The Hunt

Several strings of footprints stretched along a narrow, snow-covered path leading up to the top of the world. Enormous white mountains pierced the serene azure sky, like ancient titans sworn to protect the land from the corrupted civilization. Here the glorious nature which gave birth to Marx and Lenin showed its true might. This was the Earth of yore, untouched by the capitalist filth.

High and higher the footprints lead, into a small cave hidden in the very core of the Himalayas mountains. They continued deep into the cave, where a tunnel twisted and winded through endless stone. Finally, the pathway opened into a heavenly valley, happy to be isolated from the outside world. The footprints made their way downwards, following a small group of men. Slowly, the snow disappeared.

The tiny group travelled through a village full of marvellous far-eastern architecture, past glittering waterfalls and gardens resembling a tiny paradise each, towards a tall temple of jade and precious metals. There most the men stayed, and only two entered the ornamental gates surrounded by six finely crafted statues of Buddha.

In a long nephrite hall with no furniture but a plethora of engravings, they sat down in front of an old monk. Slowly, he stopped humming the mantra of meditation and opened his wise and compassionate eyes. The two men removed their hoods, revealing the respected and self-confident face of the Great and Glorious Leader of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and the scarred, sombre face of his feared bodyguard, Ivan Gorovits.

"Welcome to my humble abode, comrades," the monk greeted them.

"Blessed be Lenin, who guided us here and shielded us from the rockslides, avalanches and the smart missiles of our enemies! And blessed be you, the most honoured elder of Shangri-La, ancient lore keeper of Shambala, great governor of Tralla-La, O wisest of the wise in Xanadu! I came here with an offering of an alliance between your people and the people of the Soviet Union!" declared the First Among Bolsheviks in a strong and resonant voice, the same voice that had shown the true and right way to the lost masses of the proletariat for many years now.

"Ah, so our anguish is not unfamiliar to you. For two millennia we had lived in utmost joy, embracing the wise words of Tripitaka and Das Kapital, until the fateful yesteryear. A wicked capitalist named Emmanuel Goldstein found our valley, forced his way inside, and tried to seduce us with his lies about private property, huge profit and untold riches brought by capitalism. We now presume he had a malevolent plan to buy our valley and turn it into a theme park for western tourists, but we managed to drive the man out. Capitalism be cursed forever!"

 

A terrible cloud of unprecedented anger descended upon the brow of the old monk. "Yet we are not truly rid of this terrible cancer. We face the accursed abundance, never-ending innovation, unstoppable progress, social decadence and independence, and worst of all, selfish freedom of capitalism. The seed was sown and threatens to bring us to self-destruction unless we act quickly! As the president of the local Communist Party, I was forced to take drastic measures to prevent a civil war in our beloved, backwater valley. We will be thrilled and thankful to join the Soviet Union in exchange for your help."

The Most Beloved Lord and Master of CCCP nodded with deep sorrow. "We know all too well about the trappings of the sly capitalists. The Great Soviet Union, our beloved homeland, was defiled by Goldstein just eighteen months ago. Its happy collective farms were abolished and our people driven to poverty, unemployment and despair. Dark influence of the Enemy is spreading like plague across our lands! We must strike back, we must strike together, we must strike hard! The seed of dissent will not grow if we squash it and all of its ilk in an exemplary bloodshed. I humbly offer to lead the troops of Shangri-La against the foul imperialists, destroying their way of life and driving them out of their vile, resplendent dens."

"Yes," Ivan ventured. "Leader need good men to kill bad capitalists who chase him away from CCCP! Ivan good man and cossacks good men but cannot restore Leader alone. Soviet Union need more people than twelve."

The Illustrious and Irked Leader shushed Ivan and turned back to the old monk. "As I was saying, we need to work together and act quickly to shatter the very spirit of the bourgeoisie!"

"Indeed," the monk replied, reflecting and ruminating. "We ought to work together. However, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. I must be assured that you are a worthy ally. First, I shall test your wisdom. Tell me, how many Zen Buddhists does it take to change a light bulb?"

The Wise and Brilliant Leader smiled. "All of them and none, of course, for such is the nature of Zen."

"Great answer and greater still the man who spoke it," the monk nodded.

On some unseen signal, a novice monk appeared along with a white cow. The old monk gave the Leader a sharp look: "Now tell me, does this cow share the truth of Buddha, or does she yet strive to embrace the wholeness of Marxism and Leninism?"

