Werekynd - Beasts of the Tanglewild

by MacNiven, Robbie

  “You try to shift, you’ll end up tearing your own throat apart,” she growled in the thing’s bestial language. Shocked, it went still, and Red couldn’t help but relish in its unaccustomed fear. The capture a werekynd was an act only Red and her band would be insane enough to attempt, yet this pup wasn’t even the first to have been taken. Nor, she prayed, would it be the last.

  “Cut its hamstrings,” she ordered Grimbol. “And bring it. Have Ralden go get Kalven’s body too. We’re heading back to the camp.”

  As her warband dispersed Red paused, looking up into the rain. Another pack joining the forces amassing north of the Tanglewild. And they had a tamed tanglecat, something she had never heard of before. No matter, she thought. She’d killed enough of them in the Tanglewild’s depths. The things that lived in that place’s festering heart were all the same, and she swore once more that she would be the death of all of them.

  She was Red, she was vengeance, and Thomas would find peace with every drop of man-beast blood that she spilled.

  Fallen From Grace

  The rain grew worse as the day progressed. ‘Hell of a time for an inspection,’ Novo heard a couple of his men grumble as he passed them. He ignored the jibe, knowing that they were right.

  The recalcitrance was not only due to the weather, and not only displayed by some of the general’s soldiers. The army had been at war now on the Marches, around the Tanglewild, for almost a decade. In that time Novo’s grand force had shrunk, and shrunk, and shrunk some more. Now barely nine cohorts remained, all of them ragged, all of them half-starved and exhausted. The day’s rain was just the final insult to be added to their many, many injuries.

  Novo did not blame them. He didn’t blame their officers, and he didn’t even blame himself. All this was the Duke’s fault. He and whatever council he followed had brought about the destruction wreaked upon Tanglewild and the Protectorate towns and villages of the Marches. Lorenzo was the cause of this endless war of annihilation waged between man and man-beast. There had been unrest before, of course, but nothing like this. Novo hadn’t been to the court at Bilbalo for years, but he’d heard the rumours. Everyone in the army had. The Duke danced to the tune of his chief councillor, Eduardo. The war was at the behest of the so-called Miremancers, a cable of sorcerers which Novo doubted existed, yet which seemed to have an icy grip over the Duke.

  Novo hadn’t protested when war had first broken out. In all truth he’d relished it. He’d been in his prime, ready and willing to take the fight to the animalistic brutes that were the werekynd. But the conflict had aged him. A few nights ago he’d realised that he could only name three officers who had been with him at the conflict’s start that hadn’t succumbed to disease, wounds or the rending claws of a man-beast. The war had taken its toll on everyone, and Lorenzo’s so-called Protectorate was rife with weeping widows and fatherless children.

  Novo’s grim thoughts weren’t only confined to his head alone. The entire army felt them, beset by the malaise of despair that came from men who have been struggling for their very existence for too long. In an effort to return their minds to soldiering, as well as reaffirm in that he still commanded an army and not a crowd of armed beggars, Novo had ordered a parade. A final count had to be taken, before the Great Pack attacked. The general had convinced himself that one way or another, he would not live to see the end of the confrontation.

  Novo’s men arrayed themselves before their general, managing to still stand tall beneath the fluttering red and yellow, blue and green of their different cohort banners. Tired and hungry they may be, but they were still soldiers. And only the best survived this long.

  Just before he reached Captain Zant’s cohort Novo spotted a messenger boy sprinting through the mud and rain towards him. He checked his horse, waiting for the boy to reach his side.

  “Our sentinels to the south, sir,” the boy panted, the rain plastering his black hair to his pallid scalp. “They’ve brought in a rider. He’s from Bilbalo. He says he needs to speak with you urgently, sir.”

  “Did he give any sign as to why he’s here or who he is?” Novo asked, fear and hope warring in his words. Did he bring news of peace? Were his orders to withdraw? Or attack?

  “He looked like one of the Duke’s envoys, sir,” the boy said. Novo kicked his horse to the blue pavilion that acted as his headquarters. Stood there beneath the awning, under guard, was a figure Novo recognised for Duke Lorenzo’s court.

  “Ferdano,” the general said by way of greeting, dismounting and taking the chief envoy’s hand. He looked the man up and down, trying to discern why he was here. The man was certainly bedraggled, soaked through and plastered with mud. he also had the most ridiculously large, ancient-looking matchlock pistol stuck in his belt. A man fallen far from grace, Novo thought. He certainly did not look like a courtier on an official visit.

  “General, thank the Saints I’ve found you,” Ferdano said.

  “You’ll come inside?” Novo said, motioning towards the interior of the pavilion. The envoy shook his head.

  “There’s no time, sir. I come with the gravest news, straight from Bilbalo. The Duke has been betrayed, and I fear the city itself must soon come under assault.”

  “Betrayed?” Novo asked sharply. “How and by whom? Is the Duke safe?”

  “Not for long I fear. I have uncovered a plot by his councillor, Eduardo. I have strong reason to believe he is in league with the Miremancers, and has been playing all of us against the werekynd these past nine years.”

