The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

Time would slow, and he would feel as each sinew of flesh was severed by that damned longsword. He would feel the snap through his spinal chord, and watch, after a few bumps, how his headless body slumped over, twitching.

Vidarr was having nightmares again. The High Priest’s rage had him on his toes.

Since the fatal mistake with Shamus’ missing elixir and the escaped werewolf, the High Priest’s anger had been steadily rising over the following weeks. The cult members had long since gotten over the failure, or at least hidden their guilt well, but their High Priest was a different matter. Perhaps that’s why he became their leader in the first place.

In the last week alone, he had killed half a dozen of his own followers. He was raising his longsword and cutting them down as fast as he would point his finger; the smallest mistakes were suddenly the last. At dinner one early morning, the Priest was served a steak that wasn’t ‘properly seasoned.’ No one saw the apprentice chef after that night. Will attested that there were strange utensils missing from the kitchen that evening as well; it appeared the Priest was getting more creative.

Vidarr had seen many executions during, and since, his childhood. He’d heard from traveling assassins that each Red Hand village has its own punishment system, and theirs was not terribly unique. It used to be that anyone deserving death was brought to that fateful tree stump. Its roots were withered, dried up fingers that curled upward toward the sawed-off end of the wine-colored wood. There were bone fragments stuck in the countless nicks the High Priest’s longsword made. But lately, punishments were being dealt so swiftly, there was no time for ceremony. Not even the tree stump.

Vidarr’s idle time was spent reading in his dorm; his bed and desks became his dearest friend, whilst Ashara still trained daily like the rest of the assassins. Vidarr thought the countless hours spent with a bow or dagger in hand were meaningless exercises, now. He would simply be etching habits into the already deeply engraved stone of his childhood and adolescence. He—like all the others—had a dagger in hand the day he was strong enough to lift it.

A noise made the Moon-elf look up from his book; soft enough to be a mere footstep of his imagination. When no other sound followed, he gazed out the window beside his bed. Despite the ashes of corpses scattered about the grounds, it was a beautiful morning. The sun had risen only hours ago, and the golden leaves departed from summer trees were making a thick bedding on the ground. Scents of rain lingered, and the crows were cawing.

Another noise—the creaking of wood. This time, the elf was sure it was not his imagination. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and stared at his empty doorway for a long while. Vidarr forced himself to stay awake during the hours when the rest would normally sleep: the morning through midday. He hunted and trained at night when there were eyes to make sure he was doing so, but during the mornings, when they all slept, he propped himself against the window and read—if not that, he stared at sunrises. They were starting to grow on him.

It was his own silent rebellion against the cult.

“Vidarr?” someone called, stepping into his dorm.

He jumped. The voice belonged to a petite girl with black hair and red … well, you know by now. She stared down at her feet, overlooking the knotted fingers of hers which fidgeted incessantly. Her hair was an untidy mess. But beyond these details, Vidarr did not recognize her, nor had he spoken in depth with her before.

“What do you want?”

“I wish to speak with you.”

“Well then, be swift about it. What do you want to speak of?” The girl was making him feel uncomfortable; she had that same, lustful look as Sindri, though it was more timid and innocent, somehow—almost loving. It was that very notion of ‘love’ from a Red Hand member that made it so unnerving.

“You.”

“Me.”

“Yes.” By now she was by his bed, and Vidarr felt disturbed enough that his hand had slid to the hilt of his dagger.

“I tire of me. Always in my own head. I think to myself all night, so why would I wish to speak long on a subject I’ve been turning over and over? I assure you, I am not particularly fascinating. What’s your name, anyways? And by the gods, why are you up at this hour? You should be abed with the rest of us.”

“I could ask you the same.” She placed a slender hand on his leg, squeezed gently. Vidarr, looking about the room, began to wonder if he had drifted into some strange dream, and in actuality was sleeping with a book folded across his chest. To his horror, he didn’t wake up. There was something malicious in the girl—insidious, even—that he felt about her, and it was igniting his instincts.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “I’m not interested. Begone. Back to bed. Shoo.”

