by B N Miles
The flames grew hotter and thickened, rolling and churning like angry waves in the ocean. The column began to grow darker, hotter, and taller, swirling and swirling, turning in one central motion around his father and the three wolves. Cam couldn’t see them anymore, lost in the flames, and he took deep gasping breaths as the heat forced him further and further away.
As he screamed out for his father, a bright flash blinded him, and the flames tore up into the air, reaching the tops of the trees, curling the green leaves into ash.
3
Cam fell to his knees as the column dissipated. Ashen leaves rained down on him, drifting in the suddenly quiet air. The ground crackled and smoldered where small fires burned, and the forest was still.
Cam managed to get to his feet, coughed, choked, gagged, and staggered over to where his father had fallen, to the center of the thick column. He stomped over small fires, heedless, his heart racing, and his head thick and fuzzy. He nearly lost his footing over the charred remains of a wolf and kicked the creature aside. He found another wolf, twitching but covered in so many burns that it looked nearly cooked.
The last wolf was on top of his father in the center of the ring of burned land. It was dead just like all the others. Cam grabbed its hind legs and pulled it away, leaving the corpse slumped over a dying flame. Cam stumbled to his father’s side and knelt down, unaware of the heat of the ground and the ash that stained his blood-soaked trousers.
His father looked at him, blood streaking his face from a gash on his forehead. Bite wounds littered his body. His arms and legs were torn to shreds. Cam nearly cried at the sight of it, at the way the blood bubbled on his chest. He knew what that meant: one of those animals had punctured a lung, and there was no way his father could survive it.
Cam took his father’s hand and held it tight. His father stared at him. His eyes were calm and focused. He coughed and spattered blood onto Cam’s chest.
“Father,” Cam whispered.
The old man tried to smile. It was grisly, blood on his teeth, lips, and tongue. “Cam,” he managed then coughed more blood. “Village. Warn.”
Cam nodded, squeezed his father’s hand. “I will.”
“Sorry.” He coughed one more time, tried to take two gasping breaths, and finally let his eyes shut.
Cam knelt there, staring at his father for a long moment.
He felt like his world had suddenly broken into pieces.
His father, the strongest man in the world. When Cam was a child, his father was easily the biggest man in the village. He was the village’s shaman, one of the most powerful shamans in the whole region. Cam had heard stories about what his father had done in some of the Meta wars, but he hadn’t believed them, not until he’d seen what his father could do with his own eyes.
He’d once been the great hero of the Battle at Spring Lake, the slayer of hordes of Shifters and Goblins, their savior and protector.
Now he was dead, a broken shell of the man he once was.
Cam bowed his head and forced away the tears. He didn’t have time to mourn, not yet at least.
There was a persistent voice in the back of his head that told him this was all his fault.
His father had been teaching him the Urspells his whole life. Cam should’ve been able to find that focus before, should’ve been able to touch the priori like his father could. His entire life had been devoted to practicing the physical and spiritual arts, except he’d failed so utterly at the spiritual.
Cam never knew how much power the priori held. He always thought Urspells were jokes, tricks, little incantations that amounted to nothing. He had no clue that his father could channel so much priori, that the man could burn the forest to ash if he wanted. Cam always assumed training his body had been more important, and he let his spiritual lessons drift past him like leaves in the wind.
His father has been disappointed, then angry, and then grew quiet over the past couple of years. Their lessons continued, but Cam never once touched the priori, never once figure out how to make the Urspells work.
And now Cam finally realized how he’d failed.
The power never occurred to him during that fight. He’d tried to reach the proper meditative state at first, but as soon as things went sideways, the idea of trying to touch the priori never slipped past his fear and anger. And because of that, he failed.
His father was dead. There would be no more lessons, no more hunting, no more laughing. There would be nothing else. Cam would never learn to use the magic his father believed was his birthright.
If he had learned sooner, maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe Cam could’ve summoned that fire and burned away the wolves, or at least been of more use. If he had cared more, tried harder, studied more…
Cam took his father’s hand and gripped it tight. He blinked as the tears came to him, despite his anger and his need to keep them at bay. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
But a cracking twig drew his attention away.
Cam looked up through the smoke as a lone wolf prowled along the edge of the burnt ground. It stared at him for a long moment, pacing back and forth, not coming closer. Cam scrambled away, turning to face the creature. As he moved, his hand found the cross guard of his father’s bronze sword buried in the ash. He moved his fingers down its length until he wrapped his hand around the worn leather grip.
He brought it up and out before him, the ash falling away like water from a rock.
It was heavier than he expected. He’d trained with it only sparingly over the years. His father wanted him to learn bow and staff and spear, since those weapons were plentiful. He even learned how to fight with an axe and a shield. The sword had been a rare treat, but now it felt like a tool, an edge for killing. It was three feet long with a swept-back blade that ended in a short crossguard, curved upward to meet the blade. The pommel was round and wide, and the grip was made from sweat-stained leather wrapped around hard wood scales. Cam held the sword in both hands and readied himself as the wolf stopped its pacing and stared.
He felt heavy, like his limbs were getting sucked down deep into the ash-covered dirt.
