Chapter Forty-Two: The Twisted Entity

Veyd approached the back of the stitched beast. He had not allowed Lukas to follow because of the undead’s unique sense of the living. If Lukas had left the alley as well, the stitched beast would not have remained still as it did now; the moment it sensed a living being approaching, it would have been driven mad by a bloodthirsty impulse. In that case, Veyd would never have been able to approach it unchallenged.

Up close, the traces of artificial cutting and stitching on its body were clear to see. The places where fur had fallen away and limbs were joined together had been sewn with some kind of white thread. Perhaps the necromancer had sought to imitate the legendary Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell that breathed three different magical flames, and so had stitched two additional wolf heads onto the body of the male winter wolf that served as the main form.

Its limbs were abnormally thick, not the forepaws of a wolf at all, but hooves covered in a horny layer, more like the hooves of some other magical beast. Here and there, one could also see patches of mottled fur like that found on the undead wild dogs. Most likely, to patch the missing flesh cut away during the process, the necromancer had used the meat and skin of the wild dogs as well.

But that was not all. Within the rotting shell, Veyd sensed a soul that was unlike any beast. That was a human soul—perhaps to grant the stitched beast greater intelligence, the necromancer had fused the spirits of man and beast together. It seemed... to be a young soul. In the eyes of the necromancer, a young soul must have been easier to control, better suited for taming.

Any ordinary person, confronted with this stitched beast, would feel only revulsion and unease—a visceral discomfort. Veyd felt the same. He was a skeleton who retained the memories of his former life, his soul continuing within him; the things that had always defined him were not changed by death. He could not accept the twisted thing before him.

To survive, one must grapple with other life—this was necessary. The people of Tania raised sheep: they sheared the wool for warmth when needed, milked them for food, or slaughtered them as required. Veyd saw nothing wrong in this. But the stitched beast was not born of necessity; it was forged by pain and misery.

Did he feel anger? Perhaps a little, but mostly, he felt sorrow. Sorrow for the soul howling in agony within that shell. Where Lukas would have felt only terror standing here, Veyd could hear the weeping in the darkness.

He held his sword in his right hand, and with his left, he laid his palm on the stitched beast’s back. The creature did not turn violent at the touch; it remained crouched at the center of the heap of corpses.

Veyd stood in silent communion for a moment, then raised his glowing sword and brought it down. Blade met rotten flesh, and a hissing sound rose, like water poured onto red-hot iron. The sword shone brighter and brighter, as if some holy force surged within it. Burned by the sanctified blow, the stitched beast finally rose to its feet, letting out a hoarse, indistinct cry.

The rough threads clearly could not serve as skin or tendon; as it stood, several chunks of decayed flesh fell to the ground. Pain drove it mad. It lashed out at Veyd, attacking the thing that had struck it.

Veyd bent low and dodged. The stitched beast was larger than he, its ungainly limbs and crowded flesh lending it a bulky, bloated appearance. Its movements were far from agile—certainly much less so than Sven’s—but its strength was enormous. One kick landed on a stone wall nearby; the wall, built of heavy rocks mortared with clay and straw, collapsed beneath the blow.

Had that strike landed on Veyd, he would have been flung several meters like that stone, crashing to the ground to shatter into pieces. But the beast’s attacks were too predictable, too slow. Its massive form required a clear windup to gather force. Thanks to his battle with Sven, Veyd was adept at evading such wild, sweeping strikes.

He sidestepped the beast’s lunges, kicks, and bites with subtle movements. When it overextended and could not recover, Veyd struck with his sword. Yellow fluid sprayed from its wounds. Hiding in the alley, Lukas suddenly caught an indescribable stench; he gagged and retched uncontrollably.

What was that smell? His stomach spasmed. He heard the beast’s low, guttural roar. Was Lord Veyd truly fighting such a thing? Should he go out to help? Lukas felt dizzy, realizing that some kind of toxin accompanied the stench. He held his breath, poured water onto a towel from his flask, and covered his mouth and nose.

Was Lord Veyd truly unharmed? He heard no clash of metal, but longed to see what was happening. Yet in his current state, he would only be a hindrance outside. Weakly bracing himself on his spear, Lukas gazed toward the end of the alley.

It was nearly dark. Night would fall soon; snow still drifted down, and he suddenly felt a deep, shivering cold. He worried the beast’s howls would continue without end. If Lord Veyd did not return, what would he do?

Should he just run for it? Uncertainty and unease swept over him, but soon he heard something heavy collapse to the ground. The stench lingered, but the far end of the alley grew quiet once more.

Veyd had thrust his sword into the central head of the stitched beast, the weapon’s power burning away the evil force within the undead construct. The stench and toxins meant nothing to a skeleton; unaffected, he brought the monster down.

At last, the twisted body could hold together no longer. It collapsed like mud in a rainstorm. Veyd sheathed his sword. Mia drifted to the pile of remains and, with Veyd’s permission, stretched out her tiny hand to release the souls trapped within. To spare those pitiful spirits further torment, he allowed Mia to break them down into raw magical energy.

A few wisps of light merged into the translucent little ghost. Mia became mist again, slipping into Veyd’s iron helmet, curling into her tiny sleeping bag to focus on soothing the tangled soul to rest.

There were no more undead monsters in the village; this had been the greatest of them. Or rather, it had been abandoned here. Everything of value had been taken long ago on Veyd and Lukas’s journey. Perhaps the necromancer had dismissed the stitched beast as a failure and had left it behind in the deserted village to rot.

Veyd wiped his sword in the snow, though it bore no filth—the blade’s glow faded and ceased to pulse. He put it away and returned to the alley.

A trembling Lukas saw the black-clad wandering knight emerge unscathed from the narrow opening. His helmet was smeared with grime; he took out a cloth, wiped it quickly, and came to stand before Lukas.

Lukas grasped the knight’s outstretched hand—the cold, iron gauntlet pulled him upright. He followed Veyd out of the alley. In the square, he saw the collapsed stone wall, the monstrous, twisted beast, and the charred mound of corpses. His heart pounded with fear.

He was filled with admiration—Lord Veyd had defeated such a monster alone. So there truly had been a necromancer, who had left behind such a terrifying stitched colossus. Suddenly, he thought of the winter wolves they had encountered before entering the mountain road. Now, he suspected those wolves’ pack was deeply connected to the beast that lay before him.