The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

There were many mornings that Fenris did not want to wake up from. Although this was one of them, it was not because he was tired, lost, or aching all over. Although all those things were true, they were not the reasons. He didn’t want to leave because, when Vidarr finally woke him up, he realized the previous night was not a dream. In fact, Ashara was still in his arms.

“Sleeping together in a holy sanctuary. Tsk tsk!” Vidarr joked, wide awake. “I hope you both got enough rest. We need to leave as soon as we can. There are two separate baths waiting for you, and Arienna has something to break our fast. Best get to it, and don’t forget to thank her. That woman is something of a goddess, herself.”

Fenris forced himself out of that half-lucid state and sat up. “It wasn’t a dream after all?” he asked no one in particular, dumbstruck.

“If that was a dream, I would say that your dreams are very unambitious.” Ashara smirked at him, before rising out of bed, leaving for the baths.

Vidarr just raised his eyebrows and stepped out of her way, before leaving him alone.

It was more difficult for him to leave the warmth of the bed. The elixir had coated his insides, and still throbbed with a yearning for a blazing fire, as if there was a casing of ice around his chest that needed melting.

Winter had finally arrived. Light flakes of snow were being tossed around in the winds while the chapel was cast in darkness from the heavy cloud cover, with occasional rays of sunlight to pierce through the windows.

When Fenris finally rose from the bed, he found his leg gave a limp in his stride. He didn’t fight it. Even his thoughts felt sluggish.

Despite countless objections, Fenris was forced to be assisted in his bathing by one of the women in the chapel, one who was rather old and had a noticeable mole on her forehead that was sprouting hairs as if it had a mind of its own.

According to her, Arienna had claimed that Fenris did not know how to bathe himself, judging by the way he smelled.

“She said it will take weeks to get that stench from the bed you slept in.”

Grumbling, shivering where the water did not rise above his chest in the wooden tub, Fenris didn’t feel like explaining himself.

“Quite a nasty mark you have there,” the old woman observed as she scrubbed grime off Fenris’ chest.

“I’m sure you’ve heard what that is, by now.”

She laughed, the type of laugh that only elders are capable of, because at that age, everything in life seems a tad humorous.

“I don’t think it will ever heal,” he mumbled.

“Bah! Nonsense. A wound is a wound; no matter how deep they are, as long as the person is alive and willing, the mark will heal eventually. Time works her wonders, and soon enough, it’ll be difficult to remember that it was painful at all.” Her voice was shaky like a tree branch in a storm. Fenris played with a soap bubble while he pondered her words.

“The deepest scars are not on the surface, and they are the most troublesome to heal. Be thankful you have so many companions. Hmph! If I had as many strong folk like them—intimidating, capable folk—around, I wouldn’t live a day in fear. And fear, as even you may have figured by now, keeps most of those nasty scars you can’t see from healing.”

Those words hit him strong enough that he stopped playing with the bubble, and his mind drifted elsewhere for awhile.

“Might I ask you a question?” he asked her, after an uncomfortably long silence.

“You might.”

“Perhaps I can clean my own bottom?”

Renewed, Fenris strode into the dining room with freshly washed and dried clothes. They had already begun eating without him, yet he managed to wolf down what was on his plate: fried eggs and bread, a slice of pork, before anyone else could manage to get down half their portions.

Arienna raised the inevitable question: “And what of Timothy?”

“The child?” Vidarr asked.

“That’s right. I can handle the Red Hand intruding through those doors every day or so. But this is no place for a child to grow up. These cultists aren’t exactly normal. Of course, with no offense to you two,” she added quickly.

Vidarr, as ever, regarded the remark calmly and laughed. “It’s true. No one should be around my kind; they’re a vicious bunch of thieves and murderers. The child is Deidre’s son, no?”

“No. The child’s parents died in the fires of their village.”

The air tightened. Vidarr’s smile vanished and was replaced with a look of loathing reserved only for himself.

“Doubtless, we will take the child with us,” he said with a renewed conviction.

“A feat much easier said than done!” the priestess scoffed.

“Regardless. I won’t leave him to the mercy of my kin. Not in this city. Not anywhere.” Vidarr’s words turned to ice.

Fenris shared a nervous glance with Ashara, who was lost remembering the events of that fiery morning.

“I don’t believe it’s your decision,” Arienna snapped.

Deidre turned her head, like an old mage who heard everything but responded only rarely. “That is very kind of you, Vidarr, even if you are one of the reasons we are here to begin with. But, in weeks time, the cultists may leave the city.”

“Surely,” Vidarr pushed, “you would not wish to risk his life on such a chance after rescuing him from the hands of Death. You’ve no idea how long they will stay, or what they will do. Imagine Crowshead. Now imagine this city. On the smallest chance they’d do the same here, is not wise to leave nothing to fate?”

