7. Wulf
Wulf
I am a beast. I have always been a beast.
Yet never have I dirtied my hands and violated the tenets of my people more than I have this day.
My horror continues to deepen as I stare at the unconscious woman in my arms. Queen Reinhilde—no, whatever innocent soul has replaced hers is now motionless, the cut I left upon her cheek oozing a much brighter red than her hair.
How could I, a warrior of Nordhjem, harm an innocent soul? Torture her?
"Goddess, what have I done?" I repeat.
If my clan knew of this, they would curse my name.
In my homeland, violence among clans is wrong, but the harming of innocents is a sin unto itself—and harming women is abhorrent above all else.
Though they also despise the queen of Isenmere, the elders would banish me from their presence for all time for bringing this woman here.
For choosing to be blinded by vengeance.
In our youth, Gunar and I became friends while defending our neighboring clans from monsters in the west of Nordhjem. When word of his family's imprisonment reached me, along with the horrors they were enduring in the dungeon, I traveled to the castle. I planned to slaughter Queen Reinhilde myself.
I found her outside the gates, disguised in a cloak. Her soul-scent was that of foul blood and overripe fermentation.
Before I could draw a weapon, she made an offer: she would free all imprisoned northerners and execute anyone I wished.
All she asked in return was that I take Snow White away, kill her, and return with the princess's lungs and liver for Queen Reinhilde to eat.
She also gave me a vial to fill with the girl's blood.
I could not stomach such a vile request.
But I accepted it.
The princess is unharmed in an old hunting lodge in the Loomdark with strict instructions not to leave its magic boundaries. I slayed a wild boar for the organs and blood, but as I was journeying back to the castle, I stopped at a tavern where a fellow northerner told me the news.
Gunar was beheaded. So was his family.
My ire toward the queen consumed me so completely that it drew the attention of Malivant—the embodiment of wrath, patron faerie of a fallen kingdom. After I awoke from a trance-like rage, I found myself in this infamous underground prison where no one dares to venture.
The Thirteenth Faerie proposed a new deal.
Bring the queen to me for her reckoning, and you shall see her suffer beyond compare.
I agreed, for Queen Reinhilde was no longer human to me. She was but a walking evil, basking in pleasure and vanity as the blood of the innocent dripped from her hands.
I needed her to suffer. To weep and tremble and beg for mercy before her death, just as Gunar and his family must have.
And so, this woman wept until tears dripped from the queen's face. She trembled and begged for mercy with the queen's voice.
But if she is not the queen…
"Eldrunia, forgive me," I rasp.
"The goddess is not who you should beg forgiveness from," the face in the puddle points out.
Drawn from my horrified spiral, I glance at the ghost in a nearby puddle of water. His silver hair glints with many colors, and he has equally strange eyes.
The faerie called him an unmoored soul. Whether he is a ghost or something else, he is right. I must beg this woman for her forgiveness. I must apologize and grovel at her feet and—
No. That would still be more than I deserve.
According to the ancient laws of Nordhjem, there is only one way to rectify the great wrongs I have committed toward her. The moment she wakes, I will see it done.
But first…
I look through the bars to where darkness conceals the Faerie of Wrath. The first time I awoke in cavernous prison, I sensed that I was in the presence of something powerful. The very air in here was laced with a potent fury unlike anything I have ever known.
Now, although the faerie's presence is still ominous, something has changed.
Perhaps he feels the same crushing shame that I do, and that is why he hides in the shadows. I have never laid eyes on him, but like any of the Thirteen Faeries, I am sure he can take many forms.
"You must heal her."
"Wrath cannot heal. It only destroys."
He speaks as if that is all there is to say.
"Do you feel no remorse?" I growl.
How can he not? The screams of this poor woman as I broke her fingers play in my ears once more, turning my stomach to sickness.
Malivant's voice is dry with something akin to bitterness. "Compared to you, you mean? Alas, we cannot all be glorious mortal heroes drowning in sorrow whilst cradling the damsel they put in distress the very first time their self-imposed morals failed them."
"You almost sound jealous," the ghost muses. "But is it of his morals, his mortality, or his cradling the damsel?"
