Shadow of the Werewolf

by Magnus Hansen

  Dusk came all too quickly. As the sun set to the west, casting looming shadows over the bleak island, the ponderous moon inched its way ever upward. To the north, he saw a solemn procession of Norsemen walking their way towards him. It didn't take long to figure out who they were – the injured hunters from the infirmary, escorted by a few guardsmen. They stopped at the base of the effigy.

  Cathal watched in silence as the doomed Norsemen were packed into the wicker man. To their credit, they did not complain nor attempt to run. Peering closer, it seemed as if the men, who were infected with the frothing disease, were drunk beyond measure. Good, he thought. The alcohol will cause them to burn faster.

  A slightly hysterical laugh escaped him, attracting a few worried glances from the laborers. They were more than a little apprehensive of him, as Cathal had been jabbering away to himself throughout most of the day. It took nearly all of his will to maintain a marginally sane countenance.

  He cocked his head back and gazed at the ominous wicker man. The effigy was completely built. It stood twenty-four feet tall, and was packed with eighteen sacrificial victims. They were packed in tightly, with no room to move, with no chance to escape.

  The villagers started gathering around the wicker man. They arrived in two's and three's, gawking and pointing their fingers at the giant effigy. They formed a half-circle, with Cathal between them and the statue. To his side, were two thick wooden posts, sticking four feet out of the ground. Cathal narrowed his eyes, wondering what they were for.

  Then, from the direction of the prison cells, Cathal could see several guardsmen escorting Domyan. The foreman was staring at him with an almost amused expression.

  Cathal cautiously stepped back, as the guards led the accused to the wooden posts, shackling the foreman's wrists to each post. Ah, so that's what they're for, he thought.

  Domyan looked over the gathering crowd with an air of thinly-veiled disgust. He then casually glanced upward, towards the full moon, then shifted his gaze to Cathal, with a half-smirk creasing his face.

  Nervously stepping away, Cathal walked around to the back of the effigy, keeping the giant wicker foot between him and the foreman. He did not want Domyan to see the fear that was permeating from his very pores. “Taranis, give me strength,” he whispered to himself, as he touched the foot of the statue. The sheer size and ominous presence of the effigy fortified his determination.

  “We're all set then?” said a familiar voice behind him.

  Cathal stiffly turned around and nodded. “It's perfect,” he affirmed, with an ardent glint in his eyes.

  The chieftain nodded and placed his hand on Cathal's shoulder. “Good. The sooner we get this over with, the better. In a few moments, my guardsmen will light the effigy. As it starts to burn, I want you to say a few words to the villagers. Something inspiring. I'm then going to have the Christian priest say a few words.” Torsten then motioned to his left, where a bald man in a black robe was apprehensively standing, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  The priest nervously nodded towards Cathal, who nodded back in silence.

  “Alright, then,” continued Torsten. “After the speeches are given, and the sacrifices have been made, the judges will discuss the fate of Domyan and his sister. When they judge them guilty, gods willing, we'll be done with this mess.”

  Guilty? Did Torsten know something that Cathal did not? He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but decided not to pursue the matter. He then looked over the multitude of unfamiliar faces. Where was Danika? Finally spotted her – she was surrounded by a group of stern guardsmen, two of which were holding her by the arms. She briefly met his gaze, then looked downward in apathy, her blond hair falling over her face.

  A few moments later, all was ready. Torsten lifted his hand, signaling for the proceedings to begin. Two guardsmen carrying torches walked around the giant wicker man and started to light the effigy. As the flames climbed up the legs of the statue, the condemned Norsemen trapped inside started to sing a melancholy dirge. A few of the men who were closest to the flames started to weep and wail, begging Odin to deliver them. The chieftain then turned his head and offered Cathal a curt nod, motioning for him to begin his speech.

  Cathal slowly walked to the front of the burning effigy. To his right was Domyan. The foreman was looking at him in a vindictive manner, sneering in utter disdain. Cathal tried his best to ignore him. Raising his hands in the air, he asked the crowd for their attention. The villagers, nearly five hundred of them, nervously eyed the druid, unsure of what to expect.

