Werewolves of Kregen

by Alan Burt Akers

  “Correct or not, we must act on the assumption that San Quienyin’s potion will work. There is a lot told in legend and story; we must hold this close.”

  Deb-Lu got out quite quickly: “Oh, no, Jak. The potion is not mine. I will not tell you its history; but it is named ganjid.”

  Drawing the dudinter sword I said to Emder: “Have you a pastry brush? You’ll get to work to produce more of this ganjid?”

  “All day and night, if necessary.” He brought across a pastry brush.

  “And a vial, a well-stoppered one. A spice phial would do.”

  Seg and I took turns to paste the ganjid potion onto our sword blades. We laid it on liberally, never mind the six inches that might — or might not — be enough. The liquid sparkled for a moment on the metal and vanished. It did not seem to dry up. It was as though the potion seeped into the metal and was absorbed.

  Emder brought a small bottle and this was filled and I popped it into one of my belt pouches. Seg did the same.

  “You’ll have to contact the four smiths, and Naghan. All the new dudinter weapons will have to be consecrated. I’ll get Farris to talk to the chief priests.”

  “The potion will be ready,” promised Deb-Lu.

  We four, with Harveng, pop-eyed, looking on, must have presented an odd spectacle. A frighteningly powerful sorcerer, a valet-helpmeet, a formidable Bowman of Loh, and an emperor, standing in a kitchen clustered about a pot on the stove. And I did not forget that that famous Bowman of Loh was a king. We were like a caucus, a cabal, plotting secret doings in dead of night. If anyone had looked in, we’d have appeared downright furtive. We combated a dark and secret evil, and we were employing dark and secret remedies.

  “I’ll tell Targon the Tapster and Naghan ti Lodkwara to set an inconspicuous watch. We do not want anyone spying in here.” I stretched, scabbarded the sword, took a hitch to my belt. “Now there’s an Opaz-forsaken werewolf skulking about out there. I think I’ll take a little stroll and see what dudinter and ganjid will do.”

  As I spoke I felt — and I admit this with no shame, no sense of falling-away — a twinge of doubt.

  Would electrum coated with werebane work? Would anything work against the foul pestilence that had fallen on us in Vondium?

  I saw Seg looking at me, his head a little on one side. Well, he could guess what I was thinking. Good old Seg! I roused myself.

  “I want to have a go at the dratted beast myself first. I believe in your theories, your work, what you have accomplished, Deb-Lu. But — just in case — I don’t want some young guardsman, some lad, having his head bitten off and me nowhere around.”

  Seg let rip a guffaw.

  “What! Things happening and Dray Prescot not around! Never...”

  The others found smiles at this, and I grumped. What I didn’t know then was the truth — the awful, horrible truth — behind Seg’s chaffing words.

  Chapter eleven

  How two jurukkers stood guard

  Nothing more was seen or heard of the werewolf that eventful night, and for the next few days I and my comrades were plunged into hectic activity. There was so much to do. The forces to be taken up to reinforce Turko had to be selected and organized. There were innumerable delegations from all over our part of Vallia to be received and treated honorably, their grievances dealt with as best as possible. Justice had to be delivered. The budget was a constant thorn. Taxes — well, I spare you that blasphemy, for, although as an emperor I needed taxes from the people to pay for everything necessary to run an empire — rickety though that was — I can wince as well as the next fellow when it comes to paying out taxes. Mind you, by Zair, there are taxes and taxes. A just tax to run your country in a proper and decent way — fine. An unjust tax to fatten up the lords — oh, no...

  Still, I was the emperor and no longer a kind of Robin Hood figure. I used the taxes as wisely as I could, with the Presidio, agonizing over allocations. I refused to have any new building undertaken in the imperial palace and merely maintained what of the fabric was useful. A great deal of the old magnificence was falling into ruin.

  We had to put a new wooden roof on one of the outer halls and apartments to house the Jikai Vuvushis Marion was so busily organizing for me.

  I know Delia had spoken a soft word, for she did not restrict the recruitment of the new regiment to Sisters of the Sword. For this I was grateful.