The Best Leader That Ever Lived replied: "Yes!"

"Moo," the cow said, pleased.

"Correct," the old monk bowed in a polite acknowledgement of the superior intellect of the Leader. "Last but not least, I must ask you to describe the sure sign of a CCCP kolkhoz being founded in the middle of the deep Siberian taiga."

"The sound of trees falling in the forest."

"Praise Buddha and Marx! Russian communists are indeed as wise as I was told!" the monk cried out in ecstatic joy.

"Great, then signing a pact is but a formality now, right?" the Leader enquired. "How many masters of ancient and powerful martial arts can you lend us? How many occultists and sorcerers, espers and psykers? Maybe even some conventional weapons? Tanks and troops, a nuclear bomb or two?"

"Not that fast, my esteemed comrade. Enlightenment surely is the most important trait of a man and a communist, but it alone won't win a war. Strength of body is needed, too. I can give you as many troops as your heart desires, once I am sure they will serve side by side with the best of Russian bogatyrs. As per tradition, you ought to succeed in a difficult and dangerous quest before the alliance becomes reality."

The Incredibly Intrepid and Impatient Leader almost started to protest, but the monk continued: "A frightful monster raided our village recently, coming through an extradimensional portal that opened right in this very temple. The casualties suffered were low, nothing that couldn't be compensated for, but on its escape from our defenders, the creature took with itself our most priced possession of all, a life-sized copy of Lenin's mummy. Slay the beast and bring back the mummy of our beloved Father of the Revolution, then we shall know the true strength of your communist conviction and the capitalistic oppression will crumble before our united might!"

The Most Gloomy Leader sighs: "Well, okay then. Can you at least tell me what kind of a monster are we looking for?"

"Most definitely, yes. None have truly seen the beast for it attacked on a moonless night, but we have scrutinized the sacred scrolls and tomes of forbidden knowledge, until we found a passage we believe pertains to this horrific anti-communist thief."

 

The old monk intoneed in a dark voice: "On tienoo äkkiä niin hiljainen ja musta ja mörkö niin kuin vuori tuijottaa, ja jäinen maa on täynnä kammotusta, kun kuustakin pois värit putoaa."

There was a stretch as silence, broken only once the Notably Frustrated Leader asked in a voice that betrayed none of his inner thoughts: "And that's all? Really?"

"Indeed," the monk replied. "Do you believe yourself up to this task, O Most Monumental Master of the Only True and Righteous Philosophy?"

The Resigned yet Resolute Leader whispered something briefly to Ivan. Ivan opened his backpack, taking out the hereditary weapons of his family: an AK-47 covered in notches, one per slain capitalist; his grandfather's collection of grenades and his gas mask; the bulletproof vest his grandmother wore during the Great October Socialist Revolution; a hammer and sickle given to his father by Lenin himself; and finally a massive scimitar of old Russian steel, used by generations of his forefathers. Then he strode to the door: "Ivan go prepare cossacks."

In a minute, the rest of the group that stayed waiting outside of the temple was marshalled, all hardy cossacks of the Tried but Triumphant Leader's personal squad.

"Follow me," the old monk said and all followed him through wide halls of jade, then steep stairs of granite, then narrow tunnels of gneiss, then rickety ladder of pine wood, then dim passageways of caked dust. There in a chamber forgotten for many a millennium, a bluish glowing portal yawned in the mid-air.

The old monk spoke up: "Be careful, brave warriors, for the road you will tread on is violent and may well lead to your death. May the spirit of Lenin guide you to victory!"

But on the faces of the small squad nothing but eager determination could be seen, as behoves a true Soviet comrade. Facing the portal, they all gripped their trusty kalashnikovs.

"For father Lenin, for the Party and for our Great and Glorious Leader!" Ivan exclaimed and the cossacks joined him in a thunderous battle cry. Then one by one, they stepped into the luminous rift. The last to go was Ivan, a wide grin on his heroic face: "Ivan ready to hunt."

After a while, the old monk looked at the Daring and Dashing Leader, who was still standing next to him: "You... won't go?"

"No, of course not. Now, don't take it the wrong way, but it might be a while and I don't particularly fancy sitting here in the cold temple halls the whole time. Do you have a pub or something around here? I could use a bottle of vodka. Or two."

Variant Chess

Chess is a multiversal constant. Everywhere there is an intelligent life form capable of crafting a chequered board of two alternating colours and a set of playing pieces, a variant of chess will sooner or later arise. Scholars might mark this phenomenon a case of convergent evolution, but it could as well be a mathematical inevitability, or a silly joke of some obscure godling.

