Remnant of Iron: Chapter 3 - The Wolf

After weeks journeying through perilous trail deep within the harsh, snowy landscape, the expedition had finally reached the outskirts of the woods. Though not one of them was too pleased about it.

Grand Partisan Callus stood implacably in front of the entrance, dressed for war in his pale signature armour. His cold blue eyes peered at the forest in disgust as if it was the most terrible thing in the entire world. Far from the legionnaires and his knightly bloodkin, he was left alone to his thoughts, wondering what sort of foul madness they would uncover beneath that horrible forest.

Since the expedition’s arrival at bright daylight in the late afternoon, he could already detect the high, sickly stench of perverted magic in the air like rotten fruit. It made the hair of his skin prickled at the sheer wrongness of the place.

There was something, for sure, deep within that forest, terrible and ancient, menacing and horrid. What was worse, Callus seemed unable to identify the source of such presence, and not knowing anything nagged at the corner of his mind.

During the war, he’d faced every public menace beyond man’s common comprehension. Heartened magicians, renegade knights, fanatics and monsters, all were what he and his kin had braced themselves in those five years of brutal torment. Every one of them came close to ending his life and the lives of others, only to fail miserably by the indomitable determination of Dumar Callus, Knight of the Floral White.

And yet, here he stood, spat out in a strange, new world, just as oblivious and helpless to the dangers since his first days of the war. If there was a word to describe the sheer frustration and annoyance to familiarize the forest and this benighted world, then it would be something like this.

“My grand.” A voice, calm and collected, suddenly spoke out from behind, breaking the solitude that was Callus. The Grand Partishan gave a sidelong glance responsible for the intrusion, only to discover that the voice was none other than a fellow Knight standing in the present.

Callus was silent for a moment, but when he recognized the helmetless Knight’s ebony-scarred features, his rage quickly subsided. “Partishan Holver,” he said, his tone carried an edge of familiarity. He had known the Knight since the first year of the war and could not ask a reliable man to stand at his side. “You have caught me at the wrong time, kinsman. What is it that you seek?”

“Nothing more than your whereabouts,” Holver said, humbly bobbing his head in respect. “You have been gone for so long, my Grand. We’ve thought you were lost or gobbled up by some greedy hag or some sort. Either way, it would be tragic if it was the latter.”

Callus smiled, a tiny one, but nevertheless a smile, as one long endured with Holver’s crude sense of humour. I see your jokes are as terrible as ever, Callus thought.

“It has gone late, my grand,” Holver continued, taking several steps further until he was right beside him. “You should return to us to the encampment before night falls on you.”

Callus gazed upward and knew that Holver was correct. The sun was setting, slowly darkening the sky from a crimson red to a shade of black. A night such as this would definitely bring out all sorts of monsters from their hiding cover.

“Yes… You are right,” Callus nodded apologetically, still smiling. “My mind is… Preoccupied at the moment,” He then gestured at the forest for emphasis. “The stuff of madness is hard to ignore and clouded my time and vision.”

Holver directed his eyes where Callus had indicated, then inclined his head slightly at the statement. “There is nothing to forgive, my Grand. It has brought the rest of us on edge as well. Remarkable. It is a miracle that we got out of  there in one piece.”

Callus had to admit that it was oddly coincidental that they were alive, to begin with. The anarchic conflict between remnants of Imperial and militant forces of the Scarlet Order had erupted in a cacophony of violence that anyone with deaf deficiency could hear within a milestone away. He was not so naive to believe that an unknown party had caught wind of the place, unearthing whatever valuable secrets that would benefit their own nefarious gain.

“Miracles… the fortune of luck. All have nothing to do with it,” Callus said, his eyes narrowed in disgust with himself. He should have remained in the forest. Should have let his Knights complete the task of culling the rest of the Order’s filth. Well, there was no point in arguing now. He was here, and he was going to finish the job.

Holver stepped aside as Callus turned around and headed straight for the encampment. “This has been gone for long enough,” he said firmly, his tone authoritarian. “Has Partishan Oliver selected his candidates?”

Holver was just right behind when Callus asked, and his brow arched as if he wanted to object. “He has. The finest hunters of the Legion,” Holver replied, then spat a garble of phlegm on the snowy surface. “Or whatever left of them if deemed reliable.”

“They are,” Callus said, not looking back. “And they will. Otherwise, the consequences would be most dire if they refuse.”  

