Chapter 12 - The Nightmare
12
The Nightmare
Something was stalking in the forest. Something was stalking, but its steps were not heavy. They were light and quick, but deliberate. Its breath was not hot and heavy, and no growl escaped the thing’s lips. Strangely, the thing did not make much of a sound at all. Its breath could not be heard. The rapid footsteps, crunching through leaves and sticks on the ground, echoed heavily in the still night. It was not incompetence that caused this noise, though. This thing could have ambled across the path of a hunting lion without disturbing her prey. If it wanted, this creature could have cupped its hands around a housefly without causing it to take flight. No, it was not for want of stealth that this thing crashed through the forest. It was for carelessness, and that is much more frightening thing.
Occasionally, the thing would mutter quietly in the dark. It was a human voice, and its words were full of curses and venom. But the voice did not command others. No, this person, or creature, or thing, did not come with legions of henchmen. It did not come with anyone but itself. This thing did not need the strength of numbers, though. It was not only the small animals that scurried. Even the wolves, upon catching his sour scent, tucked their tails between their legs and slouched hurriedly off with the rest of the pack. A pack of full-grown wolves is not easily frightened unless the enemy itself comes in numbers. For some reason, there was something different about this creature that caused the pack to run like lost cubs. The thing came alone and without fear, and that is a much more frightening thing.
Most of the forest creatures darted out of the way as soon as they smelled and heard him. Very few caught his visage in the corners of their eyes or in frightened looks over their shoulders. One beast looked straight at him, however unfortunate for the beast itself. The path the fiend followed carried him just past a den of foxes, and this is what they saw.
There was concentrated violence in every movement the thing made. He seemed to take out his rage on the very ground with each vicious footstep. He wore heavy boots accented with spikes and plates of a heavy, dull metal. At the toe of his right boot, there was a spike bigger and thinner than the others, and it looked like a small knife. It slashed through the air with each step. Placed in a line going up the heel of his left boot were three similar spikes, all the same size.
At first the foxes could only see from his feet to his knees, due to the small mouth of the den they were concealed in. His legs looked thin in comparison to the boots, and the skin had an unhealthy, sallow look to it. He stopped just shy of the front of the little burrow.
At this point, the biggest fox, an old silver-muzzled male, leapt out of the burrow. Whether he was determined to protect his offspring or was merely frightened into doing something stupid, I do not know, but there he stood, cowering a little and looking up at the man, a small noise in his throat.
The thing looked down at the fox for a moment, and the fox stared upward, frozen. The man was dressed mostly in black leather, with strips of it encircling his wrists and upper arms. Pieces of metal decorated it here and there. Dangerous little silver points twinkled in the starlight. The leather of the man’s clothes did not look worn, but the faded black knee-length trousers were fringed and ripped in many places, and what had once been a shirt had now been slashed to a few strips of red fabric across a muscular chest.
There were knives everywhere. There were holsters chained to his legs and torso, all filled with shining silver blades. There was even a long dagger strapped to one forearm, and two machetes were crossed over his back in black leather sheaths. The man was so heavily armed that one could not have embraced him without some sort of accidental laceration. Whether anyone would try, though, is another question. He was, in some way, attractive. He was lengthy and lean, and his muscles bunched up under the thin, sallow skin. His face had a pointed look to it, with a long, angular nose and a hard line of a mouth. His piercing black eyes peered out under a sadistic scowl. There was no color in his cheeks or his lips, but his eyebrows stood out in bright streaks of blood red. It was a handsome face, though, despite its rough lines.
His ears were pierced many times, and were studded with bits of metal and strips of leather. However, it was the hair that was the most memorable part of his appearance. It was a bright, unnatural red, quite the color of fresh blood. It was styled in stiff, high spikes all over his head, and looked every bit as sharp as the knives on his boots.
The fox stared up at the man, frozen with a mixture of fear and instinctive protectiveness. The man looked down at the little red creature in front of him, and there was something common between the two that must have made this pause in stride a few seconds longer than it otherwise would have been.
The man’s hard face then broke into a smile. However, the mouth was the only thing that changed. It opened to show sharp yellow teeth, accented by two sharp yellow fangs. The fox, however, was the only one to see them, and only for a moment. Before the smile had quite left his face, the man kicked out with his right leg. The fox went flying with a yelp. By the time it hit the ground, the man had already resumed his pace through the forest. If he had even the interest to look back, he would have seen the little red animal heaped on the ground with a deep, fatal gash in its side. The poor creature lived a few minutes more, making no movement. Lying still on the leafy ground of the quiet forest, it panted with no conviction until the blood filled its lungs.
By then, Red had already reached Aurehaven.