Devan

Devan rode into Hunter’s Woods with his short sword in one hand, reins in the other. To say his nerves were taut would be a severe understatement. His hand hurt from clenching tightly around his sword hilt, but he couldn’t make himself release it. The churning in his stomach was nauseating, prebattle nerves he couldn’t dismiss. Devan hated charging into the unknown, and this situation qualified. He’d barely gotten past the wood’s edge before seeing signs of something gone very wrong.

Murderously wrong.

The first sign was that of two woodcutters, cart and wood abandoned, horse nowhere in sight. Both men lay face up on the ground, their eyes glassy, throats torn out. The sight made him unconsciously check the metal throat guard around his own throat. As hot as full plate armor was, Devan now wished he’d worn it instead of the lighter chainmail.

He clinically examined the scene. The men had been dead several days—the smell alone attested to that. Their bodies were splayed as if something had knocked them off their feet, and the way the dirt was churned under their heels suggested they’d struggled mightily until their death—which means whatever had attacked them had been strong enough to keep them there. Woodcutters were strong by nature—their profession guaranteed it—so it said something that they couldn’t force their attacker off by brute strength. It was also strange that one of them couldn’t escape. How fast was this thing to be able to catch both of them so handily?

Strangely, it looked as if all blood had been drained prior to death, as there was barely any sign of bruising or blood around the open wounds. Neither man had any defensive wounds to be seen, either. Whatever had struck had caught them entirely unawares. They’d not even had a chance to defend themselves. Struggled, yes, but they hadn’t been able to fight back.

Devan felt highly uneasy leaving them there, but his purpose first and foremost was to find what killed them. Perhaps later, after this fiend was dealt with, he could come back and retrieve the bodies for the families. Let them have a proper burial.

With severe misgiving, he nudged Dan back into a walk and continued into the woods.

Yes, his survival instincts were sending up every red flare imaginable, thanks for asking. Devan was (unfortunately) in the habit of doing things against his better judgement.

Another hour’s ride in, Devan saw a group of fallen bandits, their gear and outfits shabby and ripped. The stench here was even stronger than near the woodcutters, the flies having a veritable feast upon the abandoned corpses. The bandits had put up more of a fight but, still, five men dead, their throats torn out. Also looking very drained of blood. The dog tied to their camp looked petrified but otherwise untouched. Out of pity, Devan undid the leash around its neck and the dog wasted no time in hightailing it out of there.

It was sad to say but Devan was sure the dog had more sense than he did.

It was midmorning now, nearing the noon hour, although it was hard to tell. Hunter’s Woods was a primeval forest, barely touched by any logging companies. The wood was thick and dense, the branches overhead so overlapping that barely any sunlight penetrated to the forest floor. Greenery and shrubs were scarce indeed except shade grass, the only plant to survive with such little sunlight. The air was cool and slightly damp, bringing a chill to Devan’s exposed skin.

Well, really, it was the eeriness of the woods that made goosebumps rise on his flesh. Between the dim lighting, giving him such truncated sightlines, and the predator lurking somewhere out of sight, the woods had a distinctly haunted feeling.

Birdsong and the buzz of insects sounded all around, so whatever this predator was, it was no predator to them. From the corner of his eye, Devan saw a fox dart from the base of a fallen tree and scurry away through the grass. It was more afraid of him than anything else in here.

“What do you think, Dan?”

Dan’s ears flickered backward, assuring him the stallion was listening.

“It’s a strange creature that only attacks adult humans. I only ever see the tracks of one creature at a time, so I assume it’s just one, but I might be wrong? Still strange, whatever it is. What attacks adults without remorse but lets the little girl go, or ignores the dog? The animals in the forest don’t act like a predator is among them. I can think of a few creatures that only attack and feed off full-grown humans matching the description given. But I can’t think of anything native to this area.”

Devan just knew his chances of survival were plummeting with every step farther into this forest. He was an adult, and armed, and that was apparently this creature’s favorite target. Dammit all to hell and back.

He turned a little in the saddle, leather creaking as he did so. There was absolutely no sign that anything was about. His survival instincts said otherwise.

Just what was in here?

Devan’s job was to find out.

He did not, in fact, want to find out.

“Becoming an adult was one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made,” he grumbled to himself.

Dan’s head bobbed, as if in agreement.