 

This is one of the many variants of chess displayed in the Black and White Hall of the Magpie Museum in Tam Ruat.
 

  
This variant of chess is played on a board of 12x12 black and white squares:

C	P	X	k	c	Q	K	c	k	X	P	C
W	b	w	b	w	b	w	b	w	b	w	W
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_	_
W	w	b	w	b	w	b	w	b	w	b	W
C	P	X	k	c	Q	K	c	k	X	P	C

Pieces

Pieces that "jump" can move over other pieces rather than being blocked by them. In normal chess, the only jumping piece is a knight, but there are several more in Tam Ruat variant.

Barbarian (b)
Barbarian moves one square diagonally forward to the right or left, but captures by advancing one square; like an inverted pawn. Similarly to a pawn, a barbarian cannot move backwards, can move two squares on its first move, can capture en passant, and can be promoted if it reaches the opposite side of the board.

Chariot (C)
Chariot is the same as a rook in normal chess.

Cleric (c)
Cleric is the same as a bishop in normal chess.

Ghost (g)
Ghost does not start on the board, but instead can be summoned whenever a warlock (see below) captures a piece. The ghost then appears on the square of the captured piece. Each player has two ghost pieces, but if a ghost is captured, it can be re-summoned again.

Ghost moves similarly to a grasshopper, so it can jump any distance orthogonally or diagonally, but only over another piece, landing in the square immediately after that piece. It may jump over pieces of either colour, but only captures if the square beyond the jumped-over piece is occupied by a piece of the opposing colour. Ghost cannot move if there is no piece to jump over.

King (K)
King is the same as in normal chess. Additionally, a king who reaches the opposite side of the board is promoted to an emperor, who moves similarly to a queen except it still cannot check.

Knight (k)
Knight is the same as in normal chess.

Paladin (P)
Paladin moves as a combination of wazir and alfil. Thus, it either moves one square orthogonally, or jumps two squares diagonally.

Queen (Q)
Queen is the same as in normal chess.

Warrior (w)
Warrior is the same as a pawn in normal chess.

Warlock (W)
Similarly to a king, warlock can move one square in any direction. However, unlike all other pieces, it captures by jumping over an adjacent enemy piece in any direction. If the player has a spare ghost piece, it is summoned on the square of the captured piece. A warlock cannot land on an occupied square, even if it's occupied by an enemy piece.

Wizard (X)
Wizard can use the moves of ferz, camel and dabbaba. It can jump either one square diagonally, or two squares orthogonally, or in an elongated knight's move - one, then three squares (aka "1-3 leaper" move). It is, however, colour-locked.
 

Knight by Stephen-0akley

 

Rules

All rules of normal chess apply, excepting the few changes below.

Castling does not exist, as the bigger board would make it harder to execute yet very powerful for moving the king to safety.

Promotion of barbarians and warriors can only be done into pieces that their player has lost - ie. when promoting, you select one of your captured pieces to resurrect in place of the barbarian or warrior, not any piece you would like. This prevents the player from getting several queens, but thanks to the number of new pieces with unique move sets also brings some nice tactical decisions.

The player that bares the opponent's king wins without the need for a checkmate. Given the existence of the emperor piece, too many games could end with tedious chasing after the highly mobile emperor.

Wanderer

Some time ago during a boring meeting, I happened upon Spwack's old mini-game called Wanderer and got caught up in playing it. There were some occasional bugs, so I fixed them, then ended up making adjustments and additions and introducing new bugs, until I had a whole new version of the game.

And with Spwack's kind permission, I present to you this Wanderer Next, Wanderer++, Wanderer 2.0 that can be played right
 

>HERE<

Unlike the original, which was a score-based exploration game, my version is more roguelike-ish. You can find armour, cast spells, fight, die, and maybe even uncover secrets. There's also a boss and one other way to win the game.
  

Click to embiggen.

The source code can be found on GitHub, though I would like to warn anyone who works with JavaScript that I never used it before, plus I was just piling new additions on old code without much forethought or refactoring, until I ended up with the player being represented by an assemblage of global variables... Yeah, you can stop laughing now.

Anyway, feel free to post any comments or criticism, and please report all bugs you find so that I can squish them.

Happy hacking and don't die!

My Dream

Hunger woke me up in the middle of the night. Again.

