The Decoy and the Divine Intervention

The siege by the Ungor Raiders had stretched beyond an hour. Out of a caravan of twenty-three, only seven souls remained clinging to life.

Mathew, the caravan leader, slumped by a carriage wheel, tearing strips from his clothing to staunch the wound on his upper arm. His gaze fell upon his ankle, utterly pierced by an arrow, and beneath him, blood spread like a crimson river.

He could no longer stand. His remaining companions, too, were in a similar, near-fatal state, their lives flickering precariously.

Without a whisper of warning, an arrow had first pierced the skull of a hapless soul. This was swiftly followed by a dense volley of arrows, loosed from the depths of the snow-laden pine forest. These short, cunning, and foul-smelling creatures had encircled them completely in the mere blink of an eye.

Yet, the Ungors, having them cornered, seemed to be deliberately biding their time. They held back from delivering a final, decisive blow, choosing instead to loose warning arrows from a distance.

“What are these creatures plotting?” a young man rasped, spitting a mouthful of bloody foam as he stood precariously beside Mathew.

Mathew lifted his gaze. In his immediate sight, some thirty to forty dark-hoofed creatures were visible, but he knew with chilling certainty that countless more lurked within the forest. As one wave fell, another would emerge—an endless tide of malice.

“A decoy,” Mathew rasped, gritting his teeth, his voice betraying no emotion despite the pain. “They intentionally allowed Ian to escape. The moment the town’s defenses are stretched thin, that will be their optimal time to strike.”

The young man faltered, a flicker of surprise crossing his bloodied face. “But Templar Knights are currently stationed within the town’s walls.”

“These beasts may not be privy to such information,” Mathew sneered, a cold, bitter sound.

His fleeting, dark satisfaction was short-lived. The pervasive dizziness from severe blood loss swiftly claimed his senses. Mathew’s body gave out, sending him sprawling into the crimson pool, where he began to cough violently and uncontrollably.

“Boss!?” The young man barely had time to register Mathew’s collapse before a sharply honed iron arrow tore through his shoulder blade, impaling him against the carriage. A horrifying, drawn-out shriek erupted from him. “Ugh, ahhh—!”

With their leader fallen and a comrade gravely wounded, despair settled like a shroud upon the remaining survivors. They longed for a swift, merciful end at the hands of these beasts, rather than this protracted torment that ceaselessly amplified their terror and panic.

Ian, perhaps, had already succumbed to blood loss somewhere along the perilous path. The dire news of their encirclement would likely never reach anyone.

All they could do was wait, helpless and resigned, as death inexorably crept closer with each passing moment.

Mathew lay sprawled on his side, immersed in the viscous, congealing blood. His vision swam with a crimson haze, and his ears throbbed with a chaotic, incessant buzzing.

The beasts’ eyes glowed with the malevolent brilliance of brass oil lamps, yet they shimmered with a wicked, uncanny light. They reveled in this gruesome process of slaughter, extracting perverse pleasure from the agony of humans.

In the agonizing moment before utter despair consumed him, Mathew felt a faint tremor ripple through the ground. The surface of the blood began to quiver, and the urgent thud of hooves echoed, growing louder from the distant reaches.

“It’s Miss Edith!” a lone survivor from the caravan shrieked, a surge of desperate hope in their voice. “She’s brought the town guards to rescue us!”

Mathew, unable to rise or see, felt a fragile spark of hope ignite within his fading heart. Still, a faint, unsettling oddity pricked at his awareness.

The shrill, terrified shrieks of the Ungor Raiders now sounded like sweet music to his ears. Their reinforcements were, without a doubt, storming in from the periphery, their blades clashing with a crisp, resonant clang.

“Mr. Mathew, please hold on! Reinforcements have arrived!”

The young maiden’s voice, though soft, carried an undeniable power, echoing beneath the frigid, pale sky. It reignited the desperate yearning for survival in the hearts of all trapped within the deadly encirclement.

Even Mathew, despite the excruciating pain and pervasive numbness, found the strength to drag his severely wounded body upright. Wiping the blood from his face, he gazed towards the source of the voice, his eyes settling upon a brilliant, golden corona, shimmering vibrantly in mid-air.

The corona blazed with an intense, sacred light. From its heart, countless arrows, wreathed in golden-red flames, splintered forth. With a sweeping flourish of the golden-haired maiden’s staff, they rained down in a unified, fiery torrent upon the malevolent beasts.

Though she wore only a light, flowing dress, it seemed to transform upon her, gleaming like a hardened armor imbued with holy radiance. Her stance was both beautiful and commanding, akin to an angel of justice descending from the heavens, sword in hand.

The snow-white steed beneath her—a horse she named Snowy—was a creature of unparalleled courage and ferocity. Its powerful forelegs struck like the very blades of a war beast, and in one swift leap and descent, it utterly crushed the chest of an Ungor that had failed to evade. The sickening crunch of shattered bones resonated clearly, even across the considerable distance.

