Chapter 2

The fire was getting hotter; his body writhed in pain as the flames scorched him alive. He couldn't hold it in any longer, his flesh was being eaten…he opened his mouth to scream….

"Tristan!" Galahad called, shaking his friend awake. Tristan burst open his eyes as the sweat poured down his face, his breathing unsteady. Galahad searched into Tristan's eyes, trying to calm him. "It was just a nightmare, mate."

Feeling embarrassed at letting his comrade see him scared, Tristan cleared his throat and nodded, not knowing what else to say. He turned over and pretended to go back to sleep, wishing the boy would do the same. Beside him, Galahad furrowed his brow, unsure of how to react. Never in 15 years had he ever seen Tristan so upset, not even when some of their fellow Knights died in their arms. Tristan was the type to contain his emotion, saving all his energy for fights, and go off in solitude later to release his feelings of anger or happiness. Galahad was the exact opposite. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and though he was a fighting force to be reckoned with, he never enjoyed killing, not even when the enemy deserved it. They were as different as night and day, Tristan and Galahad. He watched as the elder man's breathing went back to normal. He knew Tristan wasn't asleep, but he would not press the matter.

A few weeks after the incident the Knights lurked their way through the Germanian countryside, purchasing a new pair of mares thanks to Arthur's generous compensation given to return home safely through the Roman provinces. Though they had their Roman discharge papers, the Empire was crumbling and revolts were commonplace among the colonies. The thing that would satisfy anyone that got in their way, whether they be Roman or revolutionaries, was money.

Tristan awoke due to something small and foul hitting his shoulder. Jerking his eyes open, he sniffed in his nose and his face squinched due to the putrid aroma. Looking at his shoulder, he saw a large chunk of horse dung already staining his tunic. Looking up, Galahad was grinning widely. "Time to get up".

His eyes narrowed with thoughts of annoyance and revenge fresh in his mind. For half an hour he chased the young jester down, who weeved in and out of the edge of the forest. Tristan finally tackled him down, burying Galahad's face into his own horses' droppings.

"Having fun now?" Tristan said, a smile creeping its way across his mouth. Galahad was no longer grinning. Instead, he muttered curses and walked over to the nearby stream, washing his face extensively.

"You do ruin a good laugh, Tristan," he mumbled.

Tristan began saddling his horse. "Never mess with the best, young one. Especially one that enjoys his sleep."

Mounting up, they rode several hours before they came upon a road that led them to the next local village, located southward adjacent to a harrowing forest that engulfed the land. The fog it seemed, had rolled in with them, blanketing the town with its unforgiving mist. It was almost impossible to see over three feet in front of the horses, and the Knights decided to dismount and make their way to the inn by foot. Their mares neighed their discontent, struggling to walk forward. It was eerily quiet outside, as everyone must have been indoors. Knocking on the first tavern door, they immediately noticed that most of the villagers inside spoke a foreign tongue neither Knight had ever heard, but luckily one fellow pointed them in the way of the nearest inn, where the innkeeper understood enough to give them a room. The Sarmatian border and the Roman checkpoint was only a two days' ride east; and from there was thousands of miles of land to cover, through the endless fields of grass, sand, and eventually snow.

"Not a bad view, this inn." Galahad stated as he gulped his ale. The inside of the inn heavily contrasted with the creepy outdoors. Inside it was lively and filled with noise; a fiddler was even performing in the corner. He pointed over to the next table, where the girls giggled and kept looking over in his direction. He stared back, his back straightened and his head held high in confidence. Tristan scoffed and slunk back in his seat, occasionally eyeing the girls but not taking much interest.

Instead he focused on the fact that not just the girls were eyeing the Knights, and it disturbed him. Galahad paid the rough looking men no attention, his gaze fully on one luscious wench who was bolder than the others and came up to sit on his lap.

Suddenly the door opened, letting in the cold air. The fiddler stopped playing, too distracted by the state of the man who entered. He was old and frail, and his eyes gazed upon the crowd with a most vacant expression. But what caught the eye of the public was the blood that stained his clothes. "Murder!" he shouted, raising his arms in effect. A few of the nearby girls gasped, and the men began eyeing one another. To Tristan, many reacted as if this was not the first time they had heard this word.

The old man began raging in a language Tristan could barely understand….but through the man's actions he could see that he had just lost his son. A few of the nearby villagers prodded him with questions, and left soon after to go find the body.

Tristan approached the innkeeper. "What has happened?"

The innkeeper continued to wipe his counter as if this was yesterday's news. "Been another murder" he gruffed.

Galahad raised an eyebrow. "Another you say?"

The innkeeper looked up, rubbing his chin in frustration. "Been some funny things happening here lately. Two months past four girls were killed in the closest Sarmatian village. This is the second one to hit us in the past month."

