Cracked One

The harsh conditions of the permanent winter of the Frostacre were famous. By day, the muted sunlight refracted off the icy plains, sending a blinding glare into the eyes of any travellers trying to cross; by night, blistering winds tore down trees like they were nothing, sending frozen branches toppling into anyone who dared make their home there.

Anyone, it seemed, but Larsipan.

He gritted his teeth, hooves planted firmly on the slippery ice. Before him was a great beast of monstrous size, big enough to swipe him aside with one icicle encrusted paw and be done with it, but he was far too quick to let that happen. Quick, and experienced. He had been travelling the frozen wasteland for months, Pascal a constant presence at his side, and he’d encountered more than a few of these wintry creatures. Each one had a fearsome set of jaws that could strike fear into the heart of even the bravest of soldiers, as well as powerful, muscled limbs with cruelly sharpened claws that carved holes into the ice. They could be recognised not only by their glowing eyes, but also by the trademark ice spines down their backs and tails. Each tail ended in a club of ice that they used to pound the ground, smashing holes in the ice as they did. All they wrought was destruction, wherever they went, and this one in particular was dangerously close to a fishing village nearby.

The Wineda tribe was a small but welcoming one. They’d been more than eager to house Lars and Pascal for a few days as they waited out the blizzard, telling stories of their tribe’s elders as they passed around a bowl of steaming hot soup. Whatever they’d put in their food had been warm and filling, delicately seasoned and tender enough to fall off the bone. Pascal had gone back for seconds almost every night only to slip her bowl to the young browlets who crowded around her, eager to hear about the world beyond the winter. They’d quickly lost interest in Lars after seeing his blades resting against the wall, polished to a shine. He’d watched them calmly, content to maintain a distance from them. It was better for him to be constantly vigilant, ready to battle at a moment’s notice, and a horde of children would certainly impede his ability to watch his back. However, he was not one to forget kindness so easily — he just reciprocated in different ways.

Such as fighting off monsters day in and day out, trying to repel them from the edge of the Wineda territory.

Pascal’s hooves tapped on the ice, surprisingly light as she crept closer to Lars. Her expression was creased with worry, fists clenched at her side with the telltale glow of magic. She preferred not to fight if she could avoid it, but she knew how important it was to Lars to keep up with his duty, and she refused to simply watch as he endangered himself.

“Stay back.” The words were quiet but clear, seeping out of Lars’ mouth with strength.

Pascal wrinkled her nose. “You thought I’d let you do this without me?” she tried, attempting a light, teasing tone. It was lost as she continued to walk, a misstep sending a jolt of pain up her forelegs.

“You’re injured.”

“Don’t I know it.” There was good humour behind her words, but also a tired sigh. She’d injured herself running from a group of beasts the day before, forcing them to rest overnight in a cave by firelight.

The beast roared, a bloodcurdling cry that had signalled the deaths of so many before Lars. He swung his twin blades over his head, inhaling deeply and focusing his gaze.

“I can fight alone.” It was firm, final.

Pascal rolled her eyes, but stepped back all the same. She knew he wouldn’t budge on the matter, especially when it came to her safety, and she didn’t want to get in the way of the battle that was sure to ensue.

Lars’ breath puffed out in a cloud of mist. One moment, the beast was on the other side of the ice; the next, it was thundering towards him with a deep growl reverberating in its hollow chest. He dived sharply, rolling to break his fall and landing squarely on his hooves. As he did, he lashed out with his left sword, cutting a deep dent into one of the beast’s hind legs, and a small, almost imperceptible smile settled on his face.

The beast stumbled, tail thrashing around indiscriminately. Lars leapt back nimbly, sliding across the ice with the skill of a practised fighter, and assessed the beast before him. The cut was small but deep, bleeding sluggishly onto the ice. Blood would make the surface slippery, he thought, but if he finished it quickly that wouldn’t matter. His blades glinted in the milky sunlight, flashing intimidatingly as he prepared to attack. Without warning, he darted forward, blades outstretched behind him. The beast scarcely had a second to dodge before he plunged one of the swords into its other leg, vaulting over its tail confidently. He was nothing if not a practised warrior, used to fighting such huge, hulking monsters.

What he hadn’t been expecting, though, was the uneven ground on the other side. He struggled to maintain his balance as he continued to run, making a small misstep that jolted his ankle. He tested it when he was a safe distance from the beast, flinching at the spark of pain. A sprain, then.

Well, he’d fought with worse injuries before and he had still lived to tell the tale. He’d be fine.

