Page 43 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“Allow me,” I murmur, moving to step in front of her.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, pushing me behind her with impressive force. My cheeks heat when she glares at my injured leg and back up to my healing shoulder, but she rolls her eyes at my obvious chagrin and steps inside.

I’ve never had to rely on a woman—or anyone, for that matter—to lead a charge or go forth into danger, and the reality of both my injuries and my age settle over me like the millstone of failure. It takes as much effort for me to swallow my pride and admit that Vireth is right as it does to stretch my tender muscles and prepare for yet another onslaught of violence.

The torchlight flickers against damp stone, illuminating movement in the back of the cave. The dim orange light spills forward, followed by a rumbling growl that vibrates through the stone floor beneath our feet. The sound is deep and sets my heart racing, because the deeper the sound, the bigger the foe. A warm gust of air rushes out from the depths of the cave, carrying with it the stench of spoiled flesh and stale darkness. Then, the torchlight flickers across some massive, dark thing moving forward, and I grip my sword to keep my hands from trembling as the battle thrill surges through my limbs.

At first, it’s only a shape, low and broad, hunched near the back of the cave. Then it rises, unfolding in a way that makes my stomach tighten. It has the mass of an ice bear, but the elongated muzzle and pointed ears of a wolf. As it prowls closer toward us, I can see that its fur is blacker than obsidian and matted with some kind of sticky liquid that leaves wet spots on the ground beneath its massive paws. Its overlarge claws scratch against the stone with a high-pitched scrape that sets my teeth on edge.

The moment it sees us, it bellows a roar that makes me want to drop everything and clap my hands over my ears. The pain in my ears is dizzying, and when the beast quiets, everything sounds muffled, save for an ear-splitting ringing echoing through my head.

“Gods above,” I offer in quiet prayer. “If we should meet Death today, let it be quick.”

Vireth moves before I have the chance to. There is no hesitation in her, no pause to consider or retreat. She rushes forward with her blade already in motion, striking for the creature’s flank with a precision earned after years of practice. Perhaps not a lady-in-waiting, then…

I follow, frustrated by my slower but perhaps more powerful strikes. I hate that my body does not obey as it once did. My leg drags a fraction, my shoulder protests when I swing, and while the strike I land is not as clean as it should be, it does, indeed, land.

My despair flares—I should be better than this, even with my injuries. Even in this different land. Even fighting alongside a fae with quicker reflexes and magical gifts. If I am a knight no longer… if I can no longer best some cave beast with my lifetime of hard-earned skill, what then is my purpose?

The creature lashes out with a heavy paw in a brutal swipe, and I barely avoid the worst of it, stumbling back as claws scrape across stone where I stood mere moments before.

Vireth, of course, does not falter. She moves with a fluidity that is both efficient and graceful. Each strike is deliberate and well-placed, each movement measured in its confidence, as though she knows exactly where to place her blade and how much force to use.

I recognize the product of years of training—not just with the long-practiced dance of footwork, or the balance of offensive strikes and defensive parries, but also in the wisdom of economy of energy. Her skill with a sword is impossible to overlook, and all at once I’m struck with a desire so fierce—so utterly possessive—it wars with my battle focus.

Yes, I’ll admit she is beautiful in a terrifying way. Yes, I concede that her prickly attitude and wry humor do little to hide a wounded hurt leeching from inside her, but gods, if I do not find I am coming to crave her bite even now—especially now.

Starving ravens, Renard. Focus!

The creature drives us back, deeper into the cave, its movements erratic but relentless. My footing slips once, then again, and I grit my teeth against the anger and frustration building in my chest. Vireth may be good, but I am no slouch. This should not be a struggle—not for me.

The beast rounds on us, crowding us both against the walls of the cave in a wide arc, and too late I realize it’s trying to corner us in the darkness with no available retreat. My torchlight gutters and my feet squish into a thin layer of slimy mud coating the damp stone floor.

Vireth takes a hit—glancing, but enough to make her hiss. I lunge forward, landing another blow but dropping the torch in the process and plunging us into darkness.

“Damn it!” I curse as the animal rears back on its hind legs, crowding us back until I feel the damning press of stone against my back. We’ve reached the end of the cave, and there’s a sluggish heartbeat when it seems all three of us have realized this fact.

Vireth makes a sound and in the dark, I can’t determine if it’s a manic laugh or a whimper of despair.

“Renard,” she says sharply. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Close them!”

“I will not turn a blind eye when you—when both of us!—are in danger,” I growl.

“Damn you,” she snarls.

It’s pointless, anyway, since without the torch my eyes might as well be closed. I squint desperately against the darkness, trying to gather any shred of light that might better aid me in helping to defend her.

I hear the noise before I see it. Underneath the ragged, rancid breaths of the beast of our demise comes a wet, slick, spreading sound. Then, there is a cracking of bones—unmistakeable in the darkness, followed by the creature’s bellow of agony. Then… even more dripping sounds and the splattering of something wet hitting the floor. Sounds that turn my stomach, despite not knowing what they are.

Suddenly, light pulses up from the floor of the cave. A faint blue glow shines from a carpet of blue-black mushrooms that were definitely not here before.

I watch in horror as the glow casts rippling shadows upon the scene in front of us, which might be made worse in the soft, pearly luminescence.

The creature is… coming apart. Not at the end of Vireth’s sword, and not cleanly like something slain. It is rotting. It is rotting from the inside out, right before my very eyes. Flesh sloughs from bone in great, slick sheets. It’s slimy, poisonous-looking fur seems to wither and collapse into blackened mush. The smell—gods above—the smell is⁠—