Chapter 4: Rot and Ruin

“I saw an ocean of the dead. Corpses stretching from the city gates to the horizon. Every last one of them hungering for me. Oh gods… I can still remember the smell. All that rot clung to everything. You could never escape it, no matter where you went or what you did. The whole jagging world stunk of death.” - Hubertas of Uthlede. Survivor of the 1348 Corpse Siege.

Cole walked down the gravel road leading from the north gate. A different guard from last night had given him some trouble, but nothing a little Bronze couldn’t fix. Now he was on the road and continuing his task. Cole was maybe five kilometer from Glockmire when he left the road. Following the slight cold tugging in his core. Trusting the little aid his God ordained him worthy of.

This close to Glockmire the wilderness was not too difficult to trek through. Alpine forest and meadows fed by mountain streams, nestled between time-worn peaks. It was close to four in the afternoon judging by the Sun’s place in the sky. Pale beams of light filtered through mighty clouds and provided some warmth to the forest around Cole. The storm of the previous night had passed by, and the rain invigorated the trees and bushes around him. A final hurrah for leaf and stem before they sleep for the winter.

Looking around him, Cole pulled down his cloak’s cowl and drank in the sight. It was beautiful, a wild place untrammeled by the peoples of the world. The Dragon-tail mountains coiled around the Blood Duchies like a great serpentine length and kept the lands relatively isolated. The mountains themselves were old, worn down by time and calamity. Still high enough to block easy passage but not the mighty jagged peaks of ages long past. You could walk for hours in any direction, following the gentle slope that transitioned from forest, to field, and finally craggy mountain.

Cole should have felt at peace, the unspoiled wilds a balm to all but the most bitter soul. It was beautiful and he allowed himself to drink it in. He could not drop his guard or truly relax though. For good reason, the forest in its seeming idyllic state was missing something. It was quiet, far too quiet even for early Autumn. Birds delaying migration should have been singing. Squirrels and their kin did not leap between branches, hoping to gather the last few nuts for the winter. Ever present insects made no clicks or dared flight. Something was wrong in the forest and it set Cole on edge.

Continuing onwards, Cole brushed his hand against the axe buckled to his hip. It would take him less than a second to unsheathe it, but that second might mean everything in a fight. Pulling it free, Cole took a moment to examine his weapon. It was not much bigger than a large hatchet, with an oversized blade that flared out from the shaft, and met with the long metal spike protruding from the weapon's top. On the reversed side of the blade was a sharp hooked point, like something a miner might use to break rock.

The shaft itself was not very long, only maybe twenty centimeters from where the front blade started to its very end, where a small spiked pommel capped it. To any skilled armsmen the weapon looked mildly ridiculous. The bastard of a Handaxe, Warpick, and spear, lacking the strengths of any of them. The wise among them would reassess that opinion on a closer look. Seeing the small but perfectly engraved runes that covered the metal shaft.

Feeling the familiar weight of the weapon in his hand, Cole continued his journey deeper into the wilds. He walked for maybe two more hours, the Sun just starting to creep towards the mountain tops. The Shadows lengthened and the forest's earlier beauty faded. Few places invoke such primal dread as the wilderness at night. For good reason too, the ancestors of humanity had learned to fear the dark long before Magic came to the world. In those ancient days wolves, bears and rival tribes filled the night with terror. Now with Magic infused into everything, and the inhabitants of distant worlds and dimensions come with it, much much worse things lived in the dark.

Sanity, reason and sense demanded that any person out in the wilds as night fell should seek shelter. Cole was guided by motives far more powerful and dangerous than logic. Faith, conviction, and most powerful of all, love, motivated the scarred man. This was not the first haunted forest he had marched through in darkness. A task was set before him and it would be completed.

The sun finally set behind the nearest peak, flooding the forest with darkness. As shadows fell Cole finally caught the scent he had been looking for. The sickly smell of rotting meat carried on the air. It was faint, but its pungent scent was unmistakable. Cole’s nose was better than most peoples, that combined with experience and training let him track the smell. So with axe in hand and death on the wind, he crept deeper into the forest.