"You are not nearly as untouchable in the mirror realm as one ought to be before daring to mouth off to a faerie," Wrath warns.
The silver-haired man moves to a nearer puddle to address me, his image rippling slightly.
"Listen to me, Huntsman. I know of a way you might heal Verena."
Verena.
Now that she has a name in my mind aside from simply not being Queen Reinhilde, I cannot stop staring at the face of the woman in my arms. Before I captured her, I noticed her scent—a delicate floral hint much like apple blossoms. It is so opposite to the stench of the queen that I should have taken more note.
After all, the scents of people's souls do not change.
"How?" I ask.
"Surely you aren't foolish enough to listen to a lost soul," the Thirteenth Faerie mutters from inside his cage. "They are no better than kobolds when it comes to stirring up mischief."
Ordinarily, I would ignore this apparition. There are many strange things in this world that can lead those who are careless to a grim fate.
But he appeared only to stop Malivant from killing Verena. He must be her guardian spirit.
The opalescent-eyed spirit ignores the faerie completely. "You have a witch stone, yes? I can think of no other way you could have brought Verena all the way here so quickly from Isenmere."
Witch stones are extremely rare and valuable.
They allow their owners to travel instantly between the faeries' shrines scattered across the six kingdoms of Eidengrau.
The small stone tucked away in one of my pockets was my full payment for slaying a horde of drachen that plagued a village years ago.
I nod.
"Use it to travel to the easternmost shrine of Invidia, in Hamelnmark," the spirit instructs. "There is someone there called the White Mask."
I know the name, but I frown. "The doctor who can heal any malady? He is but folklore. If he ever existed, he is long dead now."
"I very much doubt that. Though human, he has lingered in this world longer than even some faeries can recall," Malivant mutters from within his cage.
The ghost in the puddle goes on, giving very specific instructions about the streets to turn down, which alley to enter, and the door to knock on once I reach Hamelnmark.
"The White Mask ignores most requests for healing. It's unlikely he'll choose to help Verena, since she's in the body of the evil queen," the ghost adds. "He's also sure to charge a fortune."
I care not. All the coin I have earned as a monster hunter is now dedicated to the welfare of this wronged woman, just as I am.
I will pay whatever it takes and more.
With nothing else to say to either the ghost or the faerie, I quickly carry Verena out of that dark, vengeful dungeon.
Silent as an owl winging, I walk alongside one of Hamelnmark's many canals with Verena still unconscious in my arms. The sun has begun to set, the murky sky darkening as I search for the next turn the puddle ghost described to me.
The crooked houses of this canal city lean over the black waters as though trying to hear what people are whispering in the narrow, candle-lit boats gliding along below.
The sloshing sounds of their oars in the water do not drown out the soft skittering of rats in the cobbled streets.
The air is thick with the smell of fish and lamp oil.
Of all the six kingdoms, I dislike Hamelnmark the most.
I dislike the endless merchants, the tall shops filled with needless things, the mistrustful stares, and the pickpockets who thrive in this labyrinthine port.
In this kingdom, taking what you covet of others is less a crime than a given. Their patron faerie is Invidia—Envy herself. She is said to bless those clever enough to get what they desire and curse those foolish enough to be satisfied with it.
Turning from the briny canal, I at last move into the narrow road the ghost described. All around, shutters latch shut from within, locking for the night. A figure scurries past me, coughing into their cloak so that their oil lantern swings about wildly. Its halo of light looks sickly in this mist.
My gaze snags on a wooden door nearby, and I stop in my tracks.
It's marked with a large white X. So is the next door, and the next.
Plague.
I heard rumors of such a thing in this kingdom of late. It must be true.
Four men carrying half-empty bottles of mead wander into this narrow road from an alley. One man sees me standing here, but his attention quickly drops to the unconscious woman in my arms.
Whatever the faerie did to her, she still slumbers deeply.
Queen Reinhilde's face is known only to a few. Even I, with all my murderous intent, was momentarily struck with awe when I first saw her without her veil. Though I wished her the greatest degree of suffering, no one can pretend she is not a rare beauty.
That same beauty lures the drunk man now. He staggers while leading the others toward me, all of them smelling strongly of drink.
"Oi! Who've you got here?"