His arms shook has he pointed the weapon at the last wolf. The ground smoldered around him, small wisps of gray-black air drifting lazily up to the singed treetops. Cam stared at the creature as it paced to the side, never taking its eyes off him. He didn’t know how to use the sword, had only minor lessons with the thing. It was meant to be wielded one-handed, a round buckler shield in the off hand, but he felt like he might drop the thing at any moment as his fingers shifted their grip.
The wolf stopped pacing and turned to him again. But instead of lunging, its body began to twist.
Cam knew that Weres changed shapes. He’d heard the stories from his father and the other elders in the village, but he’d never actually seen a Were before, let alone seen one change before his eyes. His gut roiled as the wolf’s skin began to stretch and morph, its bones and tendons and sinews sliding around like rocks caught in a fast-moving river. The tip of his sword wavered as the thing’s fur sucked into its body, leaving smooth tan skin. The Were’s snout pulled back, its teeth flattened, and its lips plumped and curved.
Cam could barely move as the Were let out a gasp and a little groan. She stood up straight, coughed once, and stared at Cam across the ash-strewn ground. Her breasts were full and perky, her nipples pink and hard. Her groin was covered in light brown downy hair, and her hips were wide. She was muscular but still somehow soft. Her bangs were cut straight across her forehead, and her hair hung over either shoulder, thick and straight. Her mouth was full and plump, and her eyes were the same startling blue as the wolf she’d just changed from.
Cam had seen naked women before. But normally, they were older women that had lost any sense of modesty. He saw them while he was bathing in the river with the others, and he’d always tried to turn his head away out of some deeply ingrained sense of impropriety.
This woman, however, was gorgeous, a
nd he had never seen anyone like her. She looked to be around his age, maybe just shy of her twentieth year. Her skin was smooth and slightly tan, darker than Cam’s own pale skin. She stretched her neck and stared at him, but she didn’t move an inch. For a long moment, she stared at him before speaking.
“What are you?” she called out.
Her question surprised him so much that he almost looked around. He regained his composure a moment later and raised his sword again. She was gorgeous, and he felt his body react to her naked form, but she was still part of the pack that had taken his father from him.
“Leave here,” he barked at her.
She tilted her head. “I asked you a question. What are you? What could do something like…” She gestured at the land.
Cam clenched his jaw and stepped toward the girl. In her Human form, she didn’t look intimidating. She was shorter than Cam, weighed much less, and had nothing with which to protect herself. He could run her through and be done with it.
But she didn’t back off or show fear. She only smiled, showing her straight white teeth. “Plan on murdering an unarmed, naked girl?”
Cam stopped moving. “You killed my father.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” She frowned and looked past Cam. “Is that him?”
“Yes,” he growled. “Get the hell out of here.”
“I can help,” she offered. “Drag him back to your village.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
She shrugged. “I never liked the assholes you killed,” she said. “And besides, I’m curious. What are you?”
“I’m Human,” he said and stepped closer. “And if you don’t run, I’m going to kill you where you stand, you Were bitch.”
She blinked at him and let out a breath. “Okay, I guess that’s fair. In my defense, I didn’t attack you. Those other dickheads did, and I tried to talk them out of it.” She took a few steps away from him and Cam stared at the beautiful naked girl, his heart hammering. He should run her down and rip her throat out, stab her through the chest and cut across her lungs, make it slow and painful.
He should avenge his father.
Instead, he felt exhausted. He felt like he wanted to fall over and collapse onto the blackened ground. And something about what she’d said hit him hard in the chest.
She took a few more steps away then turned. He stared at her slim, muscular body as she ran through the trees. She disappeared into the underbrush, barely making a sound as she slipped between the trees and bramble bushes.
Cam slumped to his knees. The sword fell from his fingers and landed with a soft thump on the leaves.
He stared at his fingers and felt a sob begin to build itself in his chest.
His father was dead.
The village’s champion, their shaman. The one man that Cam looked up to above all others, the man that was supposed to teach him how to survive in this broken, ravaged world, how to become a man himself.
And now he was taken from him.
He clenched his jaw, refusing to allow any tears to fall. He picked up the sword again, got to his feet, and walked to his father’s body.
He knelt down and placed the weapon on his father’s chest. He placed his father’s hands and arms, wrapping them around the weapon. “I won’t leave you here,” he said, whispering the words. “You deserve better.”
He leaned down, took his father under the arms, and began to half carry, half drag him through the forest.
4
It took Cam the rest of the morning to carry and drag his father’s body back to the village.
More than once, he stumbled and fell, tripping over roots and bushes. He kept thinking about the Were girl he’d let run off. If she wanted to come back and kill him, he’d be an easy target. All she had to do was shift into her wolf body and come tear his throat out while he tried to drag his father along the forest floor.
But that didn’t stop him. He kept going, one step after the other, his father’s heavy body sliding along. As he neared the village, he found the old cart track that led south toward the Mansion and its mountainous protection. He followed the track and that made the going easier. As the sun climbed to its peak and just beyond, Cam staggered along the cart path toward a wall of half earthworks, half wooden stakes sharpened at the tip. A gate had been built into the earth, formed from thick, heavy logs that his father had helped fell and shape so long ago. When he was within bowshot of the gate, he stopped and slumped down to his knees again.
