by Taylor Fray
Brown sauce streaked his chin as his teeth tore sinew apart. While his feats did not impress his father, he was a kind of celebrity among the clan, especially for those his age. So as he feasted near the hearth of the stone dining hall, he was surrounded by a small crowd of admirers. Zak responded to his fans’ vocal adoration with grunts and nods as he devoured deer meat.
Once he was satiated, he reclined back on the heavy wooden chair and took in the sight of the hall. His friends Eric and Thalude arrived to offer congratulations and also—he didn't begrudge it against them—to soak in some of their friend’s limelight. Eric was a great runner, and an even better player at games of wit and puzzles. Often having an eyebrow raised as if noting some small detail, intriguing only to him, he had often accompanied Zak on adventures into both the spirit world and the world of men. He was also learning summoning magic, and this made him all the more valuable to the pack of three. Thalude was the only other Lycan Zak’s age that was larger than him, and he was even stronger than him, though he still didn’t pose a threat to Zak as brute strength wasn’t everything in combat.
“I knew you would lose. A dragonfly told me.” Eric said to Zak, in his quiet voice that left one uncertain whether he was serious or joking. “You have to play more Pattara to work on your strategy.”
“Don’t listen to this jerkoff! So you lost. Who the hell cares! Drink and forget it,” Thalude said in his booming voice as he held out a beer mug the size of a grown man’s head.
“You know what I like about you two weasels? You’re always both wrong, and you’re always both right.” Zak clinked his beer mug with theirs and gulped.
The benefits of Zak's friendship were quickly apparent as several young women approached the table. Even more than humans, werewolves spoke to one another through body language. Through very few words, Zak could understand how the young ladies felt about him. Werewolf blood being more impulsive, even more instinctual than human blood, he quickly locked eyes with the one he wanted to mate that night, one he knew well. Sasha, they had both grown up in Grey Home, and had shared many nights together. She was red-blonde, had full lips, and like the majority of werewolves, she was powerfully built.
Zak gulped down the last of his beer as Sasha tugged at his hand and walked him toward one of the rooms in the back of the great hall. The noise of the celebration died down as they moved further away from the crowd, through empty corridors.
They entered a room lit only by moonlight. Though Sasha was tall and athletic she still had to reach up to wrap her arms around Zak’s bull-like neck. Even at his age, he already had the Herculean body and the strength to crush the strongest of human men with ease. Usually when he and Sasha fled away in a tryst, Zak devoured her body like he was starving. But tonight he lingered in their standing embrace, letting their foreheads touch.
“When you become a great Hammer of the clan,” Sasha said, her warm breath grazing his neck, “will you still remember me, Zak Skarsgard?”
He brought her close to him and kissed her. Of course he would. Sasha represented that simple youth he had known, his sense of victory among his peers. She was a fierce, passionate, caring girl who he had now and then thought perhaps would be his lifemate someday. Still, he was young, half-beast, and could only hold sweet things in his heart for passing moments before primal instincts possessed him.
“I don't know,” he said with a grin, “but tonight I’ll make sure you will remember me.”
Sasha smiled, though as they kissed her face turned serious with desire. Zak scooped her up and flung her down on the room’s bed. The furs that covered it warmed their skin. Zak tugged at her shirt, kissing her shoulder as it became bare.
Zak heard the faint click of the door opening, felt the subtle change in the air. In an instant, he was standing by the bed, claws ready to tear any intruder apart.
He lost his nerve for moment as he saw who it was: his father.
“By Fenris, what are you doing here?” Gustav's voice was a scolding father’s and a commanding general’s at once.
"What does it look like I'm doing!” Zak knew better than to talk back, but he had his father's blood and he didn't fear anything.
Gustav's eyes narrowed at being challenged. "Whoring," he answered.
Zak couldn't stand for that, not even from his father. His eyes blazed. At that moment it wouldn't have mattered if King Sebastian himself had said it. He could take insults but he could not stand Sasha being insulted like that.
“Gragh!” Zak grunted as he pounced toward his father, his fist clenched and hurdling through the air.
