Chapter 33: Varcolac

“I see him! I see him standing against the dead! The dead wolf, the bloody court, and the knights-of-bone! He fights for love, he fights for duty, he fights for survival! Praise him and his holy madness! The champion of the living, defender of the dead. Bane of what is neither. I see him! I see the Paladin!” - Scribbled words on the walls of Jude the Sibylline’s cell.

Roaring in fury, Cole swung his halberd high in a great descending arc; the Varcolac avoided the strike and responded with its own sweep. Chipped ragged claws cut through the air and tore at Cole’s cloak as he dodged. Once more, he was thankful for Trude’s gift. Even if it contained a tracking spell, the cloak's billowing volume obscured Cole’s body a little. A margin of error that had already saved him multiple times. Without sight to guide it, the undead Werewolf had to rely on hearing and smell to attack. Something a billowing cloak covered in forest scents hampered.

Cole pushed in close, shortening his halberd and wielding it like a battle-axe. He swung the blade low as the Varcolac completed its swing and drove the axe-head into the monster's thigh. Unnaturally thick muscle cords prevented the blade from reaching bone, but it still wounded the leg. Still within its guard and crouched over, Cole pulled his weapon free and spat a gout of flame at the laceration he’d caused. The flames seared the exposed muscle, and Cole hoped to slow down the Varcolac’s regeneration.

Stepping back, Cole unleashed a gout of fire from his burned palm. Sending a wave of fire to crash over the Varcolac. Crinkling his nose at the stink of burning hair, Cole tried to buy himself some distance. He had an idea to turn this in his favor but needed space. Roaring in fury, the Varcolac pushed through the fire, swiping at it with bone-crushing force. Stopping the deluge of flames, Cole reached down to a pouch at his belt. A mixture of burns and frostbite on his right hand had ruined his dexterity, turning the simple task into fumbling torture. For a split second, Cole glanced down to try and open the pouch. His momentary lapse was punished terribly.

Bounding forward, the Varolac swung out in a hay-maker the size of a tree trunk. The blow struck home and literally knocked Cole off his feet. Sending him flying through the air and skidding along the ground. By sheer luck, the Varolac’s claws missed Cole, only its over-muscled forearm slamming into him. Cole tried to roll with the impact but had little luck; he dropped his weapon and felt two ribs shatter from the blow.

Cole landed on his back, the wind had been knocked from him, and he tried to force down lungfuls of air with little result. Discombobulated, Cole took a split second to admire the stars overhead. That moment of dissociation came to a quick end as something grabbed the hem of his cloak and started dragging him. As reality came crashing back to him, Cole swore oaths Barnabas would be proud of and fumbled with his belt. He got the pouch free and twisted to throw its contents at the thing pulling him. The Varcolac had kneaded one of its paws into Cole’s Cloak and dragged him closer, its ragged snout sniffing the air curiously. For not the first time, Cole was thankful for his lack of scent. It confused the primitive instincts guiding the Varcolac and bought him precious moments.

Those moments ended as the Varolac decided he was its target, and it opened a cavernous maw. A disgusting black tongue lolled out of its mouth as the once-Werewolf set its focus on him. Cole punished the monster's hunger when he flung a handful of garlic powder into its mouth. While not truly dangerous to the Varcolac like it would be to a Vampire, the garlic was certainly debilitating. Letting out some sort of gurgling snarl, the Varcolac reared back, its claws tearing free of Cole’s cloak as it brought both paws up to its contaminated snout. Cole scrabbled away, getting to his feet and retrieving his weapon as the Varcolac thrashed and spasmed.

A quick look around the Castle ramparts showed Cole his vampire observers had all covered their faces and shied away from the garlic smell. Grimacing in bleak amusement Cole pressed his advantage. Swinging his reclaimed halberd at the monster’s thigh, hitting the same spot as earlier. Bits of muscle had already started to regrow and press past the blackened flesh, but it didn’t stop this strike from cracking bone. The axehead sunk halfway through the Varcolac’s femur, and with a twist, Cole cracked the huge bone. Following this, Cole flipped his halberd in his hand and drove its spiked beak up into the Varcolac’s armpit. Rotten blood splattered out of the key artery as the halberds beak jammed into the shoulder joint. Parting cartilage, snapping ligaments, and cracking bone.

The Varcolac’s bubbling roars changed into a higher pitch as it collapsed sideways. With a Shattered femur and ruined shoulder, nothing stopped the monster from toppling over. Dancing away from the avalanche of fur and muscle, Cole readied himself to strike again. Hitting vital regions was useless for the Undead; you needed to cripple them. Necessitating a visceral and ugly fighting style Cole had long mastered.

Something dribbled into Cole’s eye, and he tried to blink away the stinging pain. Flinching slightly, he brushed away the blood. Confused for a moment, Cole realized it was not his blood. The rancidly metallic fluid was the Varcolac’s own ichor. The horrible substance had rained on him when he’d tore open its armpit. Cole hadn’t even noticed earlier and now tried to wipe away the too-dark blood that covered his head and face. A blur of motion stopped him as the Varcolac struck with its intact arm. The blood in his eyes and his own confusion delayed Cole’s response, and the huge limb racked across his body. Tearing open four-finger width cuts in his torso. Gasping in pain, Cole flinched away as his own bright red blood mixed with the Varcolacs maroon.

