Wicked Is the Face

Twil’s muscles ached, a deep burn that spoke of days in the saddle. She shifted her weight, trying to find a more comfortable position. The leather creaked in protest.

“Easy, girl,” she murmured to her mount. The chestnut mare’s ears flicked back at the sound of her voice.

The forest loomed around them, ancient trees stretching their gnarled branches across the narrow path. Twil’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for any sign of movement. Her hand never strayed far from the hilt of her sword.

A twig snapped somewhere to her left. Twil’s head whipped around, her heart pounding. She held her breath, straining to hear over the soft huffs of her horse’s breathing.

Nothing. Just the wind in the leaves and the chattering of a distant squirrel.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her tense muscles to relax. “Getting jumpy, aren’t you?” she muttered to herself. “Ten years, and still jumping at shadows.”

Ten years. The weight of it settled over her like a shroud. A decade of searching, of following whispered rumors and half-forgotten legends. Always one step behind.

The path curved ahead, winding between two massive oak trees. As they rounded the bend, Twil caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. She yanked on the reins, bringing her mount to an abrupt halt.

There, barely visible through the undergrowth – footprints. Fresh ones, the soil still damp where it had been disturbed.

Twil swung down from the saddle, her legs protesting after so long astride. She crouched, examining the tracks more closely. The shape was odd, elongated, with strange protrusions at the heel and toe. No ordinary traveler had left these marks.

Her pulse quickened. Could it be? After all this time?

She straightened, scanning the forest around her. The trees seemed to press in closer, their shadows deep and impenetrable. Somewhere in those shadows, her quarry waited.

Twil led her horse off the path, tying the reins loosely to a low-hanging branch. “Stay here,” she ordered softly. “I’ll be back soon.”

The mare snorted, tossing her head. Twil patted her neck. “I know, I know. But I have to do this alone.”

She drew her sword, the familiar weight of it steadying her nerves. The blade gleamed dully in the filtered sunlight. How many times had she imagined plunging it into the heart of her father’s killer?

Twil took a deep breath, steadying herself. Then she plunged into the underbrush, following the strange tracks deeper into the forest.

The going was slow. She had to move carefully, pushing aside branches and stepping over fallen logs. All the while, her eyes never stopped moving, searching for any sign of her prey.

The tracks led her to a small clearing. Twil crouched at the edge, peering out from behind a thick tangle of ferns. The air felt different here – heavier, charged with an energy she couldn’t quite name.

In the center of the clearing stood a crude stone altar. It was stained dark with what could only be blood, both old and fresh. Twil’s stomach churned at the sight.

Movement caught her eye. A figure emerged from the shadows on the far side of the clearing. Tall and thin, with limbs that seemed too long for its body. It moved with an unnatural grace, gliding across the grass without a sound.

Twil’s breath caught in her throat. This was it. This was the monster she’d been hunting for a decade. The creature that had torn her father apart before her eyes when she was just a child.

She gripped her sword tighter, ready to spring from her hiding place. But something held her back. A whisper of doubt, a flicker of fear. Was she truly ready for this?

The creature reached the altar. It raised its arms, long fingers splayed towards the sky. A low, guttural chant filled the air.

Twil felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The very air seemed to vibrate with power. She had to act now, before it was too late.

She burst from cover, sword raised high. “Face me, murderer!” she cried.

The creature whirled, its chant cutting off abruptly. For a moment, they stared at each other across the clearing. Twil’s eyes widened as she took in the thing’s face – if it could be called a face at all. It was a swirling mass of shadows, constantly shifting and reforming.

Then it laughed. The sound sent ice through Twil’s veins.

“Little one,” it said, its voice like gravel scraping against metal. “You’ve grown.”

Twil faltered, her sword dipping slightly. “You… you remember me?”

The creature’s laugh deepened. “How could I forget? Such delicious fear in those young eyes. I’ve savored the memory for years.”

Rage boiled up inside her, burning away the fear. With a wordless cry, Twil charged across the clearing.

The creature didn’t move. It simply stood there, shadowy arms spread wide, as if welcoming her attack.