  The accusation would have been outrageous had it been delivered to general Novo nine years earlier. Now he only nodded, slowly.

  “You speak of the rumours? Go on. I trust you have some manner of proof?”

  “No mere rumours," Ferdano said. "And only the evidence of my own person. Eduardo tried to have me seized, doubtless seeking to silence me. He knows I have guessed his duplicity. If you don’t bring the army back to Bilbalo immediately and reassert control I fear the city itself may be in danger. Certainly Duke Lorenzo is under threat.”

  “From what?”

  “The Miremarsh. It has already collapsed the southern bastion. It is expanding with unnatural rapidity, and has been for many years.”

  “I fail to see what my men can do against a bog,” Novo said slowly, coming to terms with the situation. “And regardless, I cannot move my men any further south, let alone abandon this position. The Great Pack is already too close to Bilbalo and the Wall. Unless I receive orders from the Duke himself I’m afraid doing as you say would be a dereliction of duty.”

  “No such orders will ever come, don’t you understand?” Ferdano said, voice rising. “The Duke is under Eduardo’s influence. And by the time everyone realises it will be too late, Bilbalo will be overwhelmed and its citizens destroyed by the foul magic of the Miremancers!”

  “And if I do return to the city what then?” Novo asked. “I leave the way open for the Great Pack. They will slaughter the inhabitants of every town between here and the Wall. We’re still at war with these animals.”

  “That’s something I intend to change,” Ferdano said. “I’m going to their camp. I’ll try to speak to them, explain that we’ve both been used by powers beyond our understanding.”

  “Are you insane?” Novo exclaimed. “They’ll kill you as soon as they pick up your scent! Those few who didn’t have a taste for man before certainly do after these past nine years of bloodshed. No one has ever gone amongst them unarmed and lived.”

  “If you doubt my words, let my determination to do this stand as my greatest proof,” Ferdano said, looking the aging general in the eyes. “We must return to Bilbalo, and save it. We are our people’s only hope, general. If it takes my life to convince the man-beasts, then I can think of no better sacrifice.”

  “General,” said another messanger, hovering intently at Novo’s shoulder. He stared at Ferdano a moment longer, then nodded.

  “What is it?” he demanded of the boy.

  �
��Ellen the Red has returned to the camp, sir. She reports that Captain Kalven is dead, but that they have captured one of the animals alive.”

  “Tell her to release it,” the general said, before taking Ferdano’s hand once more.

  “I don’t know what to make of all this,” he said. “But if you can stop those beasts from massacring my men then may the Saints go with you.”

  Saarl

  The bloodfowl had all fled the Keep. The reason for the red-winged bird’s sudden disappearance was a mystery to the citizens of Bilbalo. The Duke’s daughter was reportedly distraught. Many took it as an ill omen.

  They were right to do so, Eduardo mused as he draw the final line in the chalk prism laid out on his chamber floor. The birds, possessed of some keen animal instinct, had sensed the approaching darkness. Sensed the doom closing in around Bilbalo. It would not be long now before the towering citadel they flocked to came crashing down and so, realising that literal flight was their only hope, the bloodfowl had taken wing.

  If only the citizens of Bilbalo were capable of the same foresight.

  As Eduardo stood, brushing the dust from his hands, the stink of marsh gases filled his nostrils. Where the stench emanated from was impossible to tell, yet it grew steadily stronger as a light began to glow at the heart of the prism. It was sickly-pale, a phantom glow which seemed to crawl across the floor and reach up the walls inch by inch . The tiny chinks of light edging around the window shutters died, as though the sun itself had been snuffed out. A desolate chill gripped the chamber, and Eduardo bowed his head in reverence.

  “On your knees,” whispered the cadaver-voice that had haunted Eduardo’s nightmares for over a decade. Hastily the old councillor got down on all fours, head bowed even lower.

  “Masters,” he whispered to the disembodied voice. The decaying light blinked and flickered, pulsing with each new syllable spoken from its immaterial depths.

  “You are afraid,” the voice said, and it was not so much the words of a man as the squelch and suck of the Miremere. “More so than usual. What has happened?”

  “Ferdano, the Duke’s chief envoy, has fled the city,” Eduardo said, staying on his knees and not daring to look up into the light.

  “Where has he gone?” bubbled the voice.

  “North, to the army of General Novo I believe.”

  “He knows?”

  “He has guessed. In all truth I am surprised it took him so long.”

  “Better for you he had not guessed at all, let alone escaped,” said the voice.

  “Forgive me, masters,” Eduardo managed.

  “Kill him,” was the terse response.

  “He has a good half day’s ride on us. I have dispatched a squadron of the Duke’s cavalry in his name, but –”

  “Send the Beast,” the voice interrupted. Euardo look up and instantly regretted it. The sickly light was now so bright that is burned his eyes. He cringe and looked down once more.

  “Masters, I… I do not know where it has made its lair these past few years. It is an untameable creature.”

  “We will bring it to heel,” said the voice. “Have the Duke unleash it in pursuit, and we will ensure it obeys.”

  “Yes masters,” Eduardo said.