But he hadn’t specified. She crept onto his bed and arched her back like a cat about to pounce on prey, eyes filled with desire. “Back to bed? Simple enough. You know, Vidarr, your room is right across from mine. I’m sure you’ll get to know me just fine, with time …” Her hand crept up his thigh. Inches from his face, he could feel her warmth, the smell of her breath—the smell of a soporific concoction coating her lips.

“Stop!” he shouted. It shook her from the act, and in that same instant she was off the bed, staring at him coldly. Vidarr stood as well, with hands balled into murderous fists.

“He won’t be convinced,” she said louder.

Only then did he realize how drunken she seemed. Dosed by her own poison. “Curse me,” Vidarr mumbled as three others came through his doorway, their eyes filled with a different kind of desire.

“Not as much of a scoundrel as I thought. Ah, well. It all ends the same, anyways,” Dalibor said with a feigned disappointment.

By the time he’d drawn his dagger, there was a cold hand around his wrist, twisting it until his fingers went stiff from the pain, and the weapon clattered to the floor. Then he felt knuckles taking turns at his ribs, and after that, someone’s knees went into his chest, as well as another, more undesirable part of his body, which caused him to fall to the ground in pain, clutching that area, unable to dig the dizzying pain out of it.

When the blows finally ceased, Vidarr withdrew from the cover of his arms and looked up at his attackers. They were staring down at him in pompous satisfaction.

“Well, Dalibor, Signy … Sindri! What a pleasure it is to see you in my dorm. May I offer you something … tea, perhaps? A dagger in your back? Unfortunately, I only have two, so one of you will have to share.”

Dalibor crouched down, clearly peeved by his confidence. “I’ve been watching you ever since our little quarrel by the fireside, Vidarr.”

“I’m flattered you were thinking so much about me. Did I arouse any inappropriate thoughts?” A swift, hard punched followed the sarcastic remark, replacing his almost maniacal laughter with a fit of wheezes and coughs.

“You know, I don’t believe we ever had many chances to bond. You see, the High Priest doesn’t believe in personal interaction.” Dalibor lowered his mask, revealing a hideous grin. “But I do. Oh, yes, things are going to get quite personal between us.”

“Oh, yes, personal,” Vidarr mocked. “Just kill me. Get it over with, lapdog. I’d rather die than endure a long conversation with you, anyways.” Vidarr tasted the blood pouring down his throat while his right eye swelled.

“Oh, no, no!” he laughed sardonically. “I could never do that. I am sure you’ve noticed, my dear brother: tempers have been rather high, haven’t they? Surely, my head would be off my shoulders as soon as word got around that I gutted you. And certainly, it would be obvious. The Priest has a way of knowing things, doesn’t he? These days, all he needs is one simple reason.” Vidarr detected a mixture of admiration and loathing in his voice. It boiled his blood.

“Then leave me be. Rejoin the herd, cattle.”

This time it was a kick to his stomach that silenced him, from Sindri.

The cult member who’d tried to seduce him almost looked contrite as Vidarr was hauled out of his room. She stumbled away to her own dorm, trying to ignore the deep well of malice reflecting back at her from the depths of Vidarr’s eyes.

They took him to the top of the stairs, next to the banisters just outside his room, overlooking the dining hall. A fair amount of blood from his nose was dripping onto the floor. With some faltering strength, he tried to toss one of them over the edge, but a quick flurry of blows obliterated his senses. Vidarr might’ve continued to struggle hopelessly—despite the pain in his broken ribs—if it weren’t for Dalibor’s studded pommel, which cracked Vidarr over the head.

No one was awake at this time. This strange tribe of nocturnal Moon-elves were already long into the deepest hours of sleep. The only things awake in this early dawn were the four cult members and the fire in the main room.

