The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

Deidre and Fenris were not the only ones shaken by the howls, nor were they the only ones who had been restless in the most recent evenings. Times had been hard enough without a shapeshifter visiting, or even a rainstorm to wash away the crops, but time is cruel and destiny is strange; worst of all, the two are not often friends.

Boran Brownbeard was the first one to brave the stormy air. Even in the darkness his burly mass was unmistakable; his arms veiny from long hours at the field and daily chores. His auburn hair, sopping wet, was falling just past his ears looking unnaturally youthful for the hardness of his face. He was clothed in a plain wool shirt with undone laces at the neck. His britches were leather, brown and heavy like his boots. Fenris watched him step from his cottage—the first in the left row—and saw his face take a different expression than his own. They had both seen the same frighteningly luminous eyes of the creature, yet his face only hardened with defiance while Fenris’ succumbed to fear.

So the rumors are true, their eyes really do burn.

Reluctantly, the boy stepped away from his cottage, not before turning back to look at Deidre. She was still cowering in the corner.

He slipped in the mud before steadying himself and walking towards Boran, never looking away from the dark figure atop the hill; there was no mistaking what that creature was. There was nothing natural about it. Fenris had heard stories, even one howl several times before, but never had he seen one, and he never wished to again. Whenever he left the confines of the village to visit far-away shrines to pray, his hairs bristled at the thought of a werewolf bursting through a forest, but even then it seemed only a distant nightmare; dismissible as only a paranoid thought.

But here was the nightmare, looking down at him.

“Ruthless, to me!” Boran called.

A crescent hound came bounding from his cottage; its fur a silvery-grey with piercing eyes like ice, carrying Boran’s shortsword in its mouth. Fenris wasn’t fazed by the sight of her, even if she was as tall as his chest sitting on her haunches, in fact, she comforted him more than anything.

It regarded the two of them with strangely knowing eyes, then took its turn to observe the Cursed, before dropping the blade at his feet. Boran strapped on the belted scabbard. It was a humble sword of iron, most likely unsharpened. (Fenris had only seen him use it once against a thief thinking to sneak away a bundle of potatoes). The faded, leather handle was mottled by the seasons. Blunt as it might’ve been, that thief didn’t get too far.

The creature at the hilltop still had not moved. It sniffed at the air, snapped its jaws, and made freakish movements unlike any animal they’d ever seen, but more or less remained there, and those looking prayed it stayed this way.

Strange to think there’s a man somewhere beneath that skin, Fenris thought.

Boran noticed Fenris: the boy only inches shorter than him, but the difference in mass made the man look a giant in comparison. “It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it lad?” he asked. His voice was commanding and deep even in the midst of thunder. Fenris met his eyes briefly, and said nothing.

Instead, he ran a hand through Ruthless’ thick fur. Her breed originated from the Runelands, they were oft found hunting in packs in the mountains across the river from Crowshead. She had all the loyalty of a dog but the tenacity of a wolf. The other peasants said it was a blessing from Calan that Boran had found her as just a pup.

More howls came from the Cursed. Doubtless, they awoke a few other villages only miles away.

Fenris felt a strange comfort in seeing the origin of the howls, at least. “This could be the night I join my parents,” he said to Boran, but mostly himself. “One taken by the fever, another by grief, and now me from a Cursed.” He felt himself swelling with an unexpected pride and yearning as he imagined himself dying for the village. Noble, at least. His chest stung from the pelting rain, as did his eyes, while the storm continued to lash at the lands. Even the strongest and oldest of trees were thrashing about. It seemed that storm would eat up all of Crowshead that very night.

Other villagers started to emerge from their homes. Men and women who kept their children hidden behind their legs. “Aye, lad, it would be quite the tale,” he said, hesitant to encourage the boy’s notion. “But don’t be fooled. This night may be more ill-fated than you think, for it could be the first of countless more. It’s an easy thing to die, Fenris. Men, women, and elves die every day. Even mages and sorcerers have their last breaths. But to live is an unmatched danger. It’s a brave thing … to live.”

