by Jason Cheek
Now, I’m no wizard or sorcerer with the gene that would allow me to wield the raw forces of magic. Although, I did have a base education in magic theory from my Grandsire and could perform magic using thaumaturgy. Normally, I did that by infusing runes for a specific purpose, like the Rök runes tattooed into my skin, but that sort of magic was more mechanical in nature.
Definitely not the ‘spell slinging’ magic that a wizard or sorcerer used.
Meaning that, anyone with the right training could draw out magic sigils, and, by focusing their Will, infuse their energy into the design to power it. These symbols functioned like preset formulas built into the fabric of creation that anyone with the right training could use. Although that type of magic worked best when the symbolism that was being used held specific meaning to the individual inscribing the symbol, which was why I mostly used Rök runes for my own work.
Wielding your typical “spell slinging” magic was similar to having a direct power cord to an energy source, with the “magic gene” creating the connection.
A wizard or sorcerer, in many ways, was similar to an engineer that built a machine for a specific purpose. While an engineer needed a power source to bring their creation to life, wizards or sorcerers were born already directly connected to their power source. The focus of their Will alone was the vehicle that directed the power they commanded, removing the need to build a machine to focus the power for them into action.
On the other hand, my source of power was entirely different from either one of those types of magic. Its source was derived from the divine and based in faith, a gift from my patron God Ukko given to me at my birth, due to my mix race if you believed my Grandsire’s stories.
In application, it was similar to that of a sorcerer. Since I have a limited reserve of energy to use at any one time, I had to wait until it regenerated back to be able to cast more spells.
Unlike a sorcerer, I could only use the power available to me in particular ways. This was determined by my need via communion with Ukko.
Let me just make one thing clear, Gods never explain anything directly.
It was more through sensations and feelings that Ukko tended to communicate concepts to me. Sometimes the process of learning was similar to that of being hungry and learning how to eat, while, at other times, it was like learning physics from a mime.
Easy or hard, every day brought new opportunities to learn.
I had been in communication with Ukko since my birth, but at the age of twenty four I still did not begin to understand the Will of Ukko, except for one thing, which both Ukko and my Grandsire seemed to agree upon. In order to stop the evil that had killed my parents, my people, and that was even now taking over my world. I must possess immense fortitude and endure tremendous personal sacrifice.
Try growing up with that heavy weight hanging over you!
For the longest time, I had spent every waking moment trying to prepare for any possible hardship my Grandsire and I could conceive, but about three years ago I’d flipped out on him. Exploded, actually would have described that argument more accurately, which had also been the main reason I’d started to surf.
Let’s just say, it was one of many things that I’d decided needed changing. Needless to say, Grandsire and I were still adjusting to the new situation.
Walking back to my gear, I received a few strange looks from the people I passed.
It’s hard to say if the stares were due to my tattoos or the swollen red marks crisscrossing my body. Grabbing my old towel and surfboard, I headed up to South Beach Road where my old pick-up truck was parked.
‘The Beast’, as I liked to call it, was a Ford pick-up truck born sometime in 1972 and had been white in another life.
Now days, it was more Bondo gray than anything else from the various repairs over the years. Not that I cared. Most people would call it ugly, but what it didn’t have in the looks department it had in character. When you turned on the engine and hit the gas, it practically roared. Most importantly it had long ago met my primary requirements.
It was cheap and reliable! Even now, I could still find parts for the truck at the local junk yards to keep the thing running.
Throwing everything into the Beast, I climbed into the cab and sat for a moment breathing hard. I’d better deal with the poison if I didn’t want to feel like crap for the rest of the day.
Pulling out my old water bottle, I cracked the lid draining the warm water inside in one gulp. My light headed feeling somewhat subsided as I found the apple I’d brought for my lunch, which I quickly wolfed down to the core in a matter of seconds.
Restored enough to attend to my own injuries, I prayed to Ukko.
“Helbrede.”
