Anemoi 4 – Anemoi 5, Imperial Year 1645
Verdon – The Ardennes Forest
The morning was grey, the kind of grey that pressed against the windows of Lord Armand's counting house and made the candles necessary. Bastien stood in his usual corner, his hand on his sword hilt, his helm facing the table.
Armand did not smile. He slid a parchment across the oak.
"A village in the Ardennes. Name of Thornwell. Three days east." He tapped the parchment with a ringed finger. "Something has been taking their livestock. Then their children. The village elder scraped together coin. Not much. But the contract came to me, and I thought of you."
Bastien did not move. "What is it?"
"They say a beast. A big one. Covered in spines that click when it moves. Like chattering teeth." Armand leaned back, his chair creaking. "Fast. Too fast for their hunters. I told them I had a man who does not miss."
"You told them that before you knew if I would take it."
"I know you." Armand's voice was softer now. "You're tired of standing in rooms, Bastien. I saw it on your face last night."
Bastien said nothing. His hand tightened on the sword hilt.
"The pay is two hundred silver. Half now, half when the beast is dead."
"The pay is low."
"The village is poor. They lost their children."
A long pause. Then Bastien stepped forward and picked up the parchment. He read it once, folded it, and tucked it into his belt.
"I will need supplies."
"Already packed. A horse is waiting."
Bastien turned to the door.
"Bastien." Armand's voice stopped him. "Come back."
He did not answer. The door closed.
The road to Thornwell was old, rutted, and bordered by trees that had grown too close. Bastien rode in silence, his longsword across his saddle, his cloak pulled tight. The grey scarf flapped in the wind. The blonde strands of his hood whispered against the ceramic helm.
He passed a farmer who crossed himself and hurried away. He passed a broken cart, its wheel lying in the ditch like a dead animal. He did not stop.
By midday, the trees thinned, and the village appeared. The first thing he noticed was the silence. No dogs barking. No children shouting. The second was the smell: smoke from a single chimney, yes, but underneath it, the sweet, cloying odor of something rotting just out of sight.
The cottages were shuttered. The well had a broken bucket still tied to the rope, swaying gently in the wind. A child's doll lay facedown in the mud near the gate, its cloth body stained dark.
An old man waited at the gate. He was thin, his beard grey, his hands gnarled. He wore a wool cloak patched in three places. His eyes were red, but not from crying—from sleeplessness.
"You're the one they send," he said. Not a question.
"I am."
"We don't have much. But we'll pay what we promised."
Bastien dismounted. "Show me where they were taken."
The old man led him to the edge of the forest. The trees were dark, the undergrowth thick. A broken fence marked the boundary between village and wild. The smell of rot was stronger here.
"It comes at dusk," the old man said. "We hear it before we see it. A clicking sound. Like stones knocked together."
"How many have tried to kill it?"
"Four. Hunters. They did not come back."
Bastien knelt. He studied the ground. Tracks. Large, five toes, claws that had gouged the earth. A spine lay in the mud—black, sharp, the length of his forearm. He picked it up. The tip was stained dark. He also saw smaller tracks. Children's boots, dragged.
He followed them a few paces into the forest. The tracks led to a patch of blood. A small shoe, leather, the lace still tied. He picked it up. It was warm. Not from the sun. From something else.
He tucked the shoe into his belt pouch. "Go back to the village. Keep everyone inside."
"The children—"
"I will look for them."
The old man hesitated. His hands shook. Then he turned and walked away. His footsteps faded. The forest was silent.
Bastien drew his longsword and walked deeper into the trees.
He followed the trail for an hour. Blood spots, broken branches, the occasional spine that had fallen from the beast's hide. The forest grew darker. The air grew colder.
He found the first child in a hollow between two roots. A boy, maybe ten. His eyes were open. His throat was torn. The blood was dry.
Bastien knelt. He closed the boy's eyes. His hand trembled for just a moment. He pressed it flat against the earth until it stilled.
He said nothing. He stood and continued.
The second child was further in. A girl, younger. Her body was wrapped in a thorny bush, as if the beast had hidden her for later. Bastien cut her free. He carried her to a patch of moss and laid her down. He did not close her eyes. He could not. They were already gone.
He looked away. His jaw was tight.
The third—the old man's granddaughter—was not there.
Bastien searched until the light began to fade. He called out once, his voice flat: "If you can hear me, make a sound."
Nothing.
He found a cave at the base of a rocky hill. The tracks led inside. The smell was thick—old blood, rotting meat, and the sour stench of the beast. The clicking sound began again, echoing off the walls.
He entered.
The cave was low, narrow. He had to stoop. His longsword scraped the stone. The clicking grew louder, faster.
He saw her in the back of the cave. The girl. Alive. Cowering behind a rock. Her hands were bound with vines. Her face was pale, streaked with tears. She did not scream. She had no voice left.
The beast was between them. It turned. Its spines rattled. Its yellow eyes locked on Bastien.
He did not wait. He charged.
The beast lunged. He sidestepped—not fast, just enough. The beast's shoulder brushed his cloak. He brought the longsword down in a two‑handed arc. The blade struck the beast's flank, scraping along its spines. Sparks flew. The beast shrieked and spun.
Bastien rolled left, under a swinging claw. The beast's tail whipped over his head. He came up behind it, drove the point of his sword into the back of its knee. The beast buckled. It tried to turn, but its leg gave way.
He stepped in close, reversed his grip, and drove the pommel into the base of its skull. Once. Twice. The beast's head snapped forward. Its spines rattled, then went still.
It collapsed. Bastien stood over it, breathing hard. His shoulder ached where the spines had scratched his armor. A thin line of blood ran down his neck.
He did not count. There was no need.
He stepped over the beast and cut the girl's bonds. She flinched.
"You are safe," he said.
She stared at him. Her mouth moved, but no sound came.
He lifted her. She weighed nothing. He carried her out of the cave, into the fading light.
The old man was waiting at the gate with the rest of the village. When he saw the girl in Bastien's arms, he fell to his knees. The girl's mother ran forward, weeping.
Bastien set the girl down. She stumbled into her mother's arms.
The old man rose slowly. He walked to Bastien and pressed a pouch into his hand. Silver. Light.
"The rest will come when we have it," he said.
Bastien looked at the pouch. Then at the girl, clinging to her mother. Then at the old man's face, which was older than it had been that morning.
"Keep it," Bastien said.
"You earned it."
"I didn't save the others."
The old man's jaw tightened. He did not argue. He simply nodded.
"Then take it anyway," he said. "We've nothing else to give."
Bastien looked at the pouch again. He handed it back.
"Use it for her," he said, nodding toward the girl. "She'll need things."
The old man's eyes filled. He did not weep. He simply tucked the pouch into his cloak.
"Thank you," he said.
Bastien turned and walked to his horse. The village watched him go. No one spoke.
He rode back toward Verdon. The road was dark. The stars were bright. He did not look back.
When he reached his lodgings, he climbed the stairs to his room. He lit a single candle. He took the girl's shoe from his belt pouch and set it on the windowsill.
He did not pray. He did not weep. He simply sat on the edge of his bed, his longsword across his knees, and stared at the shoe until the candle burned out.
Some lines, he would not cross. He would never take a contract that harmed a child. Never again.
The candle guttered. The room went dark.
Bastien closed his eyes.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty