A howl, the wind rushing through the trees - rustling through the underbrush. The great beast’s nose tilted upward, his thick fur swaying with the breeze in sync with his surroundings. Scents swirled and mingled. Joined and split apart. His eyes closed, the forest became a patchwork of life, stitched together through sound and smell. He focused, there was something nearby. A sniff, then his head snapped back down, eyes narrowing. He had caught the scent. 

Drust collapsed back against a tree, sank into a sitting position and sighed. They had finally crossed the great river. He let his head rest back against the bark, the sound of the leaves above him soothing his nerves. When was the last time he’d been able to really rest? Weeks? Maybe more. He focused on his breathing. In and out, slow and measured. His belly rumbled, his muscles ached. The fingers that had bent weirdly on his left hand hadn’t been set back properly and the cut on his lip seemingly didn’t want to stay closed. Blood. He could taste it, smell it. Opening his eyes, he realised he must reek of blood, sweat and grime. His tunic was ragged and torn, the cloak now little more than a scarf since the cape had been almost completely ripped off. His boots were filthy and scuffed, his gloves chipped and black with dirt and gore. The sash that normally kept his hair in check had fallen to his neck, hanging loosely as the red strands of his matted hung hair lank over his eyes. 

    Am I even alive? It was a fair question, he figured, with the dark patches over his entire outfit, the rips and tears, he wondered if he had more blood on his clothes than in his body. 

He heard it then, the softest rustling of the leaves and brush, little more than a whisper. Drust knew, though, that he wasn’t alone. He turned his head, heavy with effort, to his left. It stood, taller and broader than he, even if he was standing on his tip-toes. The sunlight caught the beast’s piercing blue eyes, glowing as it passed through the golden-brown fur. A greatwolf, looming over him. Drust smiled, reaching his hand up towards its large muzzle. 

    “Foucauld…” He managed, voice thick in his throat.

***

A nightmare. Though in reality, a waking nightmare. Creatures, monsters the likes of which she had never seen. Black armour glinting in moonlight, riders astride their shadowy mounts with their wispy, smoky black manes. Ingalrada had seen many horses, but the monsters the otherworldly black knights had been atop were like nothing she could have conjured in her own mind. Black skin, slick and wet with glowing red eyes, their bottom jaws hanging loose with far too many teeth - pointed like needles. Dark, tattered material flowed from the saddles and flapped in the wind to appear like the wings of great beasts. She had run, like her family had. Her friends, everyone she had known. The black riders were a relentless wave of death and mayhem, cutting down all who crossed their path without mercy. Ingalrada replayed in her mind the moment her father had pushed her ahead, onto the moving cart just as his head parted from his body and hurled through the air. The shock, the moment suspended in mid-air when the carriage itself had been split in half. The horses screamed, blood filled her vision and all of a sudden the world became a chaos of noise and pain.

Flashes, then. People with weapons trying to fight and being torn apart. Her own hand coming away from her head, slick with blood. Blurred images. Noise, screaming and crying. Then the old man who had come to their village not two days before. He was pulling her to her feet, telling her she was okay. She was strong and she would make it. He took her hand, running them between the houses and out of the open.

They ran, the violence falling away as they neared the garrison building of the village guard. Empty, the soldiers fighting for the lives of their family and friends, and dying for them. Ingalrada fell, the old man knelt to look her over, he was gentle as he helped her back up to their escape. It wasn’t long before the packed dirt and cobble gave out to grass, and then they were in the trees, in the dark.

***

Drust sank his teeth into the tough meat, ripping it from the bone with a revitalised energy he hadn’t realised he could summon. The flame had seared it, burned it in some places and yet this rabbit was the most delectable feast he had ever consumed. Foucauld had only been gone thirty minutes on his hunt, but had returned to drop seven of the creatures on his lap. While Drust only needed one of the large Fostarran rabbits to make it through the day, his companion had already eaten three by the time Drust’s was cooked. 