Golden light enveloped me as a refreshing coolness washed over my damaged body. In a flash, my injuries were fully healed as the light from the spell disappeared. Except for having low energy reserves, I was once again ready to go as if I’d never had been injured.
Starting up the engine, the Beast roared to life as I pulled out onto South Beach Road heading to US1. Not that low energy reserves would be an issue, I would regenerate most of that in the twenty minutes it took me to drive home.
Chapter 2
Location Irlendria / Pack Shadowfang’s Winter Den / Werewolves:
Scourgebane fangs sank deep into the creature’s throat, holding on, as Silvermane lunged from behind hamstringing the animal’s hind legs.
Feeling the immense stag’s headlong flight suddenly falter, Scourgebane jerked his powerful neck, slamming the animal to a bone jarring stop into the deep snow. Using his whole body, he kept the buck pinned to the ground as Silvermane darted in again, this time she shattered the animal’s hind legs, snapping through the bones cleanly with her strong jaws.
Crippled severely, the stag’s struggles weakened as Scourgebane fangs tore open the deer’s throat, as its bleating cries filled the night. The white snow turned to red as the stag slowly bled to death.
It had been too long since Silvermane last joined him for the hunt.
For the last six months, she had been either too gravid carrying their young, or too busy taking care of their pups to join him. Finally, they could have some time alone together. Silvermane’s littermate, Moonglow, had offered to look after their pups, so they could hunt together this night.
The stag was unusually large, at least eight hundred pounds, and would feed the pack well. For now, being the hunters that had made the kill, they would feast on the most succulent parts of the animal, before bringing the carcass back to Winter Den for the Pack.
Steam rose into the cold night air as Scourgebane tore open the soft underbelly of the stag. Moving aside, he allowed Silvermane to have first choice of the tasty internal organs.
Eagerly, she snapped through the stag’s sternum, tearing out the animal’s still warm heart. Scourgebane admired his loving mate as she gorged on the large organ. Her namesake silver coat now tinged red with blood.
Suddenly, his nostrils flared as the scent of strange wolves came to him.
Not the familiar scent of the Pack, but of trespassers in the Shadowfang’s domain. From their stench, he recognized them immediately as Werewolves of the Brokenfang Pack.
Springing to his feet, he faced the intruders as he felt Silvermane brace herself behind him. At first, Scourgebane thought it was a hunting party that they had run into, but as the mass of glowing red eyes began lighting up the dark forest in front of them.
He realized something wasn’t right.
Yellow eyes narrowing in anger, he watched as the nafda continued advancing into the clearing. To him, the Brokenfang Pack were more Wereworgs than Werewolves, since the cowards had no concept of honor.
Sniffing the air intently, he suddenly smelled another scent he was all too familiar with.
A loud growl started rumbling deep in his chest as Scourgebane’s hackles rose on his back. Bokenfangs traveling with the Scourge could mean only one thing. M
eeting Silvermane’s eyes, he heard her thoughts reflect his own as she came to the same conclusion.
In close proximity, Werewolves communicated using Mentem-loqui speech, which was telepathy in its purest form. Unlike the confusion most races experienced when expressing ideas or concepts between one another, for the Pack there were rarely questions or misunderstandings.
For most Werewolves, Mentem-loqui speech was a sharing of thoughts, emotions and general intent, but for life mates such as them. The connection went so deep as to verge on the sharing of one mind.
Suddenly the wind changed direction, and with it came the stench of more Brokenfang wolves encircling them from behind, cutting off any chance of escape. Coming to her mate’s side, Silvermane’s hackles bristled on her back as she felt Scourgebane’s fury as if it were her own.
In a blur of thought, ideas and strategies began being flashed between them as they considered their options. In a matter of seconds, they reached the same conclusion. They were too far away from the Pack to send out using Mentem-loqui speech to warn of the approaching danger, the distance was simply too great.
This was a major incursion.
