Fang of Triseria

Fang & Bone: 3. Rot in the Air

Fang's lycanthropic sense of smell was sharp and Erryl, the Barber of Fools' Errand, knew to trust it.

At the sound of Fang's warning, Erryl's rapier flicked through the cool evening air. He did not quite ready himself to a stance, but he did rock on his heels.

"What do you smell? From where?"

Fang continued to take in the scent for a few moments. Again, the heavy rumble: "Undead, I think. Rot. Growing closer. East."

Erryl crept toward his road companion, flicking his rapier's tip to the ground, loosening his arm muscles for the work ahead. Fang threw his heavy cloak over his back, and where there was once what appeared to be a misshapen lump, was the pommel and hilt of a tremendously large and heavy sword. With little effort beyond the unwieldiness of the size, the wolf drew the blade and rested it upon his broad shoulder.

Erryl couldn't conceive of the weight of the thing. He favored the thin, delicate blade of the duelist and the accuracy that only a needle could provide. "Swordplay like surgery," he often boasted. And when the rapier was not enough, his dagger was there to finish the job.

Fang's blade, more a cleaver than a sword, was at least a few feet long - four or five by Erryl's count - with a blade about an eight of that width. By all reason, a strike from his blade killed not by cutting, but by sheer, crushing weight. The Wolf would split foes in twain not from an edge, but a primal force. Force that would be seen again in mere moments.

The Wolf was exposed now - beneath the cloak was a body at least 7 feet, though he typically hunched. With broad shoulders and dense muscle beneath the fur, Erryl wondered if Fang had secretly been one of the giant men in the northern reaches of Skolos. Perhaps an unwary traveler caught up in the incident of the fallen kingdom. But Fang never spoke about his past life and Erryl would have little else to do but theorize on it otherwise.

The reddish hue of the evening that had lit the forest was fading now, and a gentle breeze danced between the woods that surrounded the trail. The sounds of the woods gradually faded over the next minute until the only sound was the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Then came the rasping moans, accompanied by a cacophony of leaves and brush shuffled and crushed underfoot.

Erryl watched Fang's pointed ears twitch and shift toward the direction of the incoming undead. Erryl followed suit, taking up a position in the same direction, a few feet from the beastman, out of range of his giant swings. Erryl glanced again as Fang's nose rankled and he started shifting on his large feet - or were they paws? He hadn't dared ask his companion.

The sound of the ghouls approached the tree line on the side of the trail, and the first of them stumbled out through a bush, nearly collapsing. The sudden lurch gave it a burst of speed that unsettled Erryl, but he urged himself to remain calm. When it comes to the undead, haste makes for mistakes.

Fang lifted the sword from his shoulder and held it forward. The sheer weight of it would have been impossible for most men to consider wielding it; even the Wolf held it up with two hands on the hilt.

The ghoul lurched for the first target it saw, which just happened to be Erryl.

"You're up," said Fang with a deep rumble.

Erryl nodded and adjusted his stance, one leg extended and bent ahead, the other outstretched behind. His needle-like blade held back, horizontally, level with his shoulder. His left hand extended outward, palm held flat with the thumb held perpendicular to the outstretched fingers. The rudimentary corner created by his left hand served to let him know when to strike.