It did not take him long to find the source. Ahead of him was a small cliff, maybe fifteen meters of worn stone sticking up from the forest floor. A piece of the mountain exposed by centuries of erosion. A deep fissure cut down the cliff face, a crack that reached from its very top to down where stone and forest soil met. The smell was coming from the crevice, thick and pungent.

Cole grimaced slightly, an easy expression for his scared face. Approaching the crevice slowly, he got his first sight of the smell's origin. Halfway into the crevice and splayed on the ground was the mutilated body of a goat. It had been ripped apart, its innards devoured and two of its legs bent at a strange angle. Glancing around him, Cole didn’t see any signs of danger. Getting closer to the carcass he examined it. The blood was long dried and the flesh showed signs of both putrefaction and strangely mummification. Its extremities rotted normally, while its body was withered and stringy.

Taking the spiked head of his axe, Cole pushed open dried skin and exposed bone. Looking at the main cavity of the goat. It was completely empty, stripped clean of flesh and organs. The ribs were split open and a few had been dislodged. One lay maybe half a meter away from the carcass. Gingerly reaching out with a gloved hand, Cole picked it up. Taking a moment to examine the clear bite marks on the rib. Something had used this bone as leverage to split open the goat and broke the rib loose in the process. The bite marks looked human, or at least close to it.

Dropping the rib, Cole continued his examination. This was easily the least pleasant part of his duties. Death is never pretty, especially when the type of beings he dealt with were involved. The intact nature of the goat and the lack of carrion insects added to the strangeness. Creatures that normally would feast upon such an easy meal had avoided it. The natural process of rot itself seemed interrupted, decay not setting in properly where the goat's body had been fed upon.

Glancing up at the cliff, Cole studied its structure and how the crevice narrowed towards the top. He doubted something had actually killed the goat. Most likely it was a victim to the recent weather and poor luck. Slipping into the crevice, thanks to rain or a distraction. Maybe it died on impact or its broken limbs prevented it from moving. Either way, it had attracted an unnatural scavenger. One that had feasted on the organs and then left the rest of the body intact and tainted.

Taking in a steadying breath, Cole now knew what he was dealing with. This was a Vryko-Ghoul, a type of hungry corpse. Ghouls are perhaps the most common type of undead, requiring only suffering and an unconsecrated corpse to exist. The Magic that flows through the world mirrors what it witnesses. Great suffering and anguish can contaminate raw Magic, turning it into the fell energies of undeath. Energies that will seek a home, such as an unprotected corpse.

Ghouls universally hunger for flesh and will go to great lengths to acquire it. Lesser Ghouls are little more than shambling corpses, lacking wits or instinct. Easily dispatched by any able-bodied person with even an improvised weapon. Dangerous only in their persistence and ability to multiply quickly. A ghoul’s bite is rarely fatal if treated, but will spread the curse of undeath if the victim does die. Raising them up as another ghoul, in the hellish state of undying hunger.

If he was correct, then the thing that had eaten the goat was not a normal Ghoul. The fact it had eaten dead flesh, and then stopped from fully devouring the goat, informed Cole of this. Most likely this was a Vryko-Ghoul, the product of someone dying from exposure and starvation. Doomed to wander the wilds trying to fill a hunger that could never be sated. Vrykos only consume internal organs, and are not picky about the source. Leaving behind ripped open bodies that thankfully do not rise as undead but are still poisoned with necromantic Magic.

Cole had put down a Vryko-Ghoul before, it had not been easy. While they lack intelligence like a normal ghoul, they possess strength and durability that more than compensates. Traits that only grow with every successful feeding. Something to be concerned about, especially since a newly risen Vryko can rip a full grown person in half. Cole hoped this Vryko was still young. It would make sense if it was still scavenging out in the wilds. The more a ghoul ate, the hungrier it got, enduring a hellish false-existence that Cole was tasked with ending. If this Vryko had not attacked Glockmire or the shepherds who wandered these hills then it was still relatively weak.

