Chương 33: Chapter 20: When the Chips are Down

Cold rain followed us into the Greywash forest. Not the hard violent storms that battered Dunmere during river season, but a thin endless drizzle that settled into cloaks, gloves, and exposed skin until the entire world felt damp clear through to the bone. Water dripped steadily from the ancient pines surrounding the hunting party while thick roots twisted through black mud beneath our boots like veins beneath rotten flesh.

The deeper woods felt older than the roads near Dunmere, quieter too, and even the beasts sounded different here. Bren Maddock led the way through the mist with spear low and shield strapped tight against one arm while Wade Corbett followed several paces behind studying the ground between roots and broken brush. I remained between them with sword drawn loosely in one hand and axe secured at my back. Nobody had brought Jory.

The ferryman had argued loudly about this for nearly ten minutes before Bren finally informed him that screaming during an apex predator hunt counted as a tactical weakness. The Greywash Stalker tracks had appeared shortly after dawn beside the remains of the missing patrol. Five men gone. Or what remained of them.

I still saw pieces of the scene every time I blinked: torn leather soaked dark beneath rainwater, drag marks disappearing between the trees, and one body wedged high within exposed roots nearly eight feet above the ground as though the forest itself had decided to keep him. Nothing had been fully eaten. That unsettled Bren more than the deaths themselves.

"Predators kill to feed," the older guard muttered while stepping over a fallen log slick with moss.

"This thing's hunting territory." Wade studied another set of claw marks carved deep into wet bark.

"Big territory." Bren kept moving.

"Big beast." The forest pressed tightly around us now. Greywash pines towered overhead thick enough to choke most daylight before it reached the ground while narrow channels of black riverwater moved silently between the roots. Mist drifted low across the undergrowth in pale ribbons that shifted strangely whenever the wind changed. I hated it. Not fear exactly. Pressure. The deeper we moved through the woods, the more the forest itself seemed to notice us.

Wade crouched beside disturbed mud near a shallow stream crossing.

"Fresh." Bren stopped immediately. The carpenter pointed toward several elongated prints pressed deep into the bank. Larger than ordinary Iron stalkers by nearly half again, though lighter through the heel than something that size should have been.

"Moving slow," Wade said quietly.

"Watching us." I looked toward the trees ahead. Movement flickered briefly through the mist. Gone immediately. My grip tightened around the sword hilt. Bren noticed.

"Saw it?" I kept my eyes on the trees.

"Thought I did." The older guard nodded once.

"Good." We continued deeper. No conversation now. No Jory filling silence with nervous chatter. Only wet boots, dripping branches, and distant riverwater moving somewhere unseen beneath the forest. Then we found the second body. Or half of it. The corpse hung partially suspended between thick exposed roots near the base of a massive pine, wrapped almost carefully within tangled branches and mud-dark vines.

Rainwater dripped steadily from the dead guard's cloak while pale fingers hung limp several feet above the ground. I recognised the face vaguely from the eastern camp. Young. Iron rank maybe. One side of the body had been opened from shoulder to waist by something with claws long enough to split armour and ribs together. Wade swore softly beneath his breath. Bren stared upward several silent seconds before speaking.

"It stores kills." I frowned slightly.

"Why?"

"Because it can." The older guard scanned the surrounding trees slowly.

"Greywash Stalkers don't feed like scavengers. They control territory. Hunt patterns. Pressure movement." Rain tapped steadily against the roots around the corpse. Then something moved above us. Fast. Bren reacted first.

"Down!" I dropped instinctively as a pale shape exploded from the trees overhead. The Greywash Stalker hit the ground where I had stood a heartbeat earlier hard enough to spray mud in every direction. Massive forelimbs slammed through exposed roots while pale grey fur blurred beneath the rain. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. The creature was enormous. Not monstrous in the exaggerated way travelling stories described beasts, but terrifyingly real.

Lean muscle moved visibly beneath rain-dark fur while old scar tissue crossed its muzzle and shoulders in pale twisted lines. Its forelimbs extended unnaturally long compared with ordinary Iron stalkers, ending in hooked black claws thick enough to carve through timber. Most disturbing were the eyes. Not animal hunger. Awareness. The Greywash Stalker looked at us like opponents rather than prey. Then it moved. Fast enough that I barely tracked the motion.

