Only calm, calculated attacks work on Incarnates. One chance. One swing of my sword.
Shadows shift in the dark, Shades creeping by with calm interest, keeping mostly near the trees. The Incarnate doesn’t look at them or us as it continues to focus on whatever it holds. A scraping noise fills the air, in time with the creature’s movements. “We’ve got visitors, Norm,” comes a slow, feminine voice. There’s something unnatural to it, a shift in pitch halfway through. A hollow rasp at the end.
The Incarnate halts its movements and looks to the side, toward one of the bodies. It’s too dark to make out details, but it’s obvious it’s fucking dead.
“Norm, did you hear me? Are you going to greet them?”
Only silence answers, but the creature chuckles as if the dead had replied.
The scent of rot invades my nostrils, not at all the delectable aroma of fresh blood. This campsite must have been in this same state for at least a day, the cold preserving the bodies somewhat. It’s a miracle the situation hasn’t escalated, though this road doesn’t see much traffic in the winter, and even if someone were to pass by, no one would be foolish enough to stop.
No one but a Shadowbane.
I glance back at my Summoners, give them an encouraging nod, and enter the ring of bodies. “Mind if we share your fire for the night?” I ask, infusing as much nonchalance into my voice as I can.
The Incarnate doesn’t answer right away, instead resuming whatever it’s doing with its hands. It’s impossible to see more than avaguely female form dressed in leathers, its face cast in shadow. The scraping sound returns. “Don’t mind them,” the creature says. Its voice cracks, shifts in pitch again. “They’re wary of strangers. Take a seat. Soup’s gone, but we’ve got plenty of company to go around.”
“Thank you,” Inana says, voice steady. I’m shocked she had the courage to say anything. She and Bard claim the only empty log while I position myself between them and the Incarnate, crouching by the firepit.
“Fire’s out,” I say. “Let me take care of that.”
“Much obliged,” says the Incarnate.
I shift to the side, where logs are stacked beside one of the bodies, probably the person who’d been tending the fire. My heart thuds in my chest, in time with the Incarnate’s scraping sounds, as I arrange the logs and tinder in the pit. Then, with careful moves, I extract my tinderbox and strike the flint and steel until sparks catch.
Remaining crouched, I shift my gaze to the Incarnate. As the flames grow, our surroundings brighten a little at a time, reflecting off the snow on the ground. Inch by inch, the Incarnate’s form is revealed. The person it consumed was likely in her forties, with brown hair tied back with a leather strap and a fox pelt draped over her shoulders. The Incarnate managed to replicate the clothing with precision, but its face is where its imitation struggles. Its skin is pale, its mouth too wide. Its eyes are as round as coins, blinking in disharmony. Its limbs are longer than they should be, wrists too steeply angled.
My eyes drop to its hands, and I finally discover the source of the scraping sound. It holds a steel carving tool that it scrapes against something long and…I swallow hard. It’s a bone. A tibia, perhaps, based on the length, and still coated in flesh and sinew. But that’s not the most unsettling thing. What’s worse are the creature’s fingers. It carves toward the hand that holds the bone, and with every too-aggressive scrape of the carving tool, the curved metal tip slides too fast and pierces the Incarnate’s fingers. Fingers that no longer have tips, only shredded, bleeding nubs that drip.
Drip.
Drip.
To the crimson-stained snow at the creature’s feet. Yet it continues to carve away, oblivious to its wounds or pain. It may have copied its victim’s body, her memory, but the creature can’t mimic her nimble moves or the craft the woman once partook in.
Bile rises in my throat, and my pulse quickens—
I suck in a breath, realizing the source of my spike in fear. It’s my proximity to Inana, awakening my emotions at the most inconvenient time. A glance from my peripheral vision shows the terror in her eyes, the tremors that rack her frame. Bard manages to keep his calm somehow, but maybe he’s not looking at the creature. Regardless, my fear combined with Inana’s is too distracting. Yet I don’t dare move away from her.
“Sloth,” I whisper, and he knows exactly what I want him to do. He emerges from the shadows beneath me and settles in front of Inana, resting his head on her lap with a soft whine.
Inana lowers her masked face to Sloth and strokes his head with shaking hands. Through my connection to the dog, her touch is a ghost of a caress against me too, and we both relax, if only slightly.
I allow myself a brief glance at the bodies around us. All are dead, though some are in better condition than others. The one nearest me is female, a gash over her throat. On the other side of the growing fire is a male, his stomach flayed open, straight through his leathers. Then there’s the one the Incarnate called Norm; he’s missing a leg, an arm, and a head.
“Nice dog,” says the Incarnate to Inana. “What breed?”
I open my mouth, but Inana manages to answer. “A wolfhound.”
The creature chisels away at the bone.
Scrape.
Drip.
Scrape.
Drip.
