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Corren sol Dare, Thief-Catcher: "Wolfsbane"

Wolfsbane
Sun Apr 20 11:18:51 2003

Sunlight slashed through gaps in the canopy overhead, casting scattered patches of illumination along the wooded trail. Here, deep in the northernmost extension of Braem Wood between the forked tines of the Rivers Luan and Erinen, the trees stood in rank less densely than their kin to the south. Open stretches of meadowland lay periodically between the copses, like invasion parties sent eastward from the Caralain Grass. This rich land was technically beholden to Tar Valon, but its scattered settlements existed mostly independent of the White Tower’s rule… Or, at least, as much as anyone could escape the influence of the Aes Sedai. These forgotten outposts of civilization only had need to call upon the wider world during times of trouble. The last instance had occurred during the Aiel War, when the clans of veiled warriors had swept north through this region for the final battle at the Shining Walls. But in all the years after, in the passage of a generation, never had the need arisen.

Until, of course, now.

Now, Corren sol Dare made his way through the sporadic puddles of sunlight that managed to penetrate to the forest floor, following the narrow track that meandered through the strangely silent old growth. He had passed this way before, years ago, on a hunting expedition with his father. Then, as now, the quarry had been of the lawbreaking variety, and Corren intended to make this pursuit just as successful. The sol Dare family’s tradition of thief-catching notwithstanding, the very few details he had on this job mentioned brutal murder, and the latest scion of that tradition had no intention of letting a murderer evade justice. So now he found himself moving cautiously along this meager trail, hooked catchpole on his shoulder, swordbreaker and ball-headed tamahakan at his belt, drawing ever closer to his destination.

The homestead stood at the narrow end of a clearing that gradually opened into a wide meadow before the trees closed around again. From afar, it seemed no more than a hunting lodge or log cabin, but it was a building of substantial size. The wide central section with its peaked, thatched roof was flanked on either side by lower wings, and woodsmoke wafted from a pair of stone chimneys. The front door was protected by a covered porch constructed of rough-hewn timbers, and within the wide rectangle formed by the palisade-like fence that ringed the homestead were a covered well and a small vegetable garden. A cord of split firewood was stacked under cover of the eaves, and what seemed to be a chicken coop pressed against the opposite side of the house. Further out into the clearing was an unpainted barn, and beyond that were small, demarcated fields of wheat, corn, and barely. All in all, it had the look of a small, self-sustaining farmstead run by hard-working, simple people… The last place he ever wanted to be called to investigate a murder.

His progress into the clearing, however, was halted by a white-fletched arrow that whistled through the air to embed itself in the ground a pace in front of him. He took an involuntary step back, then set his jaw and glared across the open field to the archer who’d just revealed himself on the roof of the farmstead. “State your business!” the young man demanded, another arrow already nocked. His shout drew others from the house; two men bounded out from the front door of the homestead, one armed with a boar spear and the other carrying an axe. “State your business!” the archer shouted again. “I didn’t miss because I couldn’t hit, man!”

“You should already know my business,” Corren replied calmly but loudly, making his voice carry across the field. “You sent for me, after all… And besides, you’ve had your man trailing me for the last two hundred paces.” He jerked his chin to where a second bowman stood beside an elm off the side of the trail. That man stepped out from his cover, frowning slightly at having been discovered, then waved for the rooftop archer to lower his bow.

“Come along then, thief-catcher!” called the man with the axe, who started across the field to meet him. The archer on the roof and the man with the spear exchanged a look across the span of empty air that separated them, but held their ground. The man who’d been tracking him slid wordlessly back into the woods, his clothing of mixed greens and browns blending perfectly with the surrounding underbrush. With a shrug Corren walked out into the clearing, ignoring the itch between his shoulder blades that indicated the tracker’s keen eyes still upon him. The axeman finally reached him and shouldered his impromptu weapon before thrusting out a rough hand in greeting. “I’m Garridan,” he said simply, peering into Corren’s dark eyes as if searching for something elusive. Garridan’s own blue eyes seemed… inexplicably weary, and ringed with lines and wrinkles of care and worry.

“Corren sol Dare,” the thief-catcher replied just as bluntly, clasping the callused hand in a firm grip. “What’s been going on here? The Tuatha’an who carried your message to Darein didn’t give much in the way of details.”

“The trouble started with those flaming Tinkers… Least they could’ve done was taken it out with ‘em.” Garridan sighed, turning back toward the house. “Come inside, sol Dare, and prepare yourself.” The settler pressed his hand against Corren’s back, ushering him along. “That’s Brishen,” he continued, indicated the big man with the boar spear. “And the lad on the roof there is Jon. We had Danior watch you on the way in, just in case. They’re my farmhands, those that stayed.” Corren tried sending a friendly nod Brishen’s way, but the burly, dark-skinned fellow ignored his overture of camaraderie. “Don’t take it personal, sol Dare…” Garridan advised quietly. “Brishen lost his sister and brother to this monster. He don’t talk much anymore.”

“Two’ve died?” Corren asked incredulously, gripping the homesteader’s shoulder.

Garridan gave him a level look. “Two just this week, thief-catcher… only one last week, but three the week before that.”

“Six?! How could one man kill so many and not be found?”

“This isn’t a man, sol Dare… Like I told you, prepare yourself.” The homesteader led a stunned Corren up the split-log stairs and across the porch to the door, then guided him inside. Within, four women stood clustered at the far end of the long room. Distaffs, knitting work, and embroidery hoops lay in various stages of completion on the wooden table that stood crosswise in the center of the room, obviously abandoned when Jon had shouted his challenge from the rooftop. Each had a hefty kitchen knife stuck through the sash of their apron, even the youngest who couldn’t be more than twelve, at the most. But with no apparent threat in sight, they slowly stepped forward so Garridan could issue introductions. “This is my wife, Ilona,” he said, indicating the matronly woman whose face still held more than its share of beauty. “And my daughters, Syeira and Tainne,” gesturing to the younger pair. Syeira, the older, could’ve been close to Corren’s age, but Tainne was clearly a child, though they both displayed their mother’s beauty. “And this is Maleva, Brishen’s mother,” Garridan finished at last, indicating the eldest, a frail little woman who truly was not that much older than Ilona, though far more careworn. Corren automatically knuckled his brow in greeting to each of them as the introductions went on, still trying to wrap his mind around what he had been told.

Ilona swept around the table and took Corren’s hand warmly. “Thank the Light that you’ve come,” she said with a kindly smile, though her blue eyes seemed closer to tears. “Please, sit down,” she offered, nearly dragging the thief-catcher to a chair. He resisted only long enough to prop the catchpole in the corner, then gratefully took the seat. “Tainne, fetch the water pitcher and cups from the kitchen, dear. Master sol Dare must be thirsty after his journey.” After sending the young girl scurrying into the other room, Ilona bustled around to make sure Garridan was also seated comfortably, then ushered Maleva and Syeira back to their knitting. When Tainne returned with the refreshments, she joined her sister as her mother insisted on pouring the drinks herself. “I’m afraid we only have water at the moment, Master sol Dare…”

“Please, Ma’am, it’s just Corren. And water is perfectly fine,” he said while taking the cup from her. The woman beamed as if establishing a first-name basis was a wondrous gift, then sat to join her husband. After taking a long drink, Corren turned back to the homesteader. “Alright, Garridan,” he said in hushed tones, conscious of the women seated not far away. “What’s happened here?”

“It started four weeks back, when that Tinker wagon train came up from the south. They asked for leave to camp on some of our land, and since we weren’t using it and could stand the trade, I told ‘em it’d be fine.” Garridan’s eyes grew hard as he clenched his fists. “Wish I hadn’t, believe me. Trouble began not long after they arrived. We’ve got some sheep and goats here, just a few, plus the oxen and milk cow. Well, we found the first sheep dead in the pasture… Thought it’d just been some feral dogs hereabout, or maybe even wolves. Got word from the Tinkers that something had been among their animals, too, even killed one of their big mastiff dogs. Their other dogs were all wild and scared; something had spooked them bad. We put our animals in the barn after that, but the Tinkers weren’t so lucky.” Garridan leaned forward to take a drink, obviously having difficulty continuing. “They kept losing critters, and then finally, a man. Found him mauled, throat torn out… parts eaten. Then two more found the very next night, a woman and her child this time. That was the first three. Tinkers came close to the house then, circled the wagons and asked for help. We set our hands around with bows and what weapons we had, and for a bit it seemed to work. No attacks, no people gone missing, no animals neither. Weekend was almost here when it struck again, killing the Tinkers’ headman or whatever they call him. That was enough for them; they started moving out. Right afore they left at the start of this week, it hit among my people. Maleva’s children, Chaney and Lugosi… Never found the girl, Chaney, but Lugosi…” Garridan choked, unable to continue, and tears were streaming down Ilona’s cheeks.

“Alright, enough,” Corren said, reaching out to take their hands. Behind him he heard Tainne sniffling; she’d obviously been listening. “I’m here now, I’ll do whatever I can to help… But this sounds like the work of Shadowspawn, Trollocs or the like. I’m a thief-catcher, not a soldier. Your best bet would’ve been to send for Aes Sedai.”

