Roddick stared at the thing addressing him – not a werekynd, as he had first thought, but another human. As human as he was. His age lost somewhere between the indeterminate changes of boy and manhood, he was tall and gangly, with dark, piercing eyes. And in a rush Roddick remembered his saviour, the slayer of the tanglecat. A human, the same one surely who now stood before him.
“You are wondering what I am, perhaps?” the youth said, smiling. His speech was clumsy, shot through with the animal inflections of the werekynd. His teeth, when he revealed them with a grin, were sharpened to points. His hair was a great tangled mess, knotted and platted down to his waste. His chest, like many of the werekynd’s, was bared, his skinny muscles covered in swirling red paintwork. He stank of the man-beasts, and yet he was not one of them.
“What are you going to do to me?” Roddick asked, his voice a dry croak. The youth laughed, and smiled his fanged smile again.
“Maybe castrate you, yes? Vanniken would like to do that –” he nodded towards a massive werekynd who was busy rubbing down a battleaxe whose broad blade was larger than Roddick’s head. “He did it to the last brace of Protectorate prisoners.”
Roddick’s pallid stare said it all. The boy laughed again.
“I joke. Maybe. We shall see what the Pup decides when he returns. But do not be afraid, I like you. I heard you screaming when the tanglecat caught your smell. It was funny to see you squirm, but I helped you, yes? My name is Longhair, but by men I was once known as Thomas.”
“You are Thomas the Lost?” Roddick said, wide eyes returning to the human boy. Thomas didn’t reply. Another sight, even more fearsome than the rest of the clearing’s inhabitants, had caught his attention.
From the edge of the clearing, padding with the slow, easy grace of the supreme predator, came a tanglecat. It was a full adult, bigger even than the one Thomas has rescued him from – a huge, sleek beast of fur and claw and eerily intelligent eyes. Eye, Roddick corrected himself. One glared about the clearing, cat-yellow, whilst the other was a milky white, bisected by a livid red scar that stood out amidst the fur of its face.
The tanglecat’s appearance alone would have been terrifying enough, but even worse was the fact that this was no wild predator. The werekynd’s calm reaction to the appearance of it in their midst was proof enough of that, but even so Roddick could have guessed the tangecat’s status as pet and mount to the savage man-beasts due to the fact that one of them was riding on the thing’s back.
It was a fearsome specimen of a a werekynd, bare-backed and broad-chested, with twin axes at its hips and eyes which gave the clearing the swift appraisal of one used to command. At its appearance the nearest of its kin flocked to the beast’s side, but the snarl of the tanglecat mount gave them pause. Roddick went deadly still, mouthing a silent prayer to the Saints that the werekynd didn’t notice him.
Apparently the Saints couldn’t hear their servants lost this deep in the Tanglewild. The werekynd dismounted and barked something in its guttural language, guesturing towards Roddick with an outstretched claw. The boy named Thomas responded with a series of grunts and snarls which Roddick identified, to his horror, as being a human approximation of the werekynd’s savage tongue. He’d never known anyone from the Protectorates able to understand the were-speak, let alone converse in it. He started to tug at his bonds as the werekynd approached.
“You best not look him in the eye,” the boy whispered, grinning. Roddick said nothing, fixing his gaze on his muddy boots.
“What is this?” snarled the man-beast as he came to a halt in front of Roddick. The prisoner flinched at the animalistic attempt at the human tongue. “Found a friend in the forest did you?”
“He’s from the work gangs,” said the boy. “He tried to run.”
Roddick could feel the werekynd’s eyes burning into him. He didn’t dare move, his breath held.
“Not many make it this far,” it growled.
“He would have been food for the tanglecats if I hadn’t found him,” said the boy, beaming like a prized pupil.
“Sawtooth is hungry,” the werekynd said then, in a burst of sudden anger, “look at me!” It grabbed Roddick by the chin, its claws digging into his flesh, and he whimpered as his head was forced up. He found himself staring into the dark eyes of a man-beast, their faces inches apart, the rotting-meat stench of its breath washing over him.
“Why did you run?” the werekynd said.
“I didn’t want to work no more,” Roddick managed, eyes transfixed by the man-beast’s gaze.
“So you ran into the Tanglewild? Didn’t you realise this place is death to your people?”
“The werekynd are all up north,” Roddick said. “Assembling in a Great Pack, for the last battle.”
“Not all,” the werekynd replied, and let Roddick’s head drop. It turned to Thomas, and they exchanged another conversation in their feral language. Seemingly done, the werekynd stalked away. Roddick let out the breath he’d been holding.
“That was the Pup,” Thomas said. “Ulthric Wereborn. He is our leader. I think he likes you, yes?”
“What? How can you tell?”
“You’re not dead of course!”
“What… what are you going to do to me?” Thomas laughed again, the sound so at odds with the fear churning through Roddick's belly and setting his limbs to shaking.
“The Pup says you are to be freed, but you will stay. I will watch you. Help you. Maybe protect you from the others, and Sawtooth –“ he gestured at the Pup’s tanglecat mount, which was now prowling the edge of the clearing, seemingly at liberty to do as it pleased. “The Pup has gone to consult the Verreck and Hrothgar, the seers. Their skrying will decided our course for the next few days.”