With lifetimes worth of combat instincts Gustav sidestepped Zak’s freight-train-like attack. He snatched his son’s wrist with one hand and with the other he slammed him face first into the stone wall. Zak’s forehead hit the wall so hard it chipped the stone surface. Still holding his wrist, Gustav kicked the back of his knee. Zak crumpled. His arm was twisted back. He could feel Gustav's heel on his shoulder, pressing it down while he raised his wrist up in the air with his two hands. It was utter strain.
"Are you done now? Have you got it all out?” Gustav asked. Zak felt a growing rage inside him, and even perhaps, hate. It was like a splinter in his heart that was slowly festering with an infection.
Zak trembled under the strain of the hold. “No,” he spat. He felt sharp fangs protrude from his mouth. Fur began lining his jaw and forearms. His back began expanding, his muscles swelling with magic.
He was shifting into his war form.
Suddenly Gustav spun him around.
“You would turn Krinos against your own father?” Gustav's voice crackled in the air, filling it to the brim with his supernatural will. His ice blue eyes locked on Zak’s. It was a clash of wills, not only of a father and son but as an elder werewolf and a youngling. Zak felt his transformation halt. He wasn't sure if it was he that stopped it or if it was his father blocking his shift by imposing his will. He had heard that the most powerful werewolves could control the transformation in others. By sheer intimidation and commanding magic presence they could force lesser werewolves from Krinos back into human form, from human form to wolf form and so forth. He did not have time to consider it further as Gustav released him.
"You didn't have the nerve to finish the fight,” Gustav said, referring to the fight in the pit. “I don't know if you become more of a child by the year.”
“This is what you came here to say?” Zak stood rubbing his shoulder.
“When the king called your name in the hall you were nowhere to be found. Let’s go.” Gustav grabbed him by the arm, and shoved him out of the room. As Zak went he glanced back at Sasha. She had covered herself with the fur blankets. Her hair was tussled but there was a slight smile on her face. Zak was relieved. That’s why mating was always better when it was between friends.
After Zak had paid his respects to the King, Gustav took him to the overlook on the Misted Path.
They stood there on the stone terrace, on the highest building in Grey Home. A forest valley stretched out on the horizon that ended with the great Wall of Mist. The moon drenched everything in its blue light. Gustav leaned against the stone parapet, his silver hair dangling over the sides of his face.
"You must think I'm being unreasonably harsh on you.” Gustav drew a pipe from his pocket, gingerly packed it with the Blimsom herb. As he struck a match to it the herb sizzled and began giving off its pungent fragrance. Taking in a puff, he held it out to Zak. He refused it, not in the mood for a smoke with his father.
"It should have been you at the King's table today,” Gustav said, smoke swirling around his face.
Zak stood, cross-armed. "I beat Yuri to death's door. The victory was mine.”
“The victory was yours to take, and you didn’t! You hesitated. A werewolf can take much more than you think. And the trials are such that you do not stop fighting until one of the elders calls the contest, or the opponent surrenders. You showed weakness and ignorance of our clan’s ways.”
“What of it? What more have I to prove? Yuri is five years my elder. And what need have I to eat at the King's table anyhow?”
Something in what he said enraged Gustav enough that he clinched the pipe with his teeth and snatched Zak by the fur pelt he had hoisted over his shoulders.
"Have you learned nothing from me all these years?”
"I am leagues above any my age in combat. What more proof of my learning can I show?” Zak said as he freed himself from Gustav’s grip.
"There is much more to being great than combat." Gustav exhaled the Blimsom smoke through his nostrils. The anger lingering in his face made him look like a firebreathing dragon. "You haven't heard what Yuri’s boast was.”
“No, nor do I care.”
“You will once you know what he asked in return.”
“What? A sheep to mate with?” Zak knew that kind of vulgarity upset his father, and right now that's all he wanted to do. It earned Zak a backhanded slap. Zak swallowed his pride—he had been half expecting it.
“Listen dammit.” Zak breathed deep, gesturing his assent. “Yuri boasted that he would slay Uriah the betrayer. And in return… he asked for Tyrene’s hand as his lifemate.”
