Shadow of the Werewolf

by Magnus Hansen

  “One of the worst attacks yet,” spat the guardsman. “I lost at least two men.”

  Domyan gruffly stomped towards the campfire, snarling. He was clenching his fists while uttering Slavic curses. He counted three woodcutters dead, including the Turk who was recovering from his broken leg. Four woodcutters and two additional guardsmen were badly injured in the attack.

  Cathal could see the völva making her rounds, tending to the Norsemen. She was carrying a large purse full of medical supplies, herbs and tinctures. The old woman made no effort to help the injured woodcutters.

  Clenching his jaw, Cathal hurried over to the nearest logger, an aging Slavic man suffering from multiple bites on his legs and arms. He could dress and stitch the wounds, but it was hopeless. The injured men, woodcutters and guardsmen alike, were as good as dead.

  In short order, the guardsmen collected their dead and dying and left the encampment without much fanfare, leaving Cathal to tend to the wounded Slavs and Turks. After he was done, Cathal turned to Domyan and said, “I'm surprised they came to help us. I thought the Norsemen wanted us all dead.”

  Domyan barked a short laugh and said, “The guardsmen don't give a damn about us. They would like nothing more than to see us slaughtered by the wolves, but they're under orders from the chieftain to keep the logging industry intact. If Birka loses its woodcutters, then the builders, all Norsemen mind you, won't have enough wood to build their longships and cabins.”

  The two men were startled when they heard a voice directly above them say, “I'm guessing it's safe to come down, now?”

  Looking up, Cathal could see Faolan and two Slavic men sitting far above them in a large alder tree. “Did any of you get bit?” he asked.

  As Faolan started to make his way down the tree, he said, “No. We climbed up here at the first sign of trouble.”

  “What happened to Biter?”

  Faolan jumped to the ground and peered into the woods. He shook his head, cleared his throat and said, “I don't know. She killed one wolf and then this...thing started running towards the campfire. Biter backed away and tore off into the woods. I've never seen her frightened like that.”

  “What thing?” asked Cathal, furrowing his brow.

  “Never mind all that,” growled the foreman. “We have men to tend to and graves to dig.

  Faolan gave a discrete warning glance to Cathal and mumbled, “I should go look for her.”

  “That wouldn't be wise, but I'm not going to stop you,” said Domyan. He was standing by the campfire, staring into the flames. “Just be glad you're alive. What I saw a moment ago, standing right were I am standing now...Well, where I come from, we have an old story about a demon that has the head of a wolf and the legs of a horse. They have a voracious appetite, and eat human flesh.”

  “A psoglav,” said Cathal.

  A sinister grin crept across Domyan's face. “Ah, so you know of our traditions.”

  “Only a little.”

  Domyan turned around and stared at the Irishman. The flames of the campfire danced off his steely eyes as he said, “This place is cursed. Any fool can see that. It has been far too long since we showed the gods proper respect. They are punishing us for our transgressions. It is time we made an offering to Veles.” He then walked towards the cabin. Before opening the door, he turned around and said, “Get your shovels and start digging. I want those graves ready by sunrise.”

  After the foreman slammed the door shut, Faolan turned to Cathal and asked, “Veles? Who the hell is Veles?”

  A rueful smile crossed Cathal's lips. “Who the hell, indeed. Veles is the Slavic god of the underworld. He shares similarities to the Christian's concept of Satan. Tell me, Faolan, are you a Christian?”

  “Like all good Irishmen, yes. And you?”

  Shaking his head, Cathal said, “I am not what people would call a good Irishman.”

  “Then what do you believe?”

  Cathal canted his head down and pursed his lips. “That is a conversation for another day. Come on, let's get those shovels.” As they walked towards the tool shed, he asked, “Does Domyan expect us to dig graves all night, then work a full day tomorrow?”

  With raised eyebrows, Faolan turned and said, “What do you think?”

  “Unbelievable,” whispered Cathal. He reached his hand to the pouch tied to his belt and felt the outline of a silver coin. Would he receive extra money for digging the graves? He doubted it. It was almost comical – a silver coin a day to risk one's life.