“So I’m free,” Roddick said slowly. “But I cannot leave?”
“Why would you want to?” Thomas said, genuinely puzzled. “Everything for eight leagues in every direction wants to eat you.”
Final Prophecy
Ulthric walked the hidden paths of the Tanglewild, slipping beneath boughs and around trunks, lost in thought. The human whelp that Thomas Longhair had brought to the encampment had set the pack leader’s mind on edge. He had returned from the northern boundaries of the Tanglewild with word that the Great Pack was finally amassing for one last push, and Thomas’s captive confirmed it. The man’s presence had reminded Ulthric of a time, long ago now, when he too had fled. He needed to consult the fates. He need to visit Hrothgar.
The home of the seer could only be found by those werekynd who were lost, lost in the very heart of the Tanglewild and lost in the depths of their own thoughts. Ulthric had first been brought to it almost ten years ago when Hrothgar’s apprentice, Verreck, had saved him and a young Thomas from a pursuing Protectorate soldier. Since that day Ulthric had taken council with the ancient longtooth and his apprentice a dozen times, seeking guidance about which of the many paths he should take.
Hrothgar’s visions and wisdom had led him here, to this day. He’d first learned how to survive in the Tanglewild’s depths with young Thomas at his side, and slowly his determination, burning resolve and the seer’s advice had seen him attract others of his kind. The nucleus of a new pack had formed, bound by Ulthric’s sense of purpose, and the counterpoint laughter of the strange little human he kept always by his side. Thomas shouldn’t have lived to see his first dawn in the Tanglewild, yet the boy led a charmed life.
“The humans call him Thomas the Lost,” the ancient seer had confided in Ulthric one day. “The story of how he was stolen into the Tanglewild has become a legend among their peoples. He has a sister, Ellen, who believes the story and hates our kind for it. She will not stop until we are all killed.”
“Does Longhair know?” Ulthric had asked, using Thomas’s adopted werekynd moniker.
“No, but he shall. I can see much sorrow in their fates, entwining together.”
Thomas and the human he’d brought back were troubling Ulthric. Since the beginning of the w
ar no werekynd packs had ever shown mercy to the hated manling invaders. Yet Ulthric had, first with Thomas and now with this new escapee. Thomas, for whatever childish reason, had never looked back after he’d entered the Tanglewild with Ulthric, but if this new man tried to run he would surely die. Ulthric had a strange propensity for sparing humans, but his pack certainly didn’t.
“His fate is in your hands,” a voice growled softly from the undergrowth. “Do not cast it away. The rope is woven from many threads.”
Ulthric stopped, and realised he was standing before the bowl of an immense warptree. The mythical Heart of the Tanglewild, until Ulthric Wereborn had discovered it wasn’t a myth at all.
“Hrothgar,” he said, bowing his head.
“Ulthric, Saviour of the Werekynd,” replied the voice of the longtooth stood before him. He’d emerged as ever from the darkness of the hollow cavern within the warptree’s bulk, his rune beads rattling.
“I wish you didn’t call me that,” Ulthric said.
“You deny you have it in you to save our people?” the seer replied, exhibiting an aged patience so often lacking amongst the werekynd.
“I don’t understand why it has to be me.”
“I have asked that of myself every day this past decade,” Hrothgar said. “But the fates do not lie. The outcome is uncertain, but the part you have yet to play is undoubtedly of great import. Do not forget it, Ulthric Wereborn.”
“My pack calls me the Pup. I have not been one for a long time now, but…”
“But you still doubt, as a young pup might,” Hrothgar finished. “Yes, this is natural. You were so young when you were cast from your pack. So young when you assumed the leadership of another. But the fates are wise beyond our ken. What was, will be again. There is old business that will soon be concluded, for better or for worse.
Ulthric allowed himself a tight grimace of a smile.
“Even after all these years somehow I still imagine you’re not going to speak in riddles when I come seeking your council.”
“No riddle this,” Hrothgar said, holding Ulthric with his steady, ancient gaze. “Vega Broadcleaver has assumed leadership of the Great Pack. Even now he prepares to lead the final assault on General Novo’s Protectorate army, and then on to Bilbalo and Duke Lorenzo.”
“How can you know this?” Ulthric asked, his heartbeat rising. He could feel the itiching in his fingers and the ache of his jaw, the snarl of the beast rising in his throat. He had not thought of Vega for a long, long time.
“I told you my young werekin,” Hrothgar said. “The fates do not lie. I consulted the runes thrice before your arrival, and each time they were the same. Vega is to the north, with the remnants of your old pack, leading the last great alliance of werekynd war-packs to ever assemble.”
“Then I must go north,” Ulthric said. Hrothgar nodded slowly.
“You must do as your heart decrees. Verreck will go with you.”
“The pack travels light –”
“He saved your life when you first came here, and he will save it again. Take heed Ulthric, many parts have yet to play out. Betrayal, surprise, death swift and lingering, all wait for you and will seek to ensnare you. These coming days will be the most important.”