Garridan shook his head, but Corren was unsure what he was negating… The Aes Sedai, or his assertion of Shadowspawn. “This ain’t the work of Trollocs, sol Dare. It’s a man’s doing, or something so like a man…” He swallowed and took another long drink from his cup. “See, after the Tinkers left, Jon—”

He was interrupted as the door suddenly swung open and Brishen rushed in. Everyone came to their feet in a rush, but the big man shook his head slowly. “We found Lennor,” was all he said, but Corren saw Tainne go into full-fledged sobs, and as Syeira held her sister the tears flowed freely from her eyes, too. Ilona went around to gather her daughters and Maleva and took them into the kitchen, but Garridan took Corren’s arm and started pulling him toward the door.

“Best you come with us and see this, thief-catcher. Brishen, stay here and bar the door. I’ll take Jon and Danior and show sol Dare.” Grabbing his catchpole from the corner, Corren followed the homesteader out as he took up his axe. Jon was down from the roof, bow still strung and over his shoulder, and Danior was taking a drink from the well’s bucket. At Garridan’s signal, Brishen went back inside and closed the door, and the four men started off across the fields. “Lennor was another farmhand, sol Dare,” Garridan continued as they jogged along. “He went out yesterday morning to check on our other cabin, the hunting lodge that he, Danior, and Jon built. I told him not to, but…” That was all he would say for some time.

Danior led the way, still silent. Finally he slowed and took them from the clearing into the woods, where the going was much slower. Then at the edge of a very small glen, he finally stopped and regarded Corren with those sharp brown eyes. “Steel yourself, manhunter,” he said at length, then took them in.

Lennor lay on his side in the small open area. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the quartet that came through the trees toward him. The green fronds that clustered so thickly around this area had been beaten down in a struggle and were colored rusty red with dried blood. Most of Lennor’s throat was gone, just a gaping red maw where his neck should have been. His clothes had been torn to ragged shreds, and the ground was littered with various accoutrements like his purse, belt knife, hatchet, and bow. In the soft dirt beside the body were tracks… Wolves had come through here.

Corren sol Dare felt the blood leaving his face as he caught sight of something else. Wolves didn’t act like this, no… But beside Lennor’s body there were another set of tracks, the imprints of a man’s bare foot. Right next to Lennor were two bowl-shaped impressions, the points where a man had knelt over the body, and there were even the marks of folded knuckles in the dirt where a fist had supported that man. But most horrifically of all were the marks on Lennor himself, on his bare arms, his chest, even his face…

Bite marks. Not from the sharp canines and incisors of predatory animals, but marks of vestigial fangs and flat molars. The teeth of Man.

“Oh, Light…” Corren breathed, somehow quelling the urge to vomit. “He’s been… gnawed on.” What kind of man could do that?

Even a man who is pure of heart
And says his prayers by night,
May become a wolf if the wolfsbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright.
--Der Reim des Werewolf

Bad Moon on the Rise
Sat Apr 26 00:05:23 2003

Around the small glen in which Lennor’s mutilated body now lay in deceptively peaceful repose, the forest remained unnaturally still, as if nothing wished to break the funereal silence that hung palpably in the air. At last a noise did rend the silence—the sound of a man retching. It was Jon, easily the youngest of all those gathered in the tiny clearing, who had finally lost control and was now doubled over facing away from the corpse. Garridan had placed a callused hand on Jon’s shoulder and was speaking to him quietly. Oddly enough, when he walked forward to close the dead man’s eyes and disturbed those few flies ignoble enough to settle upon the body, Corren sol Dare caught the hint of a smile on the face of Danior, the hunter and last man crowding this small clearing. Meeting Corren’s questioning gaze, Danior tilted his head in Jon’s direction as his grin widened. “Smiling lessens the gag reflex, manhunter,” the huntsman said quietly, his reed-thin voice unruffled as an ice-bound pond. “Never needed to pick up that little trick nabbing cutpurses, eh?”

“I’m a thief-catcher,” Corren said hotly as he straightened, his grip tightening on the catchpole in his hand. “Investigating murders isn’t my area of expertise… Maybe you’ve had more experience around dead bodies… Is that what you’re saying?”

Danior took a step forward as if he intended to take physical recompense for that statement, but Garridan’s harsh command brought him up short. “Enough!” the stocky homesteader nearly bellowed, glaring at his errant farmhand. “Sol Dare came out here to help us, Danior, and don’t forget it. After this monster is killed, I don’t much care if he beats the tar outta you, or you outta him, but not before my family is safe! Both of you understand that?” he growled, now sliding his glare between the two opposing men. “Good. Now stay here and watch… the body, while I get the wagon. ‘Least we can do is give him a decent burial, like the rest.” Giving Jon’s shoulder a final compassionate squeeze, Garridan stood and started off toward the barn across the wide clearing behind.

With a final glare at Corren, Danior nocked an arrow in his bow and cautiously stalked off into the trees on the far side of the clearing. “We’re already this far… Might as well finish what Lennor started. I’ll be back.” He quickly vanished from sight, woodsman’s garb blending seamlessly into the greenery as he headed off to inspect the condition of the hunting lodge that had drawn Lennor here initially.

“Never seen anyone get him so riled,” Jon offered as he got back to his feet, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of a hand. “Most of the time, he’s cold enough to freeze steel.” Clearly trying to avoid looking at the body, the younger man glanced over at the thief-catcher appraisingly, as if trying to gauge his character.

“I’m just lucky, I guess…” Corren said with a faint humorless grin. “He’s probably just upset that I knew he was following me in here.” Shouldering the catchpole, he started a slow inspection of the little clearing, making a wide circle around the body, periodically glancing back at the stationary farmhand. “You’re a hunter too, right?” At the other man’s nod, he went on. “Seen anything odd about these tracks? I’m surprised Danior didn’t mention it to Garridan, but there’s an interesting little story here.” Jon continued staring at him impassively, refusing to comment. “C’mon, Jon… You see it as well as I do.” He crouched down by a set of wolf tracks at the edge of the glen, using the catchpole to form a tripod for support. “These wolves came through here hours before Lennor did, not at the same time as the murderer. In fact… I’d wager that the man responsible for this was trailing the wolves, noticed Lennor coming, and lay in ambush for him.” His dark eyes, the color of polished mahogany, latched onto Jon’s troubled blues. “What do you think?”

“I think I’ve seen this thing, sol Dare, and you haven’t.” The farmhand turned his back, staring out though the small path through the underbrush through which the groups had entered. “And it’s not a man… Not wholly a man.” A tremor ran through his body and he shook his head as if trying to rid himself of an unpleasant memory. “And another thing…” he wheeled on Corren, taking several steps in his direction with a hand gripping the knife at his belt. “Danior might be a cold bastard, sol Dare, but he knows his trade... and I trust him further than I do you.” With a final confrontational glare, he went silent and would say no more.

Finally Garridan returned with an ox-drawn cart, and Danior stepped back into the clearing to announce that everything was in order at the hunting lodge. Then he and Jon got the wagon turned around while Corren and Garridan loaded Lennor’s corpse into the bed as delicately as possible. The quartet then started back toward the homestead. At their arrival, the other remaining farmhand, Brishen, led Garridan’s wife Ilona and eldest daughter Syeira out to make the basic preparations for the body. Both women had tears in their eyes as they wrapped Lennor’s body in an old sheet, the best funeral arrangements they could arrange. Corren joined the other men in digging as deep a grave as possible, beside four other fresh tombs… The other victims of this marauding killer. As Brishen and Danior labored to lower the body down into the earth, Corren stood back and watched the gathering.

I don’t belong here… These people are at sanity’s end. They need a garrison of the Tower Guard, or even an Aes Sedai. Garridan had been struggling to find the words for this event, but as Brishen slowly began shoveling dirt over the lifeless bundle, the homesteader finally broke down in tears. Ilona and their youngest daughter Tainne clustered around him, but Syeira clung to Jon’s arm, not her father’s. Brishen mournfully continued the task while his mother, the frail little woman called Maleva stood close. Like Corren, Danior had separated himself from the group, but he was standing as sentry. Even now, they dared not relax their guard. This is beyond me… Nothing can help these people short of a miracle. And worst of all, when the modest service had concluded and the corpse rested uneasily in its unmarked grave, eight pairs of eyes, some grief-stricken, some accusatory, some expectant, settled on Corren sol Dare, the apparent source of their miracle.

Dinner, needless to say, was an uncomfortable event.

That night, the waxing moon rose balefully out of the East, bathing the country side in a sickly yellow light. In a few days the moon would be full, but now it hung in the sky like a misshapen face, shining with a wan glow, haloed by the highest clouds until a nimbus of that diseased light seemed to cover the sky. Corren sol Dare stood the night watch with Jon, while the homestead’s other inhabitants huddled together in the farmhouse’s central section. Beds were moved in after the dishes had been cleared, and pallets made up for those without. The two stone fireplaces were set alight with stacks of burning wood to fight off the chill of the nighttime air. And in addition to the fortified front entryway, the heavy wooden doors that led into the building’s wings where the kitchens and normal bedrooms were placed, had been swung to and barred from within. This was necessary, huddling together like frightened rabbits in the central hollow of the warren, to make their predator come the greatest distance to reach them.