Upton’s town garrison arrived swiftly thereafter. Under the inspiring leadership of the young chantress, their morale soared, and the diminutive Ungor Raiders proved utterly incapable of standing against them. The outer defensive line shattered upon impact.

Though they had known her for less than a week, Edith had shown unwavering patience and gentleness to all. Her inherent kindness had swiftly endeared her to every resident of the town.

Now, as an outsider, she had fearlessly taken it upon herself to lead the guards in rescuing the beleaguered townspeople. Kohl Town’s debt to this young maiden was immeasurable.

The Ungors’ defensive line proved as fragile as parchment. Edith, with the guards, swiftly tore open a breach and surged into the encirclement. Her mind was singularly focused on assessing Mathew’s and the others’ injuries, and she had not yet perceived the ominous shift in the battlefront.

“Miss Edith, please attend to their wounds first. We can hold this position.” Garrison Captain Upton, a tall, dark-skinned, robust man in his prime, reined in his horse, turned, and addressed Edith.

“Thank you, Mr. Upton,” Edith replied, wasting no words. She halted her horse, gathered her skirt, and gracefully dismounted, utterly unconcerned as splatters of blood marred her leather shoes and silk stockings. “All of you, sit still. I will attend to your wounds.”

The seven survivors bore numerous arrow wounds. Edith’s quick assessment revealed that each person had at least two arrowheads embedded within their flesh, with the majority being devastating penetrating injuries.

Under such rudimentary conditions, only rudimentary first aid was possible: staunching the blood flow. The arrows, she knew, would likely have to remain embedded until they could break through the encirclement and return to safety.

Edith unfastened her deep crimson cloak, casting it aside. From a small satchel fastened to her saddle, she retrieved a box of medical instruments. Swiftly, she murmured a silent prayer, and her gilded staff began to glow with a soft, ethereal white light, gently rising into the air and scattering shimmering motes of starlight.

As these luminous motes of starlight settled upon Mathew and the others, a profound sense of peace instantly enveloped them, and the searing agony of their wounds significantly abated.

“Please bear with this,” Edith instructed, tearing open Mathew’s trouser leg to examine his ankle. “The arrows must remain embedded for the moment. In the direst scenario, amputation might become necessary, so I urge you to prepare yourselves mentally.”

Though it was a grim prognosis, Mathew could only accept his fate. Survival, he knew, transcended all other considerations.

After a swift, rudimentary cleaning, disinfection, and bandaging, Edith moved to examine the next injured soul. Her brow furrowed at the sight of the continuously oozing blood, yet her gaze remained steadfast, never once flinching away.

‘Had I known then, I would never have pushed myself to such lengths,’ Edith mused internally.

She suffered from a mild hemophobia; the sight of crimson liquid would send tremors through both her heart and hands. This very task, in truth, was among her most loathed.

Yet, having resolved to present an image of utter perfection, Edith refused to falter. She was acutely aware of her shortcomings compared to Gwynevere; to garner greater favor and attention, she understood she had to dedicate exponentially more effort and toil.

Swiftly, the wounds of six individuals were attended to, leaving just one more.

However, a sudden and alarming shift occurred within the guards’ defensive line.

Edith’s earlier divine spell had indeed swept away a considerable number of the insignificant skirmishers, and the guards were proving remarkably efficient in dispatching these beasts. Still, the ranks of the Ungor Raiders showed no discernible reduction; they continued to pour from the dense forest, new ones ceaselessly replacing those who fell.

This was utterly unlike a typical wandering band of raiders. Instead of retreating after facing setbacks, they pressed relentlessly forward, an undeniable sign that the Ungors were forbidden from any retreat.

The very ground began to tremble.

A tremor far heavier than the thud of hooves.

A deep, guttural breathing, like the rumble of a giant’s snore, emanated from the depths of the woods.

Edith lifted her head. She beheld a pair of deep crimson eyes, glowing like fiery torches, tear open the darkness of the forest. A guttural bleating, sharp enough to rend eardrums, reverberated through the entire woodland, dislodging even the clinging snow from the pine needles.

“Quickly, move aside!”

The young maiden’s startled warning, though delivered a full half-moment in advance, proved tragically insufficient for the front-line guards to react in time.

Ominous, curving goat horns soared from its skull, and its recurved hooves were as thick and robust as forged steel. Dense, dark yellow-red fur matted its colossal body.

The bipedal beast—a Gor, a true Horned Beast—towering two and a half meters tall, burst from the forest, charging with ferocious speed. The black iron battle-axe it wielded shattered a guard’s body as easily as one might crack a walnut, sending gore and viscera splattering across the ground beneath its blunt force.

This was a power no human could withstand. The guards’ layered defenses were torn asunder in an instant, and cries of agony and despair echoed ceaselessly.

It was a Horned Beast. Its very presence was why the Ungors dared not retreat a single step. This malevolent creature had lain in ambush, hidden deep within the forest, for a considerable time.

Edith’s hands trembled so violently she almost dropped the gauze and ointment. Yet, the last person’s wounds remained untreated; she could not stop now.

