“Excellent!” the elderly man exclaimed, and the group of men behind him cheered. He walked closer to William, and stretched out a hand that William shook. “I am Peter, temporary steward of Axeby in the lord’s absence. What might your name be, Blessed one?”
“William Redshaw. Well met, Peter.”
“We are honoured to receive one so close to the Seraph,” Peter said, as he began walking into the village and gestured for everyone to follow him. They walked down a wide path of packed dirt that cut directly through the entire village, flanked on either side by small wattle and daub buildings and pens containing various livestock. William could hear the squeals of pigs in the distance. Only the buildings closer to the centre seemed to have their whitewash.
Peter was giving William a tour, it seemed, and he rattled on about each of the buildings they passed as they made their way through Axeby. Off in the distance was a pair of stone buildings, bigger than the rest by a wide margin - one evidently the home of the lord, William surmised, not paying too much attention to what Peter was saying.
It seemed a relatively poor village, despite its size, and there wasn’t many people around. William saw only one child, and few women, but nobody else. He had suspicions that the group of old men behind him were close to the only other occupants in the area.
They stopped outside a broad building with a pointed thatch roof; its front was covered by an array of windows, spaced irregularly and all with some degree of odd rotation. “Ah, we’ve arrived. We have room for you here at the alehouse,” Peter explained, pointing to the building, “it’s no inn, but we make do.” He looked at the other men who had followed along, and addressed them next, “You may go - best not leave us undefended for too long.”
The group dispersed with quiet farewells, some opting to shake William’s hand as Peter hand done before they took their leave. It still felt strange to him, as he smiled awkwardly at them. I hope this isn’t how it will always be, when people see the mark.
“Now,” Peter said, emphasising the word by hitting his walking stick into the dirt, “let us discuss our business over a drink, shall we?“ The old man approached the door to the alehouse, and William followed him inside.
They entered into a wide room that stretched across the entire width of the building. It was well lit, thanks to the overabundance of windows, yet even still there were candles lit and a fire roaring in its place at one end of the room. There were wooden booths installed haphazardly along its length, some against walls and some not, and a sprinkling of single stools. The whole place felt as though the only thought that had gone into its construction was making sure the walls stayed standing.
The room felt cold and inauthentic to William, despite itself; bare walls of whitewash next to the blocks of brick that made up the fireplace, reaching up to the pointed ceiling between exposed wooden beams. There was no decoration. No comfort. The bare minimum one would expect of an alehouse, and nothing more. Either most of the populace felt the same, or they were busy elsewhere: William only saw two others within.
They walked over to the small bar area opposite the door, across the cold stone floor, and were greeted by a middle aged woman. “Welcome!” She smiled at them warmly as they approached, deep grooves worn into her face from years of holding that same expression. “I see you’ve brought a friend, Peter - a handsome one at that!”
William could feel his face warm at the compliment as it turned a deep red, despite knowing full well that she wasn’t actually flirting with him; she was an attractive woman, clothed in a modest red dress that was perhaps a little too tight, and a plain white bonnet that covered much of her long, chestnut hair. She wiggled her eyebrows at him, and the redness deepened even further.
She laughed heartily, and said to Peter, “It's too easy with the young ones!”
“Well, I wouldn’t know much about that anymore! Two ales please, Edith.” He seemed to be finding William’s discomfort just as amusing as her.
With a smile of acknowledgement, she set about getting their drinks. She opened a barrel behind her that was full to the brim with ale, and ladled out enough for two cups.
Peter placed a coin upon the bar. “Thank you, Edith,” he said as he walked away.
“Yes, thank you,” William added quietly, taking both cups and hurrying after Peter. Edith laughed again.
Peter led them all the way over to the other side of the alehouse, furthest from the fire and tucked away in a corner, and he stood in front of a booth occupied by the only other patron. This person was half obscured by shadow, in the darkest possible spot in the entire establishment; a relatively young man, at least in comparison to everyone else in the village that William had seen so far.
Peter spoke to the seated man sarcastically, “Fortuitous that we might find you here of all places, Robert.”
The man, Robert, grumbled angrily and sneered, but didn’t bother to look at the two of them. He took a sip of his drink, and said nothing.
“May we sit?” Peter asked.
Another grumble, just as angry as before. Robert seemed to sway a little, even as he sat.
William didn’t much like the dynamic. Peter sat, and he followed suit. In an attempt to help diffuse the tension, he held out a hand and spoke kindly to the man, “Good day, Robert - my name is William.”
Robert looked at the outstretched hand with disgust, and then up at William. In an instant, his expression changed and he let out a sharp, quick exhale from his nose. He leaned out of the shadows and spoke in a quiet, pained voice, “Funny bastard, aren’t you?”