Looking around him at the forest, Cole mused on why his God had sent him here. This was the perfect environment for a Vryko-Ghoul to grow quickly. Scavenging on local wildlife until it could catch an unlucky goat or its shepherd. Growing stronger and hungrier with every meal it would strip the forest and fields of animals before moving towards Glockmire. The town's defenses would probably be strong enough to stop the horror, but till then it would reap a bloody toll. Never stopping in its pursuit of food, healing from any injury that didn’t outright kill it, and eventually growing strong enough to rival even an ancient vampire in raw physical power. The Vryko-Ghoul needed to be put down, and quickly.

Sighing to himself, Cole went over to the rib he had examined earlier and picked it up. Looking at the teeth marks, he knew what he had to do. He would need to get close to the horror, and this carcass was at least a few days old. Cole was not a bad tracker but with the recent rain he had no chance of following a trail if it existed. So he needed to turn to less mundane methods. Placing the rib back on the ground, Cole pulled up one of his sleeves and set the needle-like point on his axe’s pommel to his skin. Letting it pierce through the layers of scars produced by this same action. A few drops of bright crimson welled up and Cole turned his fore-arm. Letting them fall onto the rib, right where the teeth marks were.

“Blood falls upon Bone, help me find my quarry across Mud and Stone.” he whispered. It was a primitive tracking spell, one any decent Mage would be able to ward against. Hells, any person with an inkling of Magical talent would be safe from it; if they thought intently about being hidden. A Vryko-Ghoul would have no such protection and would be easily tracked by the spell.

The blood spilt on the rib moved, slithering along the yellowing bone like some gory serpent. Eventually wrapping around the rib, coiling its entire length in a thin line of blood. Cole reached down and picked up the rib. Holding it out before him, he started to slowly spin in a circle. He came to a stop when a slight sense of resistance came from the bone, like he was pushing it through water instead of air. Now Cole had a direction to travel. Literally following the path of least resistance towards his quarry.

The darkness became more and more oppressive as the Sun set farther behind the mountains. Cole stopped in his journey, to eat some rations and light a make-shift torch. He did not want to put away his weapon and the long, almost spear-like point of the axe could serve many purposes.Wrapping a length of oily fabric around the spiked top of his axe, Cole ignited it with the Spark-Stone bought from Barnabas. The little trinket would come in handy. Spilling a drop of blood every time he wanted fire was terribly inconvenient.

Cole’s use of Blood Magic on something as simple as his tracking spell would earn him the wrath of any skilled Mage, even more so if he used it for a bit of fire-calling. The various types of Spellweavers manipulate the Magic that flows through the world. Relying on countless different techniques to safely and efficiently harness the power of Magic.

Magi study the intricacies of Magic and enforce their will upon the Aether through practice and knowledge. Priest's act as living channels for a God’s might, invoking miracles in their name. Shaman’s call upon the wild spirits of the Aether, bonding with them and enacting their will. Cultivators from the far-east draw Magic into their very flesh, refining themselves into living weapons. Savants are blessed with strong natural affinity for a type of Magic they wield almost instinctively. Collectively called Mage’s or Spellweavers, these manipulators of the arcane wield incredible power.

Power that must be earned and mastered through focus, study, training and effort. Except when Blood Magic is used. Nobody knows for sure why the Aether reacts so much to sacrificed blood. Other rituals of sacrifice buy power from the darker things in the Beyond. Not the offering of Blood though, the Aether itself absorbs it and reacts to the offeror's intent. By the standards of true Mage's Blood Magic is a crude, hamfisted and disturbingly potent alternative method of wielding magic. A method that Cole excelled at, having long ago mastered the craft of spilling his blood to further his goals.