  After clearing his throat, Cathal said, “For as long as we have been human, we have had a deep connection with the wolf. When the gods created us and placed us on this earth, the animals were already here, living in balance with nature, but the humans upset that balance. We upset the balance of nature with no care or consequence, and for that, we have been judged.

  “With our bows and axes, we have been able to distance ourselves from the horrors of predation. We have been able to distance ourselves from that ancient, eternal hunger, and that in itself has made us weak. We thrive in the safety of our modern trappings, without a care to the horrors that lie in the woods that surround us.

  “We do not belong in nature. Our pale bodies hold no part in the natural cycle of this world. Take for instance the balance between predator and prey – where is our place in this cycle? Man kills the animals, cuts down the trees, and mines the very minerals from this earth, and what do we give back? Nothing.

  “I tell you there is a dark side to nature, a side that rights the blasphemies against itself with terrible vengeance. In our hubris, we have even taken the wolf, and domesticated the animal to our own needs. Did you think that you could just take from those predators without giving back? Did you think your could rape this land of its trees and ore and animals without consequence?

  “The gods have seen your greed and judged you guilty. That is why the dark gods have risen up and cursed your land, and that is why we have constructed this terrible effigy and offer these sacrifices – to appease the old gods and beg their forgiveness. As these noble men burn for our sins, I ask you to pray to your chosen gods. Ask them to deliver us from our avarice. For it is when we acknowledge that, as we destroy this land around us, we destroy ourselves, and for that I humbly ask the gods for forgiveness.”

  The crowd of villagers remained silent. There was but a mere inkling of understanding as to what the druid was recounting, but they did understand one thing – that they were paying the consequences for their greed. Whether Norse or Slavic or Christian, they were all guilty.

  Cathal slowly stepped back and nodded to the Christian priest, who stepped forward with a look of righteous indignation.

  The priest raised his hand and pointed to the effigy and yelled, “This is blasphemy! It is an affront to the one true god!”

  A banshee's laugh erupted from Domyan. There was an insidious look in the foreman's eyes as he yelled, “You think this will appease the gods? They laugh at your pathetic grasp of the true nature of this world! Now you will see what happens when you take that which is not yours. Now you shall see the true power of Veles!”

  Domyan's eyes began to glint a dark amber as he wrenched and twisted at the chains that bound him.

  “This man is guilty of worshiping a false god!” accused the priest. He then turned and pointed at the crowd and said, “And you are all guilty of taking part of this sacrilege!”

  A maniacal laugh interrupted the clergyman. “You die first, priest!” shouted Domyan as he yanked on his chains. “You will die, then that pathetic excuse of a chieftain will die, and then you, Cathal.” The foreman whipped his head around and looked straight at the druid. There was something about Domyan's countenance, something changing...

  It was then that Cathal heard the sound of a terrible howling emanating from the forest, as what sounded like a throng of wolves cried out into the night. Then, from all around him, wolves by the hundreds raced out of the surrounding
woods, towards the villagers. As the impending horror approached, Cathal's mind, in a vain attempt to protect his sanity, shut off for a moment – he could neither hear nor see, as everything around him transformed into a muted blackness. Then slowly, the ghastly sights and sounds around him came into focus. He could hear the roaring flames of the effigy, the screams of the sacrificial victims, the excited yipping of hungry wolves, and Domyan's demonic laughter.

  The wolves ran towards the villagers in carefully coordinated attack patterns, honed by eons of instinct and aggression. The malicious predators were bent on killing every last one of the villagers. It was no contest; the wolves were much stronger and quicker than their pale, nearly defenseless victims.

  The villagers, eyes wide with panic, tried in vain to escape, but they had no weapons to protect themselves! They were brought down by the dozens. The wolves bit and gnashed over the frightened villagers, dragging them into the forest, or feasting upon their bodies where they lie, screaming for mercy.

