Werekynd - Beasts of the Tanglewild

by MacNiven, Robbie

  The path he’d taken through the Miremere had been treacherous at best, and it was with a small sigh of relief that he pulled himself up out of the cloying filth and onto the firmer, raised earth occupied by the stones. There was no one waiting for him, the only sign of life the distant, mournful cry of a marsh-hopper. The noise sent another shiver up his spine. This place couldn’t possibly be more removed from the bustling activity of the Duke’s court. He wondered whether his late father would have insisted he take on a job as Lorenzo’s valet if he’d known that after almost a decade of faithful service he’d find himself knee-deep in Miremere muck. Only thoughts of his pregnant wife, Lucretia, and the money needed to ensure her and their child’s wellbeing kept him from turning back then and there. He swore he’d complain to the Duke’s advisor, Eduard, as soon as he made it back.

  “The thoughts of the dead need not concern you,” gargled a voice. Ferdano yelped with fright, rounding on the newcomer. Or newcomers. There were three of them, stood one at the foot of each of the Triple Pillars. They were stooped and so covered in filth that they were nigh-indistinguishable from the rocks at their backs or the marshland around them. Ferdano had neither heard nor seen their arrival, yet there they were, surrounding him.

  “How did you know what I was thinking?” he found himself asking. It was unwise, he knew. The ways of the Miremancers should not be questioned. But their sudden appearance had startled the words from him.

  “Death and decay weigh heavy on your mind,” rasped the rancid voice. It was impossible for Ferdano to know which of the three was speaking, for whatever features they possessed were lost in the thick shrouds of their mud-caked hoods. The words seemed conjured up from the marshland itself, whispering between reedy clumps and popping from murky depths. “All that concerns death concerns us. We can even now see your father’s corpse, mouldering in glorious entropy in the graveyard of Saint Solus. And as for your unborn daughter –”

  “I come bearing a message,” Ferdano said, desperately trying to steer away from the Miremance’s unnatural predictions. He’d heard the stories about the fate of those who’d heard them prophesise. “A message from my lord, the Duke Lorenzo of Bilablo.”

  “It concerns the werekynd?”

  “And the task that you set for the war-pack of the longtooth Saarl,” Ferdano said. “Yesterday the master of the Duke’s guard, Captain Aria, sent a courier-wing with news that he has led the pack into crow valley. Everything is proceeding as planned.”

  “This is fortunate news,” came the reply, rising up like the rancid vapour from the gargling marshland all around. “We already sense death among the pack. But it is not yet enough. They must all perish, before the day’s end.”

  “Captain Aria’s orders were clear,” Ferdano said. “Though how much he is able to influence Saarl remains to be seen.”

  “You had best hope your Captain’s influence is strong indeed, otherwise your famous Walls will not still be standing in a season’s time. Make sure Duke Lorenzo knows this.”

  “He knows it,” Ferdano said. Even here, between the three stones he could feel his feet slowly sinking into the cloying ooze of the marshland. It ruled everything. He found himself wondering how many lives had it claimed over the millennia.

  “More than you could possibly know,” rattled the voice of the Miremere, channelled through the trio of stooped sorcerers. Ferdano had no more words to answer them with. His duty here was done, Saints be thanked. He turned, and would likely have run had not the marshland impeded his every step back to the ancient, crumbling Walls of Bilablo.

  * * *

  In the depths of the Tanglewild, Hrothgar’s eyes snapped open.

  “Master?” young Verreck said, startled by the ancient werekynd’s sudden wakefulness. It was midday, and the seer always conserved his strength by sleeping through the high hours.

  “Do you sense that, pup?” the great longfag growled. “Can you smell that stink?”

  Verreck put down the tanglecat leg he’d been gnawing, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. After a moment he shook his head, ritual braid-beads rattling.

  “No master. I… I smell nothing. Just the scents of the Tanglewild. What was it?”

  Hrothgar had closed his eyes, reclining against the inner bowl of the mighty warptree. Despite his ostensibly relaxed stance, Verreck could see the muscles beneath his silvery white fur quivering with tension.

  “It’s gone now,” Hrothgar said, animalistic features masked with deep concentration. “But I could smell it, I could definitely smell it. Miremere. The stench of those crippled demons that infest the marshlands.”

  “Surely not,” Verreck said. “After all this time?” Hrothgar said nothing, just motioned for the seeing runes. Verreck rolled out the pine rune mat and carefully picked up the seeing cup. Hrothgar took it from him with a haste that, should their positions have been reversed, would have seen him scolded for irreverence.

  “There is no time to lose,” Hrothgar explained as he tossed the runes. They clattered across the frayed old mat, the little carved bone chips skittering and skipping against one another. It felt like an age before they all finally came to rest.

  “Tanglewild guide me,” Hrothgar murdered, not taking his eyes off the scattered fragments. “Tell me what you see.”

  Verreck hesitated. He’d never been asked to read the old seer’s castings before.

  “Quickly,” Hrothgar snarled. “Before the weaves unravel!”

  “I see…” Verreck frowned, picking distractedly at his fangs. “I see the Walls of Bilbalo.”