The tracking spell did its work, leading Cole deeper into the wilds. Moon and stars were obscured by clouds and forest canopy, true darkness had fallen, and the only light was the flickering torch. He knew he was getting close when another familiar smell reached his nostrils. It was similar to the rot he’d scented earlier from the goat, but with an additional sulphuric twinge. It was the smell of rotten and burst organs, the scent of the Vryko-Ghoul.

Looking around at the dark forest, and how the shadows of every tree danced in his torch light. Cole decided he needed to make a few preparations. His eyes could pierce through dark better than most peoples but fighting in pitch black would be incredibly foolish. The Vryko was nearby and would probably find him before he found it. Drawn to warm flesh by magical hunger that cursed all Ghouls. The scent was faint so he had some time, hopefully it would be enough.

Cole found a slight clearing, an uneven oval of meadow surrounding a large jagged piece of stone. This would be his arena, now he had to prepare it. The first step would be gathering up dry brush and stray kindling. Light would be crucial and the top of the sunken boulder in the clearing’s center would be a good place to start a fire. Even with the recent rain Cole found what he needed and soon had a crackling fire atop the stone. The flames could not have come a moment sooner, a tangible chill fell over the forest as the Sun truly set. It was part instinct, part magic, the knowledge that the light was gone for the day, and now was the time for dark things to roam.

The scent of ruptured guts and death was getting stronger, the Vryko-Ghoul was getting closer. It had sensed Cole and was coming. Even with rotten senses a Ghoul could track prey. The magic that animates and mutates a corpse into a Ghoul guides the shambling husk towards flesh. A crude form of tracking magic that made Cole’s spell look like the visions of some Seer in comparison. Cole made no effort to hide himself, this was his duty, his purpose, ending the horror of undead monsters like the Vryko-Ghoul.

Two more acts would finish Cole’s preparations. Grabbing a small leather pouch from his pack, Cole went to where the sunken boulder met the soil. Gingerly he started to pour the contents of the bag onto the ground. Forming an unbroken ring of white powder around the rock. This was something of Cole’s own invention, one part silver dust, nineteen parts salt. A crude but effective barrier against unholy magics. It would not be enough to stop a determined undead or anything with any measure of power. It however would make crossing the ring painful for anything unclean, and sap the power of any fell magic passing over it. The rock with its bonfire and blessed line of silver and salt would be Cole’s shield.

Now it was time for him to unsheathe his weapon. Dropping the tracking rib onto the stone, Cole gripped his axe in one hand. Holding it out horizontal, so its tip and pommel hung in parallel. Gritting his teeth, Cole took his free hand and drove it onto the spike pommel. Impaling his palm on the sharp needle there. He had made his offering, now it was time to proclaim his intent.

“Blood begets blood. Iron begets iron. A piece of my life for the power to bring death.” Then slowly Cole drew his stabbed hand away from the pommel, but the pommel came with it. The axe’s shaft grew in length, like some conjurer's trick it stretched out to over two meters. Finally Cole pulled his hand free of the spiked pommel and let his weapons haft fall to the ground. It was not a strange axe like a casual observer might think. Cole only had it take that form for convenience sake. It was a Halberd, with blood-hungry runes etched into its metal. An adaptable weapon that could change with every feeding. Perfect in its symbolism for hunting the Undead, who hunger and thirst for life.

Feeling the familiar weight of the halberd in his hands, Cole moved it through the air with an experimental thrust. He’d tried out many weapons in his life but found the Halberd perfect for what he required. Dealing with the Undead is by extension dealing with the foulness of death. Even without dark magic effecting it a Corpse is host to myriad toxic and foul substances. The long reach provided by a halberd kept such dangers at a distance. The axe-head, spear point and hook of the halberd let Cole deal with different threats effectively. A weapon designed to fight an armored knight on horseback or clash in lines of infantry works well facing down any threat large or small.