Dragging in huge breaths of air, the Varcolac pulled itself up onto its haunches. Muscle reknit, and bone sealed tight as the monster's ruined arm healed. The processes took seconds, and now it leaped forward, claws and fangs seeking Cole’s flesh. It pounced at Cole, and the Paladin barely had time to duck under the wall of undead Werewolf heading straight for him. The Varcolac recovered quickly from overshooting Cole and spun around to face him on its three working limbs. In this (semi) quadrupedal stance, it looked like an over-muscled Direwolf the size of a large bear. An already intimidating prospect, not helped by its semi-rotten appearance and regenerative abilities.

There was no hesitation to its attacks now. The Varcolac struck with the type of feral intensity you’d expect from a starving predator. It took all of Cole’s focus to simply avoid the whirlwind of fangs and claws, let alone try and counterattack. The Varcolac continued to suck in deep breaths and not let up its assault. This was a very different beast than the more tentative and halting Varcolac of earlier. As the smell of rotting blood filled his nose, Cole understood why. He was coated in the Varcolac’s ichor. It was having no issue smelling him and identifying him as a threat.

The forces involved now made blocking or parrying the Varcolac’s blows impossible. Cole had to do his best to dodge the constant attacks. The only reason Cole hadn’t been torn to bits was that he was slightly more agile than the Werewolf. Its ruined leg dragged behind it uselessly, and its sheer bulk prevented it from turning and repositioning as quickly as Cole. Even that advantage was wearing away quickly. The Varcolac was healing from even its devastating injury, and Cole was tiring.

Running to Glockmire, Killing Horst, destroying the Guards, and now fighting the Varcolac. Even Cole’s incredible stamina was starting to flag. Something that was not helped by the myriad of injuries he’d collected. As the Varcolac’s claws came closer and closer with each swing, Cole decided he had few options left. He needed to use the Cold of Entropy again. Calling up that power three times in a single day was more than pushing Cole’s limit. But the Varcolac needed to be destroyed; this was Cole’s only reasonable option.

Pulling in a deep breath, Cole gripped onto the chill power in his soul and started to dredge it up. It was harder now, his worn soul resisting the effort. Some instinct told Cole he would not be able to do anything focused like aiming the Cold or lashing it to his weapon. Summoning the power would be hard enough. He’d have to be more primitive in his use. Something that might prove as dangerous to him as it would the Varcolac.

The freezing fog started seeping off Cole, pouring from him in a great cloud of ice crystals. The effect on the Paladin was instantaneous. His body became numb, all his pains washed away by the dull throb of arctic chill. The blood covering him turned to dark ice, and frost collected on his cloak. The Varcolac didn’t notice or care about what was happening and swiped a huge paw at Cole. Numb limbs responded too slowly, and Cole took the strike full on. For a second time, the Varcolac sent him flying. This time it didn’t hesitate after its strike and pounced on Cole. Huge jaws came snapping down on the Paladin, enclosing his right side in a stinking moist bear trap.

Strangely, there was no pain, neither for the first blow nor now, with the fangs sinking into him. Confused and more than a little alarmed, Cole reached up with a sluggish arm and jammed his Halberds spike into the Varcolac’s neck. The strike was pitiful and didn’t even annoy the creature trying to bite him in half. A resounding crack filled the air and reverberated in Cole’s body. The Varcolac pulled away suddenly, much to Cole’s surprise. Cole looked down at himself and saw the dozen or so dagger-like wounds the Varcolac had inflicted. Each was covered in an obsidian-like coating. A broken fang even stuck from one of the injuries. Looking up at the Varcolac, Cole saw cold mist poor from its mouth. Patches of frost-bite were spreading over its lips and jowls.

Cole got to his feet and brandished his halberd at the Varcolac. He couldn’t understand why he was alive. By all rights, the Varcolac should have savaged him, ignoring something like extreme cold in the pursuit of prey. Touching his wounds, Cole felt something smooth, hard, and bitterly cold. The obsidian-like scabs were his blood, frozen into something harder than steel. A terrible suit of armor he didn’t even want to think about. The Varcolac had stopped because it couldn’t bite into him; the Cold of Entropy had frozen Cole’s body into something more akin to stone than flesh.

On uncertain, numb feet, Cole moved towards the Varcolac, trying not to think about what consequences there might be for his current state. The monster snapped at Cole, and he barely leaned away from the bite. Swinging his halberd, Cole struck into the side of the Varcolac’s neck. The blade was stuck hard in muscle and bone. Giving Cole an insane idea. Instead of pulling his weapon free, Cole used it to anchor himself as he leaped onto the Varcolac’s back. To both their surprise, Cole managed to latch onto the Varcolac. Looping an arm around the Varcolac’s throat, Cole held on for his life.

