In what seemed like a heartbeat, Bilbalo had fallen. Those within who yet lived, fled.
To the north, Saarl struck.
Choices
Novo had dismissed everyone. He sat in the pavilion, his head in his hands, trying to focus, trying to still the shaking in his old limbs.
Ferdano’s words were in his skull, worming around inside his brain, torturing him. The Duke betrayed. Bilbalo on the brink of falling. What was he to do? Believe this bedraggled man and turn his army around? How could he possibly disengage from the Great Pack? As soon as he turned his men on the roads south they’d be on him, tearing through his rearguard, slaughtering his cavalry, routing his cohorts. They knew only violence and bloodshed, and the general had seen them put that knowledge to use countless times over the past nine years. He was sick of them, sick of this war, but could Ferdano be trusted? Was it all just a ruse, a cruel trick played upon man and man-beast by powers more ancient than the two of them combined?
Such uncertainties should not be the concern of a general, Novo thought bitterly. It would almost have been preferable to face the werekynd in open battle. At least then it would be over, and Novo would be dead and somebody else would be making all the decision, the decisions that got men and boys killed. The general had had enough.
He stood. At the same time he became aware of a presence standing in the open tent flap.
It was a werekynd. Novo froze, heartbeat rising, staring at the man-beast which seemed to have materialised out of nightmarish nothingness. It was an ancient example of its kind, silver-backed, its great yellow canines protruding from its jutting jaw. Its eyes regarded Novo with that chilling intelligence always so evident in a man-beast's animalistic gaze.
“Where is the envoy?” it said in a mangled mimicry of the human tongue. There was blood on its claws, and on its long fangs. Novo feared the worst for his guards.
“You’re the Beast, aren’t you?” the general said slowly, holding the thing’s gaze, not daring to so much a stray a single finger towards his sword hilt. “You’re the longtooth the Duke bought.”
“One more time, where is the envoy,” the old werekynd growled. Its claws flexed. Novo took a deep breath.
“You’ll have to kill me before I tell you, Beast. Whoever sent you, he’s no ally of mine. The Duke has been betrayed, and you are being used.”
The longtooth bared his fangs in a snarl, but before he could strike Novo the sharp voice of a young girl cut through the tension.
“I saw a man ride between no man’s-land to the Great Pack. If he’s the one you’re seeking, he’s gone north to be with your kin. Lot of good it’ll do him. They’ll no doubt gut him as soon as smell him.”
Red had slipped inside the pavilion from behind the longtooth. Novo had never seen a human move with enough stealth to go unnoticed by a werekynd, but then again Ellen Red did many things he’d never seen before. The girl looked furious, though the anger in her eyes was no directed at Duke Lorenzo’s hunting beast, but at Novo. Her bared forearms were slick with blood.
“Saarl,” she said by way of greeting, not looking at the werekynd. There was no reply – the Beast had already gone, morphing and shifting into its true animal form as it set off once more after its prey.
“You’ve killed him,” Novo said quietly. “Once it catches him -”
“He’ll be food for old Saarl,” Red said, her voice acerbic. “If he’s not already dead. Those things won’t suffer a human in their presence.”
“The same way you won’t suffer any of them to live, Red? Why does your hatred not extend to the longtooth?”
“Saarl and I have hunted many werekynd,” Red said, grinning a grin that wouldn’t have been out of place on the man-beast’s fanged face. “How do you think I learned the ways of the Tanglewild so fast? To hunt your enemy you must first know him.”
“None of this will bring back your brother –” Novo began, but Red shrieked and stamped her foot.
“Why are you going?” she shouted. “Why, why, why? We’re on the cusp of the final battle with these animals and Grimbol tells me you’ve given orders to prepare to march south. To withdraw!”
“The envoy you’ve just killed came with news,” Novo said.
“Good I’ve had him killed then, isn’t it? Peace?”
“No.”
“Then what? Why are we withdrawing when there are werekynd still to slaughter?”
“The only things to be slaughtered if we fight will be us,” Novo snapped, tired of being lectured by a crazed teenager with literal blood on her hands. “What’s become of the prisoner I ordered you to interrogate?”
“General?” said one of Novo’s aides, sticking his head around the tent flap. “General are you… dear Saints preserve me, the guards!”
“The Duke’s pet werekynd visited,” Novo said, not looking away from Red, who was now simply glaring up at him from beneath the cowl of her hood.
“Apparently the guards didn’t realise he was the one ‘friendly’ werekynd this side of the Tanglewild.”
“We’re receiving reports, sir,” the aide said, trying not to look at the grisly remains he’d stepped on outside the general’s pavilion. “From our southern scouts.”
“Well?”
“It appears… you’re going to want to come and see it for yourself I think, sir.” Novo looked at the man.
“Bilbalo?” he whispered.
“Yes sir. Something terrible has happened.”