It took William a few moments to understand what the man meant, and his eyes grew wide as he wondered how he could possibly have been so unobservant. The man had no free hand with which to reciprocate - one was occupied with a cup of ale, and his other arm was a bandaged stump from just past his elbow, held up in a makeshift sling. Not only that, the entire opposite side of Robert’s neck and lower jaw was wounded, covered by parallel slashes that had hardly healed.
Robert’s neck was bandaged only up to the collar of his shirt: some sections of the open wound were a deep, dark red, and others were weeping a disgusting, translucent fluid. Parts of Robert’s long and greasy brown hair were caught within it, like flies in a web.
“Look upon the work of The Terror of Axeby,” Peter said gravely. It was undeniably the result of a single, powerful swipe from claws that seemed impossibly large. Robert, it seemed, didn’t much approve of being looked upon, and turned away once more. “This is why we require your aid, William - this beast must be slain, lest it become our ruin.”
William could think of no creature that could reasonably be responsible. “What manner of beast could do such a thing?” he said in awe.
“It is, we think, some manner of wolf,” Peter stated simply.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Forgive me, Peter, but I know of no wolf that could grow to such a size.” William had seen his fair share of wolves, as their bodies were brought into Wealdham from the nearby woodland. From his memories, not one had possessed a paw size anywhere close to big enough to deliver a wound like Robert’s.
Robert scoffed. “’Tis no mere wolf.” He laid down his cup, and held the base of his wounded neck as he continued, “’Tis a foul thing - blacker than the darkest night, with eyes what burned like fire.” He seemed to respect the creature, despite how terrified he sounded of it. “Its,” his voice choked as tears welled within his eyes, and he began to speak distantly, “its claws ripped right through him, they did. Tore him up like, like parchment...” His lips trembled, as though he were struggling to let the next words escape. “Should have been me, not him...”
Robert picked his cup back up, and didn’t stop drinking until it was empty. He rose abruptly, then staggered over to the bar. William didn’t blame him, after what he’d just heard.
“Robert is the only one of us to have survived The Terror; thanks only to the sacrifice of his brother,” Peter said quietly. The words weighed heavy on William, who took a sip of his own drink as he felt sadness resonate within him. For now, his own loss was only a possibility, but it hurt all the same.
“This beast - The Terror - where can I find it?”
Peter laughed mirthlessly, and shook his head. “You can find it right here in Axeby. It has been venturing further in, as of late, as we try to move the livestock closer.”
“If it is so brazen, how has it not been dealt with by now?”
“A fair question,” Peter replied. “Most of our fighting age men were conscripted by the lord, in service of Duke Hatherall. Those that we were left with were no match for it.”
“Truly? There are none left in the village who can fight?”
“There are some, though they are few.”
Peter continued to explain the situation to William: he told of lone travellers being picked off on the roads, and even of entire caravans being harassed on their way to Axeby. It was a struggle to get anything or anybody in or out. Even still, more and more residents were filtering out by the day, taking their chances rather than stay put and face a perceived demise.
The village would be abandoned within the month, if things continued. Those that were too stubborn to leave would likely die here. Facing the beast head on was their last ditch attempt at saving the place. It wasn’t just about Axeby, either - the creature would likely torment neighbouring villages in due time, following them like a curse.
The elderly man finished his drink, and let out a satisfied sigh. “I’m afraid I must leave you now; there are preparations to make for the night’s defence. Please meet us here when you hear the church bells. In the meantime, make yourself at home.” He stood to leave.
William was surprised at the suddenness of being called to action. “We would fight the beast so soon?” He was still feeling some of the aftereffects of the battle at Seraford, and would not be in top form for some days at least.
Peter gave an exhausted shrug as he replied, “There is no time to wait - every evening brings us closer to ruin.” The man walked away, leaving William in contemplation.
William had stayed in the alehouse for some time, and had been provided with a delicious meal by Edith. It was much needed, after all his days of travel - he'd forgotten how good prepared food tasted. He swore he would never travel without provisions again.
William decided to see the rest of the village, after he'd filled his stomach, but quickly realised there wasn’t actually much else to see; it was a small place, after all. He walked the perimeter, stopping to talk with some of the other men he’d met earlier in the day, and asked them about The Terror.
He didn’t manage to gleam much new information: dark, wolf like, eyes that seemed to glow, and abnormally big. It began to seem as though Robert hadn’t been exaggerating much, if at all, in his traumatic tale. William still thought them mistaken, though - none of the men he’d spoken to had engaged the beast, only seen it from afar as the more able bodied took it on.