The beast slammed sideways into Bren before the older guard fully raised his shield. Spear haft cracked violently against claws while both crashed through the mud beside the streambank. Wade roared, "Left!" I drew the axe instinctively. Axe Strike surged through me immediately as the Greywash Stalker twisted toward Wade in another explosive burst of movement. The carpenter intercepted with shield and hatchet, yet the impact still drove him backward hard enough to nearly drop him into the stream.

The creature tested openings. Not random attacks. Calculated pressure. It struck once at Wade's shield side, once toward Bren's wounded shoulder, then immediately disengaged before either counterattack landed properly.

"Too fast," Wade spat. The Greywash Stalker circled through the trees around us almost silently despite its size. Rain drifted through pale fur while the beast watched constantly for weakness. I shifted stance carefully. Sword. Not axe. The realisation arrived unpleasantly. Axe Strike wanted commitment, heavy kills, and brutal exchanges. But every time I tried lining up a proper strike, the Stalker simply vanished sideways through the trees before the blow landed.

Guarded Blade settled instinctively instead: spacing, recovery, control. The beast lunged again. This time toward me. I reacted late. Claws slammed across the sword edge hard enough to nearly tear the weapon free while the Stalker twisted beneath my counterstrike with terrifying fluidity. Mud exploded beneath my boots as I stumbled backward into exposed roots.

"Stay tight!" Bren barked. The older guard rejoined the fight bloodied now, one side of his shield split nearly through where claws had struck repeatedly. Wade moved beside him immediately while the Stalker circled wider through the mist. Watching. Testing. Then it attacked properly. The Greywash Stalker exploded from the trees low and fast enough that even Bren barely intercepted the charge.

Claws smashed against spear and shield simultaneously while Wade hacked downward with the hatchet toward the creature's exposed flank. The Stalker twisted mid-motion. Wade's strike glanced harmlessly from scarred shoulder muscle. Then the beast hit him. The impact launched the carpenter sideways through wet brush hard enough that I heard ribs crack beneath armour.

"Wade!" The Greywash Stalker turned instantly toward me. Too close now. No space for Axe Strike. The beast lunged. Guarded Blade moved almost automatically. Steel turned inward rather than outward while I shifted sideways through the attack instead of contesting it directly. The sword opened a shallow line across the Stalker's forelimb before the creature slammed bodily into me anyway. Pain exploded through my shoulder as both of us crashed into the mud. The Stalker recovered first. Always first.

Claws tore downward. I barely blocked the strike with the sword before another impact smashed the weapon from my grip entirely. Steel vanished into the roots somewhere beside the streambank. The beast pinned me instantly. Heavy. Too heavy. Pale eyes locked onto my face while claws dug through armour into my chest hard enough to steal breath. Then the Greywash Stalker bit me. Pain became white.

The creature's jaws closed around my left forearm with enough force to punch clean through leather, flesh, and muscle simultaneously. Bone ground beneath the pressure while blood burst hot across the mud. I screamed. The Stalker tore backward violently. A chunk of flesh came with it. For several terrible seconds I simply stared at the exposed wound in disbelief. Blood poured down my arm in thick dark streams while shredded muscle hung visibly beneath torn skin. Fight-ending damage.

The Greywash Stalker circled again while Bren dragged himself upright nearby.

"Cael!" I barely heard him. Pain hammered through my body hard enough to blur the forest sideways. My arm should not have still worked. Yet beneath the agony something else surged suddenly through my chest. Heat. Wrong heat. The same burning sensation I had felt after the Crimson Elf attack spread outward beneath my ribs while my heartbeat accelerated violently. Breath returned in ragged gasps. Then the bleeding slowed. Not stopped. Slowed.

Exposed muscle tightened visibly beneath torn flesh while blood loss lessened far too quickly for any ordinary wound. The shredded edges of the bite partially closed before my eyes, leaving torn meat and broken skin where there should have been open ruin. The change was not clean enough to be called healing. The torn edges drew together in uneven ridges while blood continued slipping between them, and my fingers curled with a strength the exposed muscle should no longer have possessed.

I had watched Bellan close wounds properly. This looked closer to damaged timber tightening around a bent nail: useful only because the structure had refused to release it. The Greywash Stalker froze. Not fear. Recognition. The beast stared directly at my arm while rain dripped steadily from its scarred muzzle.