They pushed him to his knees in front of the flames. By now there was a healthy fountain of blood from his nose, which sizzled on the sides of the stone hearth. It was the burning in his knees that finally awoke him, and the slap that Dalibor dealt his cheek.

“Curious! It appears someone has kindled a fire,” Dalibor said. Signy and Sindri chuckled; it was the same obligatory sound that followed a quip of the Priest’s, something that had always made bile rise in Vidarr’s throat.

I wish I had not stirred. They might’ve had the decency to lay me back down on bed after … whatever this misery may turn out to be. Vidarr had read a book once written by a follower of Bafimer; it emphasized the clearing of the mind, or the focusing on small objects when the trials of life are too painful, or one feels spiritually burdened. So, Vidarr kept his eyes on the flames, the popping of the wood, the grey ashes of the hearth … the hot poker stuck in the embers.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel so calm.

“You know, I think the High Priest will notice if he sees my face has been seared off,” he growled.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Dalibor said as he approached the poker, slipped on a leather glove, and grabbed it by the handle. The iron was so hot it had turned a vibrant orange. “I suppose I’m much more merciful than you think I am.”

Vidarr laughed nervously, hoping that he appeared more stoic than he felt. “What have I done to you? Is reading a book a crime, even in this place?”

“It’s not what you have done, dear brother, but what you will do. And I’m going to reprimand that sin before it’s committed. I’m going to remind you where your loyalties should be. I’m going to put an end to the incessant questioning.” Dalibor beckoned Signy and Sindri closer. “Now,” he commanded.

“The High Priest would be proud of you,” Vidarr said as his right and left arms were trapped by the followers. “Only, there’s a difference between you and him: his victims are complacent, submissive … I am neither.” Vidarr elbowed Signy in the groin to demonstrate, and smiled with bloody teeth while the elf groaned.

“Your actions hurt yourself more than him. You will see this, very … very soon.”

Vidarr felt the flames growing hotter against his chest. He recalled the way Sinara had looked the night of her death, and wondered if she felt the same way he did.

Drowning in resentment, burdened by a deep hopeless and helplessness, incapable of swimming free.

“I always thought it’s a shame that we keep only one scar to represent our loyalty.” Dalibor held up his left hand, to reveal the hideously deep cut that everyone—even Vidarr—was forced to renew every hunt. “Ironic to know that it is you who will fulfill this wish of mine.”

“If you are so eager to prove yourself, why don’t you do it?” Before he could blink, Dalibor slammed the cold end of the poker onto his face, shattering the bones in his nose.

“Disrespectful little cur. I am the loyal one, here. The High Priest should’ve taken a liking to me. But, in all the wisdom of the gods, he puts his attention on you! You were the one who raised the torch on that village, the one he allows to wander the grounds freely, unlike us, the true Hands of Afimer! You’ve deceived him, somehow, I know it. You want to make him look like a damned fool with the rest of us!”

Dalibor’s eyes were watering. Even with the poker in his hands, the malicious rage that burned in him, and the two followers obeying his command, he looked more like a child in Vidarr’s eyes, than he ever had. And it made him laugh. “Deceive him? What am I going to do … read the Crimson Hand to death? I’m silent, Dalibor … silent. No one is making you look like a fool besides yourself, or either of you, for that matter.”

But it was another stern slap of iron that met Vidarr’s cheek, instead of a rational response. The strike was so hard that Vidarr’s head had been turned almost parallel to his shoulder, and when he turned it so he could glare at Dalibor, they all heard the sticky, grating sound of broken bones shifting in his jaw. “Gods curse you.” Each word was a knife of pain. “You want his admiration? Stop wasting your time with me and go get it. See what it does to you. Burn down villages; set towns ablaze, raze the cities. Live your dream of death and soot. Bury yourself in the ashes of their corpses, you kulfur. I won’t stop you.”