  “I am mightily intolerant in my choice of girls,” Marion told me one fine blustery morning as we set out to check the first consignments of electrum weaponry forged by the four smiths in the city.

  Among the glittering throng of riders with us, her affianced man, Strom Nango ham Hofnar, stood out splendidly.

  “I am glad to hear it, Marion. Although from what little I know of these ladies, every single one is worth a regiment of mere men.”

  Her chin went up at this. Well, by Zair! I might not have trembled inwardly for the temerity of my remark, jocular though it was intended to be. I spoke a semi-truth, at the very least. Marion chose to change the subject and comment acidly upon the wind and the raindrops which every now and again spattered upon us.

  The four smiths had worked hard and diligently. Guards stood about the stacked weapons. As is the way of these occasions, a crowd gathered to gawp.

  “Well done, Smiths all,” I said. I shook a thraxter high, trying to get the glimmer of Zim and Genodras to flash along the blade, and finding the dappled clouds too clustered, the rain beginning to spitter down in earnest. “See the weapons are all carefully taken to the temple. Orders will be received from the Lord Farris.”

  “Yes, majister.”

  The little scene, damp and cloudy, did nothing to cheer me up. By the disgusting diseased intestines and foul stinking armpit of Makki Grodno! Oh, I was in a right state, fretting over the safety of Vallia, itching to get off to Turko and having a bash at Layco Jhansi, cogitating how poor old Natyzha Famphreon’s problems could be turned to the advantage of Vallia, feeling the pressure of many another thorny problem I have not mentioned to you. And Delia was away somewhere. Yes, as they say on Kregen, I had to accept the needle in all this.

  One thing intriguing me I wished to ask Delia.

  “Why,” I would say after sufficient time had passed for the very necessary greetings to be suitably dealt with, “why is the new imperial guard regiment being formed from a cadre of Sisters of the Sword? Why did you not specify Sisters of the Rose? It is a mystery to me.”

  Well, the sooner I got the answer the better. Not, as you will readily perceive, because I’d get the answer sooner — oh no! — but because it would mean I’d be with Delia.

  The day chosen for the consecration of the weapons was The Day of Opaz Sublime in Glory. Every single day, of course, has its own name. When different religions are involved then a single day may sag heavily under a burden of names.

  Other religions were involved, and anxious to give their benedictions. I will spare you the listings of their names and the names of their days.

  Suffice it to say, the populace crowded around to see the new dudinter weapons blessed. The priests performed their parts well. Trumpets pealed. Flags fluttered and cracked, for the day continued the blustery weather. Clouds massed and blotted out the light of the suns. Rain dropped down, and strengthened, and the gusts blew the rain into long lancing streamers into the faces of the crowds.

  Someone I couldn’t see in the crowd at my back and whose voice I did not know mumbled something about this being a day of ill omen.

  I remained fast.

  In any great enterprise one has to contend with the faint-hearted. Not by dragging him down, but by reassuring his comrades he would one day achieve success.

  All the same; this did in very truth seem to me to be a day of ill-omen.

  What chilled me at the very thought of it was simple.

  Somewhere out there, among those crowds taking part in the ceremonies of consecration, stood a man who was not a man, was more than a man, was a werewolf
.

  He would be standing there in a pious attitude, head bowed at appropriate moments, genuflecting, looking up at the open-air altars and the priests, taking part in the chanting and the prayers. What would he be thinking?

  Contempt for us poor mortal fools?

  Cunning plans to circumvent all our own plans?

  Ravenous lust and hot desire at the prospect of his next girl-victim?

  Or, just perhaps, a tinge of fear?

  A tiny zephyr of apprehension when he looked about at the vast crowds, and saw the dudinter weapons?

  No, no. Somehow I did not believe that our Ganchark of Vondium was frightened by all our fancy weapons and our chanting and mumbo-jumbo.

  He remained locked into his belief in his own supernatural prowess.

  That seemed certain to me as I stood and the rain belted down and we all got soaked.

  That night after we’d all taken the Baths of the Nine and eaten hugely, we heard stories coming in from the countryside of all manner of evil portents. Horrid signs had been seen. The usual scad of two-headed animals was reported. Any stupid accident was magnified into a certain pointer to disaster.