I slipped out of my bed and quickly, silently dressed. Father was still sound asleep and hopefully will remain so until dawn. I couldn't explain myself if he asked where I was going, so I'd better get back soon and secretly. I caused him enough trouble already.

The whole winter was a blur for me. I had been delirious from fever and my father tended to me the whole time, just like he had had to my mother all the years back. I got better where she didn't and I knew he was all the more happy for that, but it did cost him. He had to neglect the farmstead for me, and though the neighbours helped where they could, it will be a tough year to get through yet.

Even without my rumbling stomach.

I left the cottage and ran up across the garden and hayfield, to the forest above. The sky was clear and the Moon was large, casting deep shadows but also enough light to go by. There was a spring a short walk into the woods where I knew many a critter would come to drink from, so I laid some snares around it.

I caught a rabbit. It was scared, poor thing. Half-choked on the snare, it still tried to shy away from me as I came closer. In a way, I was happy that the other traps were empty. One will have to be enough.

I grabbed it and snapped its neck.

"Look what we have here!" a voice cried out.

"We caught ourselves a poacher," another joined in with a chuckle, and the light of a hooded lantern ran over me and my catch.

I nearly dropped the rabbit, scrambling to my feet. Three men were approaching from deeper in the forest, reins of their horses in hand. They were all wearing red cloaks and had swords on their belts.

A patrol from Rudohrad, the Red Baron's men.

"But a pretty one, for once!" the loud one exclaimed.

"If dirty feet and ruffled hair are your thing, I guess. But wait, I forgot about your wife! Of course you're into that," the tall one nudged him.

I started to speak, but I stuttered, not knowing what to say. I was backing away step by step, but they were already too close and starting to flank me. The forest brook and bramble bushes cut off the rest of my escape routes.

"What shall we do with a pretty poacher, early in the morning," the last one intoned. He wrapped his reins around a tree branch. He didn't smile, just stared at me.

"Please forgive me, Masters. I didn't mean to-"

"Pretty face talks after all! Does she also know how much trouble she's in? Who's woods are we in?" the last one interrupted me, his voice cold and dangerous.

"Let me go, I beg-"

"Who's woods are we in?!"

"The baron's."

"And what didn't you mean to be doing in the Red Baron's woods?"

I felt their stares even as I unwittingly lowered my eyes. "...poaching," I couldn't stifle a whimper, and the loud and tall one laughed at that, hard.

The cold one suddenly drew his sword, one smooth sound of sharp steel on well-oiled leather. I stumbled back and he blocked my way with the blade, forcing me to a tree. He drew close and his sword slipped under my chin.

"Poachers loose their hand, you surely knew that." His breath was surprisingly odourless, but his eyes felt like fire on my skin.

"You wouldn't want that, right?" He let the blade down.

"But it doesn't have to end-" he started to speak, but as he groped me, I punched him, without thinking and hard.

He took a step back and his mates suddenly stopped laughing. There was a droplet of blood on his lower lip. He didn't even say anything, just struck me with the pommel.

There was a split second of numbness, and then my hands slammed into the ground and I was blinking spots out of my eyes. He kicked me in the side, knocking the wind out of me and pushing me over, then kicked me again and again.

"I like it more when they cooperate. This is frankly a bit of a turn-off," I heard the loud one saying over the blood thrumming in my head.

"This time it really was her fault, though," the tall one shrugged.

I felt another kick in my stomach, and it rumbled much harder than ever before.

Then everything went black.

***

I stumbled from the forest half-blinded by tears. Everything was so calm and quiet as I ran towards the village, struggling for breath and suppressing grunts of pain.

Behind the first house, I flung myself at a rainwater barrel. The face staring at me from the dark water was caked in mud and blood. My hands trembled as I started scrubbing and scraping away all the grime, clawing at my own face. I felt nauseous, but no matter how much I wanted to puke myself clean, I could only retch and shiver.

My stomach felt so full and satisfied.

I curled up in the shadow behind the barrel, thinking about my father's serene sleep.

I had to get away.

The soldiers will be missed when they don't return from their patrol in the morning, and others will come to investigate. If I stayed here, they would find out, find me and burn me at the stake, or even worse, claim my father or the whole village was complicit, burn me at the stake and send them away for hard labour. We all knew better than to expect mercy from the Red Baron's men.