  They found a suitable clearing to the west of the logging camp and began to dig. The ground was hard and full of stones, slowing their progress. They planted several torches in the ground, which provided a flickering light that held the dark night at bay.

  Casting a worried glance into the forest surrounding them, Faolan said, “Did you notice that none of the Slavic woodcutters are helping us dig graves? This is beyond dangerous – those wolves could come back at any time.”

  Cathal just shook his head and said, “Let it go. I've traveled around the world, and every nationality on this earth looks after their own. The Slavs are no different.”

  Letting out a series of curses, punctuated by thrusting his shovel into the hard dirt, Faolan asked, “What do you think Domyan is going to do? He mentioned an offering.”

  Stopping for a moment to rub his raw hands, Cathal said, “I'm not sure of the ritual he has in mind, but I do know a few things about Veles.”

  “Such as?”

  Cathal exhaled sharply and began digging once again. “Have you heard of the Norse gods Thor and Loki?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, the Norse people have a myth about a god of thunder who does battle with a giant serpent. The Slavs have a similar myth – their god of thunder battles a dragon. For the Norse, Thor is the god of thunder. The Slavic god of thunder is Perun, and he is much older. Perun is the eternal enemy of Veles, god of the underworld. But Veles is a god of many things: the underworld, the earth, the water, and the forest.”

  Faolan looked at him sharply and said, “The forest...”

  “Yes. That's why I think Domyan is going to make an offering to Veles – to appease the spiteful god and bring calm to the forest.”

  “Do you really think that is the reason?”

  “I do. It was not difficult to draw conclusions. Every Slav knows that Veles punishes oath-breakers with torment and disease. The wolves have infected the workers with the frothing disease. Domyan must think the frothing disease is a curse from the gods, and when he made no attempt to appease Veles, the angry god sent wolves to attack them. It makes sense, in an odd sort of way.

  “Sounds like a bunch of superstitious nonsense to me,” snorted Faolan.

  “Maybe so, maybe so,” said Cathal. He was exhausted from working all day. The prospect of working through the night and the entire next day ebbed at his mind. Stay strong, he told himself. He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed his red, weary eyes. As he opened his eyes and looked up, he could see something moving in the treeline. The shadow then accelerated, and seemed to run towards them. Something big. His legs froze as he pointed towards the approaching creature. He then started to stammer; so frightened that he couldn't form words.

  Faolan jerked his head up and squinted his eyes. The creature was just beyond the torchlight, closing in fast. He held his shovel defensively before him, his knuckles white. He let out a short gasp through clenched teeth and urgently whispered, “No, no, no...”

  The creature, with its head low to the ground, loped into view and ran towards the two men with wild abandon. Its jaws were open and its tongue was hanging out of its mouth. It had an exuberant expression was on its face. Faolan relaxed his grip on his shovel as his eyes widened in disbelief...It was Biter!

  The wolfhound ran at Faolan and barreled paws first into him. So happy was the creature, that it bounded around the Irishman and let out a series of excited yelps.

  Faolan laughed, tripped backward and fe
ll to the ground, only to be smothered by the slobbering licks of the wolfhound. “Biter, stop it!”

  A look of concern crossed Cathal's eyes. He grabbed one of the torches from the ground and held it over the dog, examining the wolfhound's coat for any sign of bleeding or damage.

  Faolan immediately understood what Cathal was doing. He sat up and asked, “Do you see anything?”

  After a moment, Cathal let out a heavy sigh of relief and said, “No, I don't see any blood. I think she's safe.”

  “Thank god.”

  “You shouldn't thank your Christian god,” said a familiar voice. “It was not He who saved your dog, but Veles.” Domyan walked towards the two men with a smug look on his face. He stood before the torchlight, his shadow looming over the shallow grave. “Stop your digging and come back to camp. I have prayed to the gods and they have given me guidance.” Without further explanation, the foreman turned and walked back into the woods.

  With a puzzled look, Faolan tilted his head towards Cathal and whispered, “What do you think he meant by that?”