  Even the Headless Zorcamen had been seen.

  Now this one annoyed me, for we’d already punctured that silly superstition. Yet, folk still believed, still thought that evil times brought out the Headless Zorcamen to ride across Vallia in dire warning...

  Carrying a goblet of fine Gremivoh I wandered out onto the terrace. The stars were obscured. At my back through the pillared windows the sounds of the people enjoying themselves floated out onto the night air. At the moment I craved solitude; yet if good old Seg had walked out after me I’d have been pleased to see him. He saw me go out and without a smile turned back to talk to those in the group about him. He knew my ways a little by now, did Seg Segutorio, King of Croxdrin, Hyr-Kov elect.

  A single thickish figure by the head of the flight of steps intrigued me. The figure seemed to writhe about and then parted. It split into two. I sauntered over.

  Well, now!

  If this kind of thing was going to carry on when the regiment of Jikai Vuvushis stood guard...!

  I knew the guardsman, young Nafto the Hair. He was hairy, at that. He stood tall and straight, rigid. He licked his lip as I approached, and swallowed.

  I did not know the girl, of course. She was just such a Battle Maiden as those I’d seen in fights, in skirmishes and ambushes. She wore the kit of a Sister of the Sword, her rapier at her side, and, also, she carried a light halberd. This was her sign of office, stating that she was a jurukker on guard duty.

  Handling this trifling but pertinent incident could be tricky. A light touch seemed to me to be essential. A heavy-handed approach might work; I doubted it.

  Anyway, when a fellow and a girl catch a monotonous night guard-duty together, well, nature is nature, propinquity will strike, a man is just a man and a woman is just a woman, and well...

  I said, “Lahal, Nafto. How is the lady Nomee?”

  In the lights of the torches his cheeks flared up. He looked furtive. He had every damn right to be furtive. I happened to know that he was betrothed to the lady Nomee.

  “Lahal, majister. She is well, I thank you.”

  “Good.” I turned to the Warrior Maiden. “Lahal, and your name is?”

  “Lahal, majister.” As she spoke I thought I caught an odd random gleam of the torches from her eyes. They sparkled brilliantly. Most odd. “I am Jinia ti Follendorf, and it please you. I am but recently returned from Hamal.”

  “You were with Stromni Marion?”

  “Yes, majister. We were rescued just in time by the Jiktar and Strom Nango.”

  “I have heard the story. It was a brave deed, if sad.”

  “Yes, majister.”

  “Well, now, Jurukker Nafto. You are from 2ESW, and Jurukker Jinia ti Follendorf from the new detachment of Jikai Vuvushis has no doubt been entrusted to your care.”

  “That is so, majister. But my tour of duty is ended and I but wait for Larghos the Dome to relieve me.” As he spoke we heard the quick step upon the flagstones. “And here he is now, majister.”

  I stepped back and let the guards get on with it. The Deldar changed guards very smartly when he saw me in the shadows. Yet that is an injustice. Deldar Fresk Ffanglion would do his duty smartly no matter when and where. Larghos the Dome took post. Nafto stepped across to fall in beside the Deldar. Just before he gave the order to march off, Fresk Ffanglion cocked a wary eye at me.

  I nodded.

  Vastly relieved, he marched off to the next guard post with his detail. Slowly, after a polite word to the new guard and to his companion, Jinia ti Follendorf, I sauntered down from the terrace and wandered off into the gardens.

  Once the girls were in sufficient strength to form a full-size regiment, they would stand guard by themselves. All the same, there would be times in the future when men and women stood guard duty together.

  Oh, well, nature was nature. If one interfered only worse complications could ensue, tragedy might follow.

  The rain had ceased, washing the air to allow the sweet night scents to permeate everything. The moon blooms were particularly strong on a cloudless night, so that with the cloud cover above all the other scents so often overlooked could be savored on this night.

  Again I gave no particular thought to the way of it.

  A footfall on the gravel at my back was not the quiet tread of the guards. It was, also, not Seg’s usual light hunting step. I turned easily, to see Seg walking up and deliberately making all this noise for my benefit.