Holver mouthed open, slightly hesitant to speak. “To venture forth at this late hour would certainly bring much peril to our kin and our lessers.”

It was not an objection, Callus downright knew, but rather a matter of fact. In a sense, it would have been more prudent to send Partishan Oliver and his selective hunters out in broad daylight to lessen the risk of danger. Still, the sooner they finished the mission, destroying all known evidence of their existence and corpses, both friend and foe, the better the chance to leave the place. Time was not a luxury that they could ill afford, and he could already feel dark forces gathering around like an endless black tide.

“No, we will proceed as it is planned. I trust that any Knight would handle the situation. Informed Oliver. Tell him, he sets out within the hour.”

Holver inclined his head to obey before taking his leave, veering off in a different direction to inform the news.
Now alone, the peace that Callus craved more than anything else had returned to him at last. Whatever peace that was left would likely be short-lived as the sun had set to slumber and brought a night of monsters to play.

---

Partishan Oliver pressed through the thicket of the woods, a torch in one hand and his mighty glaive at the other. Behind Oliver’s tail, a band of legionnaires, hunters and trackers selected for the task, tread through an uncharted trail that might lead straight to the old battle site.

Night had descended in the forest hours after the Grand Partishan declared his immediate effect on the mission. Oliver was unsure whether to approve or disdain his superior’s hasty decision. As a proud Knight of a prestigious order, he would accomplish it at any peril, any mission without question. It was the men under his command that he was genuinely concerned about.

Relations between two of the most potent forces in the Empire were never more tenuous as it was downright hostile. Since the closing year of the war, several companies of the Avis Legion openly rebelled against military command. At the same time, the Knights, in turn, dispensed them mercilessly, innocent or not. Callus’ decision to hasten and risk to cross dangerous terrain under a cloak of the night didn’t place much confidence in the men. Though none of them betrayed anything and remained fervent in their duties, Oliver knew, deep down, that it wasn’t the case. He would later have words with his Grand once the mission was over.

Suddenly, Oliver came to a sudden halt, stiff and frozen like a statue. The rest of the group took notice of their leader’s pause, then reacted in close imitation when Oliver knelt down on one knee to extinguish the light from the torch. Each of the legionnaires under Oliver’s command was veterans across a hundred fields of battle. Despite their mistrust and overcautiousness when led by a Knight, none questioned their inhuman sense of ability.

As the last light was snuffed out, darkness overwhelmed the group. The only source of light that anyone could peer through that black abyss was the silver moon, high up above perching across the starry night.

“Breda,” Oliver whispered forcibly, urgently, to a legionnaire, two fingers raised to come forth.

A man in grey and black uniform colours of Shrike company crouched forward until he was three paces apart. “Yes, my grand,” he said back softly, his hands gripping tight around the iron musket of the handle.

“Do you smell that?”

Breda paused, then took a sniff in the air. “I do not smell anything, my grand,” he shook his head.

But Oliver did. He had recognized it before. He shifted a glance on Breda as the rest were soon quite aware of what was about to happen. “Get everyone to move and follow my lead. I will go on ahead.”

Before Breda could even make a singular confirmation or response, Knight Oliver had already broken into a run, faster and quicker for a sizeable armoured individual. He moved like a bolt of lighting, metallic boots thundering the ground that was so loud that anyone could feel the heavy vibrations under his tread. If the enemy had already spotted his whereabouts, Oliver gave no sign to fear about. He would dispense any threat in a matter of a heartbeat.

Already further from the group, Oliver delved deep into uncharted territory that not even the moonlight could pierce through the thick black leaves that combed the forest. Total darkness welcomed him, but he wasn’t perturbed nor hampered by it. His augmented sense of smell and vision - able to see partially in the dark - made his journey all the while tolerable if not painful for Oliver to bear.

His induction into Knighthood during the second year of the war almost cost him his life as Oliver was a means to bolster in numbers against the crimson menace. Though thrilled to be chosen amongst hundreds of candidates,  he soon discovered the procedures would be the most torturous experience that left long, permeable effects on his body.

As Oliver headed further close to the old battle site, the unmistakable smell grew potent and familiar at each moment. His brows furrowed under the helmet as he had never forgotten the stench of cooked meat and human ash.

Silver light found purchase at the open gap of the woods as Oliver sprung out from the darkness, his grip posing the mighty glaive primed set to strike. Dozens of smouldering pyres settled around the scene, small traces of embers flickering alive that crackled charcoal remains of ash and bone. Just by a casual glance, he recognized some of the remains that were left from the pile. The distinct marks of symbols from different companies and crimson cloth of scraps belonged to militant groups. All of them, friend and foe alike, unearthed to the terrible heat that left none behind.

