Silver Fangs & Broken Wings

Chapter One: Rishka-Maw

Rhoan

Rhoan stepped softly across the forest floor, following the grisly trail. Tracking most monsters was a nuanced art, but the Rishka-Maw was no subtle beast. Globs of loose flesh and smears of red-brown ooze showed the way. He crouched low and wrinkled his nose at the jellified tissue on the ground in front of him. With a twig, he tested its consistency. It flowed over the wood as though alive, trying to consume it. Rhoan dropped it before the slime could reach his fingers. Very fresh, then. It can’t be far. I’ll be able to hear it soon.

He smoothed back his dark hair to keep it from his eyes and unsheathed the sword at his hip, not wanting the ring of its silver blade to alert the Maw. He continued down his path, climbing over moss-covered logs and leaping a little creek that bubbled merrily.

“Help me!” a voice wailed in the darkness. “Someone help!”

Ah. Found it. A clearing a few paces ahead was lit with moonlight. It appeared empty enough, but Rhoan knew better.

“Help me!”

Does the Maw know I’m here already, or does it idle? He crouched low and stepped forward, angling the tip of his sword carefully above the leaf litter, keeping his movements muted. His heart fell into that familiar steady rhythm of the hunt. Halting at the edge of the clearing, he scanned the trees on the far side. The air was heavy with the iron scent of blood.

Rhoan’s brows furrowed at the still and silent forest before him. Where is the cursed thing? A wad of pink-brown flesh plopped to the ground on his left. Oh.

He swiped up as he threw himself into the clearing. His sword slicked through resistance. An ear-splitting shriek rent the night air. Rhoan landed on his shoulder and twisted, rolling to his feet. Finally, he got a good look at his quarry. Its massive bulk was perched amongst the foliage above him, six spindly appendages gripping the trunk and larger branches, like a gargantuan, gelatinous spider.

An ambush.

Huh. Who knew they could climb?

The Maw shook its front left hand, two of its long, clawed fingers missing. It narrowed its bulging red eyes at Rhoan and let out a low hiss.

“Serves you right for sneaking up,” he said, sinking into a defensive posture and raising his sword, ready to strike again. It made no move to come for him, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to try and climb up after it.

One of the many mouths along its flank wheezed and flexed. “Help me!” it called, perfectly mimicking the voice of the victim who had previously owned it.

“That’s not going to work on me, you daft thing! I’ve already seen you. Come down and let me kill you like a gentleman.” It raised its globbulous head and let out a wailing scream before sliding down the tree’s trunk, trailing slime. “There’s a good lad.” Rhoan spun his sword, flexing his wrist, and charged.

The Maw scurried towards him, faster than a blink, jiggling with every step. It aimed a sharp-clawed swipe at his chest. He dodged and parried. His sword carved a chunk of flesh from its flank. It shrieked in pain, but Rhoan gave it no quarter. He blocked a blind strike and sliced another piece off its rear, taking a mouth with it. Another chunk was shaved from its backside before it could even turn itself to face him. Its stolen mouths started babbling in unison¬ – the voices all different but the words were no language Rhoan recognised. Monster nonsense.

The Maw’s wounds sizzled and smoked, courtesy of his silver blade. Stumbling as though drunk, it tried to swipe at him again. Jumping back, he dodged it easily, before dashing forward and lopping off one of its legs. Rather than topple, it lunged. He threw himself back. Its wicked claws scraped harmlessly over his cuirass, leaving shallow gouges in the leather. Rhoan took several steps back to regroup, passing a hand over his chest. “That was tricky,” he said with a grin. “Almost got me.”

The Maw found its footing, despite its missing limb, and charged at him with a high-pitched roar. He side-stepped, swinging his sword in an arc. Slicing down in an inelegant, hacking chop, he sheared off the beast’s head. It made little difference. The creature lumbered around on five unsteady legs. His sword flashed. Four legs.