“Run, Miss Edith… we’re all beyond saving… at least you…” The last person was a boy, barely a teenager, a few years younger than Edith herself.

The appearance of the Horned Beast all but sealed their doom. But Edith had no need to remain; she possessed the ability to escape alone.

“Silence!” Edith snapped, her composure fraying, nearly exposing her true nature. She ripped open the boy’s sleeve, wrapping gauze around the incessantly bleeding wound. “Even if you die, you’ll wait until I’m finished!”

The boy had never witnessed such a volatile side to Edith. He dared not utter another sound, only widening his eyes to glance down at Edith, then back up at the rapidly approaching Horned Beast.

The beast, despite its formidable bulk, moved with astonishing speed. No sooner had Edith finished bandaging than the guards’ defensive line was utterly breached.

Upton attempted to intervene but was seized by the beast’s powerful arm, his throat crushed, and then flung aside. The heavy, sickening thud that reached Edith’s ears felt as though her own heart were fracturing.

This was all her fault.

Her reckless attempt at rescue had led to the sacrifice of even more lives, all because of her vanity.

Edith’s hands trembled as she released the gauze, stumbling backward two steps in the blood-soaked ground. Her staff, which had been hovering, reeled erratically several times before returning to her side.

The beast was upon her, its colossal body looming like a mountain. Scalding white mist erupted from its bovine nostrils, and its thunderous breathing roared. It raised its battle-axe, poised to strike.

There was no time.

To begin drawing runes now would be futile.

Snowy tugged at Edith’s skirt from behind, trying to urge her mistress to flee, but Edith had, in that moment, completely forgotten the option of escape. She felt an overwhelming responsibility for the lives of everyone here.

Even if it was too late, she had to try to chant and pray. She believed Gwynevere would undoubtedly make the same choice.

But the beast’s movements were simply too swift. Before Edith could fully articulate her first syllable, the axe descended.

‘It’s all this Horned Beast’s fault!’ Edith cursed inwardly.

‘If not for this sudden, monstrous beast, she could have safely led everyone back to town. She would have been a hero; everyone would have adored her.’

She no longer wanted to recall the past, when she was surrounded by gazes of scorn and hatred.

Tears welled uncontrollably in her eyes. In that instant, Edith seemed to see that majestic figure once more, shielding her from the lashings.

He had thrown a heavy purse of gold coins into that man’s face, and amidst the scattered golden gleam, he straddled the man, his fists raining down like iron. From that day, she understood the meaning of the word ‘father.’ Bertram had saved her cursed, hated childhood.

If her father hadn’t disappeared, he would surely come to save her. Edith had always believed her father favored her more.

Though her mind was a chaotic tangle, Edith’s incantations and rune drawing continued without pause. Yet, even so, she was a step too slow; the battle-axe’s blunt edge was already descending upon her head.

Against the backdrop of the massive battle-axe, the golden-haired maiden appeared as small and fragile as a swallow.

In that pivotal moment, an icy blue chill materialized from the ground, and the ambient temperature plummeted. Edith shivered involuntarily.

Frost swiftly climbed and spread across the enraged beast’s entire body, even forming icicles that dripped from the battle-axe’s tip.

Its movements ceased completely, the axe blade hovering a mere finger’s breadth from Edith.

Edith continued her incantation, long stretches of pale golden runes appearing and dissolving from the tip of her staff. The corona’s golden flames once again bloomed around Edith, and her cerulean eyes instantly shone with dazzling brilliance.

A blade of brilliant golden light extended from the staff’s tip, piercing cleanly through the beast’s ice-bound chest.

Dark crimson blood spurted like a fountain from the beast’s back, the hot liquid hissing as it met the frosty surface, emitting white vapor.

“Miss Edith defeated that monster!” someone among the guards cried out, having witnessed the scene.

The Ungor Raiders instantly broke ranks, and the tide of battle reversed in an instant.

The staff clattered to the ground, Edith utterly drained of strength. She stumbled backward, collapsing into the frozen pool of blood, feeling only an icy chill penetrate her bones.

The beast’s hideous, terrifying visage remained clear beneath the ice. Edith could barely believe that the massive, gaping wound in the monster’s chest was her own doing.

‘This ice… is it my sister?’

‘No, not quite right.’

Edith’s intuition rejected the possibility. She cautiously swept her gaze across the battlefield, then keenly noticed a petite figure wreathed in dark mist gradually emerging from the shadows.

With long, dark red hair, gleaming silver fangs, and cloaked in snow-silver, the young woman was a half-vampire. A whip, black and tinged with purple, struck like a blade, flaying the beasts’ hides. She was taking advantage of the chaos to hunt the fleeing Ungor Raiders, a triumphant, satisfied smile gracing her face.

Edith immediately recognized this as Daphne’s true form; the faint throbbing in her head was precisely the same. She couldn’t be mistaken.

‘She’s even more beautiful and alluring than Ellenore.’

Edith’s heart fluttered.