Twil’s blade whistled through the air – and passed right through the creature’s body as if it were made of smoke. Her momentum carried her past, stumbling.

She whirled, bringing her sword up in a defensive stance. The creature hadn’t moved. It was still facing the altar, its back to her.

“What trickery is this?” Twil demanded.

The creature turned slowly. Its face – if you could call it that – seemed to ripple with amusement. “No tricks, little one. Simply the truth of what I am.”

It took a step towards her. Twil retreated, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree. “Stay back!”

“Or what?” the creature asked. “You’ll run me through again? You see how well that worked.”

Twil’s mind raced. How could she fight something she couldn’t even touch? Everything she’d prepared for, all her training, was useless against this… this thing.

The creature advanced another step. “Did you really think it would be so easy? That you could simply find me and cut me down?” It chuckled, the sound like bones rattling. “Oh, my dear. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

Twil’s grip on her sword tightened. “Then tell me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “What are you?”

The creature’s face swirled, resolving for a moment into something almost human. The eyes that stared at her were ancient, filled with a hunger that made her soul quail.

“I am the shadow that haunts your nightmares,” it said. “I am the whisper of fear in the darkest night. I am the thing that lurks just beyond the light of your campfire.” It spread its arms wide. “I am eternal, little one. And you? You are nothing but a speck, a mote of dust in the grand scheme of things.”

Twil felt something inside her crumble. All these years of searching, of training, of preparing for this moment – and for what? She was utterly outmatched.

The creature seemed to sense her despair. It leaned in closer, its face a roiling mass of darkness. “Do you want to know a secret, little one?” it whispered. “Your father begged for mercy at the end. He cried out for you to save him.”

Something snapped inside Twil. With a scream of rage, she lunged forward, swinging her sword with all her might.

The blade passed through the creature’s neck – and kept going, burying itself deep in the trunk of the tree behind it. Twil tugged frantically, but the sword was stuck fast.

The creature’s laughter filled the clearing. “Oh, well done!” it crowed. “Truly, I’m quaking in my boots. Or I would be, if I had any.”

Twil abandoned her sword, stumbling backwards. Her foot caught on a root and she fell, landing hard on her back. The creature loomed over her, its form seeming to grow larger, blotting out the sky.

“What a disappointment you turned out to be,” it said, its voice dripping with mock sadness. “All those years of seeking vengeance, and this is how it ends? Pathetic.”

Twil scrambled backwards, her hands scrabbling in the dirt. Her fingers closed around something – a rock, fist-sized and jagged.

The creature bent down, its face mere inches from hers. “Don’t worry,” it said. “I’ll make sure your end is just as drawn out and painful as your father’s was.”

With a desperate cry, Twil swung the rock up with all her strength. It connected with a sickening crunch.

The creature reared back, howling. Black ichor sprayed from a deep gash in its face. It staggered, clawed hands clutching at the wound.

Twil didn’t wait to see more. She scrambled to her feet and ran, crashing through the underbrush. Branches whipped at her face, roots threatened to trip her, but she didn’t slow down.

She burst out of the forest onto the path where she’d left her horse. The mare was gone, the broken remnants of the reins dangling from the branch where Twil had tied her.

Behind her, she could hear the creature crashing through the forest, its howls of rage growing closer. Twil hesitated for just a moment, torn between the two directions of the path.

Then she ran, her legs pumping, her lungs burning. She had no plan, no destination in mind. All she knew was that she had to get away, had to survive.

As she ran, the creature’s mocking laughter echoed through the trees. “Run all you like, little one!” it called. “You can’t escape me forever. I’ll always be right behind you, waiting for you to tire, waiting for you to falter.”

Twil ran on, tears streaming down her face. She’d failed. Failed her father, failed herself. Ten years of preparation, and she’d barely managed to wound the creature.

But she was still alive. And as long as she was alive, she could keep fighting. Keep searching for a way to defeat the monster that haunted her.

The path stretched out before her, winding through the darkening forest. Twil ran on, chased by shadows and the echoes of mocking laughter.