“Come on, beast. Down you go.” He darted behind it as it lashed out wildly. Rhoan slashed again and again. The ground was littered with jellified pieces of the terrible, hulking thing, smoke curling from the cut edges and emitting a gut-churning stench. Finally, the Maw gave a shudder, its remaining three legs collapsing beneath it.

Spasming on the ground, it gave a final, shrill whine before splitting open with a wheeze of foul-smelling steam. Forms slid out from its oozing centre. Human corpses. Each victim was wizened, desiccated. The skin where their mouths should have been was smooth and featureless, the Maw having stolen those first, along with their voices.

Rhoan stepped closer, his stomach protesting at the viscera. Prodding the bodies with his sword, he sought the one he was sent to find – or avenge. A middle-aged woman with a long, brown braid streaked with grey caught his eye. She wore a dress that may have once been cream-coloured, as she’d been described, but was now covered in the Rishka-Maw’s gore. Her eyes stared glassily at the sky. With the tip of his blade, he hefted her left arm. Resting on her ring finger was a simple gold band.

Rhoan unsheathed his dagger with his free hand and used it to carefully work the ring from where it had fused with the corpse’s skin. No easy task. Eventually, it dropped into the grass and he pulled out a handkerchief to pick it up. Tucking it into a pouch on his belt, he took a shaky breath and stood, hating this part. Grimly, he recited the prayer. “Mother Mryn, accept your loving children back to you. From ash they were made, and to ash they return.”

He stepped back to the edge of the clearing, raised his right hand, and summoned his flames. They streamed from his fingers, lighting the night with orange and red. Once the remains of both monster and man were nothing more than cinders – the entire clearing charred black – he picked his way back through the forest to Elton, who was waiting for him.

Impatiently, it seemed, because when Rhoan emerged from the wood, Elton stamped his hoof and huffed at him. “Oh, hush. It’ll pay for your dinner.”

Rhoan mounted and rode the short distance along the rutted road to Marden. He made his way to the Reeve’s house, where the grieving husband waited for news. Muddy water splashed under Elton’s hooves, splattering up the horse’s legs. His ears twitched back.

It was well into evening, and the scent of hot bread and stewed meat wafting on the night air had Rhoan’s stomach rumbling. The Reeve’s house looked like any other in Marden, despite his station – rough-cut wooden beams, crumbly cob walls and a thatched roof. Though most Reeves were elected officials, they tended to be wealthy ‘pillars of the community’. This one was either humble, or the town was especially poor. As long as they had the coin to pay, it mattered little.

He hitched Elton to a post, which would no doubt make him even moodier, and knocked on the simple wooden door. The Reeve opened it, and seemed relieved to see the Hunter there, motioning him in quickly. He led Rhoan to the next room, and the husband sprang to his feet, red-rimmed eyes wide and absurdly hopeful. No, this is the part I hate most. With as much sympathy as he could muster, he pulled out the handkerchief-wrapped bundle and handed it to the man. “I’m sorry.”

The man shattered when he opened the package and collapsed back onto the chair he’d been sitting in. He held his hand out, palm flat, and cried at the ring, strings of Rishka-Maw mucus still clinging to its metal, pitted from digestive juices. Rhoan tried to give him some comfort. “She was returned to ash, as is proper.”

The Reeve sighed. “Thank you, Hunter. Come, I’ll fetch your coin.” The Reeve left, and Rhoan glanced back at the man softly sobbing and clutching the filthy ring to his chest. Unable to think of anything to say, he followed the Reeve.

“How many did it have?” he asked as he sat at his desk.

“Six.”

“All adults?”

Rhoan’s stomach churned. “Yes.” Thank Mryn.

The Reeve nodded and rubbed his eyes with a weathered hand. “We have two missing children, too. I was hoping… Well, not hoping , but… I suppose another monster is responsible. Not one of your trade, either, if I had to guess.”

Rhoan didn’t know what to say to that. It was becoming the theme of the evening.

