Recapulation #4
Yet naked, his shadow followed...
A second time the cries of man and light of torch chased after the Knave, even as his wretched naked headless form scrambled over plant and soil, stumbling over root of tree, deeper into woods perilous.
His desperation, his humiliation drove him well ahead of the men who sought favour or glory by hunting what they thought was a prince who had consorted with unclean forces, how could they have known their quarry was but simple village bully, head taken by cursed wanderer? That no rich bounty was at hunt’s end?
Branches clawed at the Knave’s bare flesh as he recklessly still fled, for it was no longer men he feared.
Hounds.
Some fellows had hunting hounds.
He could hear their panting, their rushing paws.
So, on he stumbled, the woods themselves his enemy ever scratching and seeking to trip him, to serve him up to his pursuers.
It was comfort and distress that he found he did not tire, if not for the cruel hands of feet of the woods, the bruises from his first flight, he would have been fresh as the hour he woke.
As it was, even with an unnaturally tireless body, he did fall to the limbs of the woods, sent tumbling, and the lead of the hounds lept upon him, fangs awide.
Yet, though the Knave lacked in many ways, savage fighter was he. Surrounded by the other hounds he wrestled keeping teeth from flesh and the hounds did pause, taking in his headless state and the fierceness of his struggle against the foremost of them. A twisting mass of man and beast writhed through the forest floor.
Then, as they struggled a sick crack sounded out through the night air, man and beast separated, one whining, then collapsing, ribs broken piercing heart and lungs, and the Knave stood the victor, the other dogs whimpered and yelped and fled, but...
It was not Knave’s victory that put them to flight.
From the shadows of the trees it came.
Lean, dark, hungry.
Eyes aglitter with madness, a wolf is only wolf when in pack.
Consumed by hunger, mad from isolation, filled with bloodlust, a vargulf was a being once a wolf.
A creature between flesh and spirit.
Those eyes flickered red, and the Knave froze confronted by starving shadow.
It circled him, paying little attention to the fallen hound.
More than flesh, it wanted murder, for no longer its belly could be full with aught but agony.
To taste life ending between its jaws was its hunger.
A cruel fanged smile split its shadowy head, and it lept, but the Knave broke through the fear of the unnatural, for he too had entered that realm.
He ran, this time fully upright, this time heedless to branch scoring wound. He ran, but all men have shadow, even headless.
At times the shadow would make mighty leap, but by a hair missing. The Knave would even vault over if the beast landed in front of him. On they went, man chased by shadow, man unable to lose shadow. At times ahead, at times behind.
The Knave did not tire, unnatural as he was, but so to was the vargulf spurred on by mad bloodlust.
Yet through the wood they came deeper, to depths man dared not, that wolf dared not. Mist coiled and shrouded their chase, and eyes watched their passage between the trees.
So many eyes.
What instinct guided the Knave, was it luck? Was it mercy? But as two trees came before him, as he caught sight of eyes glaring down on him, he stopped and rolled. Behind him, he heard a yelp of confusion, essence of wolf not left the vargulf. He turned.
He wished he hadn’t.
A twisted mass more shadow than the vargulf loomed over it, fiercely tangled was the vargulf in thick web. Down came bladed mouthparts and the head was severed. It watched the Knave as it brought flowing stump to mouth. As it rose and drunk deep.
The Knave dared not move, dared not make a noise. It gazed from above, an alien intent, without even the frenzied hunger of the vargulf, showing not even mortal hunger as it drank headless to withering.
Slowly the Knave did crawl on his back, the giant kept before him, the ruined web in view. Slowly he moved, but then he stopped for in turning his headless sight...
Behind him another web. Another one. So close, as sizzling drool could be heard hitting dirt. He froze then too, and saw.
All about him were those eyes. Watching but not moving. Did they think they had no need to chase him? Were they waiting for him to crawl into web.
They could see him, they surely could through mist!
He crawled as lowest bug, inching away, ever away from mist and eyes, but was it without end? He saw no wrapped bodies, only headless drained husks, he climbed over them, slowly he moved away under watchful gaze.
That they didn’t move did not spur him to greater action, to stand as man. He crawled and shivered, naked as maggot. At last, the eyes grew sparse, web uncommon and mist thin. Soon he felt confident to stand, and he did so.
The maw closed down with a clack.
He collapsed.
He yet remained in unnatural life.
Had he head, the monster would have taken it, but lacking it, the strike was false.
Under this last horror he crawled, and the eyes watched his passage.
Then, he was truly free of that dark depth were they stood vigil above webs, where the ground was littered with mummified headless bodies.
From that, one headless crawled out.
When the Knave wandered on, such was his relief to see lantern light of garish wagons in the woods that he thoughtlessly ran towards them.
Naked and headless as he was.
At least whatever dwelt within those wagons would not be those grim sentries.
How desperate was he to feel warmth of fellow man again, deep a desire as the bloodlust of the vargulf.
Mad as the mind of that living shadow.
The Knave ran on to light, moth to flame though none now chased him.
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