”Get away from her you beast!” Lochan roared as they burst through the bushes into the clearing.

The other men ran ahead of him, their legs sure and sturdy, their swords glinting in the moonlight like fangs. Arran stumbled after them blindly, barely clutching the blunted length of the burning brand between his trembling hands. His ears were filled with the faint clank of links of rusty chainmail rubbing together, of heavy feet pounding tiny flowers into dust. The screaming had stopped.

His nostrils were filled with the scent of crushed flowers, and below it, a more gritty hint of something metallic. He felt ill, the brand burning close to his fingers, singeing the tiny black hairs that cringed over his knuckles.

At Lochan’s command the dark-haired woman turned, snarling. A tiny blonde figure tumbled from her grasp and fell limply to the ground, the carpet of daisies welcoming her with upturned faces.

“Nell”, he breathed, the brand tumbling from his grasp and falling to the ground, tiny flowers curling back from the scorching flame, their faces wilting in pain.

“Well then… what is it that we have here?” the pale man said while the woman hissed and spat next to him, a red smear across her lips.

Arran saw through blurred eyes that the other men had halted uncertainly. He thought he understood why, as the unpleasant taste of bile was rising in his throat. He recognised the woman’s blood-spattered face too.

“You fiend!” he heard Kelgar choking, somewhere to his left, “what have you done to her!?”.

Kelgar rushed at him, plunging his sword deep into the body of the man. The blade slid cleanly between folds of fine clothing with a foul hiss, into belly and right through to the other side. Arran stared dazedly at the sharp tip protruding from the man’s back.

It flashed fiercely, bright and clean as the man gasped, choking as his body folded over the cruel metal.

Kelgar ripped the blade from the man’s stomach as he crumpled to his knees, writhing in pain. Kelgar gazed in confusion at the clean blade before him. Mella let out a scream of rage.

“You bastard! You dare touch him!” she leapt at him, clawing at his face as she gnashed her teeth, globs of blood dripping from her mouth and flecking the frightened faces of the tiny flowers that shuddered beneath her feet.

Kelgar cried out in pain, his hands flying up to his face, still feebly gripping his sword as blood ran from between his fingers. Mella stared cruelly down out him, her face glowing triumphantly as the moon licked at her pale features.

The other men ran to Kelgar’s aid but Arran could not move, could not even remember that he knew how to as he stood, hunched at the edge of the clearing.

With a dreadful shudder Arran realised the man was clambering to his feet again, pushing the gaping hole in his belly together with fingers like pallid worms. He looked directly at Arran, feeling the young man’s faltering gaze upon him. Arran shrunk from those blood-red eyes as they seared through his ribcage to find his heart where it lay exposed, trembling and raw.

He could feel the cold fingers tweaking and teasing at the wound like maggots, their tiny mouths tearing at the rotting edges until it was ripped open again, hissing and frothing. Blood spouted onto the memory of a beautiful face, a plain homemade dress with holes carefully patched, the image of girl walled up inside, away from the grasping fingers of pain, away from the metallic stench of blood.

All that was left were the blue, sightless, upturned eyes, the blood-stained face and the frail broken body clutched desperately in his shivering arms.

“Ah my friend, was her name not Nell?” Cebrien asked with a cold laugh, then his eyes slid from Arran leaving him retching, splattering the disgusted faces of the bone-white flowers below.

“It is alright mon amour”, he crooned to Mella who was panting in rage, swatting at the men around her, “I was just playing a little joke no? To die again… that would truly be a gift. Ah but it is fun to pretend for just one moment”.

He spread his arms expansively with a wry smile, “You see it is…”.

Lochan’s blade sliced cleanly into one of Cebrien’s outstretched arms, an ashy cascade pouring form the wound.

“Excusez moi”, he said, pushing both Lochan and sword away angrily, the edges of the wound flapping open “How can a man say clever things with some clumsy oaf waving his sword about ineffectually. Have you no sense of common politeness monsieur? I had not finished… ah well… you could not understand anyway”.

“While it has been fun gentleman and I have enjoyed our little games I believe it is the time we should be departing”, he turned to Mella, “Merila mon amour? Shall we?”

Arran saw Lochan recoil in horror as Cebrien’s body began to contort, limbs creaking into impossible positions, punctuated by the dreadful popping sounds of dislocating joints. Mella’s body also began to change, her supple figure withering, shrinking, leathery monstrosities unfurling from beneath her arms, coarse fur sprouting from her face.

Arran blinked, his eyes raw and watering. When he opened them again he could not see where Mella and the man had gone, there was only a bat and a large black dog, heading away from the clearing towards the mountains.

“Follow them!” Lochan roared.

The other men rushed after him, crashing through the bushes and into the forest leaving Arran behind in the clearing, a small crumpled figure before him.

Barran, Murchadh, Shildfrith, The Church, Ulcar