  “Hai, Seg!” I said at once, letting him know he was welcome. Well, hell’s bells and buckets of blood! There are precious few times when Seg is not welcome.

  “You prosper, my old dom?”

  “Hardly.” I told him about two jurukkers kissing each other on guard duty.

  He guffawed.

  “These youngsters don’t know how good they’ve got it, by the Veiled Froyvil!”

  “When we get up to Turko and start knocking seven kinds of brickdust out of Layco Jhansi they’ll have no time for amorous combat. Believe me.”

  “Oh, aye!”

  We saw the white flitting figure of a girl running between the flowerbeds, a moth in that erratic light.

  As I say, again I gave no particular thought to the way of it.

  Seg started forward.

  “The foolish girl...”

  What she was about we could only conjecture. We started at a run after her.

  The hoarse snarling growls, the desperate screams, the horrid guttural sounds of bestial triumph drove us on in a lung-bursting run.

  Chapter twelve

  “The dratted thing’s dead all right.”

  Together we burst out beyond the edge of the shrubbery and stared across an open flowerbed area. The blood thumped around my body and I could feel my heart going nineteen to the dozen. The feel of the sword in my fist gave me some reassurance — some, by Krun, only some!

  The werewolf appeared huge, menacing. The girl lay upon the path, sprawled, her white dress glimmering in that mothlike appearance in the random illumination.

  As we raced up, the ganchark lifted his head. The muzzle gaped, sharp fangs yellow within the darkness. His eyes in that wolfish fashion burned red.

  Seg skidded to a halt. His bow was in his fist.

  Seg Segutorio, least of any Bowman of Loh, was not going to walk around in our present position without his famed Lohvian longbow. He drew, lifted, loosed in that lightning fast reflex that dazzles the eye.

  Bending, I hurled myself forward under the shaft and to the side, keeping out of Seg’s line of sight.

  Before I reached the werewolf and the girl three arrows sprouted from the thing’s breast.

  It screeched hideously, pawing unavailingly at the shafts.

  Then I was on it.

  The dudinter blade smeared with ganjid slid into his belly. The blade ripped up, twisting brutally, tearing
, bursting the thing’s heart.

  It screamed and fell.

  It fell on the girl.

  I gave it a vicious kick, toppling it over on its side. The girl’s eyes were closed, there was blood on her skin through a long rent in the dress; but she still breathed.

  Seg was with me.

  We were both panting as though we’d run an enormous distance instead of the less than a hundred paces from the point where we’d first spotted the werewolf. Seg kicked the gray carcass. The hair hung lank and twisted, the vicious head lolled, the muzzle gaping, the tongue curled between those yellow fangs.

  “We’ve done it!” said Seg. He whooped a breath. “May Erthyr be praised!”

  “Aye,” I said. “By Zim-Zair, I really believe the thing is dead.”

  “Oh, aye, my old dom. The dratted thing’s dead all right.”

  In a hollering rush we were surrounded by guards. High-held torchlights illuminated the scene. The pooled blood shone crimson. I ripped out an intemperate order.

  “Run for the needleman! Run for a puncture lady! The girl is sore hurt.”

  More than one person ran off, and this pleased me.

  We all stood in a ring with the torches streaming their orange hair above us. The light showed up every detail.

  Some of us gasped. One or two screamed. Others cursed deep in their throats. Most of us, I was glad to see, stood looking stonily on.

  The werewolf changed.

  The evil metamorphosis that had gripped him slackened its hold now he was dead, loosening the bonds that chained him to the wolf form. The lank gray hair rippled and curled away. The hideous fanged muzzle shimmered as it changed, turning back into a man’s mouth and chin. The ears rounded and flattened. The whole form flowed and melted as a child’s chocolate doll melts in the sunshine upon the windowsill.

  But, instead of sloughing away into a puddled mess, the ganchark took on another form — its true form.

  We stood looking down upon the body of a young man.

  Now the people gasped again, and this time there were more oaths, more curses in that crowd.

  We stood looking down upon the dead body of Jurukker Nafto the Hair.