Rearing up on its healed legs, the Varcolac tried to reach back and grab Cole. With hands literally frozen to his steed, Cole held on. The pall of brutal cold leaking from Cole did not let up; it clung to the Varcolac, freezing it slowly but steadily. A process the monster was doing all it could to resist. It thrashed and roared before eventually running headlong towards a nearby wall. Cole braced as the Varcolac spun and slammed its back against the castle wall. Caught between solid stone and hundreds of kilos worth of monster, Cole felt things break. The enhanced durability granted by the Cold could only resist so much, and Cole felt most of his remaining ribs shatter.

No pain came, leaving Cole only with theoretical idea of how much damage he was taking. Pulling away from the wall, the Varcoalc rolled over, catching one of Cole’s legs beneath its bulk and bending his knee in the wrong direction. Cole felt this as an analytical fact, not as searing agony. He knew what was happening; of course, the Cold of Entropy was not simply the lack of heat but a magical force. Something that could effect more than mundane matters. The Cold had frozen the pain, locking it away until it could thaw out and be unleashed. This property of the Cold of Entropy was what truly made it dangerous. Foes would not even notice its creeping touch until it was too late. A subtle arcane contamination that Cole was fully experiencing.

In the times before when Cole had used this power, he’d directed it out of him in a focused manner. Freezing a foe with a breath, coating his weapon in frost, or even letting the cold leach into the ground were all methods he’d used. This more primitive effort, where the Cold just bled from him in waves, was the ultimate double-edged sword. Granting Cole durability and pain resistance more akin to a Golem than anything living. A fact that bothered Cole enough to distract him while he clung on for his life to an undead Werewolf.

The Varcolac tried, again and again, to throw Cole off, but it could free itself. The monster's movements slowed with every passing moment as the burning chill clinging to its back spread. It kept struggling, fighting against the inevitable. Vicious animal fury raging against the bleak power enwrapping it. For his part, Cole started to mutter prayers. While the monster he fought had devoured Natalie’s mother and Gods’ know how many other innocents. It was another victim of the Feeder and the world's cruelties.

Most Werecreatures found ways to manage their curse. Turning a blight set upon the world by the Dark Gods into something useful. Entire nations of Werefolk had sprung from great Werecreatures who’d mastered their curse. From the mighty Wolf-Warriors of the far North to the legendary Lion Chieftains of South Sutu. For a Werewolf to utterly fall to its Curse was a tragedy. Even more so when the circumstances surrounding its death were ugly enough to create a Varcolac. Truly feral Werewolves had souls so eroded they could not become Ghouls. This creature had a spark of something sane left in it when the end came. Leaving an abandoned corpse unmourned and unburied, ready to rise up and bring great harm to the world.

As its thrashings slowed and the Varcolac slumped to the ground, Cole whispered a prayer. “Master Time, grant your final mercy to this tortured soul. May they find rest and rebirth as your judgment sees fit.”

With great effort, Cole pulled himself free of the Varcolac, his stiff broken body fighting against the matted hair freezing him to the Werewolf. Cole stumbled away from the monster. His wounded leg nearly buckled under the stress, the Cold of Entropy forcing it to stay relatively intact. Limping over to his Halberd, Cole picked up the weapon with shakey fingers. It had been thrown free during the struggle, and now its metal fogged as condensation covered its blade. Cole felt the Cold of Entropy start to fade, the precursors to pain starting to push past the numbness. He’d held onto the power for as long as possible, but it had almost completely leaked out of him.

Dragging himself over to the Varcolac, Cole raised his weapon high and croaked out his sacred words. “Magni Morti Mundus.”

The halberd’s axe-head came down hard, right into the Varcolac’s neck. Severing its spine but not decapitating it. Dropping the halberd, Cole felt agony erupt in his leg. His destroyed knee had enough, and he collapsed to the ground. A cacophony of pain erupted across Cole’s body. Every injury he’d sustained now reminded him they existed in excruciating detail. Trying not to scream, Cole reached out with a twitchy, shaky arm and put his hand on the Varcolac. Desperately, Cole channeled what little bit of his divinely ordained power he had left into the monster. A quick prayer of consecration babbling past his lips in Saint Speech as Cole tried to finish his task.

Grabbing onto his necklace, Cole removed his medallion and pressed the small metal Hourglass into the Varcolac’s skin. The combined effects of Cold, the medallion, and Cole’s prayers were enough. Whisps of silver started to flow from the Varcolac, floating up into the air in a vaguely humanoid cloud. Cole looked at the figure and completed his prayer. Tapping into his powers always had strange side effects. Seeing the soul of the Varcolac fade into the Beyond was probably one of the more pleasant ones Cole had experienced. The shimmering silver cloud hung there, regarding Cole for a moment before dissipating like so much steam.

With his task done, Cole crawled over to his halberd and put his necklace back on. Grabbing onto the still cold weapon, Cole used it to pull himself to his feet. Cole looked around the castle courtyard, leaning on his Polearm like a crutch. The Vampires looked down at him with a mixture of shock and confusion. While the Castle Guards stood their eternal silent vigil. Looking up at the Feeder, Cole called out to him.

“Well, who’s next?”