Taking a seat by the fire, Cole quickly wrapped up his wounded hand. Idly Cole wondered at the sheer number of bandages he had used over the years. That was a cost to Blood Magic that did not make it into the great Arcane Tomes of the Ivory Towers he bet. Taking a few deep breaths, smelling the growing stink on the air, Cole prepared to fight and if need be, die. If he failed and the Vryko-Ghoul survived to continue its growth, then innocents would be devoured. Their lives cut short from what Master Time allotted them. And the soul trapped in the Vryko would continue its unliving hell. Cole would not stand for that, it was within his power to prevent such tragedies, he could suffer where others could not. With his Halberd and a prayer to his God, he would die fighting the darkness as many times as he needed to.

It did not take long for the Vryko to come, the smell growing so thick that Cole could practically feel the miasma upon his skin. Lumbering shuffling steps were Cole’s first warning. Slowly turning to face the noise, it sounded like a lame horse dragging a dead one. At the edge of the clearing, illuminated by the flickers of the fire was the monster. It stood as tall as Cole, but was far broader. With flushed swollen skin the myriad colors of gangrene and infection.

Swollen was perhaps the best word to describe the Vryko-Ghoul. Appearing like a days-old corpse that had been stuffed full of flesh, resembling a rancid sausage. Puffy and elephantine, its legs were barely enough to prop the Vryko’s body up. Oversized arms and hands dangeled from its sides, while its gut seemed ready to tear open like an overfilled sack of grain. The head was bald and slimy, nose, ears and other features rotted away. With a distended mouth, its cheeks ripped open and blackened teeth shining in the fire light. A pair of beady eyes were nestled in the ruin of a face. A palpable sense of hunger, despair, and misery poured from those sunken windows.

Cole readied his halberd, standing with the head towards the ground, axe-blade pointed up. A good guard position to keep his distance from the Vryko-Ghoul. It was much bigger than he had expected. This was an older well fed corpse eater, maybe a few years undead, not freshly Risen like he expected. This would be more difficult than Cole had hoped but he was confident he would succeed. Gripping his halberd tightly, Cole stepped towards the boulder's edge. Never letting his eyes leave the Vryko’s face. Cole felt the pain of this horror, its existence needed to be ended for its sake and everyone else's.

In a gentle tone, like the type used to soothe a scared child Cole addressed the Vryko-Ghoul, speaking to any flicker of awareness trapped inside. “I am a servant of Master Time. I will free you from this false-life, it is my duty that you should not suffer so.

The Vryko did not respond, simply shuffling forward, reaching the very edge of the clearing. One meaty hand reached out and grabbed a nearby tree, a linden whose trunk equaled a man’s waist in thickness. With disturbing ease the Vryko ghoul squeezed the tree and a resounding crack echoed through the dark forest. The trunk fractured into a storm of kindling that exploded out in every direction. Instinctually Cole pulled his cloak around him, the heavy cloth stopping the shower of splinters.

If the Vryko-Ghoul got its hands on Cole, it would easily pop him like a grape. The extra range of the halberd would be crucial here; this would be a duel of deciding blows. Anything less than a crippling or killing blow would not stop the Vryko. Its flesh could knit together or ignore most damage. Striking its head clear from its shoulders would be the quickest way to end this fight. While the undead being’s soul would still be trapped it would not be able to resist being consecrated and freed.

Slowly, uncaring of the splinter and wooden shards sticking from its side, the Vryko-Ghoul shuffled towards Cole. Tar-like blood dripped down its side, reflecting the fire’s light. Cole leveled the halberd at the horror, slipping his free hand around the polearm’s pommel, letting the needle-spike slip between his middle and ring finger. He’d practiced this stance often and hoped to strike true. Stepping off the rocks and onto the meadow, Cole approached the Vryko cautiously. Severing the spine would cut this corpse’s puppet-strings and let him release the trapped soul.

The undead horror continued forward, uncaring of the sharp blade aiming for its neck. Cole let out a furious roar and drove the halberd forward, thrusting with his palm gripped on the hilt. Shooting the spear-point forward with incredible force. It struck, and the blade shot deep into the Vryko’s throat. Cole felt the tear of flesh but not the crack of bone, the tip had missed its target, ripping open a throat and veins long unused. Rotten blood sprayed out, like the discharge of a squeezed cyst. The halberd’s spike had missed the spine, inflicting what would be a mortal wound on any living creature, but doing little to stop the Vryko-Ghoul.

