The Long Run

Join Brother Edmund as his squad is forced into a lengthy pursuit, chasing an elusive Beast up the coast of Modland. Written in 46 AS.

 

We did not end there, but we started in Winsterdam. We had arrived at the request of the Winsterdammers, as a particularly troublesome Beast had been terrorising them for some time. They had called it the Slinker, for the way it snuck around the outskirts of town. Runner might have been more apt.

 

Every couple days, there would be a sighting. Initially, it was harmless, insofar as a Beast could ever be harmless: a sighting of its slinking shape down the beach or along the shores of the Winste, the river running down from Riestaten to join the sea at Winsterdam. But over time, the Beast became bolder, coming ever closer to the ditches and dykes surrounding the town, setting the people’s nerves on edge. When the Slinker finally began skirting the town’s defenses, it became apparent that the Winsterdammers needed help.

 

That’s where we came in, under overcast skies. Fresh off the boat, my squad was greeted by a somewhat severe-looking woman. She addressed us in notably formal Iseronian – although she was clearly not comfortable with our tongue –, and introduced herself as Nynke. By Iseronian comparison, she was somewhere between a Chief and a Council Member; allowed to make executive decisions on her own, but only in a particular jurisdiction. Her jurisdiction was public safety.

 

My squad leader, Sister Helena, introduced herself, as well as my Siblings – Sister Franziska, Sister Corinna, and Brother Isaac – and of course myself. Nynke greeted each of us with a stiff nod, asking tensely if we were ready.

 

Not one to miss the mood, Helena asked if something had happened. Nynke worked her mouth, drawing it into a thin line. After a moment’s hesitation, she switched to Deltastrait, using our regions’ shared form of Tradespeak to explain the situation more comfortably.

 

The Winsterdammers, she said, believe in Spirits they call Whiteheads. These Spirits supposedly frolic in the waves. They are well-meaning, but do not understand that not everyone is as eager to be underwater as they are. As such, they rise against the dykes every day, washing ashore strands of kelp and pieces of driftwood, supposedly to give the Winsterdammers a shred of what they’re missing.

 

Naturally, the Winsterdammers are less than eager to join the Whiteheads underwater. Thus, they perform a ritual every high tide in which they toss back wreaths and statuettes made from the washings up from the previous high tide, letting the Whiteheads know that no, we don’t need a storm surge, thank you very much.

 

However, during that morning’s ritual, before the offerings could be cast out, the Slinker had shown up. The Beast had apparently clambered onto the dyke somewhere further up the coast and had forced the Winsterdammers back to town. It had remained on the dyke the entire high tide, only ducking behind it when the waters began to recede, leaving the Winsterdammers unable to perform their ritual.

 

Naturally, this had left the locals a little on edge and eager to see the Beast taken care of. Nynke therefore repeated her question if we were ready. Helena looked at each of us shortly. We all gave her a nod. For the first time, Nynke smiled, leading us towards the dyke.

 

We walked swiftly, checking our gear as we went. We had the standard armour of padded clothing with cuirasses and helmets, as well as the newly standard gorgets, and the standard weapons of sabres, daggers, and muskets, including bayonets. We also carried the improved medicine pouches, but I was of course hoping the weapons would see more use than the medicine.

 

We passed by mean Modlander barges offloading peat, ornamented Riestater boats offloading grain, and a proud Fenblithian ship loading up on both. The workers paused as we went by, the Modlanders gawping, the Riestaters nodding, the Fenblithians shaking their fists and calling out well-wishes.

 

Nynke led us onto the dyke surrounding Winsterdam, pointing out the way up the sea dyke a little ways beyond the ditch. She bid us good luck and told two guards to put down a narrow gangplank to let us across. Helena led on, signalling the beginning of the Hunt.

 

We walked calmly across the grassy land leading towards the sea dyke. Helena instructed us to double check our muskets, saying she expected the Beast to be too elusive and the land too open to force a fight up close. When we crested the dyke, we realised how right she was.

 

The beach stretched out, the pallid sand wet and packed, drenched by the ocean. Beyond it the water chopped, grey waves with white heads. For a moment, I imagined spirits conspiring to raise the waters across the dyke and bring Winsterdam into its embrace. More to the point: there was no sign of the Beast.

