The Arrow in the Dark

Ghostly lights drifted everywhere. They were packs of wolves, their coats mottled and their bodies lean.

Threatened by the firelight, they surrounded the five men from a short distance, baring rows of white teeth and growling low, poised to pounce at any moment.

At a glance, there seemed to be about twenty of them. Their calf-sized bodies sent a chill through anyone who saw them.

The men instinctively formed a circle and drew the steel swords at their waists.

Roy was instinctively shielded by the four burly men. The wolf pack was less than thirty yards away, and he could smell the musty, rancid stench of blood and flesh on them.

His pupils were filled with pairs of eyes burning with a hunger for flesh and cruelty.

No matter how many times he'd seen these predators of the wilderness, nothing could compare to the shock of facing them in person!

Unable to stop himself, he felt his body begin to tremble slightly. This pack of predators wasn't a herd of livestock drugged and trussed up in a slaughterhouse. Their sharp teeth and claws could tear human skin with ease.

"Everyone, be careful. The beasts are crafty as hell!" One-Eyed Jack slowly waved his torch to drive the wolves back. The old sailor had clearly seen plenty of battles in his youth. There was no fear on his face, and he seemed especially calm.

Butcher and the night watchman had both seen bloodshed, and their hands holding the steel swords were steady.

The blacksmith glared with his brown eyes, his gaze fierce as he defiantly surveyed the wolves. He held his steel sword in both hands at his right hip, its blade angled upward like a plow cutting into the earth.

His back was straight, his body relaxed and slightly bent, his left foot forward with its toes pointed at the wolves, and his right foot behind him, turned outward at a forty-five-degree angle. This son of Skellig had clearly received professional swordsmanship training. His stance and the way he swung his sword were precise and fluid.

Roy was by far the worst off in the group. His face was pale, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Stick with me, boys. Move forward slowly. Don't panic, and don't run." At Jack's steady command, the men became like a small fortress, inching toward the graveyard.

But after just two or three steps, the wolf pack grew agitated. Several shrill howls rang out, and the wolves at the front sprang at them like gusts of wind.

"Get back!" Jack roared, kicking a wolf squarely in the head. At the same time, his bright steel sword traced an arc through the night and slashed into the wolf's thigh.

The attacker let out a pained whine and limped backward.

"Bastards! You think I'm useless just because I'm old?" One-Eyed Jack didn't want to let it get away so easily, but its companions rushed in to block his sword. Not just one, but two wolves bared their teeth at him. This time they'd learned their lesson: instead of charging straight in, they circled Old Jack from both sides, as if searching for a weakness.

Old Jack frantically waved the torch in his left hand and the steel sword in his right to threaten them. But he was old, after all, and couldn't keep it up for long. Soon, sweat ran down his forehead, and his movements grew increasingly labored.

Meanwhile, Butcher, the blacksmith, and the night watchman were each facing two or three wolves and were just as hard-pressed. They had no time to help him.

Beyond the nearby fighting, several more wolves lurked in the shadows, pacing like spectators, ready to join in at any moment.

A defense was bound to fail eventually!

In fact, it had only been five minutes when Old Jack, the oldest of them, was caught off guard and clawed across the waist. A bloody gash appeared instantly. He endured the pain and slashed at his attacker, but he'd exhausted his strength. A second wolf struck him, and he lost his balance and fell to the side.

A ghostly wolf's shadow pounced on him, jaws gaping wide.

I never thought I'd die in the jaws of a pack of beasts. The thought flashed through Old Jack's mind. Then he heard a sharp whistle beside his ear, followed by the thud of a heavy body hitting the ground.

He scrambled up and glanced over. An arrow was lodged in the flank of the wolf that had just pinned him down. It lay limp and lifeless.

"Old Jack, move!" Behind him, that half-grown boy was kneeling on one knee, holding Gabriel in one hand and gripping the trigger with the other. He was so tense and frightened that sweat poured off him and even his lips trembled.

The moment the fight began, Roy had taken his crossbow out of his storage space. But the wolves moved too fast, and the night was too dark. He hadn't found his first opening until just now.

Fortunately, his arrow had hit its target.

And the instant the arrowhead struck the wolf's flank, Roy clearly saw a flash of purple light. Is this... Slaughter?

He could guess that the light was damage added by the skill.

Wolves were undoubtedly within Slaughter's hunting range!

At the thought, he felt a little more confident for no apparent reason. His trembling stopped. He nocked another bolt and fired at the other wolf tangling with Old Jack.

"Whoosh—"

The sharp, faint whistle rang out again, like the scythe of the Grim Reaper. With the second arrow, another wolf fell, whimpering and howling.

Roy's six points of Perception were being put to the fullest use.

He felt his heart pounding as if it would leap out of his chest. His right hand, which was nocking the bolt, felt weak and drained. His Experience Points had surged by a full twenty, reaching 23/500. That meant each wolf was worth ten Experience Points.

Those two arrows lifted the night watchmen's spirits, while the wolves were shaken and their attack briefly faltered.

Seizing the opening, Roy shot another arrow into the thigh of the wolf fighting the blacksmith. At the sight, the blacksmith roared like a furious lion. His thickly muscled arm raised the steel sword high and brought it down with a mighty swing, cutting the wolf in two.