Old Scores, Old Scars
“If you don’t come, we’ll all die,” said Thomas. He was repeating the words of Ferdano, in were-speak. Ulthric and Vega were both looking at the envoy, the latter’s fangs bared.
“This is nonsense,” the leader of the Great Pack growled. “He’s just trying to delay his execution!”
“He came here of his own free will,” Ulthric pointed out.
“Then he has a death wish!” Ferdano looked from one man-beast to the other, not understanding their words, but clearly determined to press on none the less.
“There are dark forces at work in Bilbalo, and beyond,” he said. “If you think this war between our peoples has been destructive enough, wait and see what nightmares the Miremancers unleash.”
“If it’s true what you say,” Ulthric said, via Thomas. “That these past nine years of bloodshed have been a pointless distraction designed to weaken us all, then this final battle between Novo and the Great Pack will be the final folly of the entire war.”
Thunder grumbled and cracked. A storm had broken to the south, great black clouds, looking for all the world like soaring heavenly bastions, slowly pushing their way north towards the pack. They brought with them a spitting rain which matted the werekynd’s fur and slicked the edges of their blades.
“Exactly,” Ferdano said. “When the Miremancers have destroyed Bilbalo they’ll turn on the Tanglewild, and even if you win this coming battle you will not be enough in number to resist them.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Vega said. “This is all a trick. The humans know they stand on the brink of defeat. They’ve sent this fool here to try and stall us.”
But Ulthric was not so sure. He was remembering an old, grey werekynd sat deep in the darkness of an ancient warptree. He was remembering prophesies, and the burden of responsibility. Not just responsibility to his kin, or his pack, but to all werekynd. All werekin. He could feel the rope of fate pulling tight, the weaves straining, and he couldn’t ignore the direction it was tugging him in.
He looked at Verreck. The seer was watching him, but his face was expressionless. Ulthric knew he would offer no guidance now. The final decision was his and his alone. He realised the whole assembly was looking at him, waiting for him to speak.
The thunder crashed again, closer this time.
“You truly believe man and man-beast can fight side-by-side against these swamp sorcerers?” Ulthric asked. “The werekynd and the Protectorate haven’t been allies for almost a decade, and even before then
it was only grudgingly.”
“All the work of the Miremancers,” Ferdano said. “They tricked the Duke into this war.”
“I never thought I’d live to see this day,” Vega interrupted . “Not one, not two, but three men have entered my camp, and all yet live. How can this be?”
“You won’t live to see another day at all if we do not cooperate,” Ferdano said through Thomas.
“Damn your tricks and treaties,” the big werekynd said. “I will kill you, Ulthric Wereborn, I will kill these humans, I will destroyed their army, and after that if there is anything still trying to slaughter my kin and destroy my home, I will kill it too.”
“Your view of the world is too simple, Vega Broadcleaver,” Ulthric said.
“Simple enough to claim your head after all these years, pup,” Vega said, raising his sword.
Claws and fangs, they struck in a flash.
Ferdano fell to his knees, a gasp of surprise escaping his lips. He clutched his hands to his stomach, and Ulthric realised in a moment of horror that he was trying to stop his innards from spilling out onto the dirt. He gagged on blood, stared up at Ulthric and then, without another word, he fell forward. Dead.
All eyes were on his killer. He’s struck like one of the bolts of lightning, from the edge of the pack, gutting the human with a graceful ease born from vast experience.
“Vega,” Saarl said, pausing to lick Ferdano’s blood from his claws. “If it isn’t my old subordinate. I’d thought you long-dead by now.”
Vega just stared. The entire pack did. Saarl was like a ghost, materialising grey and bloody from nowhere. He hadn’t been seen by werekynd since that dark day of betrayal in Cwembram Valley, nine years before. At least, none of the werekynd who’d seen him hunting alongside the Protectorate patrols had lived to tell the tale.
“You’ve come back,” Ulthric said, voice slow with disbelief. “After all these years.”
“Only to kill this little whelp,” Saarl said, gesturing at Ferdano’s corpse. “He did something to displease someone, somewhere. I suppose. I don’t care. But now that I’m here…” he turned a fanged grin towards Vega.
“You!” Vega bellowed, louder than even the thunder which now sundered the heavens above. In an instant the big werekynd had tossed his broadsword into the mud and ripped his hauberk up over his head. He was shifting, bones snapping, fur bristling, a howl building in his throat.
“About time this score was settled, once and for all,” Saarl barked as he too began to morph. He did it far faster than Vega, with the practiced ease of an old werekynd who’d long ago come to terms with the beast within. In an eye blink he was on the attack, claws bared.
The werekynd’s clash was drowned out by the thunder’s roar. The rain was lashing down now, soaking combatant and onlooker alike. No one moved to intervene. To get between two fully shifted werekynd would mean certain death.