  Then Cathal, momentarily distracted by the carnage surrounding him, watched in awe as Domyan started to change. Among the chaos and pandemonium of the wolf attacks, the foreman screamed as his forearms and cheeks started to sprout coarse, black hair. He then crouched down, as his legs contorted and his heels elongated, ripping his pants and boots away. His shoulders quivered and buckled and burst through the fabric of his tunic – powerful, contorted muscles rippled and broadened to frightening size.

  Cathal screamed for the guardsmen to kill Domyan, but they were too busy trying to protect the populace from the wolf attacks.

  With an effortless shrug of its mighty shoulders, the werewolf broke the shackles that bound it. There was no trace of Domyan left in the beast, only pure, unbridled hatred and rage. The beast turned and approached the druid with a malicious snort.

  The priest then stepped forward. He was standing between Cathal and the werewolf, with a look of righteous indignation in his eyes. He raised his crucifix before him and yelled, “The power of Christ compels yoAAAAaaarrrrgggh!” His scream was cut short as the werewolf raised it's clawed hand, and with a mighty swipe tore the priest nearly in half. Blood sprayed into the night air, staining the earth with red and gore.

  Lifting its head towards the moon, the werewolf let out a bloodcurdling roar. Its eyes were crazed beyond measure, reflecting a symphony of malevolence.

  The hundreds of wolves that surrounded them, savagely attacked with practiced ease. They tore into the villagers and guardsmen, snapping and gnashing and killing, and amongst it all, the werewolf stepped towards Cathal, enjoying the fear in the druid's piteous eyes.

  “Face me, demon,” yelled Torsten, as he charged towards the werewolf, hefting a giant battleaxe. With an intense grimace contorting his face, the chieftain swung his blade at the monster with all his might.

  The werewolf effortlessly grabbed the haft of the weapon with one clawed hand, instantly stopping the momentum of the chieftain's attack. It then opened its great maw and clamped down on Torsten's head, crushing it like a ripe melon. As the chieftain went limp, the werewolf chomped and chewed, and after a few grizzly bites, swallowed Torsten's severed head.

  As the werewolf was distracted, feasting on the remains of the chieftain, Cathal looked wildly about. To his left, he saw a discarded bow and a quiver of arrows lying next to a dead guardsman. He stepped forward as quickly as he could, yet it seemed as if he were moving through a twisted dream, mired in quicksand. Finally, he reached down and grabbed one of the arrows from the guardsman's quiver. Then, quickly as he could, he opened his pouch of wolfsbane and dipped the tip of the arrow into the pouch. With the speed of desperation, Cathal grabbed the bow off the ground and notched the arrow.

  Looking up, he could see the werewolf approach him, an insidious grin etched on its repulsive face. Cathal whispered, “Taranis, give me strength,” as he pulled back on the drawstring and let the arrow loose.

  The arrow shot straight towards the werewolf's heart, yet the beast was so fast that it lurched away from the projectile at the last instant, causing the arrow to miss by a fraction of an inch. A triumphant look glinted across the creature's malevolent eyes as it lunged towards Cathal with blinding speed.

  Before Cathal could react, the werewolf sunk its powerful jaws into his shoulder, with the intent of ripping him limb from limb. But as the creature's sharp teeth sunk deeper into his flesh, Cathal's blood seeped into the beast's gums and mouth, absorbing into its bloodstream.

  The beast's pupils diminished to mere pinpoints, as its eyes widened in absolute shock. The werewolf then released its grip and staggered backwards, as the poison that coursed through Cathal's veins transferred into its own. The creature shook and convulsed, then started to wretch, trying to expel the poison from its body. As the werewolf vomited, the skull and brains of Torsten spewed over the hapless druid, who was lying on the ground, covering his face with his arms.

  Cathal recoiled in horror as he was bathed in the wet, putrid remains of the chieftain. Looking down at his chest, he could see a portion of Torsten's face stuck to his tunic, with the chieftain's baleful eye looking straight at him. With terrified apprehension, he brushed the bloody gristle off his chest and madly crawled backwards, away from the convulsing beast.

