm did not do much. The gesture was still appreciated.
While Trent was otherwise occupied, the pack leader returned to the body of the Werewolf. The black Trial Beast was smaller in comparison to the greys. Its weight remained considerable. When Trent saw the Winter Wolf flip the corpse over onto its back with a single flick of its muzzle, the confidence Trent felt in his moral superiority took a hit. He had strained with his whole body to accomplish what the Wolf had done with just the muscles in its neck.
The pack leader’s jaws clamped down on the Werewolf’s skin, and razor-sharp teeth pulled skin away, chomping at the flesh below. Trent stuttered the trigger word to the Balm Charm as he watched the leader's gruesome display. The Wolf Trent was healing tilted its head and whined at Trent’s sudden discomfort.
The pack leader ripped the Beast Core from the Werewolf’s chest and stepped back. Setting the Core on the ground, the white Wolf waited until the corpse disappeared. When it did, and two teeth and a slab of meat were revealed, the leader stood back up. He treated the meat much the same way Trent had, flinging it into the brush, then gathered the teeth and Core in his mouth, brought them over to deposit at Trent’s feet.
“An offering,” the Wolf’s voice was abashed, “in the name of the Truce.”
Finished tending the wounds, Trent took the teeth and Core in his hands. “You won’t eat the meat?”
“That filth is not for eating! It is part of the test. The Moon Cursed hunt to kill but never consume. We do the same to them and deny them the proper end to the hunt!” The white Wolf sounded disgusted by Trent’s question. There was a note of confusion in his answer as well. How could this hunter be wise enough to know of the Truce and be ignorant enough to suggest the eating of the Moon Cursed?
“Hunger sharpens the Hunter. We will eat when the hunt is finished,” The white Wolf explained.
“I… see,” Trent wondered if he could go without eating while clearing a Trial. He was glad he wouldn’t have to find out.
“We must go, Hunter. Three more Moon Cursed must fall before we can return to our territory.” The white Wolf’s words stirred his pack to action, and seven Wolves faded into the trees. “I know not what the Forest requires of you, Hunter, but you would be wiser to seek the rats. The Moon Cursed here are too much for you.”
Trent had more questions and no time to ask them. The white Wolf had already dashed away, continuing down the trail while the pack shadowed him in the brush. With a sigh, Trent stored the teeth and Core before pulling his mask back into place. He was alone again and without a sword. He would need to find a place to rest.
The black Werewolf had been faster than the greys, and appeared without warning. Also, Trent did not want to risk being trapped in a tree if the Beasts turned out to be more astute than their larger relatives. He might have to if he couldn’t locate a Safe Zone.
He had no weapons. It struck him that what he did have was the material to craft some in his Storage. Trent had to see what could be made of Dire Wolf teeth first. Then he could go find the Wererats. The thought of looking for the Trial exit never occurred to him.
Chapter Seven
Where is Trent?
The question had been asked a dozen times. Tersa was glad the group of people she had been sent to bring to Master Taylor had stopped shouting the words at her. She was frustrated and angry when she voiced the question herself. Now, as she sat forgotten in one corner of the Duke’s practice hall, a sick feeling churned in her gut.