"Looking to share?" another one of them chortles.
I level a silent glare at the first man, making him halt and take a few steps back.
He does not leave, though. Nor do the other men. Instead, they eye me, weighing their chances.
"Northerner," one of them says, spitting to the side of the road. "Heard they're peace-lovers, not fighters. Makes it easy for us."
"This one sure looks like a fighter," another man points out warily, swaying from drink.
"Bah, we can take him on." This man licks his lips, attention dropping back to Rein—no, Verena. "Then she'll take us on, eh?"
He elbows one of the others, and they all laugh.
Weak fools like these lechers always talk far bigger than they can swing.
If any of them dares take a step closer, they will quickly learn that while my people are pacifists in our homeland, we are no such thing when we are parted from Nordhjem.
I doubt they've yet managed to mop up all the blood of the last prick who dared to lay his hands on a frightened tavern maiden in front of me.
As I wait for these men to decide whether they like having their limbs attached, one of the X-marked doors opens.
A plague doctor emerges, his black coat and hat a shadow through the mist. Vials, herbs, and iron tools hanging from his belt clink softly as he turns toward us, planting a cane.
The dark glass eyes of his beaked, bone-white mask reveal nothing behind them, yet I can feel his attention latch onto Verena.
One of the lechers swears about the doctor being creepy.
Another whispers, "Shh, are you trying to get us killed? That's the White Mask," before they all scurry away, down a different alley.
The White Mask says nothing, only watching the woman in my arms.
I meet his stare. "Heal her. Whatever price you ask, I will pay."
The puddle ghost said to expect this legendary healer to be unwilling, yet he merely nods and walks closer. The sweet scents of his medicinal herbs waft over me along with his own soul-scent, much like rosemary.
Is he going to tend to her injuries right here on the street?
When he removes one black glove and reaches for Verena's face, a wave of vicious protectiveness catches me by surprise.
I tense, bundling her closer to me. "You were just with the infected. Must you touch her?"
"Yes."
Resigned, I watch as the White Mask's bare fingertips brush over the thin cut my knife left on her cheek.
I think he is examining how deep the wound is—until the injury seals instantly, vanishing so not even the hint of a scar remains on her beautiful skin.
The bruise on her chin also fades quickly.
My eyes widen.
I have witnessed instances of magic before.
I myself carry runes upon my body which occasionally grant talisman-like magical abilities, including the one I used to put Verena to sleep before I took her to the faerie.
These runes were another boon I was gifted after hunting monsters north of Hamelnmark.
And then, of course, there is my curse.
But anyone who uses such strong magic this easily…
He must be one of the witchfolk.
Without a word, he moves on to healing Verena's broken fingers. He also heals her other hand, which has a scabbed-over cut I didn't notice earlier.
His fingers brush over her scalp—but my eyes narrow when he twists a thick lock of her dark red hair around his finger, ever so briefly, in a motion that can only be admiration.
The White Mask touches her healed cheek once more, as if it is the most fragile glass. I can barely hear his words, so quiet is his whisper.
"My queen. At last."
"Remove your touch from this sleeping woman," I warn quietly. He pulls away reluctantly, sliding his glove back on as I remain tense. "You hail from Isenmere?"
He must, to recognize Reinhilde's face as the queen's.
But he ignores my question, taking a small step away. His white mask makes his voice sound strange.
"Return her to safety, Beowulf."
He knows me by name?
Perhaps he knows northern settlers in Hamelnmark who have described my appearance. Outside of my homeland, most only know me by the obnoxious titles incessantly heaped upon me.
I nod in reply, before something crosses my mind. "They say you can heal curses."
"Some."
What of mine?
I nearly ask this. All my life, I have wondered why I am what I am, when I was not born of witchfolk.
But I came here to heal the physical pain I inflicted on Verena. The White Mask may demand all my coin in repayment for healing her, leaving me with nothing to offer for my condition.
So be it.
Besides, my curse may be of use to her.
"Payment," I prompt the White Mask. "What do you ask of me for healing her?"
He takes another half-step away, his mask tilted toward Verena again.
"Only this: protect her."
With that, the White Mask turns and disappears into the dark mists, his cane clacking across the cobbled streets of Hamelnmark.