Chapter 1: A Shower to Bathe the Soul

The rain fell heavily, a wall of water turning the field into a marsh. The Tumerok grinned to himself as the blood of a Thornling was washed from his blade by the torrent. He glanced down at his most recent victim. It carried nothing of any value. He sighed and moved on through the forests, searching for prey.

He had not gone far before an arrow thudded into a tree near him. He dove for cover behind it and, cautiously, he looked around the wide trunk. Nothing. The downpour had made all beyond a few feet of him into a gray haze. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and listened. Nothing. The roar of the rain drowned out all sound. The Tumerok frowned to himself. It must be a Reaper. Only the undead could have noticed him in this weather.

The sound of the rain masked his movement as he quickly crawled through the mud to a nearby rock. As he reached it, another arrow buried itself in the ground inches away from him with a wet smack. Yes, definitely a Reaper. He glanced at the two arrows. At least he could guess where it was.

He took a deep breath and leapt, spinning backwards over the boulder. The scent of decay was strong, but barely noticable over the overpowering smell of mud. He landed in a crouch and looked around quickly. Either it had moved or he had made a mistake. Hoping it was the former, he took out his hatchet, only to have it knocked from his hand by another arrow. He mumbled a curse as he dove after it. He spotted it quickly, its hilt portruding from the swampy terrain. He had only just grasped it as another arrow struck, this time, in him.

He growled in pain and pulled it out as he spun around. For the first time he saw his assailant. A Wountwister. He scowled. This was not proving to be a good day. He leapt at it and swung hard, cleaving off one of its arms. He rolled as he hit the ground behind it, grunting as the mud splashed the arrow wound. He glanced back at it he saw it preparing to charge. He rose to his feet and held his blade back over his head. He had only one chance. The Wountwister charged. He began to swing down and closed his eyes.

He felt the shock of contact.

For a moment, he felt nothing. His mind raced, had he been gored by the fiend's horns? Had he killed the thing?

He opened his eyes slowly and looked down.

His hatchet was buried halfway into the skull of the Reaper, but the victory had not come without a price. Its horns were buried at least an inch into his chest; the reeds of his armor were splintered around them.

Growling with pain he slowly pushed the truly dead thing away from him, pulling out the horns. Reaching into his pack he found a potion and drank it, the wounds healing even before he had finished. He walked around the inanimate corpse and placed a foot on its back. With some difficulty, he dislodged his weapon from the Reaper's head and held it up for a moment to let the rain wash it clean and put it away. Moving his foot to the split skull, he broke off the horns. Perhaps they would fetch a fair price in Shoushi, or maybe he would keep them as a trophy. He shivered in the cold. Such things were better decided somewhere else. Somewhere out of the rain with a nice fire perhaps. He had hunted enough this storm.

He set off down the road to Shoushi.

Assuming all goes well, I should add a new chapter every week on Friday. If you have any comments, email me at editor@warcry.com