Sigourd had fallen prey to the magics of this cursed place. He was no longer the brave spirit Jonn Grumble had sworn fealty too, he was...
Such thoughts raced through Jonn Grumble’s mind. Torn between his disgust for the freakish transformation he was witnessing, and the loyalty he felt for his friend.
As Jonn looked on, Sigourd was no longer recognizably human. His body had swelled and grown to take on the shape of a hulking monster, his facial features had been subsumed beneath the visage of...a wolf!
The beast looked up suddenly, golden eyes pinned with black slits. Those eyes flashed at Jonn Grumble. The wild man recoiled to see that there was now nothing left of his friend. The Sigourd monster threw back its shaggy maned head and unleashed an animal cry that shattered the silence of the night. The sound pierced Jonn Grumble like a cold blade through his guts. It carried up, up and away, echoing around the valley and into the eternity of night. The others too began to take up the cry, their animal voices filling the clearing with a terrifying howling.
Jonn Grumble knew what he must do. He would grant Sigourd the mercy of his blade. If he could not repay his debt by saving his friends life, then he would save his soul.
Jonn gripped his sword staff two handed, readied himself to leap at the monster Sigourd now was. One clean stroke was all it would require. He would take the beast’s head and save Sigourd’s immortal essence from the damnation of a cursed existence.
But too late, the other wolves had gathered between them. Even wracked as they apparently were with the agony of their transformation it would be an impossible task to reach his target. Indeed, the majority of them seemed to be reaching the apex of their metamorphosis. Like grotesque butterflies freshly emerged, they stood trembling, basking in the silvery light of the hunter’s moon.
Too long, curse him he’d waited too long. Patience was the only recourse now. Patience and timing. Jonn Grumble sheathed his sword staff, and as quickly as he could, before any of the monsters had recovered their sensibilities enough to restrain or pursue him, he stole away into the enfolding darkness of the forest. Behind him the night was rent by the howling of the wolves.
CHAPTER 15
An assembly
Huron cast a sudden glance over his shoulder. The echoing sound of the howling rose up out of the cold dark of the valley below. If Huron had been like other men, he might have labelled the sound chilling to hear. He paused a moment in scrutiny, allowing his keen eyes to roam the endless expanse of the valley basin. The dark blanket of the forest canopy was bordered to either side by the jagged ranges of the Ash’Harad. Like the wicked canines of some deranged hunting dog, those mountains bit deep into the sky, their cruel silhouettes picked out against the backdrop of night by the silver light of the moon.
Huron didn’t doubt that he was perhaps one of only a handful of men to have ever laid eyes on this place, nestled as it was in the foothills of the heavens. Beyond the will of mortal man to reach.
After a while, the distant howling died down, the echo of it dissipating on the bitter winds that roamed the high mountain passes. Huron spurred his horse on, the animals breath steaming the cold air as it pushed on through the dark between the tall trees.
It was only a few moments before the knight came at last to the place he sought. Scattered amongst the dense forest in loose formation formation was one hundred of The Baron Mortaron’s household cavalry.
Known as the Baratiis 75th, they were the latest incarnation of a company that had been founded by The Baron’s ancestors over three hundred years previously. The company had always served The Baronial line first, and the ruler of Corrinth Vardis second. Their loyalty to The Baron Mortaron was unquestioned, and they were seasoned and efficient killers who took pride in their brutal work.
The elite troops had been sent behind Huron to bolster any effort he was required to make in prosecuting The Baron’s will. And now their skills in Warcraft were most certainly required.
As he was bid, Huron had followed the young lord into the valley. As soon as the knight had laid eyes upon the wonderfully strange village in the heart of the forest, surrounded by trees so large they dwarfed the tallest spires of the palace at Corrinth Vardis, he had known that he had found the place The Baron had spoken of. The place and the people that his liege lord had instructed him to raise to the ground.
Having dispatched his hawk with a note of summons for the commander of the Baratiis three days previously, Huron had settled in his place of concealment to observe not only Sigourd and his unkempt companion, but the village also.
He had seen mostly families, children and women. But there was also a strong presence of men folk about the place, perhaps several dozen that were of age and able bodied enough to muster a compelling resistance to their impending annihilation.
However now that Huron had arrived here, the question begged asking; why should The Baron wish for this seemingly tranquil place to be put to ruin? Wiped from the face of the world as if it never was. Those had been The Barons’s words. What secrets were hidden amongst the people of this dwelling that The Baron should want for even their children to be slaughtered?
The question begged asking. But it was not Huron’s place to question the commands of his baron. He would obey.
The hawk had already returned with the watch commander’s response, and Huron decided that it was time he go to meet the Baratiis.
Here they waited, in a place that he had scouted especially to allow them the advantage of being able to observe their target while remaining hidden within the cover of the forest. Huron rode between gatherings of men, some who had dismounted, others who sat patiently in their saddles awaiting the order to move on their intended target.