Perplexion riddled across Oliver’s hairy face, unable to discern at the destruction. Such sight should not have affected him profoundly as their intentions were similar in the complete eradication of evidence of their existence. Then again, he reminded himself to speculate that an unknown party must have discovered the site, looted whatever they sought fit, and destroyed the rest.

Yet why the pretense of ceremonial pyres, the methodical thoroughness to purge the bodies with vigilant care?

Was there something that he missed? Did something happen after they left the woods?

Oliver let his mind wander in self-debate when his sharp eyes caught a slight movement from one of the nearby pyres. While it may have been nothing more than a gust of wind or the embers breaking through whatever remains, Oliver knew what he saw.

Something was there. Something moved.

Fearless in the face of peril except for the cautionary signs for deceit, Oliver strode to the pyre, weapon lethally at the ready. As he was within striking distance, he jabbed the tip of his glaive into the smouldering pile and was rewarded with a high-pitched squeal. The murderous intention in his eyes was exercised with a calm measure of restraint as Oliver demanded answers than blood. Without hesitation, he plunged his one arm and caught what might appear to be the wear’s collar.

“Come on out, you little thief,” Oliver snapped as the culprit jerked and squirmed like a fish nagged by a hook of a rod. By earshot range, he thought he heard a noise, a strange garble message in what might have been close to words. Was this thief trying to communicate?

At least, we’re not home anymore, Oliver thought, though the news was disheartening, to say the least.

Unable to lack the patience to deviate from the thief’s blunt persistence, Oliver squeezed the collar ever tighter and hauled him out from the poor excuse for a cover. In response to the Knight’s violent action, the thief resisted violently, kicked the smouldering pile, and created a cloud of dust and ash, blinding them both in the process.

“Stop snivelling and get out of there,” Oliver snarled, his grip firmly locked in place. It would take more than a little ash cloud to stop him from what he came for.

With the cloud gradually dispersing itself, Oliver began to see the shadowy outline of his supposedly captive. Its body had a short frame and height, for one, fidgeting around desperately in a futile attempt to escape. The head was odd, moulded as if the shape had a different form with a nose outstretched like a lance’s tip. Then, there was something below the captive’s rear that made Oliver pause for a second.

Was that a fuzzy tail underneath the garment?

Oliver must have caught a small mutant. Otherwise, if he didn’t know any better, he thought he had gotten some sort of a two-legged mammal. Then it hit him.

The last trace of the ash cloud finally scattered across the cold wind as the silver light of the moon revealed not a thief, not a survivor, not even a human. In his hand, grasping the collar of a dirty cloth-shirt was an unkempt, dishevelled beast of a mammal—a wolf. And a child, no less, depending on its miniature height.

Oliver stared at the beast-child, then longer and longer, until he blinked in surprise to hear a noise from the rear. Breda and the rest of the group had just arrived, their professionalism carrying vigilance over suspicion of threat.

Already, Breda caught the eye on the Pale Knight as he strode forward to him. Before he could even speak, the wolf-child uttered more garble of words, biting Oliver’s gauntlet to no avail along with a broken tooth.

Breda eyed at the child. “Problem?” he said after a moment, unable to look away at the mammalian.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Oliver lifted his arm, bringing the child inches closer to his face. He winced slightly as the child reeked as if it hadn’t taken a bath for days. “But perhaps, someone should keep an eye on this,” he paused, “Thing, while we secure the place.”

Breda nodded tersely, then turned and placed two fingers in his mouth to whistle at the group. “Pavia, Bamo,” he called out as the two hunters - their uniforms a black and yellow hues of an oriole - rushed forward in a salute.

Without looking back, Oliver tossed the child in direction to the legionnaires as they quickly got hold and restrained the mammal.

“Tie it up,” Breda ordered. “Send it to the encampment for questioning.”

The orioles nodded, but before they were to carry their duties, the wolf struggled and fidgeted around from its captors. Before it could even shout in another word, one of the oriole legionnaires placed a rag around its mouth, preventing the wolf from speaking any further.

As the two soon dragged the child away into the black abyss of the woods, Oliver breathed in the cold, harsh air and gradually whirled at Breda, inclining his head.

“Right, let’s get back to work.”