“The monster’s bold enough to come up to the farmstead, sure enough,” Jon said quietly, the white fog of his breath clear in the moonlight as he and the thief-catcher sat perched on the house roof. “That’s when I saw it, y’know. The night the Tinkers' headman was taken, it was in among the chicken coops first. Tore them up pretty good, even smashed and ate some of the eggs. We heard the Tuatha’an women screaming and hollering like the Dark One himself was among them.” The young hand shivered, though from the chill or the memory was uncertain, and laid a hand on his bow. “I’m not sure he wasn’t… This thing snuck right into their camp, right in among us standing guard, killed a man and got away clean after…” He trembled again. “After eating some.”

“But you saw it?” Corren had drawn the tamahakan out of its loop on his belt and was idly tapping its ball-head against the palm of his hand. The club had been carved of solid cherrywood in a style unique to the men of Greare Dewi, his home village on the slopes of Dragonmount itself. It could be thrown with great accuracy, though best wielded in the hand where its heavy poll could crush bone. The catchpole had been left inside the house, too cumbersome to be of any use while standing sentry on the roof, but the swordbreaker, that totem of all thief-catchers, rested in its place of honor on his left hip. “You actually saw—him?” He’d taken too quickly to the settlers’ habit of calling the murderer “it,” as if some sort of Shadow-wrought monster was the culprit. A man did this… A very sick and twisted man, but a man just the same.

“I saw it, yes,” Jon nodded slightly, running a hand through his tawny mop of hair. “Brishen and Lennor ran over to the body, but me and Lugosi fanned out across the camp, looking for anything suspicious. Danior and Garridan were nowhere in sight, and Syeira and little Tainne were gathered on the porch with their Ma ‘til I told them to get inside.” Corren nodded slowly; from the protective tone in Jon’s voice, it was clear the farmhand was more than close with Garridan’s elder daughter. Syeira was such a beauty it was hardly a surprise, and Tainne already had the makings of one herself. “Anyway, there it was, right up against the side of the house, back among the chicken coops. I thought for sure it’d go after the girls, so I hollered and let an arrow fly without really aiming.” The silhouette of his head dropped a bit in shame. “Danior chewed me out over that… I could’ve ended it all if I’d just kept my cool. Still, it was enough to get the thing’s attention… It looked right at me, sol Dare, and I saw it’s eyes. Bright and shining almost like the moon is now, but frightful and vicious. It stood tall as I am, tall as you, and let out this hideous snarl that froze my blood. Lugosi told me afterwards that he thought that must be the sound the Wild Hunt makes when Old Grim sets them running, and that he knew that sound would be his death.” Jon’s head dropped another fraction, obscuring his face in shadow. “And it was. Wasn’t a week later that the monster came in the night again and killed Lugosi and his little sister Chaney. All because I missed.”

For a long time Corren said nothing, staring out across the empty fields lit only by the faint glow of the waxing moon. The fog rolled in the little dips and valleys that ran across the clearing, giving the land all about the look of some phantasmagoric netherworld. The trees stood black, impenetrable, like a huge inkblot across the land. “And it’s still out there…”

“It’s out there, sol Dare, sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. It’s out there, and it’s hungry.” Jon’s voice dropped to the barest whisper. “It’s out there, and it’s after us.”

Hope you got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.
Looks like we’re in for nasty weather.
One eye is taken for an eye.

Don’t go ‘round tonight,
Well, it’s bound to take your life,
There’s a bad moon on the rise.
--Creedence Clearwater Revival

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Thu May 1 20:41:31 2003

The night passed without incident.

Standing silently as the preternaturally still atmosphere huddled close about as if seeking a comforting embrace, Corren sol Dare had ample time to think. Peering out into the illuminated night, his gaze slashed along the edges of the tree line that hedged the wide clearing, seeking anything suspicious or malicious. But the night remained as malevolent as any other evening, completely ordinary in its unremarkable aspects, and the bulk of his attention was turned inward. Slowly the pieces of this bizarre puzzle were beginning to take shape in his mind, bumping and jostling for position in order to form a clear picture of everything he had encountered thus far. This investigation was unlike anything he had come across before, and while his senses were mechanically kept on high alert, he vainly tried to make sense of those few scraps of information he possessed. But they were scraps and nothing more, and refused to coalesce into a vivid image. Secrets stubbornly remained secrets until you forced them out into the open… And like the beast haunting these woods, they were reluctant to reveal themselves.

But as Dawn’s light gradually replaced the sickly moonglow, a plan had finally come to mind. It was a simple course of action, the obvious choice, but he had nothing else to go on right now. At breakfast that morning, he presented it to the remaining settlers in Garridan’s Farmstead. “I want to go out looking for this thing,” he said calmly. As expected, he was met with horrified gasps and slow headshaking meant to indicate that his sanity was in question. “Let me explain,” he went on in a reasonable tone, brushing the disbelieving stares aside. “Either we find it first, or it’s gonna find us, one at a time. So we can either wait around for that to happen, or start loading up the wagons right now.”

“We’re not leaving.” Garridan said tightly, planting a meathook-sized fist on the table. “I’m not running from my home just because of this monster.”

Danior, the senior farmhand and huntsman sighed at Garridan’s firm declaration, but did not otherwise challenge the statement. Instead, he challenged Corren. “That’s your master plan, sol Dare? Just wander about, looking for our beast?” When the thief-catcher only shrugged neutrally in response, Danior practically hissed in irritation. “You don’t even know the terrain around here… I can tell you who’ll be the first one to be picked off, that’s certes.”

“That’s why I was hoping you’d join me, Danior,” he replied evenly. “You, or Jon… Someone who does know these woods.” Corren leaned forward intently and laced his fingers together atop the table. “We need to do something, and I figure we might get lucky. If you’ve got a better idea, I’m willing to hear it.” But the huntsman remained sullenly silent and slid his glare down to the plate of food before him. “Then I take it you won’t be joining me, either?”

“He don’t need to, Corren… I’ll go with.” It was Jon, the junior farmhand, who spoke up from the opposite end of the table where he sat beside Garridan’s eldest daughter, Syeira, who immediately went as white as a sheet. “Better to have Danior guarding the house and land about here.” The young man looked over at Syeira, and Corren could tell that he squeezed her hand underneath the table before turning his attention back to the thief-catcher. “When do we go?”

“Now,” Corren said as he stood and stepped back from the table. “Best to get moving right away.” With that, he crossed the room to where his catchpole stood propped in the corner and hefted the weapon. Meeting the eyes of everyone at the table in turn, he nodded slightly. “We’ll be back before nightfall. Jon?” The sandy-haired huntsman had retrieved his bow and quiver and was whispering something to Syeira, but he came quickly at Corren’s call. They stepped into the sunlight together and started out across the fields. Halfway to the clearing’s edge, they were halted by a voice behind them.

“Jon! Master sol Dare!” Tainne, Garridan’s younger daughter, was racing towards them with a parcel in hand while Danior and her mother Ilona looked on from the porch. They turned to meet her and she thrust the package into Corren’s hands while breathlessly explaining to Jon, “Mama didn’t want you to go off without taking a lunch. She says you’ll need to keep up your strength, after skipping out in the middle of breakfast so sudden.” She took a moment to adjust the band that held back her sunny hair, a gesture that made her seem incredibly youthful and old beyond her years at the same time. But soon she leaned in towards Corren to speak with the earnestness only a child can muster. “Master sol Dare… You’ll be sure to keep Jon safe, won’t you? Syeira says he’s always so foolhardy, and she’s—and we’re worried about him.”

Corren grinned and knelt before her to meet the little girl’s eyes while Jon flushed scarlet. “Yes ma’am, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for Jon. But like as not he’ll be minding me before the day’s out, so I don’t get lost. He’s a very dependable fellow, I think.” Tainne nodded slowly, considering his words, and he reached out to pat her shoulder before standing. “Best get back to your mother so she doesn’t worry.” She nodded again, but slipped over to hug Jon’s waist before darting back across the clearing toward the house. “Nice to have two pretty girls looking out for you, eh, Jon?”

“Stuff it, sol Dare…” the younger man muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment while they resumed their trek. “Tel me what you really hope to accomplish out here… D’you think we’ll catch the monster napping, just on a stroke of luck?”

“Of course not,” he replied, earning an incredulous look. “I’m not interested in finding this fellow, not yet. He’s got too much room to roam and hide.” The crept cautiously under the shadow of the canopy, moving in file along a deer trail. “I’m heading back to where we found Lennor… I want to find out what happened to the wolves.”

“Wolves!” Jon exclaimed in disbelief. “No wolf did this, Corren! I saw the thing, remember? It was some kinda Shadow-wrought monster!”

“Maybe, maybe not…” The thief-catcher shrugged. “Where it came from isn’t as important as where it is now. Whatever it is, man or monster, it’s following those wolves. Find them, and we find it.”

“You ever tried hunting a wolf, sol Dare? It’s near impossible, unless they come in close by the animal pens or pastures.” Jon shook his head and fingered his bow. “When all this started and only the animals were getting taken, Danior was excited, ‘cause we thought it was the wolves and they’re so seldom in these parts that we’ve not had the chance to hunt them before.” He sighed and shook his head. “We’re not gonna find any wolves now.”

“Just how do you hunt a wolf, Jon?”

The huntsman looked at him like he was out of his mind. “Pretty much how you hunt anything else… Chase ‘em down on horseback if you can catch ‘em out in the open, or else use some kind of bait and hide in a blind ‘til they come out.”