Saarl raked Vega’s snout, drawing a howl of pain and anger. The big werekynd shoved back, catching the longtooth and throwing him off balance. Vega swung with his own claws, but for all his age Saarl was incredibly lithe and supple, ducking under the blow and slamming a fist into Vega’ belly.
The leader of the Great Pack doubled over, and Saarl again went for his face, wanting to finish the fight fast. Vega, however, was not without his own brutal skills. He used his sudden position to his advantage, slamming his skull forward into Saarl's chest. Both werekynd went over in the mud, twisting and clawing, snapping at one another as they tried to find the grip that would permit the killing blow.
The rain confounded them, claws slipping and fangs gouging at air. Both were swiftly plastered in filth, and both were furiously attempting to get at each other’s throats. Vega got there first.
He twisted his body, using his strength to get on top of Saarl. The old werekynd clearly recalled the manoeuvre though – he kept the momentum going, and in turn rolled atop Vega.
Saarl’s eyes were wild. He clawed at Vega’s throat, trying at once to rip it out and squeeze the life from his old challenger. Vega snapped his jaws ineffectively, a low keening noise escaping his crushed larynx.
Saarl bared his fangs in something approaching a smile, triumph lending his bulging muscles the final strength needed to kill his hated rival. He was older and more experienced than half of these werepups put together, a born hunter whose skills had been honed to a razor’s edge over years of survival. He’d made it through his time as pack leader, he’d fought for himself throughout this war, and no thick-skulled oaf like Vega was going to beat him.
But in the end it wasn’t Vega that beat Saarl. It was Ulthric.
Martial Law
Word of the fall of Bilbalo came as word of any disaster did – in trickles, in parts, half-told, fearful, disbelieving. Refugees were flooding from the city, ragged families with their worldly possessions heaped haphazard atop carts and barrows, children born on shoulders, pets led along reluctantly. They were fleeing the city to the north, east and west, scattering into the countryside to bring their own versions of events to the shocked peoples of Duke Lorenzo’s Protectorate.
Novo’s scouts picked up the first refugees to head north, and brought them back to the blue pavilion for questioning. Novo heard that each separately, in turn, and after half a dozen had haltingly given their terrified reports, he dismissed them and called an officer’s assembly.
“Go to Delbaro,” he had told the fleeing citizens. “And tell anyone you meet on the road to do likewise. You will be safe there, for now.”
“They haven’t enough space in Delbaro,” one hunched old man exclaimed hysterically. “Nor enough food. They’re turning people away at the gates!”
“Then camp outside the gates,” Novo said firmly. “We will deal with this immediately.”
“You weren’t there,” the old man hissed, clutching the general’s arm in a bony grip. “The city is in ruins. It’s sorcery!”
“We’ll deal with it,” Novo repeated, and had one of his guards drag the shrieking man out.
“The situation is unclear,” the general said later, once his subordinates had gathered. They were universally pale-faced, and a nervous muttering accompanied Novo’s words. The storm which had brewed up over Bilbalo had by now struck the encampment as well, and the general was forced to raise his voice over the hammering sound of rain on taunt canvas. “But it appears certain that something terrible has happened to Bilbalo. Central authority has broken down, and the people are sufficiently frightened to take to the hills.”
“What of the Duke?” Captain Fravel asked.
"We don’t know yet,” Novo admitted. “Several of the people we questioned earlier reported that he survive the Keep’s partial collapse, and was last seen trying to muster the city guard. But he appears to have issued no outstanding orders to the citizenry.”
“Aren’t relief attempts being made?” Major Dragavin said. “There must still be people trapped inside the collapsed structures. Isn’t aid being sent from Delbaro and the other towns?”
“Again, we don’t know,” Novo said. "The situation is still developing, I’ve sent gallopers and courier-wings to all the nearby settlements. It’ll be a few hours at least until we hear back from them. Saints willing their governors will take the necessary precautions, but until some sort of command structure is re-established we must act on our own initiative.”
Thunder clapped outside. Novo paused before continuing.
“In the absence of orders from either the Duke or his military council, I am assuming full authority over this army and, due to the period of crisis, I also intend to enforce martial law. Anyone disobeying this course of action will be liable for summary execution. Are there any disagreements?”
The rain’s pounding was the only noise. Nobody made any move to speak. A few nodded tacit support for Novo’s words.
“You say there are reports that the Duke was trying to marshal the city’s defences when he was last seen?” said Demi-Major Cantil. “Do we know
why?”
“To assist in the rescue operation for those trapped and wounded by the collapses?” Dragavin guessed.
“All those questioned agree that no operation has been mounted,” Cantil pointed out. “Why marshal the city guard?”
“There are… rumours, about the causes of the disaster,” Novo said slowly, not wishing to be drawn on such a tenuous topic. “It seems clear at least that it was no accident. Hostile forces have attacked Bilbalo.”
“Hostile forces?” a few of the officers repeated.
Werekynd - Beasts of the Tanglewild Page 11