by Ymir A Lethe
“Where did you get that ring?”
“It was my mother’s father’s.” Solace turned and looked him in the eye. “Stop. We’ve got a robbery of a sacred place and you’re busy making accusations, simply because you don’t like me.”
Tubiel stared back into Solace’s creepy orange eyes, with a huff and curled his lower lip. Then he stormed up the stone staircase and back into the sunlight. Two new people had arrived. On the left was a lady in a tight red dress, with long fiery hair. And on the right was the local priest, Father Blossom. He was a young man, likeable, too. The lady peered into the darkness, while the priest was asking questions.
“Who’s she?” Tubiel asked Father Blossom, gesturing to the lady.
“I’m Lady Milla Shade,” she said. “Here visiting Lord Winters.”
“My apologies.” Tubiel bowed. “Daniel, we should re-seal the tomb. It was robbed, and now we leave the dead to rest.”
Solace emerged from the staircase brushing the dust from his black fur cloak. “Agreed!”
“Seems right.” Daniel nodded. “Marcon, go and find Nathaniel. Tell him to send a few laborers to help us move these rocks.”
The militiaman nodded and began jogging for the hills.
“The rocks weren’t just toppled,” Milla said. “There was a lot of force used.”
“Would’ve taken a giant,” Tubiel said. “Or ropes.”
Milla turned to Father Blossom. “Well, thank you, Father.” She smiled. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“No problem. Sorry I wasn’t there when you came to visit. Byron should know by now that I spend a lot of the evening gathering medicinals.” Blossom sighed. “And it’s getting harder to find quality as winter comes.”
“Why would he send me during that time?” Milla asked.
“I don’t know.” Father Blossom shrugged. “He was probably tired. He’s a hard-working man, that Mr. Portsman. Tubiel, how are you?”
Lady Shade began walking off.
“I’m good,” Tubiel said.
Lady Shade began walking off.
Tubiel looked in her direction. “She’s an interesting figure.”
She stopped to glare at him and then carried on.
She’s a beautiful lady, and with a thick London accent. A sharp mind also. A little rude, though. Tubiel returned his attention to Father Blossom to find that he’d already begun talking with one of the militiamen. Eventually, Father Blossom bowed and left without another word.
Prick. Tubiel sighed before deciding to go on his way. Back over the hill and up another grassy slope to the forest, he found the cabin that was his home. He watered the plants, checked the irrigation which ran from the nearby river that divided the east side of the Bronzeglade forest in half, and then entered his cabin. He went to his desk in the corner, sat down, and looked through his papers. No reference to a ring or anything.
“Who are you?” He held up his sketch of Solace, and made a popping noise with his tongue. “No, you’re not the green-eyed wolf. But perhaps you know who is.”
Green-Eyes had been sighted for the last ten years, but not a single killing yet. It seemed that he kept to itself. So what could’ve possibly killed the poor woman on the road?
A second wolf.
The sun was setting and the sky was drenched in red. He looked out of his open door and smiled to himself. The Lord put many annoying things in this world, but he also made sunsets.
Tubiel looked through his notes. The mysterious Monastery of Bronzium, with an unknown origin. No architect, not even a sect attached to it. Endless historical documents and religious reading. Nothing special about the place except that it was heretical.
Tubiel froze. Felt like something was right outside his door, watching him. He jumped to his feet and ran to the door. Looked out through the bleak trees and saw someone standing far away, in the darkness. Silence hung like fog. It was too dark to see who they were. He couldn’t even make out their outline. He just knew they were there, and he knew they were watching.
“Solace? Is that you?”
The bleeding red sky began to fade into black. Tubiel touched his wrist and felt the chill of his silver bracelet as the dark figure slipped back into the darkness to reveal a full moon, through silver oak and drifting black leaves. Tubiel reached into his robes and pulled out mace. When he looked up, fiery eyes blazed through the darkness.
“A demon lives within you, lycanthrope!”