  “Do it now.” The voice had begun to fade, and with it the light that gave it form. The stench of the Miremere receded with it. “There is not time to lose. Do it now…”

  * * *

  The Council Chamber was dark and chill, the only light seeping through the high windows to cast Duke Lorenzo in a sphere of pallid illumination. As Eduardo approached a bout of coughing overtook the master of Bilbalo, the wracking noise echoing and abrasive in the draughty hall. Lorenzo moaned an slumped back in his throne, shaking. He was ill, and his gaunt features barely acknowledged Eduardo as the councillor bowed before him.

  “Our outriders have failed to apprehend the traitor, sire,” he said.

  “Who?” Lorenzo said faintly, not seeming to see the man stood before him.

  “The murderer Ferdano, your former chief envoy, sire,” Eduardo explained patiently. “I fear he is beyond our reach, yet not beyond the reach of our allies.”

  Lorenzo said nothing, eyes distant, and the councillor pressed on.

  “Give the word, sire, and I will set the Beast loose.” Those words caused a flicker of recognition in Lorenzo’s eyes. The Duke looked at Eduardo properly for the first time.

  “The old dog still lives?”

  “I believe so sire, under our protection. I shall summon it here and have it underway before nightfall, with your permission.”

  “You think it will still obey?”

  “After all we have given it - shelter, food, protection - over the past years I have no doubts. Just say the word.”

  “Do it,” Lorenzo managed before another bout of coughs overtook him. Eduardo bowed hastily and made to leave, but the Duke stilled him with a hand.

  “The Beast,” he said after his hacks subsided. “The only werekynd that will still act as a mercenary for the Protectorates. It has a name, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s kind know it now as traitorkynd,” Eduardo said. “But I believe when it was still the longtooth of a mercenary pack it was known as Saarl.”

  “Set it loose,” Lorenzo nodded. “And bring back Ferdano. He has much to answer for.” Eduardo bowed once more and hurried from the dying Duke's presence.

  Saarl would hunt again.

  Homecoming

  Ulthric approached the Great Pack from the south-east, wondering what fate awaited him amongst the werekynd encampment. If the runes or Hrothgar’s wisdom had give him any foresight, Verreck gave no sign. The red-painted seer travelled with the pack in silence. Thomas and his charge, Roddick, stuck close by the aloof werekynd. Roddick in particular seemed to take each step with reluctanct. It was understandable – he was drawing inexorable closer to even more werekynd, and even though Ulthric’s pack had spared him, how could he be sure that others would follow suit? Only the knowledge that if he tried to run he’ be hunted down and slaughtered kept him at Thomas’s side.

  Sawtooth, Ulthric’s tanglecat mount, shifted beneath him. He’d long ago become used to the signs the beast gave of, and raised one clenched paw to signal a halt. The pack stopped with fluid grace, crouching amidst the rain-slick rocks and boulders of the jagged Marcher hinterlands they were passing through.

  “You smell that?” he growled. There were grunts of affirmation from his closest pack members. Sawtooth had gone tense and still. Always a bad sign.

  “Werekin,” Vanniken said, grip tightening on the haft of his massive battleaxe. “Close. Too close.”

  “Show yourselves!” barked Ulthric, addressing the surrounding rocks. He could smell the wet-pelt stink of his fellow man-beasts, but whoever they were they’d acquired great skill in concealment.

  “The Great Pack’s sentries?” Thomas queried, the human voice causing Sawtooth’s ears to twitch.

  “Probably,” Ulthric said, then, again addressing the surrounds, “last chance before I loose the tanglecat!”

  “Ulthric?” said a disbelieving voice off to the pack’s left. They immediately turned, claws out, hands grasping for weapons. The werekynd who had spoken was an old longtooth, his fur silver. He’d approached with such stealth that he was barely a dozen paces from Ulthric, yet now he stood and stared with undisguised shock.

  “Vrak?” Ulthric replied, equally taken aback by the sudden appearance of the aged werekynd.

  “By the seers,” Vrak said, taking a slow step closer. Sawtooth growled, but the werekynd seemed not to notice. The rest of the pack simply watched on, silent and wary.

  “You’re still alive then, Vrak,” Ulthric said, recovering his composure first. “It’s good to see Vega hasn’t managed to kill off all my old pack.”

  “Not all,” Vrak said, looking the younger werekynd up and down. “Though precious few of us remain. Is it really you, Ulthric?”

  “I sometimes doubt it
myself,” Ulthric growled.

  “We heard the rumours of course,” Vrak continued. “A young pup gathering a pack to himself in the depths of the Tanglewild, with humans among their number! And some said with the aid of the old seers…” his eyes strayed to Verreck, who remained silent.

  “I’ve not been a pup for a long time,” Ulthric pointed out, and Vrak nodded.

  “No, I can see that, Ulthric Wereborn. But what brings you here beyond the Tanglewild’s borders? You must know who commands our Great Pack?”

  “It’s Vega, I know,” Ulthric said grimly. “Vega Broacleaver, as I hear he’s now called. I’ve come to seek him out.”

  “Ulthric,” Vrak began, then checked himself.