by Tenaya Jayne
The eastern Regian mountain range was vast and brutal, twisting through the countryside like a vengeful snake with a spine of broken axe blades stabbing the sky. The first row of mountains to the west served as the werewolves’ garden fence. Behind it, at the base of the mountains, lay the suburbs of The Lair. The Lair itself was carved out of the stone face of the largest mountain in all of Regia. It was a city, homes of stone stacked atop homes of stone, with a deadly road winding around and up to the very top where the penthouse of the pack leader perched, protected and defiant.
Under the rule of their current leader, Philippe, the wolves had tripled their territory and greatly multiplied their numbers. Within the mountains, they had unofficially formed their own country. As their power grew, so did their opinion that the Vampire king had no right to rule over them. When the vampire prince had been assassinated, Philippe had doubled his efforts to prepare the wolves for a full takeover of Regia. The time was close at hand.
Philippe stood on his balcony in the cool morning sun, looking out over the country. He had a broad square face with a heavy, prominent jaw that was always peppered with wiry whiskers. The tawny hair on his head was long and unkempt, like a cascading apartment complex of rat nests. His eyes were endless black sinkholes; everything around got sucked in. And although his overall appearance gave the impression of total disregard, this wasn’t the truth. Philippe honed his appearance to the goal of unadulterated brute. He rarely bathed but kept his fingernails and teeth meticulously clean. When he did have occasion to smile, his smile caused disquiet in those unfortunate enough to witness it.
The sun had ruthlessly ripped bare everything before it, making the landscape appear smooth and bleached. The tops of the trees of the Wolf’s Wood looked like a spiky carpet from where Philippe stood. Possession of the Wood was Philippe’s secret joy. It was immense, and the roads were befuddling to anyone unfamiliar to them. The perfect place to get lost, intentionally as well as unintentionally. There were places within that were so beautiful, they were almost impossible to describe to anyone who had not seen them with their own eyes. Many unwary travelers who happened upon the Waterfall of Silverlight had forgotten their quests or themselves completely, convinced that they had fallen into a dream. Philippe used the Wood’s natural ability to distract like a web, to catch people. Through the last year, the werewolves had worked tirelessly to confuse the roads through the wood.
In the distance to the west, he could see the tiny outline of the Vampire castle. Philippe smiled as he imagined the old king squinting as he tried to see The Lair. A view to die for, he thought. And many had died for him to have this view. Others would, if they tried to take it away.
At this altitude, the air was too thin and frigid for even the taste of the toughest wolves, but Philippe loved it. His massive shoulders were warm, covered in the pelts of his dead adversaries. He never went anywhere in public without this macabre cloak on. To a Werewolf, to wear the pelt of another werewolf was just like carrying around a corpse. No other leader had ever done something so disgusting or fear invoking before. After his rise to power, no one had challenged Philippe again in case they ended up displayed on his back, forever desecrated and disgraced. And so, the entire werewolf race had submitted to Philippe’s eccentric decrees, the strangest being that they all learn to speak French.
The entire werewolf community was bemused and sometimes indignant that their leader was obsessed with Earth’s France and that he was forcing his bizarre ideals on them, but none so much the army officers, whom Philippe had demanded change their names to French ones. It was really the only source of weakness in the wolves’ offense, because most could only speak broken French, and the officers were commanded to give orders only in French. As a result, there was a lot of confusion during tactical training and more than a little anger from Philippe for their lack of talent in linguistics.
Despite these difficulties, the army was assembled and waiting. Philippe waited for word from his Fortress informant, who was due any day now. Power took patience, he reminded himself. His stomach growled loudly, demanding breakfast. Patience was difficult to maintain on an empty stomach. He pulled himself away from the view and rang for his serving wench.
Across the land, over the forests and marshlands, through the towns and cities, to the far reaches of the northwest lay the vampire lands. The Great Vampire City sprawled lazily like a contented cat in the shadow sand of the Desert of Halussis, or what most Regians aptly called the Dreaming Desert because the black shadow sand was highly toxic. It varied in color from grey to black, and only the blackest sand surrounded the Onyx Castle like a mote. Inhaling the sand or touching it with the bare skin would cause strong dreamlike hallucinations. The vampires were the least susceptible to it, making their land well protected against attack, and also elite. Aside from the Ogres, who were loyal to a fault to the vampires, very few of any of the other races tried to live anywhere near Halussis. The sand was collected periodically by scoundrels and smugglers who sold it in small doses for high prices, much like human drug dealers.
In the cool and naked morning, the Onyx Castle looked stately and ominous. Everything about the castle, inside and out, was in perfect order, down to the smallest detail. The castle and those who lived within were best described like a piece of exquisite jewelry—chosen, cut, set, and polished. No expense was spared. When Queen Cristiana decided that she wanted new bedding, not even the finest fabric was good enough until it was embroidered with gold thread. That was how the queen liked things. Her cast off socks were worth a small fortune.
On this morning, the queen’s tiny feet were quietly ghosting through the halls, searching out her husband like a virus. The swishing of her skirts along the floor was the only sound that preceded her. The ogres throughout the castle loved Christiana and were faithful to her above anyone else, even the king. She had carefully nurtured their love. With their loyalty, she could undermine anything the king set out to do with whispers and winks. The ogres were the only ones who didn’t feel the chill behind her smile.
King Zeren was aware he was being hunted and was in sitting in the dark of his favorite hiding place, certain the queen would never find him. It wouldn’t cross her mind that he would spend any time in such an unimportant room in the castle. That was why he used this room when he needed solitude. The only person who knew this was where he went when he was vexed, was Syrus’ guard, Redge.
A small band of sunshine coming through a crack in the drapes fell along the floor like a golden road. Zeren rolled his onyx signet ring between his thumb and forefinger like a worry stone. His fingertips caressed the inlaid hieroglyphs on the band while his mind caressed the subtleties of his troubles, not consciously digging into them but letting them float in his head like leaves in a stream. Zeren didn’t come to this seemingly unused guest room in the outskirts of his castle to solve problems. He came here to visit memories, delight in past triumphs, wallow in regrets, and fantasize of what ifs.
In this room, Zeren’s mind usually focused on Pipha, and he would make time to think on her today. But at the moment, he worried about his son. He was sorry that Syrus had been angry with him when he’d left the castle the last time. Zeren feared he would never see his son again and was irritated that Cristiana refused to speak about Syrus at all. Cristiana was an unnatural woman. And not for the first time did he have a faint twinge of hatred towards her that he quickly tucked deep down inside. Zeren couldn’t allow himself to really experience his honest emotions about the queen.
Please come back, Syrus. His mind whispered fervently. Know that I love you, Son. Come back alive. There was nothing he could do for his son now; he had to let it go.
Clenching his hands together, he remembered what it had felt like to hold Pipha’s hand, and the memory jostled a pain that was sweet agony. Honest emotion was all he could feel about Pipha and his mind caressed his memories again as they floated through his head. Simple details like the way her hair caught the sunlight, the dimple in her right cheek th
at only appeared when her smile was genuine, and the lilt of her giggle when she’d laugh at his stupid jokes. These memories made him smile, but it didn’t take long for bitterness to taint the memories. It was his fault she was dead. After all these years, his mind still cried out to her spirit to forgive him.
Chapter Eight