14

As the adrenaline high slowly faded, Hunter finally started to notice his surroundings–and quickly wished he hadn’t. Even without the bloody bodies of a dozen low-dwellers strewn about, the scene was nothing short of horrifying.

“What in god’s name…?”

“Lad,” said Fawkes, grimmer than usual, “no decent god had anything to do with this.”

There was blood everywhere, of course; its metallic smell permeated the forest air. Then there were body parts. Arms, legs, feet, hands, heads–human heads, still wearing expressions of terror and shock. Some were on the ground, half-chewed. Some were poking out of the weeds and the undergrowth. Some were impaled on tree branches. And some, Hunter realized with an ever-increasing sense of dread, were actually arranged in a neat, logical, almost ritualistic pattern. It was like someone had taken the time to leave a message, writing in blood and dead heads and arms and legs instead of ink and letters.

“Did the low-dwellers do this?” he muttered, more to himself than Fawkes.

“No”, Fawkes shook her head. “The smell of blood is what drew them here, whipped them up into a frenzy. But this… someone else did this. Something else.”

Hunters mind refused to take what he was seeing. It was like the world’s most horrid jigsaw. All he could see was the pieces, tossed around all over. As for the whole image… hell, he couldn’t even begin to guess how many people the dismembered body parts had belonged to.

“At least we found the missing hunters”, he tried to crack wise, but his voice rang hollow even to his own ears.

Fawkes said nothing. Careful not to disturb any of the remains, she started examining the scene of the carnage up close, looking for who knows what.

“Don’t move,” she ordered him. “And don’t touch anything.”

That wouldn’t be a problem, he thought. He was barely managing not to gag on the air that he breathed as it was–he was certainly not going to touch anything he didn’t absolutely have to.

Suddenly remembering Biggs & Wedge and their heroic maneuver during the fight with the low-dwellers, Hunter tried to feel their presence in his head.

“Uh, guys? Are you there?” he projected.

They were, although they were uncharacteristically quiet.

“You okay?”

They sent Hunter the telepathic equivalent of a shrug. Tired. Why?

“That divebomb you pulled was quite a move. Thanks.”

Happy bird noises filled his head. You’re welcome!

Despite all their fluttering and chattering, the feathery windbags weren’t actual flesh-and-blood birds. They were magical spirits from who-knows-where, with whatever implications that carried. He’d have to keep reminding himself that.

“Take a look at this,” Fawkes said and squatted at the edge of the clearing. “Tracks, many. These people came here of their own volition. They straight up walked into the clearing. Nobody panicked. Nobody ran. They simply stood over there and waited for their turn.”

“What do you mean, waited for their turn?”

Fawkes stood up and gave a grim look at the trees around them.

“Do you know what a shrike is, lad? It’s a kind of bird. The butcherbird, some call it. It’s known for its habit to impale its prey on sharp thorns, so it can tear it apart into smaller bites more easily. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Hunter didn’t–and then he suddenly did.

“Someone–something–grabbed these people one by one and strung them up on those branches like sweetmeats on a Yule tree,” Fawkes went on. “And the rest simply stood there and watched.”

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It gets worse. Try to imagine what kind of strength it would take to pick a man or a woman off the ground, and pin them on a tree branch until it runs them through. Then there’s the question of how all these people were dismembered.”

Fawkes picked up a half-chewed arm, and waved it at a horrified Hunter.

“See, there’s no signs of cutting or sawing. These people were literally pulled apart limb from limb by means of brute strength.”

“Something that strong would have to be really, really big, right?”

“Right.”

“And something that big would have left back tracks, footprints, something. Right?”

“Right again. You’re not half bad at this, lad. Over there. Look.”

There it was, still clearly visible among the carnage and the dead; a somewhat humanoid-looking print, large as a goddamn flipper. Once Hunter knew what to look for, he saw more, too. They were everywhere on the ground around the clearing. Judging from how they were spread, Hunter guessed they belonged to a large bipedal humanoid creature–a guess that must have been right, because it triggered a notification.

Your Survival has increased to 19.

“So it’s big, impossibly strong, stands on two legs, and it murders people,” said Hunter. “What else?”

Fawkes looked at the torn arms and legs around her, and her mouth became a thin line of worry.

“It’s smart, too,” she said. “Intelligent. These are no random killings. See how meticulously the limbs of the murdered were placed on the ground, before the low-dwellers disturbed them? This creature, lad… this is no mere beast.”

“Is that why you mentioned I might be a werebeast earlier?”

“Yes”, she grunted. “Though I think you’re more or less acquitted of suspicion now.”

Hunter was about to offer a snarky reply when an idea crossed his mind.

“Give me a moment,” he said. “I think I might be able to learn more.”

He summoned his mana once again, savoring the cold sensation that ran from the base of his spine all the way up to the center of his brain. Then he braced himself for the burning, briny shock that inevitably followed, spat a couple swearwords for good measure, and cast Mystic’s Eye.

Footprints left behind by some unknown creature. Very large, very powerful, and clearly bipedal, whatever left these tracks behind brings to mind nothing that’s known to reside in the Brennai Weald. Or, at the very least, nothing natural.

Hunter took a few breaths to steady himself and shake off the terrible feeling of saltwater and rust eating at the back of his nose and eyes, then read the tracks’ description out loud. The woman stared at him, and her frown deepened into a scowl.

“That thing you did just know… was it a spell? Some kind of transient’s divination?”

He shrugged.

“You’re a crafty one, I’ll give you that”, she said. “Full of surprises. At any rate, you are correct. I don’t know of any beast or monster around these parts that fits the tracks and marks the killer left behind. And I noticed something else, too; there are no prints leading in or out of the clearing. It’s as if the creature came out of thin air, did its killing, and then vanished again.”

“Maybe it climbed the trees”, Hunter offered. “Or maybe it flew.”

“Maybe,” Fawkes said, ruminating. “Unlikely, but maybe.”

“So, what now?” asked Hunter, mainly to fill the silence that was beginning to last a bit too long. “Are we going to bury them, say a few words or…?”

Apparently, interrupting the woman’s thinking was not a good idea.

“Do I look like a soothsayer, lad?” she snapped, agitated. “Or an undertaker? Let the Brennai sort this out and take care of their dead themselves. We’ve done our part here. Let us be on our way. The day’s a-wasting.”