Deidre mulled it over. “Perhaps it is wise to take him, then. But Markus has his own hands full, and we’d need his help. He’s told me that some of his men are disappearing at abnormal hours, sometimes found drinking and whoring during their shifts.”

“Well,” Vidarr scoffed, “that doesn’t seem amiss with the City Watch. Of any city, in fact. Quite normal.”

“Of course not, they’re only guards of what was once a peaceful city, after all. But Markus knows his men. He believes the cultists bribe them to abandon their posts so they can keep watch over the crowds themselves.”

“Would the Scarlet Hand take such measures on only assumption? How can they possibly know that you are here?” Arienna’s brow furrowed as she considered the idea.

“And yet here we are, making decisions off of similar assumptions. They are preparing for their worst expectations, just as we are. The village that Ashara and I came from is but one of many. There are dozens of encampments spread across the lands. For the most part, the Scarlet Moon-elves have receded from the Runelands, for the Lupine Curse has all but frozen over, there. As the last of Fenris’ kind dwindle in the Moonlands, and perhaps he is the last of them, we can assume they are taking leaps to kill him. It has been decades, after all, since we have seen such a weakening of his kind. Centuries ago, it used to be that his kin would keep away travelers from even entering the shores of the Moondlands. Our land was so rife with them.

“Nowadays, the strength of their fear lay in exaggerated rumors and stories told around fires. Without a doubt, the Scarlet Hand want to renew that fear. They want to show Netherway that the Curse is still alive and thriving. If that means tearing apart cities just to capture one boy, it seems they are more than willing to do so.”

Fenris bristled each time Vidarr said, ‘his kind’. Then again, blood is blood. So if the Curse had infected his veins, it must only be the truth: he no longer was apart of the human race, but of another kin entirely.

“With that said,” Vidarr sighed, “we have a long day ahead of us. Who’s brewed coffee and where is it?”

A touch on the arm made Vidarr turn his head from sharpening his blade. Arienna towered over him. “You will need a guide for the child, won’t you?”

“Guide? He should be perfectly …” Vidarr did not consider just how suspicious he would look if he was cradling a child in his arms as he tried to leave the city. He sighed again. “What are you suggesting?”

“I am suggesting that I will take the child through the gates myself. I am but a humble priestess after all, and he an innocent child. No one should have qualms with letting us leave the city.”

The morning was burning away, but he forced himself to be patient as the plans unfolded. “Of course, priestess. But where would you go after the gates?”

“I will simply wait for you on the opposite side of the city, underneath the battlements behind this chapel. We can plan from there.”

“I would be grateful for this opportunity to redeem at least a fraction of myself.”

“And you shall have it. It is not as if you seem awfully nervous to be risking your life to leave this place, anyways.”

“That is interesting. It was a mere week ago that I was thinking to myself the same thing, only it was in my own village. They had guards there, too, for traitors.” Vidarr raised his right hand and showed her the mark. “The risks are too few and spread apart to scare me, priestess. I’m certain life will return to its normal cadence of simplicity after all this is done with, and we’ve fled far enough. Dare I say it, it may even become boring.”

“Perhaps.”

As they had agreed, they waited half an hour after Arienna and Timothy left the chapel. Even with the priestess’ hand in his, the child was all in tears, stomping his feet. Deidre had to win him over with a hushed voice and a few hugs to get him to part with her.

While they waited, they talked and joked—nervously, only to fill the silence—and triple checked that all their necessary belongings were packed. Fenris still had the dirk that Ash had forced into his hand; it was a small, humble thing of steel, with a nasty bite.

Deidre, clad in a blood-stained uniform from the catacombs, was the first to push open the chapel door. They all felt a little dizzy facing the intensity of the light. Although the first breath of fresh air felt like proof of divine intervention to her, it was also shocking, and made her shiver. Being vulnerable in the outside world sent a different type of chill down her spine to think how she would have to keep her head bowed just to remain safe.

Vidarr—the only one with his head raised—was beginning to see small signs of his worst expectations. It was midday, and by now the tradesmen of the city should have been shouting, swearing over prices and the value of their goods. But it was not near the cacophony that it should’ve been. It sounded as if some deadly plague that caused a soreness in the throat had infected half of the people, as their voices were lower than usual. Timidity and fear. That was the plague.

“They’re not sleeping,” Vidarr noted with dread, as he observed the streets. “Why aren’t they sleeping?” He himself had difficulty keeping his eyes open, as his nocturnal instincts responded to the sun’s soporific glare. “At least most of them are in higher places. The towers, the walls. I doubt they will be able to tell the color of your eyes from this distance. You should all be safe, but be vigilant. At this rate you’re walking carrion and they are all crows. Be smart carrion, and perhaps you won’t be eaten.”

“Be a smart, dead thing?” Fenris quipped. “Wise words, Vidarr. Wise beyond your ears.”