Fenris’ hands stopped stroking the crescent hound’s fur. He felt the truth of Boran’s words, colder and more shocking than the rains, freeze his mind. He was certain only a moment before that he wanted his life to end that night, for this storm to be his celestial ship to the afterward. Yet, I stepped away from the cliff already, hadn’t I? He was back where he’d began: uncertain, and afraid.

Then there was no time for uncertainty. A whole world of chaos decided to descend upon them, and all in the form of this hideous, black beast charging down the hill with a lolling tongue and hungry eyes.

Fenris saw fear glance across Boran’s face. Ruthless growled, and a few men came forward armed with whatever they could find: pitchforks, scythes, unsharpened dirks, plows, and even a few spades. They had but a minute to be prepared, if that.

They were only a little more than a dozen of Crowshead villagers, but they lined up all the same. One man, Rikter, came out with three pitchforks in his arms.

When Boran drew his sword, Fenris’ heart sank. It looked more like a relic than anything.

They all stood in line, half of them were women and mothers related to the few sons old enough to stand amongst them. The children, all inside, had been told to lock the doors.

“Rikter, this one needs one of those fancy three-pronged spears,” he called with a shaky laugh. Rikter came up, shirtless, with sopping trousers and gave Fenris a pitchfork with tarnished tips and a splintered handle.

Rikter tried to play along with Boran’s light heart. “Look at it this way: if we kill the beast we’ll get a good meal out of it.”

The boy shivered. He wouldn’t want to eat morsel of that meat, even if his stomach had another opinion.

Fenris had trudged up that hill before, cursing every step of the way how tall and steep it was. Now as he watched the creature sprint down it with a speed only gods and demons were capable of, he was praying it would magically elongate itself. Now he understood why they called it the Lupine Curse and not the Lupine Disease. A disease inhibits the body; a curse sticks to your soul and possesses you whichever way it prefers, violently or otherwise.

Rikter was the only one between Fenris and the open air to the right of the small militia line. He was older than Boran with long, dark hair flecked by tints of grey. He didn’t know Rikter well, but the man often drank with his father before his father drank the river. Beside him was Katherine—his wife—also armed with a pitchfork, looking wild with crazed eyes and a dripping gown.

A spark of fear made Fenris’ legs weak, causing him to retreat behind the line. Rikter caught the movement. “If you die there, you die as a coward. You’re before the sight of the gods, boy, act like you know it.” He was decent enough to say it low enough so only Fenris could hear.

Ashamed, Fenris forced his feet forward through the mud. Boran was further down the line, brandishing the blade. Ruthless was snarling, digging her paws into the mud, just barely held back by Boran’s thick hand grasping the fur of her scruff.

Directly above them, one of the gods sparked a candle, and lightning lit up the sky. It illuminated Crowshead just long enough for them all to get a good look at the werewolf.

The group shuffled back, in unison.

Deidre was several paces behind Fenris, her eyes closed and her mouth moving quickly, though he could not make out her spells. Her hands trembled, cupping a small light as pale and faded as mist. It pulsated between her palms and looked as if it might wither without the concentration of her furrowed brow. The boy watched, bewildered, having never seen a peasant, or anyone for that matter, perform higher magick. Perhaps her father had elf blood in him, after all.

No one else noticed. They were all fixated on the Cursed. A hand came from nowhere and slapped Fenris out of his bewilderment. It was Rikter’s. “What in the name of the gods are you looking at, boy? Turn around! It’s right in front of us!” When Fenris turned he saw the werewolf only a stride away from pouncing on Boran.

“Everybody move!” Boran shouted. The Cursed sprung into the air with arms outstretched, the long claws shimmering like black onyx.

It already had half a quiver of arrows in its chest. Gods, if that won’t kill it …

Boran ducked to the ground in order to keep his head while the line of villagers was split in two. He quickly recovered, and Ruthless charged in a series of vicious attacks, biting the werewolf’s legs.