  Everywhere he looked was complete pandemonium; the wolves were ripping the villagers apart in a mad display of unbridled aggression. He watched in dismay as a few surviving villagers tried to run to the woodline, only to be chased and savagely brought down by the ravenous predators. Despite the horror that surrounded him, Cathal wondered why none of the wolves attacked him.

  The werewolf was now on its knees, twitching and convulsing, trying in vain to expel the poison from its body. Blood streamed from its nose and maw as it shook its giant head back and forth. Then, the beast shuddered and looked directly towards Cathal. It strained through its vocal cords, but was unable to form the proper words. How? it seemed to ask.

  Cathal looked into the beast's hateful, questioning eyes and muttered, “It was my own cowardice. I knew there was no way I could stop you from killing me, so I increased my tolerance to wolfsbane, thinking that if you killed me, I would take you with me. I had no idea the poison would work so fast.”

  The beast stared at him for a moment, then closed its eyes. It then convulsed and lurched over the ground, seemingly reaching for something just beyond the treeline. It then rolled over onto its back and gazed up at the night sky, its eyes fixated on the full moon overhead. With one final shudder, the monster went limp.

  The instant the werewolf expired, the maddened wolves ceased their attack. They looked around in bewilderment, as if they had just woken from a dream. The wolves ignored their hapless prey and simply loped back into the forest, as if beckoned.

  Cathal watched after the wolves for a moment, squinting his eyes through the thick smoke that was billowing from the effigy. The giant wicker man was now all but burnt away, with the charred, blackened bodies of eighteen sacrificial victims lying motionless on the ground. He then shifted his gaze and looked out over the field – now a bloody battleground littered with broken, dying bodies. There was nary a survivor amongst the hundreds of villagers.

  The town of Birka was completely lost.

  Through the dense smoke that lay over the rolling countryside, Cathal saw movement not a hundred feet away. From the forest, a figure walked slowly towards him. It seemed to glide through the blackened clouds of smoke. The wolves yipped and danced around the creature as it approached. Cathal watched in mounting horror as the beast stepped closer. A few moments later, a gentle breeze washed the smoke away, revealing a woman with blond hair, looking at him with sorrow in her eyes.

  Cathal gazed at her in disbelief, caught in the disparity of her beauty against the grizzly horror of the battlefield she tread upon. “How?” he asked, choking down his anguish.

  Danika looked into his eyes with mournful regret. Then, slowly reaching her hand to the top of her head, she curled her fingers a
round her hair and pulled off the blond wig, revealing shortly-cropped black hair. She stood there, wrapped in despair, as the wig dropped to the ground. “I'm so sorry,” she said, as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I'm so sorry.” She then turned and slowly walked back towards the forest, soon lost behind a cloud of acrid black smoke, with the wolves following closely behind her.

  Cathal was left with nothing but his own emptiness and remorse. He lowered his gaze and looked at the still form of Domyan. The foreman's blank eyes were staring upward, at the moon. The Irishman then slowly shook his head. Domyan took his sanity, and Danika took his heart. And while his mind would recover from the ravages of wolfsbane poisoning, he knew that his heart would forever be under the thrall of Danika's shadow.

  He simply sat there, lost and embittered. He knew the only reason the wolves didn't attack him, was because Danika willed it to be so. Cathal then reached up and grasped the bite wound on his shoulder. Was he infected by Domyan's bite, or would the wolfsbane protect him from the contagion? He lowered his head in utter despondency; he did not care.

  From the fringes of the smoky landscape, he saw two figures running towards him. One of the figures was human, bent over and gasping for air. The other figure was a wolf, chasing after the unfortunate man. Cathal then squinted his eyes and craned his head forward. No, it wasn't a wolf at all, he realized. It was Biter and Faolan!

  Faolan had a bewildered grin on his face, as he coughed and wheezed, trying to catch his breath in the smoky air. “I can't believe you're alive!” he coughed. He then looked wildly around him, more than a little apprehensive. “We need to get out of here.” He reached out his hand, which Cathal accepted, and pulled him to his feet.