The Soul-Hunger: Mira
The further from the Capital I rode, the more the landscape changed. The lush greenery of Aethelgard’s plains turned into something rocky, mixed with hues of brown and grey. The grass here was dry and brittle, and the wind whipped across my face with a low hum.
I gripped the reins until my knuckles were white, and my heart beat in time with my mare’s hooves pounding against the hard ground. I was exhausted, not from the ride, but from the spirit binding I’d been forced to do. The blood running through my veins felt like ice shards, growing colder with every pump of my heart.
To the north, the mountains loomed like ominous, jagged teeth. I only had to reach the Grimholt border and I would be fine. I would be safe.
A whisper carried on the wind, so low I almost didn’t hear it at first. “Mira…”
My name was dragged out.
Then another one. Another whisper. Another voice. They were all calling my name.
Then the howling started.
My horse reared back, whinnied, then started to back up.
“No, no, keep going,” I urged. “We’re almost there.”
She was spooked though.
Another howl and she was back on her hind legs again, her front hooves kicking at the darkness.
I hit the ground, the rough leather reins ripped free from my hands, leaving them red and raw. I could only sit there in the dark as my horse ran back to the Capital, faster than I thought possible.
I pushed myself to my feet, determined to continue. I couldn’t go back.
I only made it a few feet before I saw it. Glowing blue pinpoints in the dark.
I swallowed, but continued, my grip on my bag tight.
The wind rustled my hair, and I heard my name again, followed by more howls.
More pinpoints lit up the night. Blue and pale green, watching me in the dark. I wanted to cast a spell, to light up the night or cast a protection ward.
My energy was gone though. I needed rest. And the reach of the ley lines was thin and frail out here.
The pinpoints moved closer, and as the moonlight finally broke through the clouds I could see the black, misty bodies of the direwolves that were stalking me.
Gravehowls.
I’d only read about them in ancient books. They were believed to be a myth. But now, they circled me, nipping at the edges of my aura, their breath frosty, despite the mid-summer heat.
Every snap of their jaws sent a wave of paralyzing grief through my body.
As difficult as it was, I tried to conjure a light. Something to keep them at bay. The memory of the experiments flashed in my mind. Images of the runes carved into the cellar floor. The red-rimmed eyes of possession.
The spell fizzled into black soot.
I ran. I wasn’t sure I was going the right way anymore. I just knew I needed to go. The wolves gave chase, howling and snapping every time they got close.
I could see the yawning, stone mouth of the Whispering Cairns in the distance. They were herding me. They wanted me to enter the ancient burial ground.
Just as I was about to give up hope of survival, a sharp whistle cut through the howling. A flurry of salt bombs pelted the wolves causing them to dissolve in the mist.
“Oh, hush, you dreadful things,” a voice chirped.
I finally stopped, searching in the dark while my chest heaved. I needed to catch my breath, and I wasn’t entirely sure I could.
The strike of a match was entirely too loud in the sudden silence, but the light was welcome. The yellow glow reflected off a pair of tiny spectacles and a pair of horns. My vision adjusted, and I saw the withered face of a satyr.
“You shouldn’t wander too close to the Cairns at night,” the satyr warned, closing the gap between us.
Even in the dim light of the lantern, I could feel him scrutinizing me. “I wasn’t… wandering…” I denied between breaths. “My horse abandoned me.”
“Either way,” he shrugged. “Come along, let’s get you to the Hovel before the howlers return.”
He turned away from me and stayed forward. He didn’t look over his shoulder to check if I was following. He simply assumed I would.
The wind blew, and even though it didn’t whisper this time, I still shivered.
I ran to catch up, hugging myself as I went.
I saw the light first. A dim glow spilled out of the windows, illuminating the hillside that the hovel was dug out of. There was no lantern by the rough, wooden door, but there was an empty hook.
“Who are you?” I asked as we approached. My noble upbringing recoiled at the thought of entering a place like this, but I was terrified of being out here alone when the Gravehowls returned.
“I am Fenn,” he answered, hanging the lantern by the door. “Keeper of Duskhollow. Librarian of the Lost.”
“Duskhollow?” I repeated. I hadn’t realized my escape had brought me this close to another town. I’d been trying to avoid contact with anyone until I crossed into troll country.
Fenn simply nodded as he pushed the door open. “Come on now, before the howling starts again. I’ll make tea.”
Inside the Hovel, exposed beams criss-crossed the underside of the hill, keeping it from caving in. Dried flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling, along with various old boots, strung up by their laces. Stacks of books covered most surfaces, and the corners were stacked with trunks of different shapes and sizes. A small wooden table with bench seats sat near a small, stone hearth. Other furniture among the clutter included a small sofa, an arm chair, and a low bed that was just barely more than a cot. Towards the back of the room, an alcove was hidden by a velvet curtain.
The fire crackled invitingly, and I found myself drawn to it, moving against my own will. I needed the heat. I needed to rid the chill from my bones.
Fenn either didn’t notice or wasn’t concerned yet. He busied himself with an old, brass kettle, filling it with water and hanging it on a hook over the fire.
“And who are you, m’dear?” Fenn asked, his back still to me while I examined the jars of fermented roots that sat on a nearby shelf.
“Mira,” I answered, before I could think better of it. Then added, “Mira Sibley.” It wasn’t a lie. It just hadn’t been my name in a very long time.
The moment the name left my lips, the howling started again in the distance.