It moved with a giant’s strength, but it was wounded by its previous encounter.

Perhaps the gods are watching over this poor village, after all, but what about those who—Fenris’ contemplations were interrupted when the beast leapt high into the air, its eyes focused on none other but him. He dove out of the way, sliding across the mud with the pitchfork still grasped in his hand.

Its jaws snapped at where Fenris’ head had been only a moment before. His shoulder hit the ground so hard he could feel the bruising instantly.

A man from behind distracted the werewolf, driving a pitchfork into its side with an ear-piercing howl of pain to return the favor. The iron prongs of the pitchfork snapped when the Cursed turned its body. It thrashed at its new target wildly, grunting, snorting, growling.

Fenris shook the mud from his hair and eyes. He grasped the pitchfork with white knuckles. It seemed to him that roots grew from his feet, anchored him to the ground. He felt trapped.

The whole group was taking turns striking the beast, making it difficult for it to pick a victim. But Fenris was still as stone. You’re before the sight of the gods, boy, Rikter’s words echoed ... Before the gods.

The man who sheathed his pitchfork in the beast’s massive torso was being mauled for his bravery. The Cursed had gotten within arm’s reach of him, and they were all helpless to stop him. Screams accompanied hungry growls, and soon the man’s chest was all but bloody tatters. Fenris couldn’t see. Boran’s body blocked the sight of it. All he heard after was the sound of bones splintering with a crunch.

Fenris saw the creature lift its head up to swallow something, and then the thud of a headless corpse.

A mixture of awe and horror transfixed them all. Boran snapped them out of it with a loud cry.

They all tried to douse the beast’s blood-frenzy. Rikter’s oldest son threw his hand-scythe. The curved blade spun through the air until it impaled through the animal’s bicep. It didn’t seem to notice.

Then the creature stopped its movements, long enough to breathe in deeply, and howled at the villagers. It was the sort of sound that vibrated bones and shifted the earth; something that couldn’t be reproduced by any man or other normal beast.

A few of them dropped their weapons to clutch their ears. A woman went to her knees screaming, “Stop it! Someone stop the damned thing!” Fenris clenched his eyes shut until the roaring faltered. Through the storm he saw Deidre, eyes closed tight over spell-weaving hands, the light still growing between her palms … and the creature lumbering toward her.

Fenris was farther from the beast when it howled. The rest were still shaking the terrible noise from their heads. But the Cursed was having difficulty walking, using one of its arms as support.

The boy started running just as Deidre opened her eyes and saw why it had grown so quiet. She did not attempt to run, only raised her voice, “No Fenris, stop!” But he heard nothing except the slamming of his heart and the beating of the raindrops like war drums as he rushed towards them.

Before the gods …

When he saw he was close enough, he raised his pitchfork above his head and jumped onto the creature’s back. Just then, Deidre threw her hands to her sides, a burst of light like an expanded orb burst from them and enveloped the whole village before fading away quickly.

Instantaneously, Fenris felt a surge of agility and strength shock his muscles. His mind became a precise tool, capable of outwitting the werewolf’s movements. A dim glow appeared around his hands, and spread throughout the pitchfork, lighting the tips of it just as he prepared to impale its back.

A scream came out of Fenris as he forced the prongs into the werewolf’s flesh as deep as he could, though the wood was bending under the pressure, snapping, so his hand grasped blindly for tufts of fur to hang onto. Instead it found the handle of a dagger. Wasting no time to question how it got there, he pulled the blade out and used to it stab the beast’s neck.

If the cry that the Cursed released before deafened the villagers, Fenris thought this one might kill him. In all honesty, he had not planned what he would do after he’d distracted the beast from killing Deidre.