Already they could see that there were too many Werewolves for them to fight their way to safety. The only option left was to use Ululate-loqui speech to warn the Pack.
Ululate-loqui speech was the ancient hunting tongue of the Pack, which Werewolves had used since times immemorial. Before Meliki, the Goddess of the Forest, gave the Pack the gift of Mentem-loqui speech and made them the guardians of her domain.
Even though Mentem-loqui speech was used for most communication between Werewolves, in honor of their ancestors, the Pack never stopped using their ancient language. Besides being used to express intense emotions or to drive prey during the hunt, Ululate-loqui speech was also used to communicate simple messages over vast distances.
Their agreement was near instantaneous.
Silvermane’s sudden howl broke the quiet winter night freezing the approaching wolves momentarily in place, giving Scourgebane the precious seconds he needed for his transformation into Werewolf form, which the Pack used for fighting. Muscles stretched as bones popped and shifted into place, Scourgebane’s sleek black wolf form turned into a four hundred and fifty pound mountain of muscles and claws.
Raising his arms out to either side, he rose to his full height of nine feet as he howled out his own challenge at the Brokenfang wolves.
Glaring at the Brokenfang wolves surrounding them, Scourgebane’s black lips drew back from his mighty fangs in a ferocious snarling growl that promised death. Fear reflected in the Brokenfang wolves’ eyes as they recognized the Werewolf standing before them. Frozen in place, their ears perked forward as they listened fearfully for a response to Silvermane’s call.
The seconds ticked by as the silence stretched out without any answering reply. Slowly, the Brokenfang wolves began to close in for the kill.
Once again, Silvermane arched her neck back and howled, her clear call ringing throughout the small valley in a long winded cry. Once more, the Brokenfang wolves paused in their approach as they waited intensely listening for an answer to her call.
Slowly the seconds ticked by, hearing nothing the Brokenfang wolves’ confidence grew as they growled out their own promise of carnage.
“It was time to kill!”
Scourgebane and Silvermane immediately understood what was wrong.
They were too deep in the valley for their message to reach Winter Den. If they were going to alert the Pack, they needed to call from the ridge between the two valleys far above them.
Warning the Pack was now their only purpose!
Silvermane began her transformation as Scourgebane slashed with broad swipes of his long clawed hands. He kept their enemies at bay while she completed her transformation. Within seconds, her own Werewolf form stood back to back with that of her mate, silver and black now moving together as one.
Silvermane’s Werewolf form was not the mountain of muscle like that of her Scourgebane’s. The top of her head, at seven feet, barely reached his shoulders, and she only weighed three hundred pounds, but her Werewolf form, like that of her mate, was solid muscle.
What she lacked in size and mass she more than made up for in speed and strength.
Not all Werewolves had three forms. Most wolves only could switch between a wolf and humanoid form, the magic in their blood being too weak to transform into a third form.
The Shadowfang Pack was full-blooded Werewolves, able to transform into the forms of Human, Wolf and Werewolf. They were also individually bigger and stronger than the other Werewolves of Irlendria. Not only was the Shadowfang Pack’s blood purer than that of the other Packs, they were larger than the other Werewolves too. Scourgebane was noticeably three times bigger than any of the Brokenfang wolves, whereas Silvermane was only twice as large.
Scourgebane was also the Pack’s First, Second only to the Pack Leader in strength and power. Although individual Werewolves held their own rank in the Pack, mated pairs took the position of the highest Werewolf in the pair-bond, so Silvermane’s status in the Pack was the same as that of her mate.
Even though she was not as large or powerful as Scourgebane, with her raw speed and innate ability, she was a highly skilled warrior in her own right.
Scourgebane would have been Leader of the Pack. If not for the unusual situation where their Pack Leader was in another dimension guarding over the offspring from the first joining of a Shadowfang and Klavikian. He would have long ago taken over the leadership of the Pack as his rightful place.
