Deus Necros

The warning had scarcely reached their ears when the carriage shuddered beneath them. It was not the jolting rattle of uneven road nor the dip of a wheel into a rut, but something far more deliberate more violent. A thunderous crack rang through the air as a force like a battering ram slammed into the side of the vehicle. Wood groaned and bent under the pressure, and the sigils carved into the inner walls flared an urgent red before flickering erratically, threads of luminous glyphs unraveling like torn embroidery.

Melisande was the first to react. Without hesitation, she threw herself over Redd’s body, shielding the unconscious bandit with her own frame. Her hands gripped the bolted bench with white-knuckled force as she pressed her back to the wall, taking the brunt of the collision through tensed muscle and grit. Beneath her, the Skinwalker snarled and hissed, its translucent form lashing out with claws that did not strike but simply phased through her in protest.

“Protect him!” she hissed.

Gorak’s massive form barely budged, though his eyes flared with renewed awareness. He clenched one broad hand around the iron frame of the carriage’s window, using it like an anchor as the vehicle teetered. His feet dug into the floor with calculated weight. Timur, far smaller and quicker, had instinctively thrown himself flat to the floor, his body pressed flush against the wooden slats just as a second lurch sent the whole cabin tilting to one side.

Ludwig reacted last but only because he had paused to assess the angle of the blow. A moment of delay, then he crouched low and seized the back of one of the chairs bolted to the wall. His knuckles tensed with unnatural strength as he rode out the jolt, his eyes narrowing at the way the carriage’s internal structure warped ever so slightly. Sigils along the ceiling sputtered once more before a jagged crack split one of the interior arches from the ceiling down to the frame.

The sound of it was sickening, wood tearing and enchantment snapping like sinew. The magical space inside the carriage began to dim, the expansion field flickering in and out, pressing the walls inward by imperceptible degrees. Air rushed in through the smallest gaps, bringing with it the scent of iron-rich soil and torn moss.

Outside, something massive exhaled.

“What interesting grip…” Gorak murmured, his voice too calm for the moment. His eyes were still focused out the window, squinting through the spiderweb of cracks that obscured the view.

“That was no grip at all…” Ludwig muttered, pushing himself upright with a faint growl of dull pain. His shoulder had struck the door when they were hit, and though he could not bruise, the joint had jammed in its socket for the briefest second.

“Not you. The Vampire,” Gorak corrected.

Ludwig followed his line of sight, and saw Celine.

She had not moved.

Her seat had splintered slightly, the support beam behind her cracked at the base, and yet she remained entirely composed. Her posture was unchanged, and the jerky she had been chewing moments before still rested between her fingers. She plucked it delicately and bit into it with the same slow grace as before, utterly untouched by the violence of the strike.

The absurdity of it gave Ludwig pause.

He rose, placing a hand on the door, and pushed it open in one fluid motion. The hinges groaned as the cool night air rushed in, bringing with it the scent of pine sap and something deeper, wilder.

“Where’s that fucker?” Ludwig’s voice was low, edged with fury, his eyes scanning the clearing beyond the shattered trail of crushed underbrush.

Robin’s voice came from the other side of the road, startling him with how close it had gotten. “It’s gone. Hit and run.”

Ludwig turned, surprised. “Were you not up top.”

“I was, for a moment” Robin replied flatly, brushing debris from his shoulder as he approached the carriage, mud and dirt all over his body. “If I stayed up there, I’d probably have the same ending as our coachman.”

Ludwig turned further, eyes trailing toward the front of the vehicle. The horses were in disarray, snorting wildly, their reins now dangling uselessly from splintered wood. The driver’s seat was ruined, shards of timber and bits of rope scattered like bones. Two legs remained planted where the coachman had once sat, boots still upright, torso nowhere to be seen.

Blood soaked the plank beneath them, already cooling in the night air.

“And that was no ordinary Bearowl,” Robin said, voice subdued.

“You saw it?” Ludwig asked.

“Yes. Briefly. A male Bearowl. Large. Not your usual breed, and white as the moon,” Robin replied.

Behind them, Gorak stepped down from the carriage, landing with a crunch of damp leaves and broken twigs. His gaze drifted along the splintered trail left behind by the creature’s passage. “An ice one, I suppose,” he said, his tone low.

Robin gave a short nod. “Yes. It shouldn’t even be here… It’s the wrong side of the country entirely.”

Ludwig’s brow furrowed. “I’m missing something. What difference does it make if it’s an Ice Bearowl or… whatever other type?”

Timur, now climbing out after them, answered, brushing his cloak back over his shoulder. “You’ve seen bears, I assume?”

“Yes. Black, brown, white. Usual types,” Ludwig replied.

Timur gestured vaguely. “For most folks, scaring off a black bear is manageable. A brown bear? Suicidal. You play dead, pray it gets bored. But a white bear, polar kind, means certain death. No negotiation. No tricks. Think of it the same way for Bearowls.”

Robin took over. “Black Bearowls are nimble, low-threat unless you’re cornered. Brown ones are territorial and aggressive but lack the instinct to track properly. But a White Bearowl?” He hesitated. “It’s like watching snow grow teeth. Silent, methodical, a perfect killer in its element.”

Gorak crossed his arms. “And even among those, males are worse. Rare bloodthirsty. Often unstable.”

Robin exhaled. “And this one was no ordinary specimen. It wore something. A harness of some kind, metal plated along the chest and ribs. And there was a red mana jewel embedded in its forehead, pulsing.”

“Chimera?” Ludwig asked, though his voice lacked certainty.

Robin shook his head. “No… Not transformed. Augmented. Boosted, maybe. But not changed.”

“Still,” Ludwig said slowly, “if it had the advantage, why didn’t it finish the job?”

There was a silence then. One that held weight.

“Well,” came the voice of the Knight King from within Ludwig’s thoughts, a cold whisper behind his ear. “The answer is simple.”

Ludwig didn’t respond aloud, only thought the words: “What do you mean?”

“If what your companion said is true, and I believe it is, then the creature you encountered is a cautious one. It struck and fled not out of weakness… but recognition. Something alerted it. Something it feared.”

“Celine,” Ludwig whispered to himself.

“Indeed. Even monsters fear the one who rules the night. And your companion there… she is no longer dormant. But I would not wager that fear will hold for long. The night grows louder.”

And as if summoned by the thought, the first low howl rang across the treetops.

Then another.

And another.

Distant, overlapping, unnatural in cadence.

The entire forest began to stir.

“This is gonna be a long night…” Ludwig muttered.