The black-furred beast leaped and landed a dozen feet away from him, on the verge between the trees and the open ground. Its fur opened in places, and the flesh soon after, from which fire flared into trails. Its teeth were shrouded in black smoke, and its eyes burned.
“The second wolf,” Tubiel snarled.
The two stepped toward one another. The beast’s writhed as Tubiel sprayed the mace in its face, and then he kicked the lycanthrope onto its back. The beast rolled back onto its belly and glared at Tubiel, growling.
“This is a silver mace,” Tubiel said.
The beast didn’t even flinch.
“Fuck, you’re far gone, aren’t you? A young one, I see!”
It leaped for him again and Tubiel ducked beneath it.
He’d faced many of these beasts, and he knew the beasts who’d only recently turned. They were wild and unfocused, and though they were strong, they didn’t compare to the older Lycans.
It turned its head and tried to bite his throat, but Tubiel swung between the hinges of its jaw and it bit clean through the silver. It shrieked, thrashing its head and throwing shards of silver everywhere. It spewed blood from its mouth as it staggered further and further back from Tubiel before falling against a tree, still staring at Tubiel. It started spewing less and less blood, and the fire that enveloped it was growing.
Tubiel looked to the shattered hilt of the mace and swore as the beast began to get up. Angry, savage. Even if Tubiel escaped, this thing could start a forest fire if they fought any longer. He sighed and whispered to God, then ripped his silver bracelets free. The fiery beast lunged toward him and Tubiel bellowed a howl which rolled through the trees, and swiped the underside of its jaw, snapping its head back. The beast rolled and looked up at its adversary, which now controlled Tubiel’s mind. The golden wolf bared its fangs.
Tubiel gasped, barged through the door of his house and took one stride across the room before collapsing. His body seized and shuddered in the sunlight. The wounds had sealed. The burn marks had vanished, but his body was consumed with pain.
Eratta Winters
Lord of the Bronzeglade
Eratta’s home was of his father’s making. Its enormous walls were made of stone bricks, with stone guard towers. His withered right leg had begun feeling much better, thanks to Nathaniel learning some new skills during his trip to York, and Errata’s walk along the perimeter was like a trip down memory lane.
Jorvan Winters, a Danish mercenary who’d fallen into favor with King Henry VIII in the field of battle in France, had been a good father to Eratta. Even when he proved to be less of a warrior than his father, Jorvan loved him unconditionally. Eratta’s mother had died in childbirth, and Eratta was sad that his father had died believing his son would go off to war. That was a year before his leg began to wither and Eratta was put on a boat straight back to England. His father had succumbed to madness before these was were built, and died when he went out into the forest. They found him a week later at the White Falls. He’d thrown himself off the top.
Eratta gave a sad smile as he remembered his father before the mania had consumed him, and took out his pocket watch. Miss Shade would be arriving to meet him shortly, so he grabbed his crutch and limped back around the walls, toward his gardens which contained patches of assorted colored flowers and fountains that irrigated the long rows of hedges, all planned by Eratta. He arrived at the front steps of his manor, where two of his servants stood waiting.
“Tell Hork to begin making the dinner,” Eratta said. “In
form Nathaniel that Miss Shade will be arriving shortly, and I’ll want the doors leading to the drawing room and to the dining room already open.”
The servants hurried into the house. Eratta waited on the front step as the main gates were opened and Milla rode in on the back of a black stallion. He suppressed a chuckle of impressment and only smiled as she approached with Father Blossom at her side. He waved to Eratta, who raised his hand in return, before Blossom turned around and left.
Eratta was a striking figure with the pale skin of a Dane but the thin body of a Brit. His long white hair that fell to his shoulders. He liked to dress in reds and blues, and today he was wearing a noble blue coat with a high collar.
Milla dismounted once she got to the front of the gardens. “I love the gardens!” she called. “Sir Winters?”
“Call me Eratta, Miss Shade.” He bowed. “Come into the drawing room. Do you drink?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “And call me Milla.”
“I shall.” He nodded.
Nathaniel opened the door, from inside.