“Bait,” Corren smiled humorlessly. “Exactly.”

“You’re using us as bait, sol Dare?!”

“Stop shouting,” Corren advised calmly, peering about in the underbrush. “We’re not food to it, not this soon after having eaten.” He turned to fix brown eyes on Jon’s blue. “But if using bait is the obvious way to hunt any predator, why didn’t Danior suggest that to me over breakfast? And why didn’t he try that before I was sent for? He’s the great hunter, isn’t he?” Corren swung the catchpole down from his shoulder suddenly and took a step towards the huntsman. “It’s obvious, is it? It might’ve slipped Danior’s mind, I suppose that’s possible… But you didn’t speak up either, now or before I got here, did you? And Lennor, and Lugosi? They knew their way around the woods… Why didn’t they suggest it?”

Jon swallowed nervously and refused to meet the thief-catcher’s eyes. “Corren, I…”

“Save it, Jon. There’s something out of place here, that’s clear. Something isn’t right, and I intend to find out what.” His eyes, the color of polished mahogany, now possessed the same hardness as that famed wood. “I’d like to think I can trust you, Jon… But you’re not giving me much to go on.”

Jon remained silent, and the tableau stretched on for several long minutes until the hush was finally broken by the lonely mournful cry of a wolf in the distance. “Not gonna find them, are we?” Corren nearly snarled, turning his back on Jon and starting to creep along the trail again. “C’mon, then,” he whispered. “Let’s at least give it a try.”

But as sundown approached, all attempts had proven fruitless. Aside from the day old tracks at the site of Lennor’s murder, that single bay was the only trace they found of either the wolves or the beast that stalked them. Only as the two searchers returned to the homestead did the cry go up again, echoed now by several others until the howling rose to a melancholy crescendo. And in all that time, one thought had been going through Corren’s mind…

What do they know that I don’t?

Two more days of futile sojourning and long nights of silent sentry duty passed without incident as the moon slowly ascended to its full glory in the night sky. Shining chill and mute upon the world below, the moonlight cast life into the stark relief of shade and radiance.

And in the forest below, something stirred, something awakened, something was unleashed. A hunger to devour all things, a thirst to bleed the world dry, a madness to set the very sky aflame… All contained within a pair of glittering golden eyes.

Screams break the silence,
Waking from the dead of night.
Vengeance is boiling
He's returned to kill the light.
Then when he's found who he's looking for,
Listen in awe and you'll hear him…

Howling in shadows,
Living in a lunar spell,
He finds his heaven
Spewing from the mouth of hell.
Those that the beast is looking for
Listen in awe and you'll hear him…
--Ozzy Osbourne, “Bark At the Moon”

Hound of Hell, Part I- Night Terrors
Thu May 22 20:46:54 2003

Night had once again descended upon Garridan’s Farmstead, encircling the terror-wracked outpost in Darkness’ soft embrace. Three days since the thief-catcher’s arrival, and there had been no sign of the beast that had killed seven people with a savagery possible only from a creature born of nightmare. Two more days had been wasted in fruitless pursuit, for this quarry left less trail than a passing shadow, while the nights were spent in tense watchfulness upon the roof of the homestead while the “non-combatants”—the women and Garridan himself—huddled in the relative security of the central room of the house. It was now Corren’s third watch, spent in the company of the youngest farmhand and hunter, Jon. Brishen, the hulking senior farmhand, and Danior, the lithe huntsman, had stood guard for the alternate occasions. Each night had been marked only by silence and stillness, with the usual nightsounds of the wood hushed and muted by the fear in the air. This remote corner of the world stood waiting, helplessly anticipating the return of bloodstained horror that was certain to come.

The wolves were still somehow the key; of that Corren was beyond certain. Their presence remained as ephemeral as the murderer’s, always just ahead, out of this line of sight, but they were there. They remained although all game—humans notwithstanding—had been driven from the area by the same beast that tracked them with an equal tenacity as it had shown in attacking the settlement. They’d found no casualties of the wolves; apparently they stayed beyond the reach of monster and human alike. Only danger was left in this tiny region, and yet they clung to its confines with the same stubbornness Garridan exhibited. What were they after, and why was the beast after them?

Like so much else on this assignment, the answer eluded him. With a shake of the head, he dispelled the doubts and lingering questions from his mind and focused instead on the duty at hand. It would do no good to be so lost in thought that the answers he so desperately sought could itself stalk up to the farmstead without notice. The settlers were of one mind—the beast would return. He saw it in their eyes: Syeira’s growing dread at the thought of Jon standing another watch, Brishen’s grim reluctance, Ilona’s earnest entreaties for the men to keep safe, all increasing as the days passed. For while the peacefulness stretched, the tension grew… The horror would return.

It was only a matter of time.

These two-legs were stubborn. They dared to fight back. Not like the others, the wanderers, roaming the lands with their funny little rolling houses drawn along by the hard-footed four-legs. Those just ran, or called for dogs. Dogs! As if that would save them. In the end, they always ran, bright clothes fluttering behind them in their haste. But they were always caught, and then… In the kill, their bright colors always ended up the same shade of red.

But these two-legs… A growl rolled out like ominous thunder. They fought. They always fought, even the little ones. It never made a difference, except the work become that much harder, that much more dangerous. Worse, though, they sent for help.

The new one was supposed to be dangerous. He could make things… troublesome.

The pack remained silent, hiding. Hiding, from one of their own! No amount of entreaty brought an answer. But they were watching the two-legs just the same, even as they hid. Well, let them hide. The deal had been made, and when the terms were met… They would answer then. They would be made to answer! The deal would see to that, even if it meant sharing the kill.

But the kill must be made tonight. No mistakes.

A shadow moved away, sliding through the night toward the farmstead. The kill would be made. No mistakes…

“Movement.”

Jon’s whisper brought every sense on high alert. “Where?” Corren hissed in as low a tone.

“Went behind the barn. I had no shot.” The young hunter’s was terse, his words clipped. “Must be after the animals.” Indeed, a faint rustling came from the far side of the barn, near the wide doors. The cattle started to low, the sheep to bleat. Scratching could be heard clearly now, a sound like claws against the wood. The animals were starting to panic—they knew a predator was near. In silent unison, Jon and Corren let down the ladder stored up with them in the thatch and descended, Corren taking up the catchpole he’d stashed against the exterior wall. Exchanging a quick handclasp, the separated as planned and began creeping around to the far side of the barn.

Both larger and stronger than Jon, the thief-catcher would stalk as close as he dared to flush the beast out. The lithe hunter would be sweeping around in a much wider arc, an arrow already nocked, to shoot as the target ran. If it didn’t… Well, Corren was still larger and stronger, and at least would have a better chance at standing his ground while help was summoned from the house.

That thought wasn’t a great deal of consolation as he stole along like a wraith, pressing up against the side of the barn. The blood was pounding in his ears, making it that much harder to listen for signs of his quarry. That setback added to his already-growing tension, the icy grip of fear squeezing ever tighter around his heart. He had been in battle before, facing men who would readily take his life to escape the law, but this situation was like none other. The time had come at last to face this monster, the murderer he had come from Darein to find and bring to justice… a journey of miles, its progress now measured inch by terrifying inch. Just around the corner of the barn waited a fearsome specter; a faceless, formless fiend conjured up by twisted imagination, its only known quantity an insatiable bloodlust.

And now, it was waiting for him. Light, what am I doing here? Every instinct screamed to run, to turn around and hide, rather than face the nightmare that waited just out of sight. But there was no safety behind, only the people he had come to protect. If he faltered, if he failed now, their lives were forfeit. That thought alone kept him going forward. The corner was now only a pace away, then two feet, one, a hand, an inch… And he leapt forward, catchpole held before him like a quarterstaff, into the darkness.

And found nothing.

The barn doors stood undisturbed save for the deep, evenly spaced gouges in the wood. The monster was gone. The monster, he corrected himself nervously, had been here. Where is it now? Jon crept forward to meet him, eyes darting left and right as he searched the gloom for some trace of their prey. “Gone? How?” Something rustled nearby, and the men slammed back to back, weapons raised for whatever was coming… But all that came, from some distance behind, was a woman’s scream.

“The house!”

Dead I am the Dog,
‘Hound of Hell,’ you cry;
Devil on your back,
I can never die.
--White Zombie, “Dragula”

Hound of Hell, Part II- The Riddle
Thu May 22 20:48:26 2003

Side by side now they rushed for the farmstead, minds reeling, hearts sinking. “How could it’ve gotten past us?” the thief-catcher gasped as they ran, covering the short distance in a matter of moments. The younger man took the lead, Corren instinctively hanging back and covering their retreat. Something wasn’t right here… They reached the house, only to find everything as it had been. The doors and windows were secure, with not even a sign of attempted entry. But the screaming started again, and Jon shoved forward roughly, intent on meeting whatever threat had materialized inside the house. He reached the porch steps just as Corren finally caught what was out of place—the ladder was gone, drawn back up onto the roof after….