  “And the Miremere,” Hrothgar said. “I was right. What else?”

  “I…” Verreck floundered. “It’s too clouded, master. I cannot read it.”

  “It is Death,” Hrothgar explained. “A pack is in danger. Saarl’s. The old longfang had doomed them all.”

  “Saarl? How? What has become of him?”

  “I cannot see. The runes are in turmoil.”

  “All of them?”

  “Maybe not all. Confusion rules everything. Crow valley. There are humans involved. Crowmen of course, and I see the hand of the Protectorates at work. The young pup Lorenzo.”

  “He has hired Saarl’s pack?”

  “Perhaps. It is likely not so simple. Whatever it is, it has great impact on the days to come.”

  “What does all this mean?” The old werekynd looked up from the rune mat, fixing Verrick with his yellow glare.

  “It means the end,” he growled, “is finally beginning.”

  Crow's Blood

  “How did you come to be in this place?” Ulthric asked. “Crow valley?”

  He’d rather have sat in silence with the human family, but the wife and her little girl were quite clearly terrified of him. Unable to ignore their shaking, fearful stares or the little one’s whimpers, he thought it best to at least prove that he could speak their tongue. Besides, it would take his mind off ripping them all apart. He seethed with anger and disappointment, and the beast within was rising to the surface. He could feel the shift coming on, itching in his fingers, raising the tempo of his heartbeat, sharpening his already predatory senses.

  None of them answered his question. Ulthric growled.

  “The crow people took us,” said the little boy after a moment.

  “Thomas!” his father said, gripping him by the shoulder. The boy yelped. Ulthric turned on him.

  “Let the boy go,” he snarled. White-faced, the father complied.

  “Go on,” Ulthric said, lowering himself back onto his haunches. They were sat in the small chamber outside the main cavern. The pack had disappeared inside almost five minutes earlier. Ulthric was trying not to think about whatever was going on inside. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was missing it, because Saarl didn’t trust him still. He was useless as a pack member. Worse than useless. An encumbrance, not fit to be werekynd. Not fit to be anything.

  “The crowmen attacked our village five nights ago,” the fath
er said eventually. “Those they didn’t kill, they carried off. What are you going to do to us?”

  “I don’t know,” Ulthric said. “I don’t make the decisions.”

  “But – ”

  The father was cut off by a sudden commotion from the larger chamber. Ulthric held up his hand for silence.

  Hundreds of people – humans – were shouting from within the cavern. And amongst the tumult he could also discern the howls of his were-kin. Vega must have been right after all. It could only be a trap.

  “Stay here,” Ulthric ordered. “If you try to escape you’ll die, either by our hands or those of the crowmen. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Wait…” the father began , but Ulthric was already gone. He’d waited long enough. Heartbeat rising and with a low snarl escaping his throat, he took off up one of the sloping side tunnels, axe in hand.

  * * *

  “Saarl!” Vega howled, ramming his boardsword through the belly of the fourth crowman to come at him. “Come back you coward! Face me.”

  The longfang stopped and turned. He’d been on his way out of the cavern, away from the frenzied melee at its centre. The pack was being assailed on all sides by a tide of crowmen, swords, axes, fangs and claws engaged in furious bloodshed as they fought to stay alive.

  “Face me!” Vega roared at the top of his lungs, desperately trying to push his way through the press towards the traitor. “Fight me you grey-backed weakling!”

  “You could never beat me, Vega,” Saarl replied, turning to square off against his oncoming rival. “You never think ahead. You’re no pack leader.”

  “Prove it!” Vega said. He threw himself towards Saarl. Fangs bared, the old werekynd met him.

  * * *

  The cavern was in turmoil. The side tunnel had led Ulthric out onto one of the rocky ledges overlooking its centre. There, at the heart of the light beaming down through the hole in the ceiling, his pack made its last stand. There were well over a hundred crowmen swarming around the two dozen werekynd – savages big and small, bristling with their black tribal feathers and wielding crude cudgels and flint blades. They flung themselves at the werekynd, driven to a height of blood frenzy by the urgings of their chieftain.

  The chieftain himself was a stooped old man, heavily bedecked in tribal finery and stood overlooking the bloodletting from a little rocky promontory towards the back of the cavern. He appeared alone, and defenceless. The pack was almost overrun, and Ulthric knew just from a glance that he couldn’t help them by intervening in the main fight. But if he could get to the chieftain…

  A new noise interrupted him, a sound that sent primal shudders up his spine and made his hairs bristle. It was the howl of a fully shifted werekynd. And it was followed moments later by a second.

  On the edge of the battle, Vega and Saarl had finally met in mortal combat. Both had undergone the metamorphosis, twisting and deforming into slavering, furred, feral monstrosities. Their weapons were discarded and their snapping fangs bared.

  “Saarl!” Ulthric shouted, but his voice was drowned by the sounds of battle. Even as he watched Vega leapt at the longfang, his claws outstretched. The two met with a meaty crunch. Why had they chosen now of all times to settle their dispute?