As the Cursed howled a second time, it sent tremors through Fenris. He could feel it reverberating through him. It seemed the rest of the world fell away to that dreadful noise. Just one cut, and I’ll become this creature beneath me. Deidre’s spell, his adrenaline, slowed time to a crawl, each detail precise in his mind. He took a moment just to feel that madness rippling through him.

Its claws came dangerously close to him. They were raking its own back in an attempt to find Fenris.

Deidre called out to him again. “Get off! Let go! Off! Off!” Her voice cracked. Fenris and the creature were at the heart of the village now, the beast losing control of its senses and stumbling aimlessly, infuriated that this tiny being on its back was inflicting so much pain.

Fenris grasped the dagger with both hands and pushed with as much force as his legs could muster. The dagger sprang from the toughened flesh in a sudden spray of blood, cartilage, and bone, and Fenris was flung into the open air of the storm.

It seemed a whole hour passed during the fall from the creature’s back to the muddied ground. Fenris saw a claw just narrowly miss him, saw the ends of his windswept hair, and his hands grasping the surprisingly well-made steel covered in dark blood while his pitchfork was left stuck in its back like a banner without a flag. Worst of all, he saw the creature turn toward him, its limbs flared at its sides, the fingers of its claws spread out in unspeakable pain. And its eyes, staring directly into his.

Before the gods …

Lightning fractured like cracking glass, and reached down toward the village, so close Fenris thought it might wrap around his body.

The creature looked angrier than before, if that was even possible. Fenris could see clearly the strings of saliva connecting from its fangs, how they swayed and disconnected in the heavy winds, swept away into the air. Its eyes bore into his; a cold, relentless flame that burned without heat in the thick fur of its head.

Thud.

The villagers were too far away to help him. Breathless, he rose up with the dagger, glowing from the light of Deidre’s spell. Its claw came down on him. He replied, lashing out with the dagger at the open palm, sending the creature rethinking the frailty of his foe; though it clawed back at him nonetheless with its other arm. Fenris backpedaled, parrying the attacks he could and dodging the rest, with a growing confidence … until the beast realized its tactics weren’t enough and instead rammed him head on.

Fenris slammed into the ground, the creature’s weight on him, and the world turned black for a brief moment.

Coming back to his senses, he stared into the gaping jaws of the Cursed. A mouthful of its blood splattered on his face, some got in his mouth. He spat it out, fighting back a wave of nausea. Before he could study its face any longer it raised a claw and brought it down, swift as corruption. He had just a moment to prepare, to draw back his arm, put a prayer to his fingers, and poise the edge of the blade towards the soft tissue of its wrist. And hope …

The beast howled in a way that wasn’t entirely wolf, and not entirely human, either. It was clutching its left arm where the paw used to be. Just a spurting stump, now. The maimed hand fell beside Fenris, writhing only an inch away. Now the villagers were there beside him, giving him enough time to get to his feet.

Before the gods … he found himself grinning, watching the end near. The Cursed was teetering now, all in a daze of pain, rage, and defeat.

A total of five pitchforks drove in from every side of the beast, and the Cursed roared once more, a sorrowful call as it fell to its knees.

Boran approached the creature, adjusting his grip on the sword. He cried out, enraged that it’d killed one of his villagers, and hacked away at the back of its neck. Again and again until that sound repeated enough that his sword became a cleaver and Boran the butcher wielding it.

Before long, the outlandishly large head of the beast rolled off the shoulders, and bounced to Fenris’ feet, looking up at him. The fire in its eyes smoldered, and then doused.

There was a pain in Fenris’ side so small he noted it as a stitch, and paid it no heed.

Now that the immediate danger was over, the nausea finally took over, and Fenris heaved the blood that he’d accidentally swallowed onto the ground.

They were all panting.

Deidre came up to Fenris and buried her head into his chest. They all stared down at the mutilated body except her. Six pitchforks, a scythe, a dozen arrows, a severed paw and another dagger.

Siflos, could you have crafted a more foul creature?

Thunder rolled from beyond as if to say, “No.”

Sadness was on all their faces, for they knew what they’d killed was not only a beast, but a man.