But if I disappeared, they would have a culprit to chase and no time to spare for harassing the villagers. Everyone knows I was ill for a long time and weird ever since then, yet my father can still truthfully say he never suspected a thing.

I had to get up, had to get moving.

I went hobbling down the back alleys towards the road, where it encircled the inn and took off over the hills. There was still light and babble pouring out of the windows, though thankfully nobody was outside. Parked at the side of the street, I saw a nomadic wagon like those that comedians and gypsies often used. The horses were still harnessed, as if ready to set out in an instant.

I could barely stand already. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, I dashed across the street and climbed into the wagon, waiting for someone to shout out or grab me. But nothing happened.

The inside of the wagon was cramped and dark, full of things I couldn't see that bumped painfully into my head and legs and hips. I found a heap of some clothes or cloth and collapsed on it, burying myself where a chest shielded me from casual glance.

I didn't notice when I dozed off.
 

***

Light was streaming through a tiny window in the side of the wagon, tickling me on the nose. I startled, but then caught myself before I made any noise.

We weren't moving.

Careful, I peaked from behind the chest. The half-open curtain at the back of the wagon was looking out on a snowy forest meadow. I shivered and had to borrow one of the big scarves I was lying on to wrap myself in. I climbed out of the wagon and saw my breath turning to mist. The snow was just a sprinkle, but it had no right to be there, anyway.

The wagon was parked under a massive oak standing alone in the middle of a meadow, with no sign of the horses or the driver, nor any road for that matter. There was just the wind whistling through the branches.

I didn't understand. The solstice was already drawing close and no way could I be asleep for long enough to get up into the mountains.

Then I felt something squishy and wet under my feet, and flinched back. It was a heap of viscera and a dead, disembowelled horse.

My stomach rumbled, painfully, like an empty hole was punched right through my middle. I nearly doubled over, and as my head went closer to the carrion, I could smell its raw flesh and drying blood. Nothing ever smelled so good.

I couldn't help it. Fighting revulsion, I reached for a chunk of its meat and gulped it down, then another and one more. It tasted like solstice sweets dipped in shit and gore. Then I heard footsteps.

I turned, startled, and saw an old, robed man, somehow familiar, though I couldn't recall ever seeing him before.

"Are you the wagon driver? I'm sorry I sneaked into your wagon. I had to get away from the village, quick," I managed to say in a strained voice, nervously wiping at my mouth.

The man looked right past me. "I had a bad dream," he said simply.

He seemed not really there in the head, and I couldn't stop myself from stumbling over words as my mind raced in growing fear: "What do you mean? Where were you, where are we? Why is there all the snow?"

The man turned and looked at the snow, as if seeing it for the first time. "A bad dream," he repeated.

"What happened, what do you remember?"

"A bad dream. I've had the same dream for three days."

This must be my fault. He went into some kind of a shock and I didn't know how to help him.

"People screaming," he said. "They scream my name. They scream in pain. Then I scream. Then I wake up."

He finally looked at me. His eyes were entirely black, like my eyes when my stomach rumbles. He turned and I inadvertently followed his gaze up the oak tree.

It was bedecked with bodies. They were hanging from the branches, upside-down, their ankles bound and their bellies slashed open. Their intestines had uncoiled over their chests and around their faces, framing the frozen expressions of agony and horror.

Then I recognized Kaija and Aidan and Drust and Brynn and Tam. It was the villagers, all of them, all my friends and neighbours. They were swaying slightly in the whistling wind and another body turned towards me. My father, who unlike the others had a wide grin plastered on his corpse-white face.

"A bad dream," I heard behind me. I whirled around, panicking, and it was me, another me, lying on the snowbank. She was heavily pregnant and her eyes were solid black. She stared and I stared back, unable to move or look away, and then a contraction scrunched her face in a mixture of pleasure and pain, she groaned and a flood of black gunk went splashing from between her spread legs.

I was screaming now: "Who are you? What are you?!"
  

***

I was roused by violent shaking.

I opened my eyes to find myself in an unfamiliar place. Small and cramped, with light streaming through a tiny window and someone breathing down on me, holding my shoulders.

No, it was the wagon and the driver was shaking me awake. I let go where I gripped his wrists and he took his hands off me, stepping back and folding his arms.

"I wanted to let you sleep, but you started to scream."

He was rather young, not the man from the dream. He was frowning, but it was a general frown, not a hostile one or directed at me.

"I'm so sorry. I had to get away and I saw your wagon and I thought... I don't know what I was thinking."