Something loomed atop the roof, a living shadow detaching itself from the greater darkness with a blood-curdling snarl as it pounced, hurtling down at the stunned hunter with the speed and ferocity of a stooping falcon. Jon froze in shock, the same terrible motionlessness of a rabbit under the on-rushing talons. His life expectancy could be measured in seconds… But Corren sol Dare intervened, lashing out with the catchpole as he intercepted the plunging threat. He caught a waft of fetid breath and the glow of golden eyes as he flung the shape away into the depths of shadow. There was a sudden grunt from the hidden landing site where a heavy body struck the ground, followed by a low, throaty growl like the rumble of an avalanche. Twin pinpoints of molten gold kindled amidst the darkness as the menacing figure returned.

“Jon, get inside…” The thief-catcher set himself between the approaching monster and the front door, no longer even looking at the younger man. “See to the others, and don’t open the door.” The unseen shape paused suddenly, as if it comprehended, and then the growl rolled out again, almost dripping with amusement amid the heavier threat. What is this thing? “Just get inside,” he repeated, and stepped forward to face the beast. The golden-eyed shadow eagerly bounded forward to meet him.

The shock of collision sent both figures reeling. Corren staggered back, swinging the catchpole blindly in a wide arc, but the creature lunged again, undaunted. It snarled and slavered, pressing forward relentlessly. Like a beast of shadow it blended seamlessly into the darkness, its burning eyes the only clear target. Corren fought on instinct, thrusting out with both the butt and steel-belted crook of his catchpole, but all he struck was air. Though face to face now, he was finding the monster as ephemeral as ever on the hunt, an invisible presence manifested only in shapeless menace. And those eyes, flaring like bonfires in the dark of night. They saw clearly enough, unhindered by the gloom that so restricted the thief-catcher. And he soon learned all too well that it wasn’t intangible as with another animalistic growl it penetrated his guard and struck.

He tumbled back from the force of the blow, clutching his arm and feeling blood oozing between his fingers from a deep gouge. The catchpole swung around with all the force mustered from his good arm, but the monster had halted. A lapping sound came from the darkness, and its sinister growl became a whine of pleasure... Delight at the taste of blood. Fear and revulsion boiled up within, but they paled in comparison to the fury that suddenly erupted. “Aberration,” Corren hissed, twisting the word into a curse. “Try for some more!” With a hoarse shout he launched forward, striking out with the catchpole as one would with a quarterstaff, punctuating each blow with a fresh cry of rage.

Nothing hit. The beast dodged every strike, its growling increasing in volume as if sympathetic to the thief-catcher’s anger. Then, tiring of the game, it lunged forward again to resume the offensive. It was Corren’s turn to wildly evade, often feeling the rush of air that followed a near miss. Was this how the others’ last moments had been spent, fighting blindly against this monster? It was a galvanizing thought, one that strengthened his resolve to win, but all the determination in the world would do him little good if he couldn’t even land a blow against this… Animal. It fights like an animal—slashing to attack, dodging instead of parrying. It was smart, too, but more cunning than intellect… And like him, it fought by instinct, not technique. The difference was, he could change tactics. The question was, would it?

Acting on this sudden insight might’ve been difficult is Luck hadn’t entered the game at last. A slash meant to take his eyes passed harmlessly over head as he acted on the sudden compulsion to duck. Then, with the creature still off-balance, he stabbed the butt end of the catchpole forward like a spear… and hit nothing… exactly as he intended. While the beast was still light enough on its feet to dodge that blow, it wasn’t so light as to leave the ground completely. And so it met the ground face first when the iron-sheathed crook swept up and out, knocking its legs from under it. But the follow through missed as well, striking deep into the ground where the creature had been. Lightning quick it had rolled aside, and its lunge drove a muscle-packed shoulder into Corren’s gut.

They both flew with the tackle, leaving the catchpole behind. Striking terra firma first, Corren kicked off his monstrous opponent and broke their grisly embrace, only a spray of hot spittle worse for the encounter. But even as he scrambled to his feet the beast was back, forcing him to strike out with bare fists, too harried to draw for his secondary weapons. It was harder to miss this close in, and his knuckles pounded on walls of muscle, flesh, and bone. The shadowy creature absorbed the punishment like water into a dry sponge, at least until the uppercut that struck its jaw so hard he heard its teeth snap together. With a bellow of rage it reflexively backhanded the thief-catcher, sending him sailing once again.

But as he rose now, Corren had both confidence and knowledge on his side. It could be hit, could be hurt, and their close contact had revealed much of its form. Taller, heavier, and longer-reached than he, but still man-sized, man-shaped. No shadow-demon, but flesh and blood… And as he drew the tamahakan from his belt, he had every intention of using the ball-headed club to spill some. The swordbreaker at his belt also swept out of its sheath; though his opponent wasn’t armed with steel, the ‘breaker was still a solid, heavy piece of iron, that even dull would inflict damage.

Again the two figures met in a tremendous collision, but neither gave way. Corren pressed close against his adversary, reducing the advantage of its greater reach. The dark still worked against him, but proximity at least gave slightly more definition to the monster. Neither could land a solid blow, and they snarled their frustration at each other across the space of inches. They would break apart, seeking room to swing, but just as quickly the distance was closed and the grappling stalemate resumed… Until finally, there came a breakthrough. Corren roared as teeth sank into his shoulder, and in desperation swung his head, butting against the side of the creature’s face.

They both separated then, falling back. Corren bled from two places now, though a ginger touch revealed no flesh had been stripped by the bite. The teeth of Man, which had left the same marks on Lennor’s body… Anger flared again. He didn’t face a true monster, just a savage. Not unnatural, but all too closely tied to the Wild. Of course… Steeled by revelation, he didn’t flinch as his adversary leapt at him again. The swordbreaker swept up, intercepting the slash that came from above, shattering his opponent’s “claws”—nothing but jagged tongues of flinty stone clasped tightly between the fingers of a clenched fist. As the shards flew back in his face, the Wolfkin’s howl became a whuff as the tamahakan’s round head slammed into his stomach and doubled him over. All it took was a kick from Corren to lay him flat on the ground.

The clouds finally parted, and the light of a full moon illuminated the scene. The haft of Corren’s tamahakan pressed tightly against the throat of a raggedly unkempt man. Long, tangled hair fanned out against the ground, a tawny hue the same shade as the equally tangled and food-stained beard that bristled from his cheeks. Unshod and unclothed save for a tattered pair of breeches held up with a belt of woven sinew, the man was broad and bluff enough to be a blacksmith. Maybe he had been, before his eyes turned a savage shade of gold. He still snarled and foamed, snapping jaggedly yellow teeth at his captor, but the steady pressure on his trachea sapped the strength from his thick limbs. His skin was hot to the touch, partly exertion but mostly fever.

A rabid Wolfbrother… Inwardly, Corren winced. Wolves didn’t suffer dangerously diseased members in their pack. Ostracized and cut off from his new life, fighting the growing madness of a terrible disease… Finally driven to cannibalism, preying on the members of his own race. The thief-catcher lessened his hold enough to reach for the bone-handled knife that hung from a cord around his neck. The only justice here would be to end this sad creature’s life and the horror that had come with it.

But when the door to the farmstead suddenly opened behind him and he turned to berate Jon for not following his command to stay inside, Corren sol Dare saw that the true horror was only beginning.

‘Here is a riddle to guess if you can,’
Sing the bells of Notre Dame,
‘What makes a monster,
And what makes a man?’
-- Clopín, The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Red in Tooth and Claw
Wed Jun 18 22:09:40 2003

Revelations were always supposed to involve light. They exposed the truth, casting illumination upon the shroud of deceit, doubt, and ignorance, and tearing it into oblivion so that only fact remained. They were harsh at times, blinding all observers, for truth was not always gentle. By their very nature, revelations were inherently connected with light. Villains were supposed to be left cowering in the few remaining pockets of shadow left by the sudden sunburst radiance until agents of justice swept them up.

It was therefore strange, as one detached corner of his mind decided, that this revelation only deepened the pall of shadow, and the villains glorified in increased shade.

No light was cast from within the homestead, the open door only a rectangular inkblot leading into more yawning darkness. Silent shapes were just barely visible, looming on the covered porch well within the terminator cast by the newly revealed full moon. But though sight was unable to pierce the curtain of non-light, other senses screamed the inherent… wrongness… of the situation, sound and scent most strongly. The former carried tremulous whimpering and anguished sobs; the latter bore blood’s coppery, metallic odor heavily even through the still night air. But even without these material clues, instinct shrieked “Danger” in a harrowing banshee wail that was impossible to ignore.

The true danger had never lain with the bloodthirsty monster, the fevered Wolfbrother now throttled by the tamahakan’s haft. The lycanthrope had been nothing but a cat’s-paw for the real threat… The whole time at Garridan’s Farmstead, Corren sol Dare had felt a snare slowly drawing tight to entrap the hapless settlers, a snare laid by one of their own. But now the trap was sprung, the shock was still paralyzing.