"All girls?" Tristan enquired, curiously.

The innkeeper shook his head. "Both boys here. Strange deaths, they were. The old man here claims a monster killed his boy, though most folk think its just a rabid wolf scouring the countryside. Bites its preys, see, but completely butchers the body. Don't believe in monsters meself."

"Is that why no one goes out at night?" Galahad asked, referring to the eerie vacancy of the streets they had witnessed earlier outside.

Tristan looked back at the sobbing man who had just lost his son; he was now sitting in a chair as a few people tried to comfort him. A feeling of dread rose within him, as if all around him the inn became dark and shadowy, with all the villagers becoming gray spirits.

"You alright, mate?" Galahad asked, peering over at Tristan, whose skin had gone pale. A distant screaming erupted through the Scouts mind, though he knew no one else could hear it; because it was the same scream that he had witnessed for fifteen years, a calling that he couldn't contain.

He brushed the thoughts away and nodded at Galahad.

The innkeeper stopped his wiping and looked down at the Knights' outfits and weapons with extreme curiosity.

"Sarmatians, are you?" he enquired, one eyebrow raised.

Galahad nodded, unsure of where this man was headed with the conversation.

"Sarmatian Knights, actually" a voice from behind them spoke. Tristan turned around, his eyes focused on the bearer of that voice.

The stranger took of the hood that masked his face. Or rather…her face. The girl was no more than twenty, with long raven black hair, tied back. Her olive complexion and almond shaped eyes contrasted with the faces of the other villagers. Her cold stare was meant for Tristan, and it disturbed him greatly how far her milky brown eyes searched within his. She tilted her head and turned to his comrade, the younger of the two knights. The cold stare was gone, and was replaced with a nod that signified her initial overview of the two was over, and she was satisfied.

"And why would you guess that, my lady?" Galahad asked, instantly taken aback by her foreign look.

"Because she saw the crest on our sword tilts" Tristan answered, knowing that was what she would say. Indeed, her mouth twisted into a sort of semi-smile, as if she did not do it often.

"Very good. If I was to guess you two are the same Sarmatian Knights that defeated the Saxon army this past year, would I be correct?"

Galahad raised his eyebrows. "Tristan I do believe we're famous."

"Word travels quickly of great battles and heroic victories" she stated, taking a sip from her goblet.

"And why is one such as you so interested in us?" Tristan asked, getting straight to the point with his tone.

For a moment she repeated her initially stare, as if she was trying to dig underneath him to find some hidden secret. For the first time he looked beyond her face to assess her outfit, and was indeed surprised once more. She wore a man's tunic and breeches, with a dark forest green cloak covering her. What was really interesting was the curved sword she had sheathed on her left hip. She bit her lip, but then nodded. "I am Bree Xiaominh, and I hunt the immortal spirits" she stated, her tone passive.

Galahad spit out the ale he was gulping and wiped his chin. "You're a what?"

She looked down, expecting his reaction. "I fight the evils that humanity chooses to ignore as superstition."

As Galahad scoffed, Tristan eyed her with great interest. "Evil spirits, you say? Is that why you have come to this village? To slay whatever it is that is killing these people?"

She did not change her tone, and grinned at him. "I will try."

He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. She had obviously told others of her mission, and was used to being scoffed at.

Galahad blinked twice, the ale getting to his head. "Spirits indeed. The only spirits I see are right here in front of me. Wench! Another pint!" he called, raising his cup. Bree looked over at the Scout, twitching her nose.

"You have a question to ask, milady?" Tristan curiously asked.

She fiddled with her goblet. "I said my name was Bree. 'Milady' is a term used for a woman of nobility, and that I am not….and yes, I did wish to ask you why you and your friend venture so far from Britain. Going home?"

"A bit inquisitive, you are. And yes…we seek to return to the land we have been away from for fifteen long years."

"Ah. I see."

Tristan bit into his chicken leg and grinded it with his teeth. "You are of the East?"

She let a small laugh escape her. "Yes…I am Hun. Ironic, isn't it? My people are in the middle of a war with yours over claims of land."

He continued to chew his food. "And how is it that a young Hun girl travels thousands of miles searching for the supernatural?"

She did not reply with words, but Tristan saw beneath her exterior gaze the sadness that suddenly came upon her, like she was escaping some dark past. Seeing that he had noticed her change, she shifted her stare and gave her goblet back to the nearest wench.

"Perhaps that is a tale for another time. Forgive me, I must speak with the father of the murdered boy. Good luck on your travels." Her tone became polite and pleasant, as if this whole conversation was practice for a dinnertime etiquette class.