His belly full, Drust tended to his other problems. The Riverbank Thicket was named for its proximity to the Great River Fostar, and as such it didn’t take him long to find a small stream. The water was clear, clean and blissfully cold. 

    “Probably an offshoot of River Durn,” Drust said, filling his canteen and spare water skins.

    Foucauld tilted his head, ears flopping slightly.

    “Yeah,” Drust continued, stripping off to clean his clothes, “It branches off from the great river.”

    With a deep huffing noise, Foucauld settled back onto his haunches.

    “We’ve made a lot of progress,” The water of the stream quickly turned brown-red with blood and grime as Drust stared into the cloudy flow, “Hopefully this is the last leg.”

    The greatwolf nudged Drust’s shoulder with his nose in silent agreement. 

Foucauld had been Drust’s companion for years now. His time in the Fostarran military had been enlightening in many ways, mostly in how the kingdom treated its peoples, though also in just how unique the elite forces of different militaries could be. The Wulfen Kavellerie was a mounted force that rode greatwolves into combat, as the name would suggest. A fearsome squadron of warriors, they were feared the continent over and even beyond. Drust had quickly been hand-picked for the elite force due to his prowess in close combat, a skill he’d had for a long time. 

It wasn’t what he had expected. The squad was small, only a dozen or so soldiers. While the training was gruelling and taxing, the days long and the nights restless, it came with its perks. Foucauld had been given to Drust as a small pup, barely bigger than a cat. It was on sight, Drust knew this creature was to be his companion and he put his all into caring for him, raising him. In only two years Foucauld was massive enough to be given his first saddle, Drust remembered well the pride and happiness in his wolf companion’s gaze that day.

His final test, the ordeal every Kavellerie soldier had to complete, came quickly after gaining that first saddle. He was to unhorse no less than ten mounted cavalry soldiers from the military in a melee. The task was brutal, but the Kavellerie were elite after all. If one alone wasn’t worth ten normal soldiers, then what worth was three full years of training and dedication. 

Without a scratch. Drust, using only a training lance, had taken no less than seventeen clean from their horses. Not only the military cavalry, but three lord knights of the kingdom as well. An unprecedented performance, one even he hadn’t known he was capable of. But, he had completed his final test. He was named Wulf Ryttir, a greatwolf knight and given his unique mounted weapon to be used on wolfback. In his case, a massive rust-coloured halberd with a broad blade. Ulfsfangur, it was called, the namesake hailing from a legendary ancient weapon that existed in mythology around the world. The wolf’s fang, only given to the most skilled and lethal Ryttirs. 

And it was less than a year after that test, a year after becoming a full-fledged knight in his new brotherhood, that Drust killed his commanding officer and defected from the Fostarran military.

***

It was morning. The sunlight sparkled through the tops of the trees. Ingalrada had been asleep. Or unconscious? She was sitting against a large trunk, either way, her head splitting and her muscles aching. A dream? A nightmare, more like. Blood and screaming, the haunting sound of steel drawing across flesh and parting bone. Blasts and waves of dark magic causing the strangest forms of shadowed illumination. She examined her surroundings, slowly and carefully, and she saw him. The old man from the previous night stood close by, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. He was looking out over a large clearing, keeping an eye while Ingalrada slept. It wasn’t a nightmare. Her family, friends. All that blood, the cries and the pain. For a moment she thought it was too much, that she wouldn’t even cry, it felt as though her mind was shutting down. Though, finally, it came. A large, racking sob wrenched itself from her chest, followed by a long, anguished cry. It tore itself from her body, tears flooding over her cheeks as every tendon pulled and every muscle tightened. She pounded the mossy ground with her fist, shoulders heaving. The old man spun to her, and she barely saw him run over with a look of concerned confusion before her vision dimmed once again, the world fading to a blissful black nothing.