The Reeve pulled a fat coin purse from a drawer. “We’re grateful to be rid of one monster, at least.” He pushed the purse across the desk towards Rhoan, who picked it up and tied it to his belt without counting it. By its weight, the people of Marden were extra grateful, likely having feared the local woods for a long time.

“Thank you. I’ll pass through again before too long, in case you have need of me.”

The Reeve stood to show him out with a tired smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that I pray we don’t.”

Rhoan nodded and stepped back into the chill night. Elton snorted as he approached, clouds of vapour streaming from his nostrils. “Don’t start,” he warned, pointing a finger at the horse’s face before swinging into the saddle. A soft bed at the local inn was calling his name.

As he rode through muddied streets, a flash of brilliance illuminated the sky over Eastmoor Forest to the north. It was so blindingly bright that it burned his night vision away but vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Elton whinnied and danced sideways, ears flat against his skull. Rhoan reached a hand down and stroked the horse’s neck to soothe him, blinking the searing light out of his own eyes. Just as Elton began to settle, the air burst with sound.

A clap of thunder exploded in the night, loud enough to shake the ground. Rhoan’s ears ached. Elton screamed and reared, threatening to throw him from the saddle. When he’d finally calmed the poor beast, all trace of the strange occurrence was gone. The night was as still and quiet as it had been before, except that every soul in the village seemed to be outside, gazing up at the sky and rubbing their ears.

What in all of Mryn was that? A bog-hag playing with weather? But that wasn’t lightning. Rhoan sighed and shrugged to himself. He’d had enough excitement for the evening. Without coin on offer, it wasn’t his problem.

He urged Elton on, though the horse was reluctant and skittish. Tired and sore after his fight with the Maw, Rhoan made slow progress through dirt roads weaving around ramshackle wood houses. He was none too familiar with Marden, and meandered for a time, getting turned around. Townsfolk huddled in small groups, whispering and glancing at the sky as he passed them. Some threw him dirty looks, as though his presence had caused the commotion. He ignored them all, too stubborn to ask directions, even when it started to rain. They likely wouldn’t help him, anyhow. Finally, he found his way, following the yellow glow of lit hearths and the rich scent of gravy.

He turned a corner, and his hope deflated. In front of the inn, a tall, thin man shuffled from foot to foot with a messenger hawk sinking its talons into his arm. A royal messenger hawk, judging by the blue ribbon around its leg. The fantasy of sleeping in a warm, soft bed evaporated in an instant. He’d been summoned by the King.

Chapter Two: The End

Cat

Christ on a bike, I’m so fucking late! Cat hopped on one foot, pulling on her other boot as she ping-ponged off the walls of her cramped apartment, dodging piles of scattered clothing, abandoned shoes, and a random pizza box. She’d thrown on the jeans she’d been wearing yesterday, forgetting that the zipper was busted. Snatching a safety pin from the junk drawer, she fiddled with it as precious seconds ticked by. She flicked her blonde strands out of the way and zeroed in on the clock. 8:04. Fuck! I guess my knickers will be on display. Won’t be the first time.

Calling “Bye, Garrett!” over her shoulder, she wrenched the front door open and stepped out onto the street, swallowed by the ever-present hum of traffic. She patted her pockets. No phone. Just as she spun around to go back in for it, a chilly autumn gust slammed the door shut in her face. The universe is having a laugh today! With a sigh, Cat grabbed the handle and jiggled it, making a sad rattle, but doing little else. She ground her teeth. It’s fine, Cat. One thing at a goddamn time. You’re already late. What’s a couple more minutes?

Her hand dove into her pocket and dug around. Nothin’. Other one? Empty. She peered through the frosted glass, her hands framing her face. There, on the coat hook, was her coat. Duh. And resting in its pocket was the unmistakable bulge of her keys, accompanied by a protruding tuft of fluff from her Star Trek Tribble key chain.

Fury spilled over. She gripped the door handle with both hands and tugged viciously back and forth, before giving the door a final kick. Useless, of course, but did it make her feel better? Also no.