"Yeah," he said. "Sometimes you do have to get away. You can come with."

"Thank you," I said to his back as he turned and jumped off the wagon.

I followed him to the front bench and then sat there in silence for some time. I had too many thoughts flying through my head to talk and he seemed content to just stare at the road in front of us.

"Where are you going?" I asked, eventually.

"Nowhere, really. Anywhere."

"Oh." Anywhere was good. Maybe he would let me stay at least for a while, until I can figure out what am I supposed to do.

He looked at me, studying my face, and I had to fix my eyes on the horizon to suppress a sudden flush of anxiety. There was a group of people ahead of us, women and children with a man here and there, accompanied by ox-drawn wagons full of furniture.

"The highlanders," he followed my gaze.

"They left the outposts? I didn't know it was that bad up in the hills. I know the last winter was harsh," or so I heard when I finally pulled through in the early spring, "even we didn't have much to spare back in the village, but we could make do. I imagine it must be hard, giving up on a land that you worked so hard to make your own."

"It wasn't just the winter," he muttered. He was hunching over, gripping the reins much harder than necessary. It was my turn to look at him, askance.

"The sinners," he eventually volunteered.

I felt my heart flutter. "No."

He was staring at the group of refugees and barely whispering: "Three days ago, a large number of them came down from the hills where my people camped. They found us at breakfast. Killed our dogs, killed our horses. My family and friends."

"What about my village? Do they know?"

He clenched his teeth, drawn himself up and sighed. "I told them. They laughed in my face. Called me out on my tall tales. Something about a horse-loving gypsy was also mentioned, I think."

If there really were sinners in the hills, the whole village had to prepare. I could go directly to the mayor, persuade her to send a message to the baron, maybe request soldiers or something!

But I would have to go back and then even more of the baron's soldiers would mill through the woods around the village...

"The Red Baron has patrols up in the hills. They would come across the sinners. They will stop them," I said without much conviction.

"Yeah," he replied.

"How far to the next town? Maybe I could send a word of warning back home?"

He thought for a moment. "Rudohrad is not that far off. Not down this way, but we could take a turn at the next crossroads and be there in the afternoon."

The image of the baron's dungeons flickered before my mind's eye, even though his people had no way of already being aware of and investigating the death of their fellows. I could try and push my luck to speak with some official, then run.

"The baron might send help."

"If you hadn't noticed, the patrols were getting smaller and scarcer for some time. The baron is broke. He has just enough soldiers to keep himself safe. Not worth the risk to save a small village."

I didn't have an answer. Of course I noticed. We all did, in addition to the growing taxes and number of bandit attacks. The soldiers really wouldn't come.

I must have been sitting in silence for a long time before he spoke up again.

"So, what's your name?"

"Gilda," I replied and smiled automatically. Nobody would help.

"I'm Milosh," he smiled in earnest.

"I have to go back," I started in a weak voice.

"I don't know why you ran, but there probably was a reason," Milosh said. "The villagers won't listen, the sinners will eat you."

"I don't care. I have to try."

"It's not worth it, Gilda. Nothing is worth sacrificing your life for."

"My father's still there."

He slowed down, then stopped the wagon and I got off.

"Thank you for the ride. And the talk. It was nice meeting you."

He just sat there, staring ahead until I turned to go.

"Don't," I thought I heard him say.

"You could come with," I replied and at that, he spurred the horses to motion. Off and away.
  

***

I ran most of the way back. Every time I was short on breath, every time my body would protest with pangs of pain and bleeding blisters, the memory of my dead father's grin would make me quicken my pace again.

At first, I was racking my brain about what to do once I arrive. Then as the hours dragged on, I just focused on the deserted road ahead, on the very next step.

It was already past nightfall when I approached the first houses. I was feeling feeble and dead tired. I haven't eaten anything since the yesterday's supper and my stomach was rumbling angrily.

It took me a second to register the shadow crouching behind a wood shed. I froze, eyes darting for anything that I could defend myself with. A cracked spade shaft was discarded in some nettles, good enough as a makeshift club, or perhaps the fist-sized rock lying further down the alley between the cottages?

The shadow straightened and slowly came closer. A child, holding some small animal in its hands. It was Tam, staying outside well past her curfew once again.

I let my breath out. "Tam! What are you doing out here? It's already dark, your mum will be mad."

She stepped into moonlight, her eyes completely black. "Maybe she will even go mad," she giggled. "If I'm lucky enough to get her before the others do."