Quickly, Cole stepped back, pulling his weapon free, bringing a trail of ichor with it. The Vryko swung one of its huge arms in a wild haymaker. Cole pulled himself out of reach and dropped his halberd’s head. He needed to keep space between himself and the Vryko. As the savage haymaker finished its arc, Cole charged forward. Fast for a man of his size Cole could take advantage of the laborious speed of the Vryko. Speed that hid bone-crushing strength, one good blow would be all it took to kill the scarred warrior. Sweeping the halberd low, Cole drove its axe head into the Vryko’s leg. Hacking at the bulging muscle and fat, and connecting with the knee joint. Bone cracked and ligaments snapped like over taught string.

The Vryko let out a gurgling noise from its ruined throat. It might be able to heal from a destroyed knee, but that would take time, and time was on Cole’s side. Like some rotted tree caught in a windstorm the Vryko’s leg buckled. Overstressed by the bloated undead’s weight and now cleaved by a sharp blade, the leg snapped. The Vryko fell, waving its engorged hands in the air, reaching for Cole even as it collapsed. Hitting the ground with a resounding boom, the Vryko fell onto its side and flailed grotesque arms.

Seeing an opportunity Cole swung the halberd’s axe-blade down, aiming for a clean decapitation. The strike was misjudged and sunk into the Vryko’s shoulder, the horror having pulled its arm close to protect its neck. Cole tried to yank the axe-blade free, rigor mortis toughened muscle and rotten fat trapped the halberd. Swearing under his breath Cole gave the trapped weapon another hard tug, ripping it free in a shower of black blood. It could not have come a moment sooner, the Vryko swung its other arm up like it was swatting an annoying insect. The tree-trunk sized limb missed Cole but smacked into the retreating halberd head. It took all of Cole’s strength to hold onto his weapon as a huge amount of force slammed into the polearm.

Instantly his forearms went numb as the halberd vibrated with the impact, its enchanted nature the only reason the weapon was not simply destroyed. Grimacing, Cole realized he needed to change his tactics. The Vryko was already hauling itself up, dragging its huge body with an arm and leg, reaching out for Cole with the other arm. Cole had expected a lesser Vryko-Ghoul, not one of this size and strength. Backing away the scarred warrior extended the halberd out before him, ready to respond to any sudden movements.

As he did this Cole jabbed the pommel’s needle into his already injured hand. Those who refuse to change do not survive, so Cole adapted. Muttering a quick incantation, he freed his stabbed hand and focused on the halberd. Its shaft lengthened another thirty centimeters and the axe blade grew. The added reach and weight made the polearm look more like a headsman's axe, which is what Cole intended to use it as.

The Vryko-Ghoul dragged itself forward, its hands sinking into the dirt and hauling the horror’s bloated form towards Cole. He let the hungry corpse get close, its oversized fingers clawing at the ground near his boots. Quickly, he leapt to the side and swung his halberd down. Putting all his strength and weight into a mighty chop. A gurgling groan escaped the Vryko-Ghoul’s torn mouth as its hand was lopped off at the wrist. Cole grimanced, he preferred to end these matters quickly and cleanly. He did not know how aware the soul trapped inside the corpse was, but he feared it could still experience any pain he inflicted on its fleshy-prison.

The sheer size and weight of the Vryko-Ghoul hindered the regeneration of its ruined knee. It would require almost complete repair for the undead brute to put its weight on. Reattaching a severed limb required more intelligence than the Vryko possessed and regrowing the hand would take days. Cole had successfully maimed a walking corpse, now he would take its head.