“That’s my butler, Nathaniel.” He nodded to his butler.
Nathaniel closed the door behind them and left to check on the kitchens. Eratta lead Milla up the staircase and into the drawing room, closed the door, and offered her a seat. She chose a different one, further from the window, and Eratta sat opposite.
“I like the black dress,” he said. “Fits well.”
“I don’t. I like to wear riding leathers.” Milla sighed. “Have you seen what’s been going on in the town?”
“Well, I’ve been dealing with a string of robberies on the road and an animal attack in the forest, so a disturbed tombstone is the least of my concerns. But I’m going to personally visit Heron’s Mound tomorrow.”
“It’s been covered up now.” She shrugged. “What happened to your leg?”
“The muscles became weak and useless and died. Shame, too. I was considered a crack shot back then.”
“Were you?” She grinned. “Not as good as me, I promise.”
“I’ll take you up on that. You’re interesting. Ladies are usually—”
“Boring and weak? Yeah, I choose not to be. They ride small horses because it looks prettier. Guess who turns heads.”
“That stallion.” He smiled.
“And me!” She sat back in the armchair. “What are you lord of, anyway?”
“Only a few towns. But we export a lot of silver, so we’re pretty well off. My father decided to mine the mountain, and got lucky. Your father was a Brigade general, right?”
“He was. He was knighted after proving himself on the field of battle.” She beamed. “He’s old now. Still speaks like a soldier, though.”
“Did he teach his daughter to shoot?”
“No, I learned that in France. “I was a nurse. Found myself a rifle, taught myself to shoot. Came in handy, too, when our camp was attacked in a night raid.”
“Kill anyone?”
“Three. Have you killed anyone?”
“Ordered people executed. Watched each of them die. I think that’s what a pistol does, don’t you?”
“I killed one of them with a tent pole.” Milla sighed. “But I don’t regret a thing. I think women are too weak.”
“Weak? They hold homes upon their—”
“Men and women are weak in different ways. Women are weak of will. Men are weak of mind, and that’s how it’s always been. Men, because they’re too comfortable. Women, because they’re scared.”
“Hmm. Are you well-educated, Miss Shade?”
“In some things. Medicines, weapons, people, politics. I’m an only daughter, so my father has taught me well. Sir Shade cares about his legacy, apparently.”
Eratta said nothing more and instead poured her a glass of whiskey. She smiled and nodded as she took it, then sipped at the drink while Eratta poured himself another. It was clear that Milla spent most of her time venturing away from home and using that she was from London to excuse her bad manners. But Eratta didn’t care much for manners. Out here, all his friends were common folks he’d briefly served alongside during the war, before he was forced to return home, and his soldiers came with him.
“You’re an interesting one,” he said. “And beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I don’t.”
“But I’d be interested in how you’d act at a ball party. You must understand, I’m wealthy. I don’t show it off. I put most of my money into developing the town and the farmland. But it does mean that I go to social gatherings.”
“I do just fine. Maybe drink a bit much, but I’m fine.” She chuckled. Now I need to talk to you about something. I’m deeply concerned by what’s happening in this town.”
“It’s no—”
“I’m from the Shade family. The last of them. And people seem to be forgetting their duty to deal with the demons that walk the earth.”
He sat upright. “What are you—”
“The Shade family is a long line of werewolf hunters. “I’m in this town to meet you, but I couldn’t help but notice you’ve turned a blind eye to the same beast that turned your father mad.”
Eratta’s eyes became hot with anger and he clenched the arm of the chair with his right hand. His chest and throat tightened.
She stared into his eyes. “You know I’m right.”
He took a few moments to calm down. “The green-eyed wolf has only ever been the ravings of madmen. And you—a werewolf huntress? Lycanthropes don’t even exist.”
“Hmm… I’ve killed five.” She grinned. “But of course they don’t exist. Your father saw one, several people have witnessed it, but it isn’t real. Surely.”
“Suddenly, I like you less.”