All of them turned to watch the knight as he moved past. The Baratiis were all swarthy, battle hardened veterans. But even amongst their ranks, a figure with the stature and reputation of the old baron’s enforcer was not something you cold help but gaze upon with weary respect.
Picking out the watch commander amongst a huddle of mounted officers, Huron trotted his battle steed over to the group. The commander, a portly man with thick, strong arms and a roughly groomed mustache the points of which tapered up and over the edge of his gorget, looked up from his deep discussions. He nodded to his men that they should allow him a moment with the approaching knight.
‘Well met, enforcer. You have located the Prince Regent?’ said the commander.
Huron inclined his head by way of acknowledgement, ‘In the valley below. There is a village of sorts. Mostly women folk and children. But there are some amongst their number who might provide a small measure of challenge for you men.’
‘It’s the challenge that the women will provide that most interests my men,’ said the commander with a malicious twinkle in his eye, ‘We’ve been riding hard for days now. We could use the distraction.’
Huron turned slowly to regard the other man, his face an image of pure distaste, ‘Your men will comport themselves with the dignity that is usually associated with soldiers of your esteemed station. If that is not the case, you will answer personally to me.’
The commander hesitated, before allowing himself a curt nod of understanding ‘Yes, lord.’
Huron once more turned his attention to the twinkling of the strange lights in the village far below. Even at this distance, and through the intervening morass of trees and foliage, the beauty of the village could not be denied. It sat in the valley below them, twinkling in the darkness and totally unsuspecting of the fate that was poised to befall it.
Huron’s plan was to attack the village immediately before daybreak. They would storm the target simultaneously from all sides, driving the occupants to the centre where they could more easily be culled. The Baratiis would ride out of the forest, the rising sun at their backs, their blades whispering death as they fell.
‘We’ll take up position around their encampment and move on the primary when I give the command, understood?’ continued Huron.
Huron inclined his head. He had been made aware of no plans save the repatriation of the prince. He would need to press this fool commander in order to glean further information.
‘Yes, we are almost at the point of fruition,’ Huron agreed, ‘all we await is the final pieces falling into place.’ Huron hoped that by playing along he would be able to draw out of the commander some insight into these mysterious plans.
‘When The Regent rides out to lay siege to the Morays, he will receive such a surprise,’ cooed the watch commander. Huron tried not to reveal the depth of his curiosity, but he had to push a little further.
‘It will be the sort of surprise that shakes the very foundations of the court,’ he said.
‘You have a talent for understatement, enforcer,’ scoffed the other man, ‘even an army as disciplined as The Regent’s will not be able to overcome the trap The Baron has set. The entire Morays war host lies in wait at the border for The Regent and his men to cross over. It will be a massacre.’
Huron’s stony demeanor slipped momentarily. Even he had not considered that The Baron would be capable of so monstrous a betrayal. But of course it all made sense now. The Barons insistence on pursuing war with the Morays. The explosion of the weapon store. It was all an attempt by the old man to force The Regents hand. To force him into overextending himself and his forces with fatal consequences. The Baron was planning to overthrow The Regent with the help of the bitterest rivals of the realm. For what? Riches, power?
Even The Barons desire to see the young lord Sigourd returned safely to the palace must now be called into question. With his father deposed, Sigourd would be the only one capable of laying forth a legitimate challenge to whichever usurper sat upon The Regents throne.
The Baron would need him removed from the equation, or at the very least locked away and out of sight for any transition of power to retain its cohesion.
Despite his disgust at the scope of The Barons tyrannical ambition, Huron would not ordinarily concern himself with the machinations of the court. Even when they were of such monumental proportions as this. Kings rose and fell, as did kingdoms. It was all part of life’s cruel cycle.
But Hurons immediate concern was far closer to home than shifting allegiances between the houses. He thought only of the Lady Veronique. She did not strike Huron as the sort of woman who would stand by and allow anyone, even her brother, to depose both her husband and son. The Baron would realize this also, and therefore it would have occurred to him that Veronique was perhaps as much of a threat to his ambitions as Sigourd. Perhaps plans were already in motion that would threaten her safety? This could not be allowed.
The knight had always taken supreme pride in the strength of his vow, of his word as bond. The prospect of breaking the oath he had sworn to serve even a man as traitorous as The Baron Mortaron did not sit well with him.
He looked on through the darkness at the twinkling lights in the valley below. Around him the shrill howling of the mountain passes had picked up. Flurries of snow whipped past on the winds icy, hollow breath.
‘Carry on, ’ he instructed the commander. The man pulled his horse around, trotting off to brief his men. Huron tugged his cloak around him, feeling the cold for the first time since he’d ventured beyond the mountains. He had reached a decision. Looking to the night sky, Huron tapped quietly upon the vambrace of his armor. The tinny sound carrying up into the forest canopy. There followed a brief silence before Huron tapped again lightly upon the cold steel of his armored sleeve. After another moments quiet, there was a sudden beating of wings as a dark shape came swooping down out of the starry night.
From the shadowed depths of the forest, a lone, hooded figure watched the war host as it prepared to move out. He studied them in secret as the host in turn watched the village in the valley below.