“Help!” Cam shouted out. “Someone, help! Open the gate!”
Nothing happened at first, but he knew he was being watched. There were always sentries posted along the wall. They walked a narrow platform at the very top of the earthworks. The spiked timbers were about five and a half feet tall, and most men in the village were tall enough to fire arrows between the spikes.
“Cam!” came a voice from up on the wall. “Cam, are you injured? Who is that in your arms?”
“It’s my father,” Cam shouted back. He recognized the voice. It was Morcann, a level-headed man who lived in a small home against the far wall, on the opposite side of the compound from Cam and his father.
He heard creaking and the gate began to swing open. Cam let out a sigh of relief as men hurried toward him, dressed in their woolen tunics and leather breeches.
The first to reach him was Dagan, one of the village Elders. He had tanned skin from working the fields his whole life and wrinkles all along his hands and forehead. His hair was a shock of white, long and braided down his back. He was stout and his eyes were a sharp dark brown.
Morcann followed behind him. He was about Dagan’s height, though slimmer and younger. His nose was crooked and his buttoned tunic was a pale, sun-washed blue, while Dagan wore oak-brown.
“My god,” Dagan said as he reached Cam. He knelt beside his father’s body and touched his chest. Dagan’s hand came back sticky with blood. “What happened? Morcann, take Galerick into the village. Get Indri, she has to see him.”
“Right.” Morcann took Cam’s place and began to drag his father.
Cam let him go. He knew Indri couldn’t do anything. She was a skilled healer and knew more about herbs and medicines than anyone else in the village, maybe better than anyone else in the region. But she couldn’t bring the dead back to life.
“Weres ambushed us,” Cam said, staring at the ground. His father left a red smear on the grass as his blood continued to slowly drain from his wounds.
“Weres?” Dagan grabbed Cam’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “How many? Where?”
“Eight miles south of here,” Cam said. “There were six, seven, maybe more, I can’t remember. Father, he…” Cam stopped himself and took a shaky breath. “I killed two. He killed the rest. One escaped.”
“Come,” Dagan said, pulling Cam to his feet. “Get inside. We have to bar the gates. If there’s a pack of Were this far south, there will be more coming.”
Cam allowed himself to be raised and stumbled into the village after Dagan. His eyes couldn’t focus and he was dizzy and exhausted. Everything was a blur, and all he wanted to do was lay down and curl up into a ball. He wanted to sleep. He wanted blissful blackness to take him.
He wanted to feel something other than the hot rage that threatened to rip him up inside.
Just inside the village gate was an open field. Flanked on either side were buildings, one story high with low peaked roofs made from stone and wood. Wide, low stone porches were attached to the front of each building, and small tables and chairs sat out front of every home he could see. People lingered about, some of them sitting in front of the houses on those chairs, weaving baskets or carving wood, and they all stared at Cam. He recognized them all, had grown up with them, but he couldn’t think of their names as Dagan took him further into the village.
“You need rest,” Dagan said. “I’m taking you home. We’ll speak to the other Elders later.”
“Dagan, the Weres,” Cam said. “They’re st
ill out there. We need… you need to man the walls. Get all the men armed and on the walls.”
Dagan nodded, his old, wrinkled eyes fierce. “We’ll be okay, Cam. Thanks to your father, we have good, stout walls, which is a lot more than most villages can say. I’ll send word to the surrounding farms and we’ll get everyone inside.”
Cam nodded gratefully as they passed down a thin lane between houses. There were maybe thirty structures in all within the confines of the walls, and several more sprawling houses outside of them, attached to the fields that most villagers worked. The fields were owned by everyone, though several families were assigned to tend to them full time. The villagers rotated in and out of them, helping with the plantings, the tending, and the reaping. After a new crop was harvested, a large portion was taken south to the great Mansion, where it would be added to their stores. In return, the village would be given its own share of what it needed, from salted meats, to small bronze pots, to grains.
Every village in the world worked that way, as far as Cam knew. They tended the fields, grew what they could, and took nearly all of it to the Mansion. From there, the Mansion distributed what the people needed. It was a simple system, but it worked well. Cam knew they could call on Lord Remorn to come and defend them, but how they’d get a messenger to the Mansion in time, he couldn’t say.
Dagan stopped just outside of Cam’s own house. It was smaller than the rest, tucked into the back corner. The front door had been painted bright blue, an expensive luxury that Cam’s father had been so proud of. Dagan pushed open the simple wooden door and took Cam into the gloom. He helped Cam down onto the bedrolls of soft bear fur and straw-stuffed leather before he busied himself lighting lamps.
Cam instantly began to strip off his blood-soaked clothes. Dagan frowned and watched him for a long moment. “You’ll be okay,” the older man said. He hesitated and shook his head. “I lost my father when I was younger than you. That man was like a giant in my memory, and still is. Your father though, he truly was a man above others. You’re going to be okay, Camrus.”