With nothing to do and nothing to occupy his mind until nightfall, he tried his hand at carving another wooden pendant as he sat out by the village’s edge. All attempts to fall into his usual flow state failed - blocked by some mental barrier that he simply could not overcome. He didn’t know whether it was nervousness for the night’s defence, or lingering issues from Seraford. Perhaps it was even the material he was using: discarded firewood. Regardless of the reason, it frustrated him to the point that he couldn’t enjoy the act without it.
He found himself at the village church in the end, looking for some comfort in the Seraph. It was a mundane structure - rare for churches in the realm - with no intricate stained glass windows, nor even the typical stonework one would expect. William suspected that its bell tower was more of an afterthought, despite being the only thing that distinguished it from all of the other buildings in Axeby.
The interior confirmed his suspicions upon entry: it was quite clearly a house that had been repurposed. A significant portion of the upper floor had been removed to open up the space, and thick wooden columns were erected to keep the rest of it up. Nevertheless, William was embraced by the familiar feeling of home as soon as he entered; it reminded him a great deal of the church in Wealdham.
It was dimly lit, owing to its atypical windows - illuminated only by the tall, traditional candelabra that lined the centre path, alongside rows of plain and uncomfortable looking benches. At the end of the path, far opposite the entrance, was the altar. In another break from the expected, this one was wooden: an enormous slab of light oak, embellished with intricate reliefs depicting the most noble of knights. These carved figures appeared to flicker in the light of the candles, as though they were alive and re-enacting their heroic scenes. It was a true work of art, and one that William was now able to fully appreciate.
Behind the altar, upon the wall, was a hanging tapestry in lieu of a large window. Thick, blue-green fabric hung down and commanded attention, drawing all eyes to the white symbols at its centre: a large four pointed star, orbited by several smaller ones. It was simple compared to the elaborate altar beneath, and yet it was worthy of much more admiration by its very nature as a holy symbol.
William lost himself in thought and in prayer for much of the afternoon, meditating on all that had happened in recent days. He asked for guidance from the Seraph, and eagerly awaited a response, but did not receive one. Perhaps it would come to him in time. He read, too, the scripture of the Seraph. A particular passage stood out to him, bolstering his courage and determination, and so he held it tightly within his heart.
The Seraph did speak to noble Sir John, in a voice that thundered from the heavens: “Endure. Endure, and fulfil the duties laid upon you, as mine grace hath been poured unto you.”
A sister of the Order arrived at some point, and joined him in his prayer, before replacing each and every candle within the church. He helped carry a crate of them to ease her burden, but she spoke to him very little. William wondered if she was nervous, as he was, but dared not speak of the beast; the church was her sanctuary from such matters too, more so than his.
Night fell, and the building anticipation within William was all but spilling over. He sat nervously on a bench by the altar, one knee shaking up and down relentlessly. His mind was playing tricks on him - he swore he had heard the church bells ring far off in the distance, not once, but twice. Ridiculous, given that he was sat not twenty feet from it: if it really did ring, he’d be sure of it.
There was a thunderous boom, and the door of the church burst open, rebounding off of the wall, and the light from the closest candelabras was extinguished by a sharp gust of wind. William jumped to his feet in surprise, hand on a dagger, and turned just in time to glimpse someone running across to the bell tower’s ladder. It was too dim now to get a good look, but he was certain that it was a woman, blonde haired and nimble. She disappeared up and into the tower before he’d even fully processed what was happening.
He whispered to himself in disbelief, “Anne?” His brain tried desperately to catch up and work through what it was experiencing as he stood motionless and stupefied. The bell above began its deafening toll: five long, drawn out rings that made William’s bones feel like they were vibrating and left a lingering ring in his ear.
The relative silence spurred William into action, and he ran toward the ladder as though his life depended on it. The woman descended hastily, ignoring the last rungs of the ladder entirely and simply dropping down into a crouch in front of him.
“Anne!” he exclaimed, and reached out his arms to embrace the friend that he had thought lost.
She rebuffed him, pushing him away, and took an aggressive stance. “Oi! Keep your hands to yourself!”
William didn’t understand - why wasn’t she happy to see him? His eyes focused on the woman before him, but he couldn’t make out much. Unfortunately, it was still enough. Her silhouette was all wrong. All of William’s joy evaporated as he spoke meekly, “I’m- I’m sorry, I... thought you were someone else.”
She shifted her gaze past him, to the tapestry behind the altar, and then back to him. The Seraph would not look kindly upon violence within hallowed walls. The woman left with no farewell, sporting a disgusted look and running out into the darkness outside. William reigned in the storm of emotion within him. There was no time for him to stew in his woe: The Terror had arrived.
