The Crowned Captive
Death's Hound

He knocked an arrow as they rode, and heavily contemplated giving Morana a blade. It was too risky in the end, too much of a chance for her to use it on him if his competitor had better promises, so he threw the idea away with a pang of guilt. After a long minute, the rocky side of the path gave way, and he sighed in relief. With the ground evening out at the peak of the ridge, he could not be ambushed from above. Rowan lifted his hand in a signal to stop, and they waited.

And they waited.

Rowan was nearly ready to say that the Fae hounds were hunting something else and they should continue when the first howl sounded. Every goddamn hair rose on his neck at the haunting call, and he forced himself to remain calm. He hated the creatures with every fibre of his being, but there was no running this time, no trickery. He could not leave Morana alone in the forest, and risking being attacked in a more confined space was not smart. He was stuck waiting as they prowled closer.

Another howl sounded, closer this time, igniting a chorus. Rowan tried to count the voices, unable to quite differentiate each one. Maybe... six? Seven? He was unsure but hoped there were no more than that. The smell of death intensified, threatening to bring Rowan’s breakfast back up. They howled again, so close this time, surrounding them.

“Thirteen,” Morana whispered, her voice distraught. His head snapped around to face her, eyes wide. Thirteen was a death sentence. Thirteen was not an escapable number, no matter what tricks he employed. Thirteen was a number beyond any he had heard one person controlling. He drew the arrow back in his bow then, eyes scanning the forest frantically, and waited.

Movement sounded through the trees to the right, and Rowan let the arrow fly, already knocking another before he heard the yelp. Heavy footsteps told him that his arrow hadn’t quite hit the mark, but an injured hound was still better than a healthy one. Another black shape moved to the right, and another arrow was sent flying. No yelp sounded this time, only a dull thud and the keening cries of the other hounds. Rowan knocked another arrow. Twelve, he counted.

Silence surrounded the pair for a long moment, and Rowan narrowed his eyes. The forest was still, the light quickly leaking from the world around them. Rowan could pick up no movement, no sound, and could only smell the pungent rot of death.

“They surround us, spaced evenly,” Morana suddenly said, and Rowan swore under his breath. “They wait, not moving - no, another is coming. It smells different.”

Rowan quickly decided not to question why Morana’s senses were so much sharper than his when she could not wield even the most basic magic, instead trying to make sense of her words. Why another would be coming, he had no clue. Why it smelt like a fae hound but different did not comfort him, either. Nothing in his two centuries of working for the king had even matched that description. With an arrow knocked, Rowan waited.

They moved at once, stalking slowly closer, and Rowan cursed as he let another arrow fly. They knew he was aiming for them now, though, and all he heard was the skitter of shifting leaf litter as the unseen beast stepped out of the way and his arrow disappeared into the night. He let another arrow fly, to the same result. Not knowing what to do anymore, Rowan knocked another arrow and waited.

Directly in front of them, the first hound emerged. It was unlike any he had ever seen, with ivory skin and glowing red eyes. It was nearly twice the size of the others, bigger than even his mare.It looked at him, then at Morana behind him, and grinned. Rowan drew his arrow, aiming at it, heart beating wildly in his chest. At the movement, the white hound stopped, cocking its head, and the rest stopped with it.

“Curious little creatures, you elves are. Blood and marrow so tasty yet so forbidden,” the beast spoke, and despite his schooling, Rowan’s bowels turned to water with fear. He had no clue what to do.

“Who sent you?” Morana called from behind Rowan, somehow having more sense than he.

“My master does not give his name to prey,” the creature growled, a snake-like tongue snapping through its ivory teeth.

“Yet your master sends mutts to do his talking,” Morana called back, and Rowan finally clicked as to what she was doing. Fear tinged her voice, yet she was keeping the creature occupied. Rowan studied the others ringed around them and set to making some sort of plan for their escape.

“I am no mutt, child. You are honoured to have my presence at all. Even the Gods know better than to insult me.”

“You are no mutt, yet you are ordered here to, what, make them stay in one place? If the Gods cannot insult you, how can some lowly elf command you?”

The growl that sounded around them was enough to make Rowan’s skin crawl as he began to draw his power, working out how much he would have to throw at the thirteen hounds to kill them. Too much, he knew. Far, far too much. If he did so, he would not have the strength to continue, and Morana could not protect him here. His mind returned to calculations, trying to decide how many he could kill with magic to allow the rest to safely be taken out by hand.

“Elf he may be, but he has more power than the Gods now, child. He has the power to put you back together if I take a few limbs. He would understand with how you disrespect Death’s hound.”

Rowan stopped his calculations then, staring at the beast in awe. There was no way that the words were the truth. Acheros’s hound had not been seen in this realm for millennia, and the fact an elf commanded it was an abomination, a spit in the Gods’ faces. No, this elf was a true danger. Whoever sought Morana was more powerful than King Victor himself. There would be no escape. They were doomed.

“You will not do anything of the such,” Morana replied, and Rowan craned in his saddle at the change in the sound of her voice. “If you remember your true master, Hyvinlok, you will realise it is no mere elf you speak to.”

Whoever had the ability to walk in Morana’s skin knew the damned thing by name. Rowan dared not move, dared not breathe as the beast growled at not-Morana. Hyvinlok - he would remember that name and gift it to his king at least if he survived through this.

“You have slipped your bindings again. He will not be happy,” was the reply the beast came up with. It craned its head left and right, assessing Morana as if it could see the being beneath her skin.

“All spells have their loopholes, Hyvinlok. Whilst I cannot escape quite yet, I can at least follow my blood. Go back and tell him that, please. I would have much more fun watching him scuttle around to fix this than you maim this pair. Begone.”

A vicious growl resounded around them, followed by the retreating footsteps. Rowan did not turn to look at the retreating hounds but instead remained fixated on Morana as she sagged and swayed in the saddle, seeming to have all the fight fall from her body. The raw power that had laced her voice dissipated, and she returned to looking like the helpless woman he was used to. Suddenly, she blinked, then collapsed from the saddle.

“Did I faint? How embarrassing,” Morana asked as he scooped her from the ground. “Where did the hounds go?”

Without hesitation, he ran his hand over her head, healing the ugly gash she had acquired in her fall. He found no other wounds no injuries thankfully.

“I don’t think these ones were looking for us. Are you going to be able to ride?” Rowan asked, unable to think of anything else to say. The woman in his arms nodded, shaking the confusion from her head. Her brows were pulled low over her icy eyes in utter befuddlement, and she pushed at Rowan’s chest already. He held her for a moment longer then allowed her to stand properly, watching her to make sure she was no longer a fall risk. She looked at him irritatedly, climbed back into her saddle, and looked ahead.

With a sigh, Rowan returned to his horse. He knew he could not ride through the rocky descent with her on the mare as well, but her strange behaviour and control over the hounds worried him. Knowing anything he said would be useless, Rowan spurred his mare forward, and continued across the narrow peak of the range before they finally reached the winding path that marked their descent. The sun set and the monsters of the dark moved about them, but Rowan and Morana were no longer bothered that night.

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