I stumbled back, but she was now advancing quickly. She dropped into a conspiratorial whisper: "Everyone you know is as good as dead. You're alone. You failed. What did you even think, that you could help? You never helped anyone."

She flung the partly-eaten rat at my face, then lunged. I reflexively slapped at the tiny carcass, opening myself for a quick kick to the shins and knees. My legs buckled and I fell hard. She was already on me, straddling my chest and scraping her nails over my face. Disoriented, I could barely fend off her attempts at clawing my eyes out, let alone stop her when she changed position and kicked me in the loins.

"I would say that you're fighting like a girl but no, your fighting is a disgrace to every girl ever. You really thought you could stop us? You?"

Somehow, I got one leg between us and pushed back, crawling away and kicking to keep her at bay. Desperate, I reached into the nettles and swung the shaft when she next came for me.

It struck true but broke, leaving nothing but a dark bruise on her unnaturally pale skin. She chuckled: "My hungry siblings are everywhere and yet the people are none the wiser. They are as stupid as the sheep they herd. And sheep are for the eating."

When she pounced again, I didn't try to evade or escape. I moved towards her, stabbing with the sharp fragment of wood I still gripped. Halfway through the air, she flailed and contorted and failed to change her course enough. The wood pierced her chest and I let her fall on the ground, then grabbed the rock I saw earlier and cracked her head when she tried to rise, and again and again, until she stopped snarling and my hands were slick with blood.

I was left staring at the body of a brutally murdered child I knew since she was a babe in a crib. When I was younger, I used to babysit her.

I scampered off to the side and dry-heaved, my hands shaking enough that I could have fallen over. Somehow, nobody heard the commotion and came to see me and my little victim.

Of course Tam was already dead even before I found her, but... I couldn't stop now. The sinners were here and ready to strike. I had to raise alarm.

I dragged myself afoot and ran down the alley to the main street, because I didn't trust myself to walk without collapsing. Everybody was inside, dining or preparing for sleep.

"The sinners!" I screamed, "They are here!"

No sooner have I raised my voice when the village came alive. People began to appear from their homes and crowded the street. They gawked at me as I staggered in place.

"What is it?" someone asked.

"Gilda! Oh my poor dear, what in the world happened to you?" That was Brynn, Tam's mother. She ran up to me, distress over my well-being etched into her face.

I stumbled back as if she had struck me. I couldn't let myself break down crying. "The sinners. They came from the hills," I managed to say over the lump in my throat.

She came to a confused halt, doing a double take on my torn face and filthy clothes. Her husband, Drust, touched her shoulder and nudged her away from me, glaring disapprovingly. The people were talking now, arguing.

"They're right outside," I added. Somebody started to cackle.

The crowd shifted and Dugal swaggered out, laughing like a madman. The little shit.

"That's what the fucking gypsy was saying yesterday! You were with the gypsy! He fucked your brains out and then made you scare these good people with the same stupid tales he was trying to make us believe."

I might have lashed out, struck him with the rock I still gripped. The people slowly went from confused and panicked to either shaking their heads and turning to go back home, or staring me down, irate and mocking.

"Hey Fergus, your daughter's back and she is crazy!" Dugal bellowed.

Past the crowd, I could see my father making his way down here from the other end of the village. He looked angry and worried. Very angry and very, very worried.

I could also see a black-eyed figure up on the roof of the mayor's house. It raised its head and howled. A hundred other nearby howls joined it.

Every pair of eyes in the whole village was suddenly fixed on the monster, and the other sinners used the distraction to emerge from the alleys and get between the crowd and their houses. We were mostly surrounded. People started to scream as dead arms reached for them and hungry teeth sunk into their flesh. Some fought back and others tried to flee, making it much harder for each other.

My father broke into a sprint, coming for me.

The black-eyed beast leaped off the roof, landing on Drust down on the street. Its taloned feet bit into his back, and his body convulsed and sagged. I could see him gasping for breath.

The beast was tall, head and shoulders above even my father. Its skin was stretched tight over bulging muscles, its hands and feet distorted into oversized claws. Its head was flayed, the skin hanging loosely around its neck and shoulders, with long blonde hair stretching down to the ragged remains of a skirt and apron it wore around its hips.

Aidan came barging at it, his smithing hammer swinging wide. The beast swatted away his attack and lazily dragged a claw over his body, spilling his guts on the ground and cracking his ribs.