Although this situation was a first in the Pack’s ancient history, Scourgebane held no resentment for the need to stay as the Pack’s First. He understood what it meant for the Pack to be joined with the Klavikians by blood with Ukko’s blessing.
These Wereworgs had no idea of what they now faced. Scourgebane refused to name the honorless scum Werewolves.
The growls of the Brokenfang wolves surrounding them grew in intensity as their lips peeled back from their fangs, their eyes flashing in pure rage. How dare a female have the audacity to face them in combat!
For the Brokenfangs, females in their Pack were considered only slightly better than prey themselves. A female’s sole responsibility was to breed new offspring for the Pack. When they were too old for that simple task, they had their throats ripped out before they were fed back to the younger females. Their flesh not considered worthy as meat for a male.
Seeing this female stand up to them enraged the Brokenfang wolves to no end. They would teach this bitch a lesson once they ripped apart the male!
Attacking suddenly, the wolves facing Scourgebane rushed him in a wall of fur and fangs as their Pack brothers dove at his back for the kill, disregarding Silvermane completely.
The first six wolves died as Silvermane’s claws flashed in a flurry quicker than even wolf eyes could follow. She tore the first wave of wolves’ throats out before they knew what was happening, as they dove blindly for Scourgebane’s vulnerable backside.
The second wave of wolves, seeing what had happened to their Pack Brothers, targeted Silvermane next. Ripping into her, they rent chunks of flesh from her chest and neck as they tried to drive her to the ground.
Howling in rage, she drove their assault back in a bloody confused mess with her ferocity.
The first swipes of Scourgebane’s massive claws split the first wave wolves attacking him in half, while his powerful backhand threw the second wave through the air in every direction. Before he could recover, the next gray wave tore into him with fangs and claws.
Standing against their overwhelming numbers like a living mountain, he reached up with his large clawed hands crushing the skulls of the wolves hanging from his neck and chest. Ripping out chunks of his own flesh, he flung their broken bodies away howling in fury. Undaunted by their assault, he continued tearing apart the waves of wolves trying to overwhelm him by their sheer
numbers alone, as more and more wolves sprang into the gaps left from their dead Packmates’ corpses.
Slowly Scourgebane and Silvermane made their way up the side of the valley.
Heading for the ridge, they slaughtered wave after wave of wolves. Every attack leaving them more bleeding and broken than the last, but still they fought with fangs and claws as their enemies littered the ground around them thick as autumn leaves.
Suddenly, the Brokenfang wolves dropped back a pace as the rest of their Pack came up from behind. Fresh reinforcements rushed to fill the gaping holes left in the advance forces shredded ranks.
The new wolves surrounding the bloodied Shadowfang Werewolves snarled and snapped at each other in anticipation, fighting for position to be the first to taste the prey’s blood. Further behind them was the Scourge who would be arriving any minute.
Their time had run out!
Scourgebane stood over Silvermane protectively as she lay panting at his feet. Her namesake silver coat was now matted with blood and gore, while her arms hung limply at her sides, mauled beyond use.
Scourgebane wasn’t in much better shape either.
Great chunks of flesh and skin hung from his torso while the tendons of his legs had been shredded to ruin, making it difficult for him to even stand, let alone sprint the last fifty yards to the ridge of the enclosed valley, now blocked by a deep ring of fresh Brokenfang wolves.
A Werewolves life was filled with violence and death, for that was the nature of the hunter. They had no fear of death or regret for what could have been. Neither was a concern that crossed their minds.
Their sole focus was in the here and now.
Their only concern was finding a way to warn the Pack.
Silvermane raised her head painfully looking at the same path as her mate, when the idea came to her. Scourgebane, sharing her thoughts, understood the plan immediately, agreeing that it was the only chance they had to reach the ridge above and give their warning.
Pride and love filled Scourgebane for his mate, reminding him once again how their strength and weaknesses complemented each other, making them both stronger.