Little Tainne, Garridan’s youngest, was the first to emerge from the porch’s umbra into the chill moonlight, shoved forward roughly still wearing her nightshift by a bloodstained hand. The pair of fearful cries from the doorway revealed that at least her mother and sister still drew breath. The child fell and remained on her knees, frozen by absolute terror, bare feet peeking out from the hem of her shift. Frightened blue eyes rimmed with tears turned his way, followed by a plaintive whisper. “M-master sol Dare… Please…”

“Quiet, girl.” The curt order was delivered in a harsh, threat-laden rasp from the lithe figure that followed Tainne out of the shadow. The bloody hand descended swiftly to take firm hold of the cloth of her collar and drew her sharply to her feet, pressing her tightly against the speaker’s body. The girl whimpered again as an equally blood-drenched knife pressed its razor edge to the column of her throat. “‘Master sol Dare’ can’t help you, won’t help you… Isn’t that right, manhunter?” Danior’s narrow visage was set in a mild sneer, if “mild” was an adequate word to describe such… casual… cruelty. The senior huntsman was dressed and armed as if on the trail, and all too soon he would be. With a dismissive glance at the trapped Wolfkin, he continued addressing Tainne… Though the words were clearly meant for Corren’s ears as well. “He might have muzzled my hound, but ‘Master sol Dare’ knows all too well what could happen to you, darling girl, if he interferes now.”

The thief-catcher shifted only slightly to keep the hunter and hostage in front, still forced to keep the Wolfbrother restrained by the tamahakan. Plans and stratagems whizzed through his head like a swarm of disturbed hornets, all inadequate, all dismissed. None could detain the golden-eyed monster, incapacitate Danior, and save Tainne, not all at once. Knuckles whitened as fists clenched in rage and frustration on his weapons’ hilts, weapons rendered impotent by the keen edge pressing ever closer to Tainne’s trachea. “What game are you playing at, Danior? Harm her now or later, and no power on earth will save you from justice.” Eyes the color of polished mahogany locked onto an equally russet, equally hard pair. “Or from me.”

“What makes you think you’ll last the night?” With that taunting question, Danior swiftly turned and sprinted for the treeline, dragging a squealing Tainne along with him. Ilona’s heartbreaking wail followed after her daughter’s captor as Corren gathered himself to leap after them. But with an unexpectedly fierce snarl from a man who’d been choked for close to five minutes, the Wolfbrother suddenly brought his fist up and around to connect the broken shards of his stone “claws” with the thief-catcher’s head. And as the darkness flowed out to take him, Corren heard another chilling threat.

“Not finished, two-legs.”

Cool, sweet oxygen! Damn the two-legs for depriving it! It felt like hot coals had been forced down his throat, leaving the airway constricted and raspy. Even growling hurt! Choking back another painful snarl, he loped along easily to overtake the other two-legs, the ally. The Fanged One, with long sharp teeth that bit over many spans… Arrows, in manspeech, he remembered. Mere human or not, the Fanged One could run like the Shadowbrothers were on the hunt. Still, blood’s sweet, sharp scent was simple to follow, and the two-legs never had that great a lead. But damn this human along with all the rest, forcing a plan upon him, a strategy. Worse, forcing him to converse in manspeech.

“Where is the Prime, Fanged One?” he grated, testing words on the tender throat. A moon of howling wouldn’tve scraped it so raw. “You both were supposed to come… Were a few shes too spikey prey for you?”

The Fanged One wasn’t surprised by his sudden arrival. Even his scent remained unruffled, though the little she-cub fairly reeked of fear-scent. At least this one hadn’t soiled. “There were… complications.” At his derisive snort, the Fanged One gave a glare nearly so deadly as his far-reaching teeth. “What of you, Aleksy? I warned you the manhunter would make trouble, but you said a mere ‘two-legs’ would prove easy meat.” Clutching the she-cub closer, he picked up speed; no easy feat at the pace they were setting. “I told you… The kill had to be made tonight, no mistakes. You promised you could handle it, Aleksy.”

“Skyflame, two-legs.” He let a snarl roll dangerously from his throat, no matter how painful. “I am Skyflame, not this ‘Aleksy’ you yowl of. Skyflame, like the long night many moons ago when the great dark filled with streaks of bright, raining flame through the clouds and setting the brothers and sisters to flee.” Would this two-legs never learn his true name?

“You’re an idiot, Aleksy. You botched the kill, and now the manhunter will be upon us.” That might be… troubling. Two-legs or not, the Manhunter was a canny prey, and even humans fought like mad when their young were threatened. At least the Prime’s she hadn’t taken the trail after them yet.

“I will kill this two-legs who hunts us, Fanged One, and the rest of our prey after. You prepare the cub.” With another harsh snarl, Skyflame turned from the trail and started back toward the two-legs’ wood-and-stone den, leaving the Fanged One to race along with the she-cub toward their den.

This cursed deal… More was at stake in this bargain than the Prime or the Fanged One realized. But to see it carried out, he would readily face the Manhunter again. Loathsome as it was to admit, the two-legs were needed to make the pack answer. They were agitated tonight, but still silent. They would speak to him again, or he and the Fanged One would hunt every last brother and sister down. And to assure the Fanged One’s aid, he would kill a thousand two-legs. Two thousand.

And the feasting would then be good.

Light returned to Corren sol Dare’s eyes gradually. Pain, too, but that was not localized around his eyes. Shoulder, arm, and left temple all throbbed, the reassuring pulse of his least favorite sensation. At least while there was pain, there was life. When the light had reduced to a less-searing intensity, he took stock of his situation. He lay inside the homestead, on one of the beds drawn into the central room, dimly lit by two lanterns trimmed low. Two shrouded bundles lay near the door, and two other figures were bed-ridden like he. One was recognizable in the faint light. “Jon!” He struggled to rise, fighting the sudden wave of vertigo that accompanied the action.

“Master sol... Corren... Thank the Light you’re alive.” Ilona’s tear-streaked face appeared at his bedside, her fine strong hands supporting his shoulders. She had hastily bundled herself in a dressing gown of stout wool, obviously acting on instinct during this wild night. Her elder daughter—her remaining daughter—Syeira crouched at Jon’s bedside, gripping his limp hand between her two. His fingers tightened on hers briefly, sending a wave of relief along after the dizziness. “Corren, please… You have to go after them. You have to find my Tainne. He took her, that—that bloody, flaming, Light-cursed traitor! Please, say that you will…” Ilona’s blue eyes, the source of her daughters’ sapphire hues, shone with terrible fury and fear. “I’ll go alone if I have to! I’ll not leave my daughter in the hands of those—those monsters.”

Corren reached out a hand to squeeze her shoulder as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I don’t plan to either. But first… What happened here? Is Jon alright? Who—?” Who died? Who did Danior kill? But he knew. The hulking shape on the floor could only be Brishen, the big farm hand; the smaller would have to be Maleva, his mother. Her two other children had fallen prey to the Wolfbrother before his arrival. An entire family eradicated. “What happened here, Ilona?”

“Danior happened.” Her voice was dripping with hate and barely bridled anger. “First I knew of it was Maleva screaming. Danior had already… already slit Brishen’s throat in his sleep. Maleva was so…” She drew a shuddering breath as tears came to her eyes. “Garridan was out of bed. He must’ve heard Danior skulking around like Maleva had. She… She stabbed Garridan by mistake, you see. She kept her butcher knife under the pillow, and when she woke, with Brishen dead… She must’ve mistaken Garridan for him. It’s the only reason…” Tears continued to well up, endlessly, and Syeira was sobbing as well. “Danior finished her, and threw Garridan to the floor. He came for me then, but I had my knife close too, and held him off. Then we heard you and Jon outside. Tainne tried to run to me, but Danior…” She shivered at the dreadful memory. “He snatched her up as she ran, and held his knife to her throat. Syeira and I stalked him, but he just slid back toward the door, threw the bolt, and when Jon stumbled in, he… He stabbed him, too.”

Ilona finally collapsed as the tale concluded, burying her face in her hands. “Then they fled,” whispered Syeira from across the room. “They ran, and took Tainne, and we found you. Jon is weak now, but he’ll… He’ll pull through.” She sounded as if she intended to drag him back from the grave herself. He was nearly all she had left now, after all. “But Da… He’s not… He won’t…”

“I understand.” The words sounded wooden, but they were all he could muster.

“Corren…” Jon’s faint cry roused the three from the tableau. Corren responded, breathing the younger man’s name as he slowly moved to the bed. “Corren, I’m sorry.” Jon had his eyes squeezed shut, refusing to look at the thief-catcher. “I didn’t know, Corren, I swear it… Danior told me not to interfere, or he’d hurt the girls. Syeira and Tainne. I didn’t know he was… He was with the monster.” Tears began leaking through his clamped eyelids. “And now he has the little one anyway. Oh, Light… Forgive me. Syeira, Ilona, forgive me.” Syeira and Ilona had both started sobbing again, but tears were beyond Corren right now.

“You made the choice, Jon… You didn’t know.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Justice’ll fine you, eventually. It always does. But not from me.” With another sigh, he turned to the third bed, further in the darkened room, where Garridan lay waiting to die. “Tend to Jon… I need a word with Garridan.” With slow, ponderous steps he approached the dying farmsteader and crouched by his head, dreading the next part of the conversation.