“I know. I’m a lady who doesn’t take men’s bullshit. Look, you’re a likeable man, Eratta, and you’ve got a good heart. But as a huntress, the last of a long line, it’s my job to make sure this wolf-demon is dealt with. Which means I’ll tell you about it.”
“I don’t believe it, not one bit. You’re mad!”
Milla looked out the window. The sun was setting and the open sky was turning red.
“I’m leaving.” She huffed. “I hope you grow up between now and my return.” She stormed out of the drawing room.
Eratta took several deep breaths before picking up his crutch and following after her. She had already exited out the side gate and was walking into the forest. He hobbled after her until he found her sitting on a log. She glared at him as he approached.
She’d picked a beautiful part of the glade to be angry in. The trees were turning orange, and the leaves blood-red as the sun set over them. Milla’s bright orange hair looked soft and comforting, but her face was one of boiling anger. Her astounding beauty only made it more terrifying, like an angered dryad.
“You’re risking the lives of the people in this town!” She sighed and the anger in her eyes faded. “I’ll be along in a minute. Just go back inside.”
“You know what, I’m going to look into this the best I can.” He nodded. “Come on, let’s eat.”
Milla looked up as the sky began to fade from red to black. “I don’t want to be alone out here anyway, with the beast about.”
She started walking back inside, but paused and turned back towards the forest.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Something’s coming. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
Eratta hurried back inside.
A Related Tale
Forgive me if my writing is hard to read, but my hand won’t stop shaking. I’ve been in and out of asylums for three years, with doctors telling me what I saw was either a trick of the devil or an affliction of the mind brought about by some sickness. But I’ve been through all the exorcisms and all the treatments a man’s soul can bear, so I’ll write what I saw and maybe then I may find clarity.
My name is David Far. For many years, I’ve been part of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces and have fought in India and Africa.
I was promoted to General after acts of valor and with the help my wealthy uncle. It was during my time in Africa that I saw what I saw. I had killed fourteen men with my rifle, ordered the execution of more, and killed a man in hand-to-hand combat.
Driven by sheer loyalty to Her Majesty, I led the front against an African warlord, in a jungle. This one was sharper-witted than his primitive brethren, and far more tenacious than me. Our force of ten thousand men was ambushed in the jungle and many of my soldiers were slaughtered, forcing us into a retreat. Most of my men got out alive, but I, like many others, were lost among the strange lands of giant trees and thick bush. I spent hours feeling like I would die from the humidity, and I spent hours with chattering teeth while fighting off hypothermia from the heavy rainfall. I ventured for days, my compass broken, looking for any place I could call shelter so that I could find my bearings. The thought of suicide crossed my mind several times over the next few days. I’d gone hungry before, but there was no hunger quite like I felt then.
Eventually, I managed to catch a monkey with a bullet and I cooked myself a meal. But I was left weak, and my mind was weak, too. The hunger, the pain, the weakness, the suffering—all that kept me going was knowing that if I died, my wife and child wouldn’t be able to live full lives.
Finally, after days of venturing through that accursed jungle, I managed to find a great, tall stone structure. A relic of an ancient time, I supposed. It had been warded off by the natives, with totems and painted signs. Of course, I didn’t pause for the superstitious beliefs of cannibals, believing there was only one greater power—God. So I found myself an overhang and had the first good night’s sleep I’d had in weeks.
The structure was like the pyramids I’d heard of in Egypt and the southern Americas, but this one was made of a brownish stone and had three sheer sides. The other side was stepped with rings of carved rock. Using what few materials I could scavenge, I was able to paint a map upon the stone. I could see for miles around, and though I couldn’t see out of the jungle, I could see landmarks. I was able to venture out to them and paint maps there, building each map greater and further. This carried on for about three days as I finally developed a routine of making the map, hunting, eating, sleeping. It seemed that I would eventually be able to return to civilization, and my mind finally began to return to me. I was calm and determined. I would return to my men and then to my family as soon as I could. As for the war, I was done. I would resign my position as General.