My father wasn't more than a few paces away, drawing a knife from his belt, and I knew it will just tear him apart. I hurled the rock, praying to Sol and every saint that was listening.

The stone bonked off the beast's head and it turned to glare at me with its empty eye sockets in the same moment that my father stabbed it. It seized his arm and broke it without ever taking its gaze off of me. Nearly paralysed with horror, I watched as it effortlessly lifted him off the ground.

I shrieked, incoherent, and charged at it. My stomach rumbled with rage and hunger, and my vision went black.
  

***

I awakened in cold sweat. My body ached all over, every piece of me either hurting or completely numb. Only my belly felt worryingly full and content. I struggled to open my eyes.

It was dark, too dark to see. I could still smell, though. A sweet, metallic, revolting smell, like in a slaughterhouse.

And also fresh bread.

A door cracked open, bringing bright light into the room. I fumbled and failed to sit up, until a few quick steps later, my father was standing next to the bed, gripping my arm.

I looked at him, bracing for the disgust or horror on his face. He must have seen me feed.

But he was smiling and propped me up until I could sit, leaning against the wall. I saw him wince a little as his injured arm moved too quickly, but it was properly bandaged and in a sling.

"I'm so glad you're already awake," he said. "I was so worried that you will relapse, lying unconscious and feverish for another month."

Some of my fear and confusion must have shown on my face, because he sat down beside me and put his good hand on my shoulder.

"You saved the village. Scared the sinners off."

"But I was..."

"You were brave. You saved lives. Many lives, including my own. I'm proud of you," he said, then frowned: "But don't be surprised if you get some weird looks from the other folk. They're thankful, just a bit tense. Now come on."

I let him help me stand up and walk me to the laundry chest, then dressed, slow and unsteady, as he waited outside of my room. He supported me as we walked outside and down the main street to the mayor's house. A small gathering of people was talking at the front steps, finding comfort and consolation in the company. They parted as we approached and let us through to their midst.

Sitting on a bench next to the steps was Brynn, rocking back and forth, wiping at her eyes and sniffling. On the other end of the bench, Dugal was kneeling next to a tearful Gerda, whispering to her ear, one arm around her shoulders, the other on her knee.

"Listen, everyone," my father hopped up on the first step and waited until all the people turned to look at him. "We all know what happened last night. We all saw. We all live because of my daughter, so we all keep quiet. Understood?"

My eyes flicked from face to face. I saw a lot of fear, but also the occasional slight and sombre nod.

"For those who haven't heard yet," he continued, "Kaija also died last night. Sorry, Gerda," he added as the girl started to weep aloud. "We will choose the next mayor as soon as possible, but for now, you can ask Moryn or me if you need or want to help. Leigh will see to anyone who needs to be patched up."

"Also, I sent Ewyn and Nyle to Rudohrad. They will make sure that the baron knows, and that he listens to us. He wants our taxes? He has to give something in return!"

There were much more vigorous nods all around.

But my father was looking somewhere past the crowd. "Speaking of the devil..."

Following his gaze, I noticed a group of red-armoured horsemen coming our way. The Red Baron's soldiers, and not just a small patrol. I tensed, making every single scrape and bruise throb and twinge.

My father briefly touched my clenched fists. "I'll be right back," he said. "I should have a chat with them real quick."

He headed towards the soldiers, and I found myself completely surrounded by a grim-faced crowd. Half of the people were watching the baron's men, the other half was staring at me with fear, with awe, with distrust and disgust.

"Thank you," somebody uttered into the silence.

The soldiers seemed to grow agitated as my father talked. He gestured towards the forest and the soldiers started to quarrel between themselves. Suddenly, the leader turned his horse around and spurred it back the way they came.

My father returned and promising to the villagers that he will be back in a minute, lead me back home.

"You should go have some more rest. I never thought I'd see you as battered as you are, and I hope I never will again."

"What about the soldiers?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.

He hugged me tight around the shoulders. "One of their patrols didn't return. They came to investigate, then saw the pile of undead we burnt behind the village. I told them about the attack in the night, told them we managed to fight them off, barely. They realized their patrol is probably dead and they should better inform the baron about all this."

He looked at me and added: "It's a pity the patrol was killed by some sinners."

"Now, there's some fresh bread that Moryn gave me, get yourself milk or cheese and go to bed, okay?"

"Okay," I breathed.

My stomach was rumbling, but for once, it was just and only my own hunger.

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