Boran looked at the severed wrist, then at Fenris’ blade in astonishment. “Gods and glory. I was wondering what cut off the hand.”

Fenris looked at the dagger, feeling a twinge of affection for it already. “It was in its back. Suppose it’s mine, now.”

“And it’s yours to stay. You damn well earned it. We already lost one man, to lose Deidre would’ve been …” his voice got thick. For such a big man, Fenris had never expected him to cry, least of all over a sixteen-year-old witch.

“Here!” Rikter interrupted. He went to the Cursed and retrieved another impressive piece of steel. “There’s another just like that one. This one’s got a stone in its hilt.”

Fenris looked down at his dagger—with only a silver circle for a pommel—and shrugged, not caring much for rubies.

Rikter was looking at the blade fondly, but Boran snatched it from his hands and with it, his smile. He offered it wordlessly to Deidre.

Sniffling, she lifted her head with a curious expression as if she thought he was playing a game with her.

“Hare or not, Deidre, you did something for us tonight. I might be just a man of wood and stone, but I’d of known that magick was something beyond special if I’d have seen it miles away. Rare thing to see light like that come from human hands, and dirtied hands, at that. This one’s yours, little hare.”

For once, the witch of Crowshead was bristling with pride at the insult. It seemed a proper title now. “the Hare,” she murmured as she took the dagger. It was a clumsy gift, without a sheath and heavy in her small hands, but she was grateful all the same.

“It’d make a humble man proud if you didn’t forget it. I believe it’s been a few years since your mother passed and her cottage was given to another.” The villagers all looked a little uncomfortable at the comment.

More than a few, she thought, remembering years of sleeping out in the wild, though she only nodded.

Just then, the light that had glowed around Fenris’ fists slowly faded away as if it had never been there. Immediately, exhaustion swept over him. He let himself fall on his backside in the mud.

Boran cleared his throat. “Tragic as it may be, seems the gods saw fit to give back to you your mother’s home.”

They all glanced at the headless corpse.

“Subtle hint,” Fenris said dryly.

The villagers didn’t respond to that, nor did they protest. Boran had never shown this much respect for Deidre, but it seemed the body would follow the head. The villagers weren’t so keen on insults, now.

Deidre was smiling when she hugged Boran. But it took everything Fenris had not to scowl. The villagers had all said things before that would put this scene as a farce in their eyes. And he knew they saw it this way, too, even if they didn’t show it.

Fenris ran his finger over the blade as he pondered through the silence. His toes were numb from the cold.

An inevitable fear crept into all their minds, seemingly at once by the way they glanced at one another.

Boran was the first to say it. “Who’s cut?” he asked. Everyone looked down at their bodies, not really hoping to find anything. But besides wolf blood, they all seemed clean of wounds. “Speak up, gods dammit. Use your words before I use my hands. Can’t have another disaster like this, now can we?”

Fenris remembered the creature’s claws nearly cutting him. It made his heart jump to think of it. Still, he would’ve felt it hadn’t it missed. Those claws could shave the bark off a tree,

Rikter cut in. “Seems the only man here who was wounded by the Cursed was …”

His voice trailed away. Everyone looked to follow where his eyes went. Past the Cursed and the man’s corpse, there was a leg sticking out from behind a cottage: a pale thigh red from blood.

He ran passed the body and rushed towards the cottage. Everyone followed, mud splashing beneath hurried feet. A sickening feeling filled them all.

“Katherine,” Boran said grimly.

Deidre rushed to her side with Rikter.

Fenris went cold with emptiness when he saw her there.

“Deidre, do something!” her son screamed.

“James …” his father said quietly, sternly.

Many of them looked to the Hare in desperation, conjuring images of miraculous magic. But she was just a peasant, an untrained witch.

Fenris shared a knowing glance with Boran; the wounds were too deep.