‘Kulfur’ is a Moon-elvish curse reserved specifically for the last moments of one’s life, when it is being taken by a murderer, and the word is being spat at them. It describes the fury one feels at losing their life to the likes of such a deplorable person. Warriors in battle never speak it, because even on a battlefield, there is respect. Beneath the hands of a murderer, however, all morality crumbles.

“No, you won’t,” Dalibor growled, and his face turned to stone in the peak of his animosity. “Hold his wrists. Tighter!” he snapped at Signy and Sindri.

Dalibor held the iron over the flames, then pushed the tip of it into Vidarr’s right hand. Steam raised from the wound as his flesh burned and sizzled from the heat. He clenched his jaw, suppressing a scream, which only made the bones splinter more in his face. “And you’ll remember why,” Dalibor said as he dragged the poker down the hand in a long line, and withdrew it. There was seared flesh stuck to the edge, which melted off as he stuck it into the embers.

His arm trembled and shook in Sindri’s grip. Every part of his body wished to writhe and recoil from the agony, but as Vidarr recollected the flames of Crowshead … he opened his hand wider and beckoned the pain.

“Wise,” Dalibor said, who noticed the outstretched fingers that seemed to now be reaching for the hot iron. “Then it must be true, what they say: in every fool there is a hint of wisdom.” Perhaps as mad as the High Priest himself, the elf started his handiwork again.

Vidarr’s hand jolted and shook deeper into the iron as will resisted instinct, and the poker burned a symbol at Dalibor’s command. A scream was growing in Vidarr’s chest, with every passing second it became dangerously close to escaping through his throat; he buried it deep beneath his guilt and kept it there.

His fortitude unnerved the Hands, who had never seen such pain and silence in the same instance. Only during executions was there that dreadful lack of noise; the cessation of will when the body feels it is no longer worthwhile to express fear, agony, nor sorrow.

“The gods will see to it that the rest is done better,” Dalibor hissed before he tossed the poker back into the fire, and Vidarr’s shoulders slumped, now free, smoldering like his spirit.

“I’m going to put a knife in your back, Dalibor,” Vidarr uttered, just loud enough for him to hear as they ascended the steps to the dormitories. “But when I am done, you’ll have wished it was your throat.”

“Good luck gripping the handle, my friend.”

Vidarr watched them all, with unblinking eyes, disappear into their separate rooms.

Vidarr couldn’t help but examine what Dalibor thought was important enough to imprint upon his flesh. Emblazoned in his palm was a crooked T. As soon as he felt strong enough, he staggered outside. Each step inspired some sharp or dull in pain in multiple parts of his body.

The beauty of autumn smudged, sucked into the searing pain of his palm. His vision was blurred, distorting the orange and red leaves all around into a fire of their own. The world went out of focus. As Vidarr jogged down the road, he caught sight of a sentry—another loyal follower—who was placed there in case anyone tried to escape.

“Fellow brother, what is your business and where are you going?” he asked him. The assassin already had a hand on the leather of his blade.

“Aklen, gods damnit, I’m not leaving,” Vidarr said to the follower, recognizing him purely by his eyes. The rest of his face was masked. “I fell into the fire of the hearth and need to cool the flesh.”

“I will need to tell the High Priest at once, then.”

“Don’t be foolish. It’s the middle of the morning. He’ll cut your head off for waking him. Don’t believe me? Go find out, and tell me when your neck is severed from your body. Here, take my dagger, for gods’ sakes, if you’re still stubborn.” Vidarr flung it at his feet and staggered away.

For half a moment, as he turned off the road and into the forest, toward a river he knew well, he thought he might just sprint away, anyways, and steal another weapon from someone else. But he knew that he was still being watched; there were more loyal Hands peering at him this very instant, most likely with arrows trained on his back.

The river never seemed more alluring. Vidarr fell to his knees and dunked his hand in the icy waters. His whole body relaxed, a heavy sigh released from him, and for awhile he was in a stupor of blissful relief. While sat there, he thought about all the times he’d come to the river to mull over simple thoughts, to feel the water rushing around his ankles … to dream of other places.