He had tracked the intruders since they crested the ridge, coming into the shadow of the great mountain fang that loomed in the light of the full moon. He understood their intention clearly enough. After a moments pause, the figure broke from cover to make his way back down the mountainside toward the village.
The moon had passed its zenith hours since by the time the lone figure had made it back to the village amongst the red trees. Making his way along one of the many high gantries that joins the massive pods where his people made their home, he arrived finally at his destination. One of the dwellings near the centre of the main grouping, the nodal point of the village, where gatherings are held and decisions made that would determine the course of history.
But tonight, the meeting is clandestine, and history will be decided by one man and one alone.
The figure entered the pod, gently drawing aside the fine silvery gauze that framed the entrance.
Standing near an opening that looks out at the beaming moon in the now cloudless sky, Bael regards the night with an almost melancholy interest. He did not turn as the figure crossed the chamber to stand behind him.
‘What news have you brought me, Nartaba?’ Bael asked.
The figure cast off his hood to reveal a face wrought with deep concern. His eyes held the light of a keen intelligence, and the zeal of the fanatic.
‘A war host of mortal men. They are encamped on the slopes of the western face, hidden from sight in the forests there,’ said Nartaba.
Bael considered this information. He scratched ruefully at the whisp of a beard about his youthful face, continuing to stare out at the silvered contours of the forest beyond his abode.
‘As I predicted. My fathers grand plans have brought the attentions of mankind to our homestead,’ he said.
‘What are we to do?’ asked Nartaba.
Bael’s response was not immediately forthcoming as he pondered his adjuncts question. The silence hung heavy in the air between them for long moments.
‘We do nothing,’ he said finally.
A look of concern flashed behind Nartaba’s eyes, ‘But surely, that would doom the village?’
Bael turned slowly so that he could meet the questioning look in the other man’s expression.
‘Great sacrifices are required to achieve great deeds, my kinsman. It pains me to do what must be done, but it shall nevertheless come to pass. For the good of all, surely it is better that a few should suffer?’
Nartaba’s uncertainty waged war with his devotion to his leaders cause. In the end, it was that devotion which decided the matter for him. He nodded his head in agreement.
‘We will allow the flames of creation to burn away the old world, and allow a new one to flourish in its place,’ said Bael as he turned back to the portal and the forest beyond, his eyes coming to rest on the slopes of the western face. Out in the darkness beyond the village, fate was making its steady way into the annals of brutal history.
CHAPTER 16
Revelations...
Sigourd rolled over on a bed of the shimmering gauze. He tried to open his eyes against the glare of the sunlight streaming in through an open window. Squinting, he raised an arm to shield his face from the brilliance.
A woman’s delicate hand reached across him to mop his brow gently with a damp cloth. She dabbed at the perspiration there tenderly. Sigourd forced himself to open his eyes so that he might look upon the begetter of that tender caress. When he saw who it was that nursed him, he recoiled as if he had chanced upon a snake in his bed.
Isolde sat before him. She laid the damp cloth aside and sat back so that she could meet his icy stare, ‘The Change is a most taxing thing. Even for those that would make a habit of the experience, but especially when it is the first time. It can be quite...uncomfortable.’
Sigourd noticed movement from one side of the oval chamber. Standing there in the doorway was another man, his aspect dark and uncompromising. There was a thin shadow of facial hair about his youthful face, and a sadistic air about him that rem
inded Sigourd of his uncle Mortaron. ‘Where is my companion?’ asked Sigourd.
‘He fled into the forest,’ Isolde said. ‘I imagine he’s quite safe wherever he managed to end up. He appeared quite capable.
‘Last night. What did you do to me?’ demanded Sigourd.
‘You remember nothing?’ she said.
‘I remember everything,’ he said, his mood dark with concern.
‘I know what you must think of me,’ said Isolde.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ stated Sigourd, unable to keep the reproachful tone from his voice.
‘You have led me across the lands on a fool’s errand, only to place a curse upon me. To turn me into some fell creature the likes of which I cannot even begin to describe.’
The man with the severe aspect stepped into the room. He wore his contempt for Sigourd undisguised, ‘We have liberated you half-man. Perhaps instead of finding reason to complain, you might wish to thank us.’
To his knowledge, Sigourd had never lain eyes on the man, but his voice was strangely familiar. Like the memory of a song whose tune won’t quite coalesce. Isolde turned sharply, scowling at the man who had spoken.
‘That is the truth,’ she said, ‘we have helped you to realize the true and wonderful nature of what you really are.’
‘Which is what exactly?’ asked Sigourd.
There was a moments hesitation from Isolde, she looked uncertain of the manner in which she wanted to phrase her answer.
‘You are wulfen Sigourd.’
Sigourds eyes went wide with surprise, and he too was silent for a moment as he processed this information. ‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘the wulfen are a myth. A legend told to children to scare them into behaving themselves.’
‘That’s no more true than the fact of me sitting here.’
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