She pounded a fist on the wood. “Garrett! I locked myself out, mate. Can you let me in?”

A beat of silence. Another. No movement.

Can he not hear me? Or is the lazy prick ignoring me because he doesn’t want to get out of bed? Worst. Roommate. Ever.

Another breeze struck up and ruffled her hair, cutting straight through her thin blue t-shirt, raising goosebumps along her arms and turning on the high beams on her chest. Great. That’s just great.

“Fuck you, Garrett!” she shouted at the door. Hugging her arms across her chest, she turned to walk away and made awkward eye contact with a very startled man in a suit. She offered an apologetic wave and hurried past.

Brisk walk to the rendezvous point, but whatever. No keys, no phone, no problem. Figure that shit out when I get home, I s’pose.

Stepping onto the road when there was a break in the sluggish traffic, she kept her eyes on the prize – the café at the end of the block where she was supposed to have been ten minutes ago. The prize should have reminded her of the colossal pothole in the middle of the road, though, because she stepped right in. Brown water splashed up to her ankle. Muck sloshed into her suede boot.

Her lips pulled into a crooked smile and she tilted her head back, laughing at the sky. One of those days, huh? Awesome.

A silver car slowed beside her and honked at the crazy lady in the middle of the road with the wet shoe and the cracked look on her face. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving the impatient bastard off. “I’m moving.”

She stepped off the asphalt and onto the path lining Main Street. Amongst the throngs of city-folk charging back and forth, looking mighty important, Cat didn’t really feel at home. As she walked by, she could have nabbed a wallet or two, like when she was a teen, but it wasn’t worth it these days. Nobody carried cash anymore. She slipped her hand under her shirt and scratched at the birthmarks covering her back. They itched terribly in cold weather. A dude in a leather jacket with a fugly moustache curled his lip at her, and she scowled, dropping her hand.

The city smells were a goddamn delight. Stale cigarette smoke, body odour, and the dust of souls ground down by the corporate machine. Cat took in a deep breath as she marched along her route, bumping shoulders with big boys who were too cool to move. Most were smart enough to dodge her, but there were always a few she just ploughed right into. Hands shoved into her pockets, she stuck out her elbows, taking up more space.

The crumbling brick-and-mortar buildings that rose on either side of the crowded street cast the whole place in perpetual shadow, making the air chillier. Cat sniffed, trying to be indifferent to the cold and fighting the urge to shiver. The pedestrians surrounding her all wore heavy coats, and Cat scanned the backs of chairs at restaurants and cafés she passed, hoping to snag a freebie to keep her warm, but no such luck.

The café she was aiming for wasn’t far anyway – Allie had picked one close to Cat’s apartment, probably to give her fewer excuses not to come. Shared history didn’t always make the best friendships, but resi kids were nothing if not loyal to their chosen few. Until they grew up and decided to pretend they never were one in the first place. Like Allie had. Cat couldn’t explain why she still hung out with her. We all have self-destructive habits, she supposed. The real reason, of course, was that Cat would’ve had no one if not for Allie. Wasn’t something she liked to acknowledge, though.

Close enough to the café now, Cat could see her, sitting outside. In the cold. Rugged up to the nines in a coat and a scarf. She was looking at her phone, her dark brows furrowed slightly, and a steaming mug on the table in front of her. Her white turtleneck and Burberry tartan skirt made her look hoity toity as fuck. Cat could hardly picture her in the cut-off band tee and mini skirt she used to run around in.

Taking a quick bracing breath, Cat fixed her face into an apologetic smile – something that would be right at home in a retail worker’s repertoire – and marched up to Allie. “Sorry, Al, I got caught up in something,” she said as she pulled out the chair opposite and plopped into it. The bare metal was ice-cold on her skin, and she bit back a yelp.

Allie laughed and put down her phone, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder. “You mean you just woke up.”

Cat shot her a guilty look. “Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping great.” She picked up the menu and held it in front of her face, guarding against Allie’s assessing gaze.