  Ulthric didn’t have the answer, and nor did he have the means to intervene in their struggle. Now that they had shifted only one would be leaving crow valley alive. All Ulthric could hope to do was save the lives of the rest of the pack. He leapt down from the ledge and raced towards the crowman chieftain.

  * * *

  Vega had lost control. He had shifted, and now the beast ruled him, body, mind and soul. Saarl too had given over to the animal within. It was their curse, the essence of what made them werekynd, man-beast, creatures of the Tanglewild. The untameable animal had finally escaped.

  Vega slammed into Saarl and sent them both tumbling across the rocky floor of the cavern, snarling and snapping. Vega was bigger, and used his weight well, but Saarl was no pup to be bullied into submission. Unlike Vega he retained an ounce of control over his transformation, a kernel of human intelligence which served to further augment his bestial abilities. He hooked one clawed foot up under Vega and flung him off. In a flash their positions were reversed, Saarl straddling his larger opponent and snapping down with his fangs. Vega shrieked in pain as the longfang sunk his jaws into his shoulder. The sudden agony served to slice through his animalistic emotions like a dagger. Close to defeat, he was afforded a window of human clarity, one which he had but a second to use.

  Groping blindly, he gripped the first piece of loose shale he could reach and slammed it into the side of Saarl’s snout. The longfang grunted in pain, his clenched jaw relaxing and his fangs slipping free as he slumped off Vega. The longfang’s opponent didn’t hesitate. In the time it took to blink he had his hands around Saarl’s throat, the scent of the pack leader’s blood thick in his nostrils.

  This ended now.

  * * *

  The crowman chieftain didn’t hear Ulthric until it was too late. The werekynd leapt with a roar, axe falling with every ounce of brute strength that the tired young man-beast could muster. The chieftain’s scream was cut short by the gristly crack of his skull being split open.

  Ulthric filled his lungs, and howled. It was the most primal, most animalistic of noises, a thing of fear and loathing amongst mankind and an act of dominance and pride for the werekynd. As the sound echoed back from the shattered ceiling, all eyes in the cavern turned.

  It took the crowmen only a few seconds to realise what had happened. As Ulthric’s howl died it was replaced by the keening wail of a hundred voices. The chieftain, their spiritual figurehead and embodiment of their tribe, was most definitely dead. The confusion and sorrow which gripped the human’s hearts was the only opportunity the pack was going to get.

  “Make for the entrance!” old Vrak barked. “On me!”

  The pack broke its formation, driving like a wedge of steel and fur towards the tunnel they’d first entered through. Ulthric made to follow, but scarcely had he leapt to the cavern floor before two struggling figures impeded him.

  Saarl and Vega were almost done. Both were bloodied, panting and hissing. Vega was winning. His heavier weight was pinning Saarl to the ground, whilst his hands squeezed the life from his throat. The longfang snarled and spat and snapped and clawed, but Vega clung on, jaws clenched, eyes glairing, muscles trembling.

  Ulthric hesitated. Pack law was clear, he could not intervene in a leadership challenge. But now was clearly not a time for such challenge to take place. He could pick out Captain Aria’s shrill voice trying to rally the crowmen somewhere, and the sounds of slaughter as the rest of the pack continued to hack its way out of the cavern. Saarl and Vega would be left behind. It didn’t matter who won, because they’d both die if they kept fighting here.

  Cursing, Ulthric grabbed Vega by his should guard and hauled him off Saarl. In a flash, the big werekynd rounded on him.

  Council of War

  Vega turned on Ulthric, clawing and snapping. The young werekynd manage to knock him aside with the flat of his axe, but the beast was up and at him again, in his face, spitting Saarl’s blood. Ulthric felt the animal inside him reacting, tearing at his mental barriers, desperate to be free. It wanted to do battle with the big, arrogant werekynd, wanted to beat him and crush him, tear him apart and prove his dominance. Prove he wasn’t a pup anymore.

  Swallowing hard, he beat off Vega’s renewed attack. Behind him Saarl was only just rising, shaking his head. His own beast was receding, the fight beaten from him by Vega’s frenzy. Blood covered the left side of his face in a glistening sheen.

  “Vega, stop!” Ulthric shouted, desperately pinning the transformed werekynd’s arms back. “Now’s not the time for a challenge! We need to get out while the crowmen are distracted!”

  His words seemed to have some effect. Vega blinked and shook his head. He still snapped and snarled, but the strength quivering in his arms lessened.r />
  “Try to think!” Ulthric pleaded. “The pack needs all of us!”

  “You should save yourself whilst you still can, pup,” Saarl said. He’d fully recovered now, shaking with the adrenaline of the recent shift. He spat blood and, without another glance at either Ulthric or Vega, made off towards the cavern entrance.

  “Saarl!” Ulthric shouted after him. “Help me!” But the old longfang didn’t stop. In moments he was lost amongst the press of the human savages.

  Saarl’s name was the final trigger for Vega’s recovery. He made a gargling noise, shuddering as the beast within him retreated and his normal form returned. There was a popping of joints, and a wet snapping sound as he went down onto one knee.

  “We have to get out of here,” Ulthric repeated, helping the werekynd back up. Vega was panting, one clawed hand clamped over the bite wound on his shoulder.