“Then I go with your blessing, venerable seer?”
“Always, Ulthric. Since first I glimpsed you in my visions you have been a silver thread, lending hope and clarity to the binding strands of fate. Do you let them unravel now.”
Ulthric opened his mouth to speak, then realised he couldn’t. He blinked with surprise, shook his head, and suddenly realised that he was lying on his back, staring up at the Tanglewild’s bristling canopy. He’d been unconscious, but he felt a wetness down the side of his face, and realised his tanglecat – Sawtooth – had been licking him. The giant feline had sought its beloved master out, yet it was not the only one to do so. Ulthric realised another figure was standing over him, and reached for his axes before recognition and memory flashed together through his mind.
As he had done all those years before, Hrothgar’s apprentice, Verreck, stood watching him. The red paint of the seers at war – so excitedly adopted by young Thomas when he’d first encountered Verreck – spiralled up the werekynd’s torso and arms.
“Rise, Ulthric Wereborn,” Verreck said, offering his hand. “There is much to be done.”
Red
General Novo brushed a hand through his silver hair, and prayed to the Saints that his subordinates didn’t see the exhaustion in his posture or the uncertainty in his eyes. He hadn’t slept in almost three days, and his subsistence of hard tack, water and a half dozen ounces of bread and stringy meat had been no better than the common levy’s. It had been a long nine years, but the aging Protectorate general had a bad feeling it was going to be a bloody few days ahead.
He suddenly became aware of his subordinate’s stares, and silently damned himself. The fatigue was getting to him. He scowled, clenched his fists, and banged them on the camp table.
The assembled captains jumped – the desired effect.
“Cantil, what of the supply lines?” he demanded of a gaunt-looking demi-major in breastplate and helmet. The man bit his bottom lip, eyes glancing around the tent for support. None was forthcoming.
“Well?” Novo pressed in a dangerous voice.
“Nothing yet from Bilbalo, sir. The last column arrived four days ago. No courier-wings either.”
Once upon a time Novo wouldn’t have shown any reaction to such ill news in front of his men, but tonight he let out a hiss of anger.
“Does the Duke realise we’re up here all alone, without food, without crossbow bolts, our ranks riddled with disease and exhaustion? Does he realise we’ve been at war on the edges of this damnable forest for almost ten years?”
The assembly shifted awkwardly, and said nothing. Novo sighed and turned his gaze upon a squat captain with the red and blue helmet plumage of a Master of Arms.
“Is your powder dry, Captain Merat?” The officer nodded, plume bobbing.
“That it is, sir. My harquebusiers are ready and willing, with shot and gunpowder to see off any number of the heathen animals.”
“Some good news at least,” Novo allowed, sitting back in his camp chair. “Saints know, we’ll need every one of your guns when the beasts arrive. Kalven, what news of their movements?”
“My scouts are struggling to pick up their deployment in the dark,” the grizzled old Huntmaster replied. “But they’re definitely moving south-west. How fast we don’t know.”
“Then find out,” Novo replied curtly. Kalven grimaced.
“This respect sir –”
“Use the Red,” the general said, cutting off his chief scout. The order caused an even more painful silence to settle upon the tent’s occupants. Only Kalven dared break it.
“You want us to use Ellen the Red and her… patrol?”
“Yes, right away. Like it or not, we need her and her murderers. We’ll need every damn thing with a human heartbeat by our side when the Great Pack reaches us. Be under no illusions, gentlemen. This will be the final battle. Whoever wins here, wins this damnable war.”
He looked his officers in the eye. There was tiredness there, and hunger, and fear. But there was also a steely determination, the kind of spirit exhibited by only the hardest of warriors. The best had made it this far. These men would be enough, Novo promised himself. And not just the men either.
“Send for her,” he said to Kalven. “You’re all dismissed.”
* * *
As the war instigated by the Miremancers between man and man-beast had intensified, so much of the Protectorate work along the Marches had been abandoned. The Tanglewood had grown back in patches, stunted, weak, young, but becoming stronger day by day. Named the Edgewood, a twilight of bushes and undergrowth, saplings and mulchy earth had slowly surrounded the reduced boundaries of the ancient forest, and it was in this young woodland that Ellen the Red and her warband made their home.
She hated the Tanglewild, hated it with every fibre of her young body. She knew she was still viewed as nothing more than a child by Duke Lorenzo and his Protectorate generals. She was seen as mercurial, selfish, prone to tantrums and flights of wild ambition. And so she was, because she hated the werekynd, hated the vile man-beasts who had abducted her brother, Thomas, and taken him beneath those black boughs all those years ago.
“Someone’s coming,” Grimbol, the young crowman, said. Red didn’t reply – she’d already heard the approach of a horse, breaking the night’s stillness. Around her, in the wooded patch where they’d made their camp, her warband stirred. They were hard men, cruel men, bitter men. Men driven to Red’s side by loss and sorrow. Men with their own reasons for hating the werekynd, and hating them enough to follow a young girl on her vengeance-fuelled raids into the Tanglewild’s depths. They’d all learned soon enough that the little girl was not to be trifled with.
Werekynd - Beasts of the Tanglewild Page 7