Allie leaned forward, drawing Cat’s attention, and lowered her voice. “Is there a reason for the lack of sleep? A reason named Garrett, maybe?” She smiled conspiratorially, waggling her eyebrows.

Cat snorted a laugh. “Not for the reason you’re thinking. Garrett has a boyfriend, and they are… not subtle.”

Allie crinkled her nose. “Oh. Damn, I used to have such a good gay-dar.”

“What happened?” Cat teased.

Allie gave a half-shrug and lifted her chin. “I got married. Didn’t need it anymore, I guess.” She sipped her coffee while Cat ordered hers. Since she hadn’t actually read the menu, she ordered a flat white – the most boring coffee there is, but caffeine is caffeine. “So,” Allie continued, “is there someone else? One of those hot lawyers you work with, maybe?”

“Barristers,” Cat corrected, “and they’re only hot until you see them in those stupid wigs and then you can never unsee it.”

Allie tipped her head back and laughed, showing off her dazzling white teeth, all perfectly straight now. “You’re too picky, Cat!”

Cat shook her head, holding back an eye roll. “I’m not picky, I just… I don’t like any of them like that. Or, at all, really.”

“You work too hard,” Allie said more seriously with a pat to Cat’s forearm. “You need to cut loose. Socialise! You know, with people.”

No thanks, was Cat’s innate response, but she knew voicing it would start an argument. She and Allie used to do that kind of thing together, and it was bearable. They would’ve had a great time at Allie’s wedding… if Cat had been invited. But that’s the rub, isn’t it? You can be thick as thieves with someone, but the whole time you keep your eyes on the horizon for something better to be than a thief. Married, for example. She nodded, tight-lipped. “You’re probably right.”

Cat drank her coffee, the beans burnt and bitter, smiling and nodding at whatever Allie was babbling about as traffic rumbled by, counting the minutes until she could escape back to her tiny, messy apartment. The one she was still locked out of. And had no phone to call for help. She could borrow Allie’s phone, but then she’d owe her. Better not.

As Allie started chattering away about what her husband, Darren – whom Cat had never met, and probably never would – did for work, Cat was ready to start shoving pointy objects into her ears. Waiting for her childhood friend to pause her stream of verbal vomit to take a breath, Cat inserted herself into the flow of words before she could barrel on. “It’s been great catching up, Al, but I have loads of work to do before tomorrow, so I’ll have to head off.”

Allie’s face fell, and she rolled her eyes. “Get you a man, Cat. It’s better than working for one.”

Cat laughed to cover the prickle of irritation. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She stood and pushed in the café chair with a rasp of metal on concrete. “See you, Al.”

“’Til next time, Cat.”

Hopefully not too soon, Cat thought as she retraced her steps back to her apartment, still no clue how to get inside. Maybe she could jimmy open a window? Or smash it and tell the landlord they were burgled?

Crossing the road in front of her door, she skimmed the dirt-and-dead-leaf garden bed beside it for a nice hefty rock. A man in a trench coat and suit stood at the bus stop down the street, pointing to the sky and talking animatedly with the elderly woman next to him. She was peering at the sky, too, with a hand to her mouth. Cat froze and looked up.

A bright light raced across the sky – not the streak of a shooting star but a billowing patch of scorching white that spread rapidly, growing brighter. Like a lit match held under a sheet of paper, it seemed to burn outwards, searing a hole. It grew so bright that Cat had to raise a hand to shield her eyes. The gasps and cries of fear from the people around her filled her ears, and the sky burned on, bathing the street in stark, colourless light that washed out her vision. She turned away and blinked slowly at the ground, trying to see anything, but the light was everywhere. Her eyes watered. Her head ached with the force of it. Closing her eyes did nothing; white blazed straight through her eyelids. What the fuck is happening?

A horn blared. Tyres squealed. She whipped her head up. The black shadow of a bus barrelled towards her. No time to scream. She threw her arms up and braced for death.