The beast, on the other hand, was now half dragging itself across the ice, eyes crazed and wild with pain. Its arms were more than powerful enough to pull its body, but it wouldn’t be long before the injuries became too painful to ignore.

Suddenly, the clubbed tail came down upon the ice, shattering it beyond repair. The beast waited a mere second before dipping its body into the water.

“Is it running away?” Pascal’s shout came from somewhere in the distance — Lars wouldn’t make the rookie mistake of taking his eyes off the enemy to check where — and, indeed, it seemed like it was about to make a break for it until it hauled itself out of the water with its strong arms, the corded muscle bulging with the effort. He tilted his head slightly in confusion before realising that the wounds from earlier had frozen over once more, healing without a trace.

He adjusted his grip on his blades. This would be a long fight, it seemed, unless… the tail. He’d have to hack it off. That way, the beast would be unable to make more holes in the ice to heal, and all he’d have to do would be to guard the existing one.

Lars shot back the way he came, skirting around the edge of the gap in the ice, and spun quickly, blades dancing in the air. He sliced down on the tail, succeeding in making a shallow gash as the beast flailed, but was caught in the stomach by its thrashing. He was knocked back a few feet, winded, gasping for air. His stomach was sure to bruise later.

He felt his blood run cold as a heavy weight pinned him down by the shoulder, putting an unbelievable amount of pressure on his body. Immediately, he began trying to weasel his way out, his blades just out of reach by a few centimetres. A second weight was holding his legs, stopping him from kicking out to defend himself, as a putrid stench filled the air. He opened his eyes and found himself staring straight into the toothy jaws of the beast itself.

“You’ve given me some trouble,” it rumbled, voice low but loud.

“You can speak?” he said incredulously, pausing his struggle. The paw on his shoulder dug in, claws tearing through his heavy coat with ease. The wounds throbbed dully, subdued by the adrenaline rushing through him.

“I assume my siblings did not deign to converse with a Cracked One,” the beast hissed, saliva dripping from its maw to pool at Lars’ exposed neck.

The words hit hard. Lars didn’t remember how the cracks in his mask came to be, but he knew they were a universal signal of pain and struggle. In the beginning, Pascal had gazed at his face with a melancholy tilt to her usually sunny smile, but that time was long in the past — now, it was simply a part of him. He didn’t appreciate the beast latching onto that, though, and attempting to use it to belittle him.

“It’s a mark of survival,” Lars bit out, the words coming easily to him. “I’ve endured something and lived. Your siblings can’t say the same.”

The beast roared with fury, a deep ululation that echoed across the ice, before tossing Lars aside like a ragdoll.

“You’ll pay for that, boy,” it spat, claws flexing expertly. It ripped through the air viciously, slicing Lars’ thigh to ribbons as he scrambled to reach for his blades. He heard the heavy crunch of the beast’s steps as it lumbered after him, powerful limbs ready to knock the breath out of him once more, but was saved having to dodge another attack by a loud crack.

He flinched, immediately glancing over his shoulder just in time to see a huge birch trunk spear through the ice, contorting to wrap around the beast’s middle. Taking advantage of the moment, he grabbed his blades and searched the clearing for the familiar silhouette of his companion: Pascal stood barely a few metres away, brow scrunched up in concentration as she focused on using her wood magic. More branches surged forth from the icy depths, tightening around the beast’s ankles like snares. It stopped struggling, breaths heavy and laboured as the main branch continued to tighten around its abdomen.

Lars limped forward, swords raised above his head. “In the end, you’re no different to the others,” he said calmly. “Violently lashing out. Needlessly aggressive. I have no qualms about putting you in a watery grave.” It was an uncharacteristically long speech from the usually quiet satyr, but it was clear that something about this beast in particular had unsettled him.

“I will never forgive you for this, Cracked One,” the beast croaked, chest rising and falling shallowly.

“I don’t seek your forgiveness.”

Pascal averted her gaze when Lars brought the twin blades down with a sickening crunch, splitting the creature’s skull cleanly in two to reveal the faintly glowing gem within its hollow head. He retrieved it calmly, tucking it into his satchel alongside the four others he had stashed away, and hobbled over to where she was seated with her hands in her lap.

“Now you’re injured,” Pascal said, forcing a joking lilt to her voice.

Lars merely met her gaze with an empty stare.

“Alright, I’ll take care of the body,” she sighed. With a gentle wave of her arm, the branches creaked and pulled, dragging the beast down into the icy depths. “Better?”

Lars turned his face to where the sun was now setting, painting the landscape in a wash of soft oranges and pinks. In the twilight, his mask looked soft, almost delicate. He shut his eyes for a moment, then inhaled deeply.

“Onwards.”