Lifting its freshly crippeled limb up, the Vryko-Ghoul swung it’s stump like a bludgeon. Again Cole dodged, backing up towards the half-sunken boulder and its surrounding sacred line. Being able to quickly move behind that defense would be useful. Splayed out on its belly and flailing its arms madly, the Vryko-Ghoul made a bizarre sight. One that would almost be comical except for the undead’s grotesqueness. Like some bloated toddler having a temper-tantrum.

Cole only felt sadness and pity. All undead are tragic things, Vryko-Ghouls especially. To die alone out in the wilderness and be trapped inside your own corpse, hungring eternally for offal. Denied Rebirth or Anointment, as promised by the Gods in the Covenant. Truly, a terrible fate for any to befall. Softly, Cole started to pray. A slow chant of mourning and departure. Wishing a quick journey through the Halls of Master Time and a better life after Rebirth. Death is the end of oneself, but not one’s soul. Rebirth awaits all those under the God’s protection, as promised in the Covenant.

The Vryko-Ghoul reached out with its still intact hand, crossing the line of salt and silver. Instantly white flames erupted on mottled flesh and reflexes dulled by death reacted. Pulling back the undead let out a pitiful gurgle, as cleansing fire ate at its fingers. Cole saw his opportunity, using the boulder’s elevation to his advantage, he lept down, swinging his halberd in a great arc. It struck true, hitting where skull and spine meet, cleaving off the grotesque head. The Vryko-Ghoul fell limp, the magical energies animating it denied control over unliving nerves.

Panting slightly, Cole pulled the Halberd free and stared down at the corpse at his feet. By their very nature the Undead defy the laws of the living. Persisting with broken mutilated bodies, animated by magic woven into a perverse parody of life. A soul trapped inside its own dead flesh, tricking the Aether into bestowing a false existence. Yet despite this strange perversion of all that is natural, Undead still fall to certain blows. Destroying the Brain or the Heart might not free the trapped soul but it would cut the corpse-puppet’s strings or at the very least stun them. Nobody except the Gods know for sure why. Maybe at that point the Aether can’t be fooled? Life becomes so impossible that Undeath fails to take hold.

No matter why, the Vryko-Ghoul was broken. It would not heal from this wound, and lacked any ability to do true harm. All that was left was to free the trapped soul. The Soul does not want to part with its body, its existence is tied to the flesh it inhabits. It must be forced from its home and into the Beyond. Every culture that worships righteous Gods has a method to do this. Some bury the dead in ground blessed by faith, others burn the corpse, some even leave the body for Carrion, relying on wild spirits to free the soul. Cole would use fire; few things match it in mundane and magical power. It is creation, destruction and transformation all in one, the perfect symbol for magic and its myriad forms.

Cole let himself relax a bit, the hard part was over. Now he just had to gather material for a pyre. Maybe the tree the Vryko-Ghoul had destroyed would be useful in that regard? The crack of a snapping branch grabbed Cole’s attention and he whirled towards the surrounding forest. He’d been focused on his religious duties and failed to notice he was not alone. Three hulking shapes stood at the clearing’s edge, each an image of bloated decay. Three more Vryko-Ghouls, one of similar size to the one he had slain, the other two slightly smaller.

Even through decay and degradation Cole saw similarities in the Vryko’s faces. The same heavy brow and deep set eyes. Cole felt his blood run cold as realization filled him. The tragedy and threat of these undead were greater than he’d imagined. A family, lost in the wilderness, had perished together and Risen together. Maybe they were caught in a blizzard or trapped by an avalanche? It did not matter, by some fell circumstance four Vryko-Ghouls had arisen and posed a far more serious threat. This also raised other questions. Why hadn’t the family of undead attacked Glockmire or at least killed some of its citizens? Judging by their size they were feeding well and that would be difficult to do with four of them.

Gritting his teeth, Cole leveled his halberd at the three approaching horror’s and prepared to fight. His adrenaline had already started to fade and the polearm felt heavy in Cole’s hands. This was not going to be pleasant, he might even die in this fight. Idly Cole wondered how long it would be before his personal effects were thrown away by Natalie or her father.