“Yes, thanks for that. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Dan ignored him.

Probably the safer answer.

A stray bit of sunlight grazed the ring on his hand and caught his attention. Devan looked at it for a long moment, chewing on his bottom lip. Should he call Tan? The sorcerer had made him promise to call if things looked bad. This certainly didn’t look good. Devan just wasn’t sure how safe it was, calling the sorcerer in. Tan had proven a ferocious fighter when he had the time to gear up and get enough magic together, but he was still recovering from the last fight Devan had thrown him into. Calling him now seemed wholly unfair.

Instinct warred with instinct. He really didn’t know which was the better choice here.

Maybe he should call—

Something sped out of the shadows, just on the edge of his peripheral vision. Startled, Dan kicked out and nearly caught whatever it was square on. The warhorse let out a squeal of outrage that something had dared attack from behind.

Devan rocked with the motion, twisting to get a visual, sword up and at the ready.

The thing spun again, a hooded cloak hiding most of its features, except the blood that soaked it from chin down. A gruesome sight for sure but also confirmation that this was exactly the creature he was hunting for.

The thing whirled, silent even on the forest floor, spinning like an aerial dancer before lunging for Devan. He barely got the sword up but it did little good, the creature’s claws raking against his chainmail. The strength of the blow actually ripped some of the mail, the metal screeching in protest as it tore down his shoulder. Devan felt the pull and braced himself in the saddle, trying desperately to keep his seat. It was a near thing, and his shoulder felt strained from the effort.

He could feel Tan’s ring warm on his finger but it was an absent observation, on the same level as confirming that he was still breathing. Devan’s entire attention lay on the creature still whirling about his prancing horse, trying to get the right angle of attack. Devan twisted in the saddle to face it, instincts clamoring to disengage. This wasn’t a battle he could win. He wasn’t fast enough—

A hard yank pulled him out of the saddle and Devan landed on the ground in a harsh thud, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall with a hard enough jar that pain ricocheted through his body. He didn’t let it distract him. Training kicked in and he rolled, putting himself out from under Dan’s hooves, sword up and his eyes looking wildly around for the creature.

Where, where, where—it was here somewhere, dammit!

Devan sat up hastily even as he searched frantically for his opponent. A shadow darted in close again, coming up almost from behind him, and claws raked at his face. White hot pain scored his right cheek and jaw. Devan swore, jerking to the side, sword slicing in turn. The blade hit, but only just, a graze that barely bought him breathing room as the creature jerked back.

Dan, upset that his rider was down, kicked out again but wholly missed. The warhorse let out a frustrated neigh at being denied his target.

Devan twisted again, trying to at least get a leg up under him so he wasn’t flailing like an upside-down turtle on the ground. No such luck. The creature grabbed his arms, throwing itself sharply on top of him, pinning both his arms and his sword. Sharp claws bit right through his arm greaves, the white-hot pain screaming along his nerves. Its weight was incredible, like a millstone. As strong as Devan was, he barely kept it from crushing him altogether.

Muscles bulging, he panted and groaned, trying to push the damned thing off. He clenched his teeth against the pain and redoubled his efforts. If he could just get the blade tilted, maybe he could score a slash against its chest.

He could see inside the hood now and wished he couldn’t. Soulless black eyes looked back at him, a hungry smile around sharp teeth, and breath that was incredibly foul, like a butchery that hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. Devan nearly threw up from the smell alone. Straggling black hair framed its face, and the skin was unnaturally pale, white as snow. The impression he got was distinctly female.

“Get off me, damn you!” he swore.

That seemed to amuse her. Her grin deepened in return and she darted in with a sharp motion of her head, teeth snapping.

No, no, no, she wasn’t going to tear his throat out like the others. Devan wouldn’t let her. The throat guard gave him some kind of defense, but it wouldn’t last long, which meant he had to come up with some plan to get this thing off. Dan—maybe Dan could kick her off while she was stationary like this.  

A blast of penetrating black light flared between them, knocking the creature off and throwing her several feet away. What the hell…?

Oh. Tan’s ring. The protection spell on the ring had somehow activated and thrown the creature off.

Devan panted for breath for three seconds, needing the small recovery window, and rolled, scrambling to his feet. His head spun with the motion but he kept his feet through sheer willpower. No way in hell was he going to be on his back again.