A long ragged howl split the silence and the warlock squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace.
"Wolves," he moaned. "I knew it. Just fucking knew it. Had to be wolves. Why couldn't it be goblins? I could handle goblins. Well, two of them, anyway. If they were unarmed. But wolves? Grim's swollen nutsack, I can't believe it. Fucking wolves."
The howl was repeated and Chukshene drew his robe tighter around himself with a shudder.
Trolls and draug were bad enough, but wolves had better noses. They'd follow the trail of her blood eventually. And then they'd surround him in an effort to get to her body.
Would he let them have it?
Or would he try to fight them all?
His mind raced almost as fast as his heart and he was about to spit another curse when he heard a sharp snap as something moved in the trees nearby.
A low grating moan made his ears vibrate as the warlock held his breath. It sounded heavy. Too heavy to be a wolf.
Another snap.
Twigs?
Remembering what Rockjaw had said about the land being covered in a blanket of death, he hoped it was twigs.
If it was bones, he was going to piss himself.
Whatever it was, it moved carefully. But at the same time, it didn't seem worried about the noise it was making. Seemed to be trying to track, rather than affect any stealth.
He could hear it approaching. Its breathing irregular and wet. As though almost at the point of choking on snot.
He clenched his fist and tried to remember the most basic spell he knew. The one he'd managed to keep secret from the Nameless Mage. One he'd already unleashed too many times in the past few hours.
Could he cast it again? He already felt his veins burning from using too much magic. If he had to keep casting, he could end up melting his insides. And, no matter how he felt about the elf, he wasn't about to sacrifice his magic for her.
He closed his eyes and grimaced.
Could he cast one more?
One more would be okay, he decided. Just one.
If it was two, then he was going to have to run. There was no other option.
His mouth moved silently as he repeated the words of power he'd need to cast. Slowly, he gathered his magic and prepared to cast it for real.
The creature let out a low sound, like a hooting owl.
Rolling his eyes, the warlock cursed his luck. There was no mistaking what it was. It could only be a troll.
He held his breath.
Then it moved. Fast.
It darted from its position behind the warlock's left. Its heavy feet pounded on the ground so hard the warlock could feel each impact through the muddy snow at his back.
"Fuck," he spat, rolling in the trench and spinning around. His robe flapped like the wings of a bat and his eyes glittered with fear as he caught sight of the troll.
Tall and thin, the troll raked its malformed claws at him with crazed hunger. If it stood still, it might have looked like one of the many twisted trees behind it, but as it lumbered toward the warlock, it was a nightmare made flesh.
Its cavernous mouth opened with a roar, revealing dark fangs swollen with poisonous spit.
In panic, the warlock nearly forgot his spell right, but managed to break the curtain of terror to spit three words of power in quick succession. His fist flared brightly, and the troll staggered mid-step at the sudden swell of sickly yellow light before letting out a surprised hoot which echoed across the plain. Its brain wasn't exactly advanced, but it knew enough about magic to know it was bad.
It started to scramble to a shocked halt and, maybe, thinking about running away.
The warlock felt the pulse of magic burn through his veins and a gelatinous ball of green shot from his hand like an acid-drenched globe. With an evil hiss, it bulleted into the troll's chest. Punched through flesh. Through bone. Then erupted from its back with a grotesque spray of eerie milky green light and gore.
Sparks of green spattered to the ground, dancing in the snow before flickering out.
With two last lurching steps, the troll gave a confused swipe at him and toppled forward. Lifeless, its wedge-shaped head slapped hard against the ground along the lip of the ditch. Blood ran thick from its mouth to pool around his feet.
The warlock grunted.
Magic coiled around his arm. Fused with his skin. He felt it threaten to consume him, and he reluctantly let go of his control of it. With an electric crackle, it dissipated into the air.
He panted deeply, exhaustion tumbling down his shoulders. He couldn't cast any more tonight.
One more spell and he thought his brain would overheat and burst. His head throbbed and everything felt strange, like he was stuck inside a fever dream.
Another long howl creased the air. The troll's hoots had obviously attracted more attention.
The warlock glanced at the unconscious elf and groaned. "Sometimes, Nysta, I think you're more trouble than you're worth."
Resigned to another long hard struggle through snow, he bent down. Took hold of her legs and started to drag her away from the steaming corpse.
Cursing constantly, he hauled her over the top of the ditch. It wasn't easy for him and more than once he lost his grip. But he willed his muscles to endure her weight and managed what was, for him, a titanic effort to get her clear and away.
Heart beating firmly in his chest, the warlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he eventually paused for breath close to another trench. Just a little more, and he could rest more.
A sharp hoot rang out and he looked up to see more shapes emerging in the distance. Trolls. Bigger than the young one which had forced him from the last trench.
He hissed a curse, knowing they were peering in his direction and feeling a frustrated trembling in his guts. He was running out of options.
They started sprinting toward him, kicking up snow, no doubt driven by hunger.
He glanced down at the elf.
Back at the quickly approaching shapes.
Then over his shoulder to the treeline.
It seemed too far away. At least, too far if he was dragging her heavy body. Not too far to get there on his own. He could lose himself in the forest. The trolls wouldn't find him there. Not easily.
He'd have a chance.
All he had to do was leave her. He didn't owe her anything, did he? Not really.
If she died, what was it to him? It wasn't his job to keep her alive. And perhaps she was better off dead, anyway. If he was right, then the thing inside her would consume her mind. Better she died here.
At least it'd be clean.
Or was it? Were legends and myths really a good basis for assuming the worst? He was a warlock, and knew what it was like to have people make assumptions about what he was. Was he guilty of doing the same to her?
The warlock's thoughts raced through his brain, torn between fear and an irrational sense of protection. He was confused by these thoughts, because he couldn't recall having been much inclined towards protecting anything. Not since the tomb…
He let out an angry snarl as he remembered the tomb.
Damn it all, he thought with a grimace. Go with his gut. An instinct which had served him well over the years.
Leave her. Run.
His face screwed into a mask of indecision.
One of the creatures in the distance let loose a savage roar of hunger, and the warlock clutched his book tight. Mouth formed a determined line.
"That does it." He shuddered, turning to leave. "I'm out of here. Sorry, Long-ear. I got nothing left to help you with."
Then he heard the chains.
"Oh, shit. What've we rattled now?"
***
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