  Cathal shook his head as he watched the foreman walk into the darkness of night. “Nothing good.”

  Chapter 5

  As Cathal and Faolan approached the logging camp, they saw Domyan, Danika, and the remaining woodcutters gathered next to the dead and dying. Cathal made a mental note: three woodcutters, including the previously injured Turk, were dead and lying on stretchers. Four additional workers were badly injured, leaving a workforce of only five remaining loggers, not including the foreman and his sister.

  “Ah, everyone's here,” said the foreman. Domyan was carrying a bow and had a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. Cathal reasoned the bow must be for protection. “The ritual site is at the eastern shore, about a half mile from here. Let's go!”

  Crinkling his brow, Cathal watched as the workers dragged the stretchers of dead men off to the east. Ritual site? What did Domyan have in mind? He then looked at the four injured men – those unfortunate souls who would be dead from the frothing disease within a week or two. They were all staggering drunk, barely able to walk unassisted. What was going on? He was besieged with too many questions; questions only the foreman could answer.

  It was a slow trek towards the shore. Cathal looked up at the night sky. The distant stars glimmered through the tree branches overhead. Dawn would come in a couple of hours; it was pitch black.

  They were traveling single file down a narrow dirt path. Domyan and his sister led the way. They were carrying torches that barely cut through the darkness. Three of the woodcutters were dragging dead men on stretchers, while two of the loggers were helping the injured walk.

  Not a word was spoken as they trudged down the ominous forest path, until one of the Turkish men, the only remaining Turk that wasn't dead or injured, started to mumble and curse under his breath.

  “Quiet!” said Domyan, as he turned around and gave the woodcutter a withering stare.

  The Turkish man glowered at the foreman, but kept his mouth shut.

  Despite their slow progress, it did not take long for the small group to make it to the eastern shore. Cathal gazed at the moonlit waves, as they lazily lapped against the rocky shore. The men who were dragging the dead set their stretchers down and rubbed their hands, apprehensively looking at a giant tree that had ropes slung over its thick branches.

  Cathal counted seven ropes. It did not take long to deduce that each rope was fated for a dead or dying woodcutter. He was jolted out of his contemplations when the Turkish man started yelling at Domyan in his native tongue, pointing his finger at the giant oak. The foreman simply stood there, implacable.

  Finally, the Turk spat at Domyan's feet and yelled in broken Norse, “I quit! Finished!” He then stomped off down the trail with his hands clenched into fists.

  “Coward!” yelled Domyan after the retreating man. “I just lost half my workforce, and another worker just runs off? That's the last time I hire a Turk, you motherless dog!” In a rage, he reached for an arrow in his quiver, but thought better of it.

  The Turk didn't bother with a response. He simply continued to walk down the narrow trail, soon lost to the darkness.

  Ignoring the deserter, Domyan ordered his men to drag the dead workers to the tree and slip the nooses over their heads. The four injured woodcutters were so inebriated, they barely understood what was happening.

  Faolan nudged Cathal, leaned in and whispered, “Aren't you going to do something?”

  “What would you have me do?” Cathal whispered back. “There's over a half-dozen superstitious men who think this ritual sacrifice will solve their problems. Do you want me to tell them otherwise? What good could that possibly do? Besides, the men who were bitten are going to die anyway. If this sacrifice gives the other men peace of mind, who am I to argue?”

  With more than a little apprehension, Faolan shook his head and said, “I may not be the most saintly of Christians, but this is an affront to god. It is an abomination!”

  Cathal shot him a warning glance. “Not another word, if you know what's good for you,” he said in a hushed tone. From the corner of his eye, he could see the foreman staring at him.

  Domyan broke off his withering gaze and approached his workers, pointing at the tree. In his native Slavic tongue, he instructed his remaining loggers to start pulling on the ropes, hoisting the injured and dead aloft.

  One of the injured men, less inebriated than the others, started to panic as he was hoisted into the air. He lurched to and fro, trying to shake himself free.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Domyan grabbed an arrow from his quiver and notched it in his bow. He mumbled, “Coward,” as he released the drawstring.