Cold sweat was on her brow. The boy wondered how long she’d been there, wondered how early during the turmoil did the creature’s claws glance her stomach, sending her crawling away in pain. They were all aghast at how oblivious they had been.

Three marks ran across her chest, the lowest at her abdomen. The rain had washed away much of the blood, leaving her body looking as pale as the rushing waters beneath Crowshead.

But they could all see where the blood went, into the thick, murky-red puddle around her.

At the very least, she will not live with the Curse. She’ll die a human, Fenris thought.

She was gasping, and Rikter had time enough to grasp her hand and see her eyes fill with urgent love. “T—Timothy. Please … ” she tried to say.

Rikter trembled as much as her, quieting her as if she needed rest after a long day. “Shh … It’ll all be well. Shh …”

But her son was not calm, he was was still enraged. “Spin your witchcraft, hare! I’ve seen you do it. Gods dammit! You evil little—”

“That’s enough!” Boran roared back, getting to his feet and grabbing the boy by his shirt. Then, in a lower voice: “If you can’t watch your mother die with dignity, I’d suggest you shut your eyes because it won’t get much prettier.”

James’ blonde hair was a mess of dried blood. The skin around his eyes were red from crying, which only made him look more childish as he slinked into a ball to cry. Rikter looked at his eldest son, too frightened for anger, and gazed back at his wife.

Boran stood over her, silent.

Rikter refocused himself. “We’ll watch over the boys,” he assured. “When they’re of age I’ll send them off to a city to pursue professions. They’ll be apprentices, craftsmen, and the like,” he forced himself to grin sadly, an expression that Katherine returned all too perfectly.

“And w—what of you, my dear?” she asked. She tried to reach up and stroke his cheek, but was too weak. He quickly grasped and held her hand there for her.

Somewhere in the forest, birds were beginning their morning songs.

“Me? Oh, Kat, don’t worry for me.”

Katherine swooned, then seemed to have gone, but lingered, fighting for air. Blood was at the edge of her lips. “The … boy. The other … F—Fen—“ Her eyes rolled back into view, and they looked around wildly, unfocused.

“Fenrisulfr?” Rikter finished quickly.

She nodded. “A fine … man. Timothy should be … as he.”

“Go there, boy,” Boran said.

Fenris crouched beside Katherine, and touched his hand to her thigh. He met her eyes. “Katherine,” he said, surprised to find himself crying as well. “You look as beautiful as you always have.”

The rain came down harder and harder.

Rikter laughed with tears in his eyes, nodding. He leaned in, whispered something into her ear, and she whispered back.

She turned to face him again. “Saved the girl, did you? Wonderful, Fenris. T—Thanks for you, and blessings … ”

Her head nodded, then fell back into Rikter’s hand, and Katherine was gone.

The first rays of sunlight shattered the darkness on the horizon. Morning had arrived.

The night had come and gone with its nightmares, and the morning had returned with its promise of quiet sleep. The storm clouds had passed over the river and ventured over the high mountains to the Forgotten Sea. A dim, autumn sun was high in the sky.

Fenris awoke late in the afternoon with the rest of the village; dried from a long, nearly sleepless night beside a humble fire. He’d thought the fresh memories would keep him sleepless for a fortnight, but Deidre had found solace in resting her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and he from her steady breathing.

He dreamt of fighting the Cursed; the long moments on top of its back. Only this time, his mother was above him, with wings, keeping back the beast’s arms from hurting him.

It took longer than usual to shoo the dreams from his head that morning.

Today had a unique set of chores. In the darkness of the early morning, before rest, they had redressed out of their old garments, but blood still stained their skins.

They gathered to drag the werwolf off the cliff. Boran let Fenris throw the paw he’d severed, and although he should’ve felt proud, he had no desire to. And when the cold hunk of flesh was in his hand, he could see a fragment of its thumbnail was missing. That piece of knowledge only burdened him further.

One cut, no matter how small or large, will afflict the wounded with the Lupine Curse.

He shivered.

The body crashed against the rocks below.