He kicked aside the bloodied remains, beat his chest, and roared, his face red as blood.

The wolves' encirclement had now been broken. The blacksmith stood at the front with his steel sword raised in both hands, while the others gave up attacking and focused entirely on defense, swinging their swords to block the wolves as they leaped at them. Protected by the others, Roy served as their main source of firepower, constantly loosing arrows until he'd fired all twenty. Five more wolf corpses now lay on the ground. The pack had suffered heavy losses, and the survivors finally realized that this prey was too tough to bring down. They abandoned the attack and fled into the depths of the night with their tails between their legs.

Almost at the same time, all five men let out a long breath and collapsed onto the grass. The fight had lasted barely ten minutes, but they were all exhausted. Everyone except Roy had picked up a few injuries, but they were all minor. They'd be fine after getting bandaged up back in the village and resting for a while.

After resting for a moment and catching his breath, Roy looked at the four men around him, all covered in blood and looking thoroughly battered, and felt a surge of pride.

"We made it."

"Haha, looks like Old Jack's got another story to brag about after tonight." Old Jack grimaced in pain, then gave Roy a hard slap on the shoulder. "You did well! I thought you'd be pissing yourself and holding the whole team back. Turns out we've got you to thank for tonight. I'll let you off for tricking me out of all those Crowns!"

The other men wholeheartedly agreed, though they couldn't quite believe it. There were fifteen wolf corpses on the ground, and nearly half had been shot or finished off by this half-grown boy. When they'd been thirteen, most of them had still been mischievous little brats. Even Pusig of Skellig had never pulled off such an impressive feat in a single night.

The blacksmith couldn't help marveling. "Good thing I sold you that crossbow last time, or none of us would be going home today. Roy, tell your uncle the truth. Were you adopted by Old Mol and his wife? You've definitely got elf or dwarf blood in your family. Human archers don't have aim like that!"

Roy smiled and hurried to retrieve the arrowheads from the wolf carcasses.

There was no way he could tell anyone his secret. Besides, he had to admit that luck had played a big part in the fight. It was his first time using a crossbow in a proper battle, and the wolves moved so quickly that it was hard to track them with his dynamic vision.

Next time, he'd be lucky to hit a third of his targets!

He joked, "I told you, the Goddess of Fortune favors me. I could aim at empty air and still hit the target." Then he glanced at his Experience Points (73/500). The wilderness really was the best place to grind Experience Points. But chances to loose arrows without pressure while protected by four burly men like tonight were few and far between.

Night watchman Tomp glanced at the miniature crossbow strapped to Roy's wrist and reminded him, "That's a Gabriel, right? Semi-automatic, one-handed, and a great weapon for self-defense. Take good care of it, and don't lose it. And don't show it off in front of soldiers."

Roy nodded.

"How's everyone feeling?" Fletcher interrupted the conversation. There was a gaping wound on his left forearm, and his face was still tense with worry. "Can we keep going? I'm afraid... Brandon can't wait."

"Of course we're going to keep going!" Pusig wiped the blood off his steel sword with his sleeve and sheathed it. "Victory's right in front of us. If we abandon that boy, the goddess Meritelli will punish us!"

The men silently got to their feet and headed for the graveyard again. The rest of the way was uneventful, and they ran into no more danger.

"Brandon, come out! Your dad's here to get you!"

Long before reaching the graveyard, Butcher couldn't help shouting into it.

The others' hearts tightened, and they prayed they would hear a response.

"Something feels wrong." As they entered the graveyard, enclosed by a wall of piled stones, Roy suddenly spoke.

Vaguely, he felt the same way he had when they'd encountered the wolves.

It turned out that having better-than-average Perception really was useful.

It was too quiet. Inside the weathered wooden fence, the enormous graveyard held over a hundred bodies. Gravestones stood in rows in the darkness, giving the place an eerie, sinister feel.

At the very center of the graveyard stood a low building. It was where Gonger, the old gravedigger, lived.

"Something's wrong. Quiet, Fletcher!" The night watchman waved for everyone to stop.

They lowered their voices.

"You were shouting so loudly. Even if the boy wasn't in the graveyard, Old Gonger should have heard you."

"No, the boy's in the house! Gonger must have taken him in. They're asleep now, that's all. I'm going in!"

"What's that?!" Roy suddenly cried out, drawing everyone's attention. They followed his pointing finger and saw a strange pit in the grass outside the graveyard.

"This is a new grave. A villager was buried here just last month."

"I remember. It's old Chris's grave. He was a good man."

The men went closer and saw that the solitary gravestone had been pushed aside. The spot where the body had been buried was empty.

Where had the body gone? And what had dug open the grave?

"This..."

Roy turned around. There were other pits nearby, and several graves had been dug up.

"What kind of heartless bastard would desecrate the dead and steal from their graves?" Pusig muttered with a frown. "Is the gravedigger getting paid to do nothing?"

Roy shook his head. He noticed that Old Jack's expression had turned more serious and grim than ever, and that he was beginning to back away quietly.

"Does this really look like something a person would do?"

A bone-deep chill swept over him.