"Strange girl" Galahad remarked, finishing his pint in record time. The same wench from before giggled and once again plopped down on his lap as he kissed her ardently.

Tristan watched as the girl approached the mournful father, her own expression changing to one of sympathy. "That she is."

A commotion downstairs awoke the two Knights at the break of dawn. Peering down the staircase, Galahad noticed a crowd forming at the door of the inn, with the group anxiously looking outside at something.

Tristan walked passed Galahad and pushed himself down the stairs to the foot of the door. There stood the Immortal hunter, approaching the inn atop a wagon, with something covered in the back.

The innkeeper came outside. "Whats this now? Your disturbing my customers with all this racket. Explain yerself!" he shouted, pointing at the wagon.

With no hint of an expression on her face, she gave the reigns of the horses to a nearby stable boy and went to the back of the wagon. There, in front of all who crowded around to see, she lifted off the cover to reveal the carcass within. Many of the onlookers gasped.

Tristan himself widened his eyes in disbelief, peering over to see Galahad's same reaction. Inside the wagon was the body of a beast, too large to be a wolf but alike in form and face. Its head was larger, with longer fangs and yellow menacing eyes. Blood stained its side and belly. The most fascinating thing about it was the contours of its body. Its chest was almost, well, it was almost human in pectoral shape. The way its hind legs were longer than its front legs made it seem as if it could walk on just the back legs like a common human.

It was, as far as tristan could tell, not like any animal he had ever encountered.

"A demon…" one woman whispered to her husband.

"A hoax" another jeered.

"She caught the monster!"

Amidst the mixed views, the girl simply walked away from the crowd and towards the stable. Tristan followed her.

Inside he found her, sitting next to the door of her mare, her arms folded across her legs, with her head hidden beneath her knees. This was not the triumphant warrior girl he had seen minutes before. Instead he saw in front of him an exhausted girl who looked simply frail to the touch. She did not see him approach.

"I suppose you better stick around if you want the town to reward you…they think you saved their lives."

She looked up, dark circles appearing under her eyelids. Embarrassed at having him seen her in, well, a vulnerable state she immediately rose and began tacking her horse's equipment.

"The longer I stay the more skeptic they'll become. Soon this will be a myth to scare young children, not an actual event, and they'll forget what they saw, and start blaming that I simply killed a local wolf and stretched its skin, and they'll shout out that it was all a scam to claim their money" she spat out in one breath.

Tristan raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as he let the quiver of a smile form at the edge of his mouth. "I take it this has happened before."

She proceeded to saddle her horse, stroking the mare's neck in the process. "That's what you get for slaying werewolves."

"Werewolves?"

She smirked. "Lycans…monsters of the forest….half human, half wolf, full moon and all... They normally stay in areas north by the mountains. Folk in this area would think me mad if I explained this to them. Let them assess what they want and come up with their own interpretations."

Tristan said nothing, but helped her load her packages onto the saddle.

"I can't say I believe in monsters myself, but that…thing back there was pretty convincing."

At this comment she stopped what she was doing and stared into his eyes. "Now that I don't believe, Sarmatian. Seems to me you of all people would understand the supernatural."

Now it was his turn to look perplexed and annoyed at her sudden calculation of him.

"I don't quite follow you."

She rolled her eyes. "You are a rare breed, sir knight. Sorry if I got too close to the truth."

He narrowed his eyes, unsure of why she would say what she said. But instead of pursuing it, he looked at her sheathed sword. "May I?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, but agreed. He unsheathed it from her saddle and looked it over in admiration. It was unlike what the Romans or the Western Europeans used. Its curved, slim form made it useful for slicing instead of thrusting; it was much better for blocking. His own sword was of Eastern descent, one that many of his fellow Knights admired.

"A good blade" he simply stated. "May I ask…did you use it to kill the beast?" He held the handle out to her, and she took it, sheathing it away once more.

"It takes more than a blade to kill an immortal…" she stated, looking off into her own abyss as if he was no longer standing beside her.

After a moment her eyes narrowed back to look at him, as he eyed the design of her bags. For a minute she looked frightened by what she saw, but instantly regressed her expression and mounted up. "Take care, sir knight. Perhaps our paths will cross again soon…"

"Perhaps", he stated.

Without another word she urged her horse on, out of the stables and passed the crowd that still gathered around the wagon. Tristan emerged and went over to his friend.

"Have you seen the size of that thing?" he asked, completely surprised.

Tristan looked back at the wolf, whose yellow eyes glinted as the sun made its way up the sky. Something about what she had said struck him; the fact that she had seen something within him that caused her great fear, though she attempted to hide it.

Why would a werewolf slayer fear me? He pondered, as the rest of the morning Galahad and him spent getting ready to leave.