 

Helena clucked her tongue. She asked if anyone saw any traces she didn’t. Corinna, Isaac, and I said we didn’t, but Franziska pointed out a groove in the sands, running along the shoreline. I asked if that hadn’t simply been caused by waves, but then Franziska pointed out where the groove turned towards the dyke, making that unlikely.

 

Helena nodded, setting off along the dyke to where the line touched it. Once there, she told Corinna, Isaac, and I to stand watch as she and Franziska investigated. We formed a triangle, Corinna and I staring out across the beach in opposite directions, Isaac staring inland just in case.

 

Helena and Franziska descended, studying the groove and the sand around it. Tracks, they agreed; the groove made by the Slinker’s tail. Climbing back onto the dyke, they studied the way the groove angled away. The Beast had run up the coast. Thus, we set off in the same direction, remaining atop the dyke to have a better view.

 

It was the beginning of a long run in full gear, and despite having performed such feats countless times since I was a child, I was grateful for the clouds keeping the sun off my armour. Helena led on, flanked by Franziska, while Corinna, Isaac, and I ran behind, the top of the dyke just wide enough to allow the three of us to run shoulder to shoulder.

 

As we ran, though, the dyke grew less even. Erosion and neglect were piling atop each other, turning running more and more difficult, until we were finally forced to descend onto the beach as the dyke turned to little more than rubble ahead. I don’t blame the Modlanders, of course; how would they maintain such a structure these days? But it was unfortunate.

 

Regardless, we continued to run, and as we did so, we talked. Of home, of the food we were craving, of the way the ocean gently hissed. Sadly, an anecdote by Corinna about some embarrassing episode of Isaac was cut off by Franziska when she caught movement on the beach. We stopped to see, and there it was, off in the distance: the Slinker.

 

It was loping up and down between the crumbling dyke and the waters, still tough to make out. We slowed our steps, taking our muskets and shouldering them. We approached carefully, making sure not to bump our muskets’ stocks against the edges of our cuirasses where the steel bent away from our shoulders. The Beast seemed lost in its own world for a time, not noticing us as we crept closer. Then the wind picked up, rushing across our backs, towards the Slinker.

 

It reared its head. It had the high-legged posture and long snout of a canine, but it was clearly reptilian, with a hide covered in brown scales and a head lacking visible ears. A ridge ran along its back, tensing as it saw us and slightly lowered its head, presenting a horn-like crest extending from the back of its crown. It was a large Beast, with a body some two yards long and a slender tail that was longer still dragging behind it. Everything about it signalled that it would be so fast as to be impossible to catch if it chose to flee.

 

Thus, Helena whistled, and five pieces of flint scraped down into five priming pans, setting off five small explosions and launching five Starsteel balls.

 

Only one found its mark.

 

The Slinker had still been far away when it noticed us. Muskets are powerful, and their shots go far, but they are imprecise, and there’s only so much that training can do to compensate for it, no matter how much time you spend at it.

 

Still, that one shot flew true, hitting the Slinker in its haunch. Any sound it made was lost in the hissing of the waves and the ringing of my ears, but it clearly startled at the hit, turning to run away with lopsided gait.

 

Helena gave the order to pursue, and we set off running again. We had already run for quite some time, but we weren’t going to let the Beast escape us, and so as soon as we were done reloading our muskets we settled into a steady gait we knew we could keep up. Unlike before, we did not speak of the little things in life. Instead, Helena coached us, letting us run in front of her so that she could give us constant pointers and advice on how to maintain our run.

 

Up ahead, the Slinker tried to get away from us, but it was trailing ichor, the black splotches disappearing behind us as we kept up the pressure. It turned away from the sea, heading inland, and so we did the same. It struggled with the dyke’s rubble, fighting to pull itself up without having to push with its injured rear leg. We closed in, but we knew there was an opening for disaster here, as the Slinker would pass out of sight when it got across the dyke.

 

Helena whistled again, making us stop, shoot, and continue to run while we reloaded. We struck the Slinker again – I could see it spasm as it was hit – but it managed to get over the rubble and drop out of sight.