  The arrow pierced the man's lower stomach, causing him to stiffen, then slump. He then started to wretch and sob uncontrollably as Domyan marched towards him, muttering under his breath. The foreman then grabbed the injured man by the tunic and started to punch him in the face with savage ferocity, causing the man to lose consciousness after the third blow.

  Domyan was incensed. He had a wild, almost rapturous gleam in his eye. As the remaining victims were being hoisted upward, Domyan raised his bow to the night sky and shouted, “Veles has cursed this entire island – an island owned by the Northlanders. The true gods are angry at the Norsemen's false religion. The Norsemen take what they want – they rape and pillage and we do nothing to stop them. Tonight we show the true gods that we are ready to take back what is rightfully ours. We will not sit back and accept the meager scraps the Northlanders throw at us. As we make this sacrifice to Veles, he will curse our enemies and strengthen our resolve!”

  He then gestured for his workers to tie down the ropes. With a brief glance towards one another, the loggers tied the ropes to the lower branches of the oak tree, causing the bodies of the unfortunate victims to twist in the wind.

  “Veles, this is our gift to you,” shouted Domyan. “Take these men as a token of our faith, and bless us with the power to overcome the hated Norsemen.”

  Cathal averted his eyes, as the sacrificial victims twisted and jerked in the air high above him. It wasn't the manner of death that troubled him, but the deity to whom the men were being sacrificed. Veles, dark god of the underworld, steeped in magic and trickery. Veles, ruler of the dead. Veles, the god who could shape-shift into any man or beast.

  While Domyan sang liturgies to his blasphemous pagan god, the small gathering of Slavic men hummed along. They were transfixed by the ritual, looking up with fervent devotion at the sacrificial victims swinging overhead.

  All except one.

  Mirko averted his eyes and started to grumble under his breath, deeply troubled. As the loggers chanted and sang, the man with the scarred throat marched off into the woods, towards camp.

  “Ah, Mirko, come back!” yelled Domyan. “I thought you of all people would appreciate a good hanging!” The foreman laughed and raised his hands towards the night sky. For the next few minutes, he congratula
ted the hanged men for their bravery, assuring them they would meet Veles soon.

  The hanged men twitched and jerked in response.

  Cathal was troubled. As all eyes were transfixed upon the men slowly dying above them, his eyes were scanning the forest. It took him a moment to see it, but when he did, it was as if the world had dropped out from under him. Dozens of wolves formed a half circle around them, just beyond the light of the torches. The torchlight barely reflecting off their amber eyes. There was one set of eyes that was several feet higher than the rest, staring directly at him.

  He stumbled backward and fell over an old log. So enraptured were the Slavs, that no one noticed him, save for one – Danika was laughing at him, an enraptured countenance glazed in her visage.

  Domyan then turned and noticed Cathal. He had an amused expression etched on his scarred face. With a slow, almost languid movement, the foreman took an arrow out of his quiver and notched his bow, pointing it straight at him. He pointed the arrow at Cathal's heart for a few moments, enjoying the apprehension in the Irishman's eyes. Then, with a smirk, he turned and aimed the arrow at one of the hanged men and released the drawstring. The arrow whistled through the air and punctured the victim's chest. The unfortunate man gasped and gurgled, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  The foreman continued to shoot arrows into the sacrificial victims until they finally stopped twitching. All that could be heard was the creak of ropes against sturdy tree branches. Cathal simply sat there on the ground, holding his head in his hands. A light touch on his shoulder caused him to look upward. It was Danika.

  She bent over and whispered, “Get up. He despises weakness.”

  Weakness? He almost let out a spiteful laugh as he climbed to his feet. He was not lamenting the grisly manner of death – he had seen far worse on the battlefields across Frankia and Ireland. No, he was lamenting the dark ritual. He knew the power of the dark Slavic gods; he knew they were treacherous. Veles would answer the call, of that he had no doubt. But he also knew that Veles took away more than he bestowed, no matter the sacrifice.