“Oh, look, the wolf-boy is finally awake. For your purposes, the saying is: ‘Wise beyond your years’,” Vidarr corrected. Then something caught his eye, so he walked to a stack of crates and barrels.

He tore off a piece of parchment nailed to one of them, and began laughing until people around him began to walk, at least, out of arm’s reach, convinced he’d gone mad.

He held up the parchment. This time it was his head drawn onto the page, crinkled by the morning snow.

“Have you lost your senses?” Ashara hissed at him. “You’re waving around an invitation for someone to have your head off.”

“And with pride!”

Even with the warrant for his own death in his hand, Vidarr was unperturbed. Ashara assumed it was partially, if not entirely due, to the fact that he’d finally killed many of his brethren that he’d dreamt of killing. “Look around you, sister. My face is hardly different from his, or his!” Vidarr nodded up at two Hands pacing on the battlements. “This will only work in our favor. Watch, my friends, as you observe the transformation greed can inspire in the most innocent of hearts! It can turn a cowardly peasant into a murderer within moments.”

“Cowardly peasant?” Fenris feigned a wounded ego.

“Do not fret, my friend. You are the bravest I have ever met.”

“Sounds better.”

Deidre snatched the parchment from his hand, looked at the fine beneath his head. It was even more than hers. With that much gold, someone could start several new lives. As her own, it was promised to be payed personally by the Lord of Gods’ Rest himself.

“It’s true,” she confirmed. “You may not notice it, Ashara, because you two are close, but he may as well be a reflection of most of your brethren. There are small differences, but we can only recognize them because we know him. These townspeople won’t tell the difference.”

“Indeed, ‘brethren’ is not a metaphor,” Vidarr added. “More likely than not, Ashara and I have shared blood with the other cultists here. It’s always been a tradition to interbreed in our cozy, bloodthirsty family.”

Fenris suddenly felt nauseous.

Of course, there were some cultists who looked wildly different from him, but his features were quite common in the Scarlet family. Sharp, defined, analytical, unforgiving, etc.

“Onward and through the crowds, then?” Fenris suggested, all too eager to leave. His own breath against the mask that hid his lower face was becoming a little too familiar for his own taste, and he felt, the sooner he left, the sooner his life might finally begin again.

It was that realization that made him think he said something to live for, once again. And he caught it when he glanced at the three of them as they nodded in response to him. The possibility of living alongside love, friends. A tight knit of people as outcasted as himself. In other words, a family.

He dared to let himself hope.

By now the sun had climbed over the tips of the trees in the surroundings forests, melted away the morning’s snow, and was casting a second city of shadows.

A cacophony of fearful cries and angry protests erupted nearby, in the same way embers would burst into flames with kindling tossed upon them.

“What’s happening?” Fenris asked.

“Nothing good,” the two assassins murmured in unison.

A crowd had emerged at the end of the street like a puddle of blood from a wound, right at the entrance of the gate.

Gasps of shock and horror fed the curiosity of the people still trying to force their way through. One boy emerged from the crowds with green complexion and horror in his eyes, while a woman ushered a crying child away, hidden behind her dress, screaming with that cry of absolute terror that only exists in the throats of the innocent.

Vidarr halted the three of them. “Stay here!” he shouted over the noise. “Stay in the shadows, keep your heads to the ground. I’ll return soon enough.”

Before anyone could respond, he plunged into the sea of bodies.

“What do you suppose happened?” Fenris asked when he lost sight of him.

Ashara’s stare was frozen on that spot where Vidarr had been before he disappeared amongst the lookers, as if she’d found an answer just by looking long enough. A cold knowing passed over her eyes, one that she felt compelled to keep to herself. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

The shouts didn’t cease or lessen, they proliferated in the air until it became almost unbearable to stand amidst all of it.

Vidarr shoved his way back to them.

Where there was apprehension written on their faces, there was only anger in his.

“Coldhearted scum. Offspring of demons and whores,” he cursed through his teeth. His hands were clenched, and when Deidre grabbed his wrist to get his attention, he had to fight just to stand still.

She called his name, louder and louder each time, because the noise of the crowd had rose to a deafening din.

There are some moments when words cease to fulfill emotions’ need to be conveyed. Those are the same moments when eyes speak louder, clearer, than anything.

“The priestess …” Deidre whispered to herself, “both of them?”

They all knew it, somewhat instantaneously. They could hear it in fragments from the crowd. The people screamed heartless murder. They demanded explanations.

The Sun-elf’s execution was odd, unannounced, largely unexplained, but then again, he was only a Sun-elf. What right did they have to slaughter two innocents going for a walk beyond the city gates?

Even then, voices were being stopped with steel instead of more words. The four of them just couldn’t hear it quite yet, this far back in the throngs.