 

We sped up, all but charging the dyke. Helena called for bayonets, and we obeyed right away, conscious of the possibility that the Slinker might make a stand while we came rushing uphill.

 

But when we reached the rubble’s top, the Slinker was gone. We were faced with dunes, spotted with patches of long and sharp stalks of grass. Searching for tracks, we saw the tell-tale line left by its dragging tail, the golden sand marked by ichor. We started running again, but it was a struggle on the dry, much looser dunes. Uncertain whether the Slinker would likewise struggle with the terrain, we redoubled our efforts, ignoring our stinging sides as we ran through the sand.

 

We continued, on and on. We did not catch sight of the Beast between the heaping dunes, but we knew we were close to it, the trail fresh and hot. If it weren’t for the sand blocking our lines of sight, we might well have been able to shoot it again.

 

Slowly, though, the dunes gave way to trees, the soil turning more solid. The trail was less clear, here, and we had to ease up to ensure we were still following it correctly. We were panting, our sweat soaking our padded clothing, running down our backs. We weren’t giving up, however, and we continued to follow through the woods, more walking than running but still unrelenting.

 

As we continued, the soil changed once more. Isaac remarked it looked as if there was some peat here, leading Helena to state we must be closing in on Dunemond, having run all the way from Winsterdam to here, at the arm of the Winste called the Sachte. She was proven right when the trees thinned out again, revealing a grassy fen.

 

Here, the trail grew truly tough to follow, the grass having rebounded after the Slinker passed. In the distance, however, we saw something we hadn’t expected to see: people.

 

Helena cursed that those must be the Dunemonders returning from cutting peat and told us we had to get to them before the Slinker might. Giving up the chase after so much effort hurt, but we of course obeyed, rushing across the wetlands as well as our heavy legs allowed.

 

But when we neared, we froze, seeing that the Slinker had already made it to the people, but that it wasn’t attacking them. Rather, it was sheltering with them as they tended to its wounds.

 

These weren’t just Dunemonders. These were Darkhearts.

 

We raised our muskets, Helena drawing the Darkhearts’ attention with a whistle that told us to hold our fire. The Slinker hissed as it heard us, but it was too drained to escape, and it remained lying on the ground. The half a dozen Darkhearts, however, responded by setting down their packs of peat and stepping in front of the Beast, drawing knives, including a single Starsteel blade. One of the Darkhearts had an old musket. He did not level it yet, but we quickly aimed for him.

 

In slow and clearly enunciated Deltastrait, Helena asked them what they were doing. It was clear we had to kill these people, but of course we didn’t know if they were the only Darkhearts in Dunemond and we had to find out as much as possible. The one with the musket responded, in Deltastrait so accented it was tough to follow, that they were taking care of their own. Helena asked how helping a Beast was taking care of Dunemond. The Darkheart said that it – he mentioned it by name in Modlands, and Helena later translated it to Hornhead – kept other Beasts away, as well as protected them against the Packbackers. I frowned at the latter, but Helena cleared up my confusion by asking how a Beast fought Spirits. The Darkheart said dryly that that was what the horn was for.

 

Then he shot.

 

The bullet was meant for Helena, but the old musket’s shot flew towards Franziska instead. It caught her in the shoulder, eliciting a pained growl.

 

Without waiting for a signal, we returned fire. Four muskets shot into the Darkhearts’ leader, dropping him across the Slinker still lying behind him. The other five Darkhearts charged us, but we charged back, roaring as we ran four of them through with our bayonets. The final one fell on Helena with his dagger, but she sent him staggering back with a punch to the throat. He was choking and retching when Franziska stepped up, wielding her bayonet one-handed to thrust into his chest.

 

As quick as it began, it was over; quite unlike the run leading up to it. Helena took Franziska aside, removing her cuirass and gambeson to try and bandage her wound. Corinna, Isaac, and I approached the Slinker, which lay hissing and snapping at us. Without reverence, we stuck it with our bayonets, turning it lifeless and still.

 

The Beast was dead.

 

And so were the first of the Darkhearts of Dunemond.