Garridan’s eyes fluttered open, and a slight smile creased his pallid face. “You know, thief-catcher,” he whispered hoarsely, laboring for breath. “I see it in your eyes. I’m glad you didn’t tell Ilona, the poor thing.” His blue eyes slid closed again, but he went on in his whispery tone. “Danior… double-crossed me. He always wanted the farm and the feast. Took the little one, too, didn’t he?” At Corren’s quiet acknowledgment, Garridan nodded again. “Had his eye on both girls for a long while now, but especially Tainne. Save her if you can, just to deny him the delicacy. Little bint wasn’t mine, anyway. Neither was. I married after Ilona was widowed. Girls didn’t know, of course; not even Syeira remembered the lout who knocked up her dam.” The breath rattled in his throat, but the farmsteader made himself continue, made Corren listen. “They’re at the hunting lodge, of course. We kept the slaughterhouse there anyway. Only made things easier.” Another long pause, and now his words came even more faintly. “Little Tainne, such a beautiful child… Her taste… would’ve been… magnificent.”

“What did he say, Corren?” Ilona had appeared at his shoulder, peering at her husband through yet more tears.

Corren was silent for a long time, watching the rise and fall of Garridan’s chest slow. “He told me to save Tainne. Go back now, Ilona…” His voice was like ice, his eyes like fire, as he reached for the bone-handled knife that hung around his neck. A sharp tug freed the bright blade from its sheath; Ilona gasped when she saw it. “Go back now,” he repeated softly, but with an edge as keen as the knife in his hand, an edge that Garridan would’ve heard even from beyond the grave. The farmsteader’s blue eyes flickered open again, locking onto Corren’s. “Go back now,” he said a third time, just for Garridan to hear as the knifepoint came to rest against the column of his throat. “I’ll administer the mercy…”

”I am not what you call a civilized man! I have done with society entirely, for reasons which I alone have the right of appreciating. I do not therefore obey its laws…”
-- Captain Nemo, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

The Worst Trip to Heorot
Wed Jun 25 20:16:16 2003

His wounds throbbed under bandages hastily administered by a terror-wracked Ilona. Her child in danger, she seemed half ready to collapse in endless sobs and half to tear down the columns of forest that barred her from Tainne. Only by convincing her that Jon needed her care just to last the night had he been able to dissuade her from taking up the trail with him. But he knew what lay ahead—horror, blood, and death. Driven only by fear for her daughter, Ilona would charge blindly forward into the waiting jaws of Danior and his Wolfkin hellhound. Of course, Corren sol Dare would hardly fare better, except for his one, sickening edge—he wasn’t nearly so attached to the little girl.

Weapons gathered from where they had fallen in front of the homestead were returned to their usual places. Swordbreaker and tamahakan balanced each other in sheath and belt loop on opposite hips; his bone-handled knife returned to its dangling scabbard around his neck; the iron-belted catchpole resting comfortably in both hands. They had each already brought a victory of sorts this night; the Wolfbrother had been defeated once, and a vicious betrayer murdered in his deathbed. The price had been high—Brishen and Maleva dead, Jon flitting between guilt-induced delirium and an invalid’s dreamless unconsciousness, Tainne taken to the monsters’ very lair. His own body had been battered, too, with the slashes and bite to his arm and shoulder, and the gash on his temple now bound with a strip of linen, a bloodstained headband wound through the plaits of his dark hair… The cheapest price of all, if he failed to rescue the girl. He’d pay it five times over to bring these… cannibals… to justice. Ten, to save Tainne.

Hours remained until dawn, more than enough time to complete this dark work. The full moon shone overhead, casting ample illumination across this solitary trail through the forest he now followed. Ahead lay the hunting cabin; “the slaughterhouse,” Garridan called it. Light, not yet… Once Tainne is free let it overflow with blood, but not before. That would be a hard fight, the hardest of his life, battling his way into the lion’s den. They were waiting, he knew. Danior would expect nothing less, and rightly so. Any decent folk would risk themselves to call these beasts to account for their crimes. This was the deepest perversion imaginable, or close to it. Best not to dwell on what crimes could be considered comparable to killing and eating your own. And if they could go that far, neither of the men awaiting his arrival would bat an eye at murdering the thief-catcher who was their only remaining threat.

Ahead lay death. His, or theirs. It would have to be theirs… He had little hope of subduing and restraining both huntsman and Wolfkin, let alone transporting them north to face trial in the White Tower. The Tower… Still under their jurisdiction, even this far from Tar Valon, but far from their protection. No sense in blaming the Aes Sedai for that, not when he had far more pressing concerns to occupy his mind. He was halfway to the remote cabin. Danior wouldn’t kill the girl until after Corren himself was dead. They couldn’t feast in peace until after his blood stained the ground, after all. And they certainly wouldn’t wait for him to come to them. He’d come this far unmolested, but….

It was only a matter of who wanted to taste his blood first.

The pack was on the move. He didn’t know where, or why. They continued to shut him out no matter how he pleaded. Or threatened. They took his warning lightly, if they bothered to listen at all. Two-legs had hunted wolves since time began, even when the bond between them was fresh, and especially in the long, long years since. Wolves had survived, even prospered despite this. They could do so again, or so their silence implied.

But he sensed they were bluffing. Moontail knew the risk he posed as an enemy. Two-legs were fair hunters at best, but with a Brother guiding their trail, they truly could eradicate the packs. Perhaps not in a single lifetime, no, but his enmity could reduce the packs significantly. And should he enter the Wolf Dream to hunt, well… Slayer stalked the Dream now, bringing the final sleep to the brothers and sisters. A second Slayer, perhaps even hunting in concert with that shadowy two-legs, could banish the race of wolves from the face of the earth. Moontail knew; she was a cunning hunter and a wise leader. Not even Snap or Cold Water could ignore the threat he posed. Yet they did not acknowledge…

Moontail was up to something. That must be it. The pack in motion, and ignoring his warnings, it could mean nothing else. Well, he would face that hunt when the time came. Now, other prey was foremost on his mind.

The Manhunter was approaching.

Skyflame tensed, gathering himself within the blind alongside the trail. New flints of stone were clasped between his knuckles, replacements for those the Manhunter had destroyed in the last hunt. This time would bring a perfect ambush. The two-legs was strong and fast and cunning above all, but the depths of the forest were his home. Strength and speed and cunning would avail the Manhunter nothing once he pounced for the kill without warning in the way of the wolf, first striking hamstring, then throat. He would let the two-legs die slowly, and watch. Perhaps taste his blood; that one sample from before had been… intoxicating.

He bit back a whine of pleasure at the memory. The Manhunter knew he was approaching their den and would be alert. He had long eyes and long ears, this two-legs, but not long enough. Skyflame could see or hear him long before the two-legs had any idea of his danger, plus track him by scent if need be. Already it wafted ahead of him on the trail, a mix of sweat and blood and burning anger. No fear, not yet. That was good. It would’ve been disappointing for the Manhunter to approach tremulously.

But approach he did, finally coming into view. He heard the rasp of breath, signaling the haste this quarry was making. Yes, taking the she-cub had provided fine bait. His big stick thrust before him threateningly, the outsized shepherd’s crook. Shepherds made for fine eating, crooks or not. Sheep, too, of course. Well, that pole wouldn’t save the Manhunter either. Nor would his other toys, the big blunt knife or that cursed choking club. No, one swift strike would end it, and herald the beginning of a new future. He could almost taste it.

The moment was nearly here. The Manhunter was but ten paces away, within easy reach. The instant he drew abreast of Skyflame’s hiding place, it would be over. Seven paces. Six. Five. Striding blindly to his doom. Three paces. Two. He could almost smell the blood that would soon fountain from the two-legs’ throat. One pace away, and the Wolfkin sprang.

His vicious snarl cut short as the sweeping catchpole nearly split his head open. Dazed from the blow, he stumbled backwards and fell to his knees. How could the Manhunter have known?! Again the two-legs struck out with his pole, but Skyflame caught it and heaved, wrenching the sturdy weapon from his opponent’s grasp. He lurched forward, snarling his pain and hatred anew, drawing back his shard-studded fist for a slash that would tear out the Manhunter’s throat. There was no time to try and cripple; his prey would still counterstrike too quickly. Indeed, the two-legs was already upon him, striking out with bare fists and stopping the killing blow from descending. A raised knee thudded into his stomach as the Manhunter closed; a forearm collided with his nose and released a crimson deluge. How!? A mere human! Shoving away, Skyflame drew space enough between them to gather for another lunge, howling his rage to the cold moon above.

The Manhunter had his club out, waiting for the strike. It came. There was a chaotic blurring of motion, and then…

Something was not right. The Manhunter shouldn’t be behind him. He shouldn’t be able to see the Manhunter behind him. His head shouldn’t be able to turn that far to see the Manhunter behind him. How…? Ah. The club was tucked under his chin again, its ball-head forcing his neck to twist in a way it shouldn’t. There was pain, a grinding at the base of his shoulders. Oddly, no sensation came from below that point. He couldn’t feel the legs that supported him starting to crumple, but his vision lurched weirdly. He was falling, the Manhunter’s cold eyes watching as he rushed away as if tumbling into some dark chasm. As the darkness closed in for the last time, the Manhunter spoke.

“Now finished, Wolfbrother.”

Mournfully, the pack howled.

[…]Fingers were bursting,
The monster backtracking, the man overpowering.
The dread of the land was desperate to escape,
To take a roundabout road and flee
To his lair in the fens. The latching power
In his fingers weakened; it was the worst trip
The terror-monger had taken to Heorot.