She awoke once more. The forest slowly came into a sharp focus, still pretty and glittering with shafts of golden sun. Her chest was tight, her cheeks still wet. She was shaking, and she couldn’t stop. Her savior, the old man she had only known as the traveller staying at the inn, sat against a tree nearby. He had nodded off himself, lightly snoring with his head dipped to his chest. Ingalrada allowed herself some time. She wasn’t sure how long she lay on the soft, springy forest floor, staring at the canopy of gently swaying leaves. It could have been seconds, or hours. She let herself cry, silently, the images of the previous night replaying again and again. 

Black riders… She had no idea who they had been. Their armour had been pure black, some wore tattered cloaks and capes, many had deep hoods and billowing sleeves. Their weapons varied, all vicious blackened steel, serrated by chips in their edges. Swords, axes and spears of all sizes and shapes. The stuff of campfire stories. She knew, somehow, that they weren’t human. She didn’t know how she knew, and that thought terrified her, but she knew. At the sound of the old man adjusting himself, Ingalrada finally sat. 

She took a swig from her water skin, surprised that she’d had the wherewithal to remember her camping pack in all the chaos. Slowly, Ingalrada got to her feet and stretched her limbs. Her muscles were tightly wound, like cord. Aches and pains, her head still throbbing. The old man stirred, the mane of shaggy greying hair rising from his chest. His mouth and ears were barely visible, the thick hair melded perfectly into a thick, bushy beard. His eyes were tired, lined, but kind. They fell on her and his sleep-borne frown disappeared almost immediately. 

    “Young lady,” He said softly, his voice rich and deep, “Are you okay?”

    Ingalrada took a moment, then passed him the water skin, “Physically I feel better,” She said, her voice still shaking slightly, “I wouldn’t say I’m okay. Thank you, sir. You saved my life, risked your own and I don’t even know your name.”

    “Reingard,” The man said, his thick moustache lifting with a smile, “Though I regret to inform you that’s all I can give. I have no memory other than my name and a number of strange facts and details that spring up every now and then.”

    “I’m Ingalrada,” She frowned, “My apologies, it must be frustrating to have no memory.”

    Reingard chuckled, “It is indeed.”

    Ingalrada looked through the trees, in thought.

    “I’m sorry,” Reingard said after a beat, “I wanted to help but…”

    “You have nothing to apologise for,” Ingalrada shook her head and gave him a small smile, “Those… Things. They weren’t normal.”

    “Death Riders,” Reingard stroked his beard thoughtfully, “They’re undead, extremely dangerous undead. Encroaching from the Deadlands to the west, no doubt. It’s a worrying sign.”

    “Undead…” Ingalrada’s gaze fell to the forest floor. She had heard tales of spirits and revenants. Ghouls and wraiths. These were a whole other class of beast. 

    “I wish I knew how I even knew any of this,” Reingard rubbed his forehead with a thumb and finger, “I know undead are weak to light aspected magic. Magic in general tends to be more effective than physical attacks and traditional weaponry. Riders, though… To damage them would require powerful magic, indeed.”

    Something clicked in Ingalrada’s head, like a puzzle piece falling into place. A memory, a dream. Words spoken in excited, hushed whispers around a fire. A story. She looked up at the old man. “I think… I may know how to find such magic.”

    Reingard blinked at her, “Oh?”

    “It’s not a guarantee…” She started pacing, back and forth over the underbrush, “There’s a story told in the northern villages about ancient, powerful magic. Locked away for centuries. Of a tower.”

    “That would make sense,” Reingard was back to stroking his beard, brow once again furrowed, “Stories of ancient magic are widespread, they did leave powerful spells hidden across the world. These areas are always heavily protected, of course… Something about a tower as well… It seems oddly familiar”

    Her mind was set, “Reingard, thank you again,” She hoisted her bag over her shoulders and started off through the trees, “I’m for the Frigid Peak in the north. The ancient magic locked in the Mystic Tower. If I have that…”

    Reingard nodded, “I’ll join you.”

    Ingalrada turned to him, opening her mouth to argue,

    “I feel it’s what I must do,” He said before she could protest, “The tower… It sounds right to me somehow.”

    Ingalrada hesitated, then nodded. Their path was clear; the Mystic Tower.