“Yuri can't even beat me in fair battle, how will he even touch Uriah? And as for Tyrene, why should that concern me? She’s frail, as skinny as a dog bone. I wouldn’t mate her for a pile of gold and ten mugs of beer, let alone marry her.”
Gustav shook his head like he was talking to a wall. He gestured to the fire pit that had some tinder ready. They had sat this way many nights and by now Zak needed no instructions. He drew out a flint lighter from his pocket. He held out his thumb and unsheathed a claw from it. Holding the flint near the tinder he raked his claw across the flint. His inhuman strength made it easy. He had learned the trick as a boy, when spending time with his father seemed a great privilege. It had been so ingrained in his mind that even now on a night when he despised his father, he felt the boyish satisfaction for a moment that he was lighting a fire to have a talk with him.
Gustav sat down on the wooden chair opposite him. The flames began to grow. "You have grown up hearing many rumors all around you. I can understand why you drown out most of them as falsehoods. But buried among those tall tales are things that are true, and things that concern you.” Zak listened skeptically. “You know some call me by name other than Skarsgard.”
“Of course. I'm sure you're very proud.” Zak kept the sarcasm just below enraging to his father. “Gustav the Hammer. Gustav the Red. And so on.”
“And have you ever wondered why I am called Gustav the Red?”
“Your prowess in battle. The blood you’ve spilt there. What else could it be?”
"Deep down, you know.” Zak stared at his father. The thought had crossed his mind, but he had always assumed it ridiculous. The thought that his family suffered from…
“The Red Rage. It runs in our family.” Zak was speechless. He didn't want to accept it but it made sense. Gustav had religiously drunk a strange potion every night. Growing up it had never smelled like any other drink Zak had come across, and Gustav forbade him to even go near it. “But that is not all.” Gustav's voice softened, turned to a whisper. “Sebastian is not the true King, and Tyrus is not the rightful heir to the throne… You are.”
A stone dropped in Zak's heart. He was speechless for a long moment then could only spit out, “What?” His thoughts turned to the King. “How can you say such things against King Sebastian? He is a good King. He has treated our family kindly.”
“Listen well, boy!” Gustav rose. “It is we who have been kind to his family! For centuries, it was our lineage that ruled the 13 Moons. The greatest among the Kings, Priffald, Magnus, Soarra, they are all your ancestors. We ruled justly, with great glory. But in the course of things… our line was cursed. We were cursed with the Rage. To lose our sanity. To become demons.”
Zak listened, his thoughts reaching back to lore he had heard growing up as a child. Gustav continued. “When the kings of our lineage began going mad and devouring their own people, they were deemed unfit to be kings anymore. And so the throne was given to Sebastian's lineage. They were meant to rule until our line could be cured. At first they served as regents, ruling for the King in name only. But generations passed and they entrenched themselves, and our line was forgotten by most as the rightful heirs. It was in the interest of Sebastian's lineage that such things were not spoken of. And in time the common people of the clan accepted this, as it concerned them little as long as their lives went on in relative peace.”
Something deep inside of Zak made him refuse everything that Gustav was saying. He did not want it. He did not need it. The thought of him somehow being king made his stomach turn.
"Do you want to be king so much that you can reach back into the ancient past and dig up ghosts? All these things are long past. Even if it is true that our lineage once ruled the clan, Sebastian's line has been ruling for what, 1000 years? And they are just and good kings. For all you know I have also inherited the Red Rage.” Zak’s voice cracked as he tried to convey the rush of thoughts. “This is your ambition, not mine.”
“It is not ambition, child!” Gustav's voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “Generations ago the Seer Brihald foretold that the 13th generation in our line would retake the throne. I have known this all my life. When I chose your mother as my lifemate it was that she might give me a son who could be great and live up to that destiny. Now the time has come to fulfill it.”
Zak shook his head, at a loss for words. “You don’t think I’m a worthy son… how can you think I’m fit to be king.”