[…]Then an extraordinary
Wail arose, and bewildering fear
Came over the Danes. Everyone felt it
Who heard that cry as it echoed off the wall,
A God-cursed scream and the strain of catastrophe,
The howl of the loser, the lament of the hell-serf
Keening his wound.
-- Beowulf, Seamus Heaney translation

Children of the Night
Sun Jul 13 15:36:43 2003

The hunting cabin stood dark, silent, forbidding in the small clearing that housed it. The smoky glass panes in its two modest windows only reflected the silvery beams of the full moon above. Only the faintest wisps of smoke rose from its stone chimney; glowing embers must be smoldering in the hearth below. Only the wind spoke as it whispered through the surrounding trees and low grass, a steady, rustling murmur that ebbed and flowed with the breeze. There was no sign that any dark and murderous deeds had ever occurred within those split-log walls, or that any more would take place this night.

No sign, beyond Corren sol Dare’s rigid stance, statue-like, at the clearing’s edge.

Behind him ran the trail back to Garridan’s Farmstead, now littered with the broken body of Aleksy, the rabid Wolfbrother whose murderous rampage he had finally ended. Further back stood the Farmstead itself, now serving as part charnel house, part infirmary, part morgue. But no, the killing had not ended there, or on the winding forest path. It would end within this seemingly peaceable little cabin. Best case would be that no one else had to die, but that would depend on the outcome of the pending battle. Worst case, he would die first, leaving the surviving settlers at the dubious mercies of the huntsman Danior. Little Tainne might already be… No. He couldn’t afford to think like that. This was a rescue, first and foremost; avenging the brutal murders must come a very distant second. And so above all, he must believe there was still a chance for rescue.

Action, then.

Classic entry conundrum: door or window? Danior was obviously expecting him, most likely with an arrow already nocked in his bow. One clean shot, and the huntsman could continue his rampage unopposed. How to throw him off, then? The door would doubtless be barricaded; he could waste precious minutes trying to break through, minutes where Danior could take careful aim… Or worse, slit a tender throat. The low windows were no better, with flying glass as dangerous as bared steel. Besides, Danior would anticipate his taking that route. The only choice was to take both at once.

The catchpole left his hand first, hurled javelin-like at the solid oak planks of the cabin door, and a bare instant later the tamahakan was sent spinning end over end at the near window. Corren followed in their wake, charging across the intervening space and gathering himself for the jump. The steel-belted catchpole struck the door with a penetrating thud, echoed by the crystalline cacophony of shattering glass as the tamahakan spiraled through the window. The thief-catcher followed through the broken window, diving, tucking, and rolling across the floorboards. The plan had been for the catchpole to simulate an attempt at breaking through the doorway, a make-shift red herring, while the tamahakan cleared most of the glass and provided Corren the extra seconds to capitalize on Danior’s confusion. But as he rolled into a guarded crouch with the swordbreaker in hand, ignoring the shards of silicate that had sliced deep during the roll, he found the plan had been unnecessary.

Tainne lay bound in the corner by the hearth, motionless, barely illuminated by the dying embers. If not for her blue eyes, wide with terror and blinking through tears, he would’ve thought she was dead. Aside from her, the room was empty of life…. but Death resided in style. Hunting trophies lined the walls—pelts, skulls, and whole mounted heads from Danior’s previous hunts. He saw ridgecat and bear along with all manner of their antlered prey, elk and deer and even a monstrously large moose. Stuffed rabbit and squirrel peeked out from among mounted grouse, pheasant, and duck, and there was even a preserved blacklance coiled in the corner opposite Tainne. But the most grisly and horrifying trophies of all were the three human skulls, eternally grinning from atop the rough stone mantle. Two were clearly too small to come from adults… Maleva’s lost daughter, Chaney, and the Tinkers’ missing child. Oh Light, how could I have come so late?

Danior was nowhere in sight.

All this information he collected in an instant, for his eyes immediately locked upon Tainne’s again. She saw him and tried to scream, but the wad of rag stuffed into her mouth muffled the cry. But then, he didn’t need to make out any words. Crystalline clarity slammed home in tandem with the arrow that pierced his calf, and the bowstring’s hum mingled with his cry of bitter pain. From above, a single word in the raspy, snakeleather voice: “Manhunter.”

He saw then where the huntsman had lain in wait—the sleeping loft above the cabin floor, accessible by a narrow ladder on the far side of the room. Corren’s distraction and sudden entrance had thrown Danior’s aim, yes, but only enough to turn a fatal bowshot into a crippling one. Already the cannibal was drawing fletching back to his ear, a savage grin splitting his face as he sighted along the length of the shaft. By some trick of the light or window to the soul, his eyes seemed to gleam redly among the shadows. “Remarkable, manhunter… Such courage.” The grin widened, showing sharpened teeth. “I think I’ll eat your heart first.”

Corren grunted. Danior’s eyes widened in proportion to his shrinking leer. The bone-handled knife, only just before resting snugly in its dangling sheath, whirled laterally through the air from the thief-catcher’s side-arm throw. It struck handle-first, testament to his paltry throwing skills, but struck forehead square and hard, and the huntsman’s aim emerged the worse for it. The arrow embedded itself harmlessly in the floorboards as the bow tumbled from stunned hands. Better to’ve taken him through the eye, but beggars and choosers and all… As Danior recovered from that little surprise, Corren regained hold of his discarded tamahakan and, favoring his pierced right leg, stumbled to the ladder.

White hot agony marked each rung of the ladder, commingling with the terrible dread that something decidedly unpleasant would swing down to greet the crown of his head as it crested the loft’s floor. But the blow never came; Danior was content to wait with the patience of a true hunter. The patience, and the weapons. A broad-bladed hunting knife thrust menacingly from one hand, while the other gripped a simple woodsman’s hatchet. Drawing the swordbreaker left-handed, Corren brought it to bear along with the tamahakan. Silence stretched interminably, broken only by ragged breathing and Tainne’s muffled sobs. In stories, this would be where the hero made some sort of snappy remark, either black humor or righteous statement about the pending triumph of Good. Damn lucky I’m no good with words…

The first blows were therefore traded mutely, the knife’s clipped point stabbing out to be countered by a hooking swing of the ball-headed club. Then the hatchet flashed downward, wedge blade striking sparks against the ‘breaker’s dull steel. Blows were traded thusly in quick succession, slashes, stabs, swings, feints. The narrow sleeping loft creaked under the weight of their shifting bodies, and their hair brushed the thatch overhead. Grunts, curses, and wordless snarls flew as thick and fast as the blows, but neither sound nor fury touched the combatants. The huntsman fought fresh, uninjured, bringing newly-stoked fire into his fight. The thief-catcher simmered, siphoning strength from depleted reserves, rarely pressing the issue he couldn’t avoid. Stamina, staying-power, would win the day, unless the odds shifted dramatically.

Just outside, the wolves howled.

The chilling sound sliced through both men, momentarily halting their deadly confrontation as it hung in the air. The lupine crescendo carried sorrow, pain, terrible loss… And a thirsty cry for vengeance that echoed sympathetically in Corren sol Dare’s heart. The tamahakan swung low, smashing the joint of Danior’s left knee, sweeping the huntsman off his feet. Hatchet and knife clattered to the planking along with their wielder, but the game was far from over. The thief-catcher had fought ferociously from a wounded leg, and Danior would not surrender his life cheaply. He scuttled on all fours to the edge of the room and burst though the dividing thatch onto the roof, unwilling to make anything remotely easy for his opponent. For the huntsman, this fight was victory or death just as surely.

Grimly, biting back the cries of pain that fought to escape at every step, Corren followed out onto the peaked roof… and entered into a scene from a dream. Nightmare or not, he couldn’t tell. Dozens of pairs of golden eyes ringed the cabin, more hovering in the darkness of the treeline. Wolves, massive gray-furred beasts, stalked in patrol around the building, molten gazes fixed upon the two figures on the roof. One wolf stood motionless, the plume of its tail a snowy white crescent, then raised its muzzle to issue a low, threatening growl. Danior turned to his pursuer, nervously licking bloodless lips. “W-We’ll have to w-work together, manhunter. N-Neither of us can escape alone. These beasts w-will kill us both.”

The thief-catcher smiled. Wolfishly. “Somehow, Danior, I don’t think they’re here for me.”

The cannibal screamed as Corren pitched him off the roof into the milling mass of wolves below. The golden-eyed hunters fell upon Danior as he fell among them, their jaws already snapping.

Corren watched for a moment from his high vantage until a particularly painful twinge shot up his injured leg, the full weight of this evening’s exertions threatening to tumble him from the perch just as surely as a hard shove. With careful steps he retraced the course back into the cabin and descended to where the little girl was tied. She fell into his arms once her bonds were cut and clung with terrified strength. “Master sol Dare,” she whispered endlessly, sobbing against him. “Master sol Dare, can we go home?”

It occurred to him then, strangely enough, that he was no good with children. But right now, he needed a hug himself. “Not yet, Tainne…” he answered quietly, wrapping the little girl in his arms. “We haven’t been told the way is clear.”

Outside, the wolves howled. With satisfaction.

“Now, ma’am, now I can take you home.”

”Listen to them: the children of the night. What beautiful music they make.”
--Bram Stoker’s Dracula

OOC—Editor’s note: Yes, within this post is a line blatantly stolen (though altered) from the film Red Dragon. But if you’re looking for good cannibal quotes, you go right to the source—Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

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