Chapter 4.3
"One battle, one hunt, one victory."
A glacial wind whispered through the trees, rustling the branches overhead. The forest of Vetrarhold stretched before them—dark, quiet, and waiting.
The soldiers stood in disciplined silence, their breaths misting in the freezing air.
This was it.
The battle they had prepared for. The hunt that would bring glory to the noble houses and revenge for the dead.
The rangers, crouched in the shadows of the trees, watched and listened.
A young footman gripped his sword tightly, whispering to the man beside him. "The beast was sleeping when the scouts found it. Maybe it’ll stay that way."
His companion—a hardened veteran with a scar across his cheek— scoffed. "Nothing sleeps through cannon fire, boy. That thing will wake up angry."
Nearby, a knight adjusted his armor, muttering under his breath. "It’s just a beast. We kill it like any other. The gods will favor us today."
But not all were so confident.
One man—a levy conscript from the rescue party—whispered a prayer, his hands shaking around his spear. His eyes darted between the noble troops and the front lines. He knew his place.
Disposable.
The rangers kept their thoughts to themselves. They had hunted countless creatures before. But this was different.
They weren’t leading this hunt.
They were merely along for the ride.
A soft chant rippled through the ranks as the lead mage raised his hands.
The air shimmered, and a faint wind barrier swept over the assembled men, dampening the sound of their footsteps on the frozen earth.
It was an impressive spell—air magic, designed to suppress noise.
A rare ability.
The rangers knew that only a handful of nobles could command such magic.
Not long after, another group of soldiers split off, reinforcing the cave entrance where the wounded, the lord, and his personal guard remained.
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They did everything right.
They hid their tracks, they sealed their scent with alchemic compounds, and they moved like ghosts through the trees.
The rangers split off, taking positions in the higher branches, moving slightly ahead with the scouts.
From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the beast.
The Hr?zla-Bein lay in the clearing, its massive, bone-plated form still as stone.
Just as they had seen before.
Eirik exhaled, steadying himself.
The mages lined up, their hands glowing. The arquebusiers took aim, steadying their heavy matchlocks on iron tripods. The infantry tightened their grips on their weapons.
The ranger tasked with casting the tracking spell prepared his incantation, but even now, it felt pointless.
"This thing will be dead in minutes," one noble had laughed.
Eirik wasn't so sure.
The signal was given.
The battle began.
A thunderous explosion of magic shattered the stillness of the night.
Fire erupted from the mages' hands, lightning crackled through the air, and spears of ice launched toward the beast's exposed flank.
The force of the bombardment was immense. The ground shook.
The beast roared, its body convulsing as fire, ice, and lightning tore into its armored hide.
But before it could even rise—
The arquebusiers fired.
A deafening volley of enchanted lead and iron.
Smoke billowed as the monstrous rounds slammed into the beast's body, tearing through bone and sinew.
The infantry surged forward, blades flashing in the moonlight.
And above them all—
The mages raised their staffs, casting chains of binding magic, wrapping the beast in spectral chains of energy.
The Hr?zla-Bein was pinned.
It howled, writhing against its bindings. But it was trapped.
The rangers should have felt relief.
But they didn't.
Something was wrong.
And then they heard it.
A second howl.
From behind them.
The first attack came from the rear.
Before anyone could turn, before anyone could process what was happening—
The second Hr?zla-Bein was already among them.
It tore through the rear guard, cleaving men in half with its massive, clawed limbs.
Then the third one emerged from the darkness.
And the fourth.
And the fifth—larger than the rest, its eyes burning with rage.
The battlefield became a slaughterhouse.
Screams erupted as rows of soldiers collapsed, bodies torn, crushed, impaled.
The disciplined formation shattered.
Mages, once confident in their spellcraft, were the first to flee.
One was caught mid-incantation, impaled through the chest by a bony talon and lifted off the ground before being torn in half.
A ranger—the one who had tried to save him—was caught in the same blow.
Blood sprayed against the snow.
The tracking spell had been cast.
But it no longer mattered.
Some men fought.
Most ran.
Those who stood their ground died first.
Some tried to rally. The noble commander bellowed orders, his sword flashing as he tried to restore control.
But there was no army left to command.
Men trampled over one another, desperate to escape the jaws of the beasts.
Two more rangers fell in the confusion, one crushed under the weight of a panicked knight's horse.
The noble aide—who had been so sure of victory—was ripped apart, his screams cut short as the largest Hr?zla-Bein tore him in half.
The first son of the Great Duke, watching from the cave, realized his folly too late.
The rangers, the last mage, a noble officer, and a handful of surviving soldiers did not hesitate.
They ran.
Not back to the cave.
That was a death trap.
They ran toward the only other place that might give them a chance.
The place they camped five days ago.
The place where, unbeknownst to them, something else had already fallen from the sky.
And as they fled, the beasts howled into the night.
The hunt had only just begun.