Gustav rarely showed any emotions besides those of a warrior. Anger, pride, determination, these were the things that concerned him. But now, Zak could see something in his eyes. A regret, a sorrow, he did not know.
“If my expectations were for you to simply to be a good standing member of the clan, you would never hear a single word of reproach from me. But that is not so. I have raised you not just as a father raising a son, but as a Hammer of the Clan raising a new king.”
Zak stared back at his father, his spine feeling limp under the weight of these revelations. “What are you asking of me?” Zak gazed around making sure no one was nearby, then spoke in a whisper. “To kill Tyrus? To kill Sebastian? Just to fulfill your ambition? It's insane.”
“No. Do you think I am a fool? A conniving backstabber? Have you not heard what I've been saying? Think for a moment, you ram skull. Tyrus is not fit to be king. He has never shifted. He is only a year younger than you. It is clear now that he is not a late bloomer, nor a delicate flower. It's clear that he will never shift at all. Tyrene is the eldest. And he who marries her would be closest to the throne. And you, you as the true heir to the throne, free of the Red Rage, you will marry her and you will become king.”
“No. No it isn't right. You think Sebastian will go along with this? He is a just king, but he is still a king. He will defend his interests and so will his allies. It will tear the clan apart. Why would you do such a thing, you as the Hammer who have sworn to defend it with your life?”
Gustav’s chest heaved as he held back a laugh. “You becoming king is for the good of the clan.” He rose and walked back to look over the parapet, signaling for Zak to follow. He gestured out to the vast mountain peaks and forest. “What do you see out there?”
“The forest. The mountains…”
“And beyond that?”
“The Mist.”
“And beyond that still?”
“You know what is past the Mist! Everything outside Grey Home. The world of men. Its cities, its iron walls and foul smells and sounds.”
“Yes. And from that world, from that world of darkness, our enemies are growing. The Black Hand. The vampires. The Old One.”
Zak's face was drained of its color. “What? The Old One was killed.”
“To such a creature, death rarely sticks. The seers of the clan feel his darkne
ss spreading in the spirit world. Some speak of those who are seeking a way to harness his power for their own purposes. For all these things that are coming, we need a strong and just king. Like the kings of old. Sebastian's time is waning. So is mine. Tyrus is weak. Yuri is foolish. There are no others but you. You must fulfill your destiny and hold our clan together.”
Zak was not sure what to say. He thought it strange, that now he wished it had been a normal argument they had. He wished that Gustav had only scolded him for being an unworthy son. He would have given his place at the King's table, given his place at the lesser nobility table, he would have eaten with the dogs if it meant escaping this fate. He didn't remember last time he had called Gustav anything other than by his name. Now, he trembled. “Father… I can’t.”
Gustav’s eyes bored into his. He reached his hand up. He had a charm on his bracelet. One in the shape of a wolf fang that Zak had always liked as a boy, that he had never been allowed to hold. Gustav took the charm in his hand now. Flicking his wrist and pronouncing a word Zak did not know, the charm flashed like lightning. It was blinding white. As Zak opened his eyes, he saw that in his hand Gustav held a glinting sword. The sword's guard was shaped like a crescent moon. Its grip was of a blue metal set with a row of pearls. The pommel held single moonstone, and lightning emblems streaked its silver blade.
“I will begin training you in earnest now, and that thought will leave you forever.”
As Gustav held up the sword to him, Zak felt a primal call from the blade. It spoke of power and invincibility to him. But as he took it in his hand, he felt that to wield such a weapon would set him on the path of an ominous destiny. He felt as if he were staring at the moon eclipsing the sun, and that now the destruction and the birth of an age would consume him. He felt that the blade would be plunged deep into the heart of destiny, and he along with it would bear the force of the breaking of an age.
5
No one believed her, and she couldn't blame them. Still, it hurt. Few people ever experience not being believed by everyone they know, family, friend and stranger alike. Those who do know it is a pain that cuts deep into one's being. It marks one's own soul as separate from the world, as different, strange, alien. This realization was creeping into Emily's mind when Dr. Erickson's voice brought her back to the brown psychiatric room.