The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

“You can’t do this!” someone shouted as Vidarr pushed himself through.

Another man cursed because the tip of his bow had smacked his jaw. Vidarr mumbled an apology, and continued slithering through the crowd.

“This is our city! Leave and crawl back into your caves, you bloody corpses!”

Vidarr was not surprised to hear the sounds of blades being drawn from their scabbards. The hairs on his neck rose with the tension. He could not help but feel a shiver of anticipation. A murderous longing he’d been instilled with since he was a child.

Getting through the last of the people in the crowd was too easy. Vidarr slipped through, feeling as if he’d accidentally stepped to the edge of a cliff without noticing how steep the drop was. He felt that surprise—the fear—of a sudden drop, as he himself stood at the center where all the citizens were looking.

He nearly tripped over the bodies.

It didn’t take any longer than a gasp to see.

Dozens of angry eyes were fixated on him, eyes that wanted blood. His blood. Not wishing to remain the center of attention for more than a second, he forced himself through to the other side, waited long enough until they’d forgotten about him.

Then he bumped against someone familiar looking. One of the cultists, guarding the gates. He was close enough to feel a gust of cold air coming through the entrance tunnel.

“Who killed them?”

“Well, Afimer bless your afternoon, as well,” the cultist responded. He was at least a head taller than Vidarr, and from the look of his eyes, did not appreciate his presence.

“Indeed, he blesses your morning, your afternoon, your evening, and your manhood,” he responded dryly. “Now, who in the name of the gods killed an innocent woman and child?”

“But of course, we did, dear brother. Have you not heard the threats of these beasts? Mindless fools. We’ll have them dead by nightfall if they act on their words. They won’t, obviously … the cowards.”

Vidarr glanced to the far side of the gate. A cultist was wiping his blade with a bloodied rag.

“But … why?”

“Why should we kill them, you mean? Is it not plain enough?”

Vidarr could feel the anger beginning to leak through his eyes. He remembered all the years he’d concealed himself behind a cold look of indifference, and put on the familiar mask. “No. Why did the woman and the child have to die?”

“There have been rumors that a Cursed One is here, contained within these very walls. If this is true, by our rights as children of Afimer, we will have to contain the city.”

“Contain?”

“Secure. Capture. Defend. Whichever you prefer, or all three!” He laughed. “Naturally, the plans have spread slowly. It is a new era for us, brother. The Scarlet Moon-elves will be respected once more, be sure of it.”

“Yes, yes. But why did you kill the two of them?”

“No chances. The Curse could have spread to any of these people by now, including that child and the woman. They were trying to leave the city. Of course, we could not let them if they were afflicted. When they resisted our attempts to dissuade them, we dealt with them rather easily. Not a particularly difficult task. It was a quick death; I’m not entirely sure why these curs are so damned upset about it.”

Vidarr did not trust that their ‘attempts’ to dissuade them lasted beyond a handful of moments.

“Such a shame,” the cultist added, depraved of empathy.

“They’re not letting anyone leave,” Vidarr said, once he’d regained himself, speaking to Fenris, Deidre, and Ashara in an alleyway. “There were two of them guarding the entrance at the front, more on the outside, and others in the crowds. Archers on the walls, and the citizens don’t seem to be getting any calmer now. The City Watch haven’t done a thing about it. As far as I can tell, they are just as frightened as everyone else.”

“What did they look like?” Deidre asked meekly while the clamor continued to roar.

“Who?”

“Arienna and Timothy. Their … bodies. Was it painful, the way they—”

“It would be more painful for you to hear in detail, than to simply remember them as the way they were: compassionate, kind, brave … innocent.”

A groan of frustration escaped Fenris as he clutched the side of someone’s dwelling. Vidarr grabbed his hand just as he started to rake his nails against the stonework. “If you shift, if you die, this would have all been in vain. Think of the child. Your death will only spur on those monsters. They have plans with sinister motives. They won’t let their guard down until they find you, Fenris. They know you’re here. It isn’t about escape anymore. It’s about all the people here, and their lives, too. If you turn, you give them what they want: an excuse to slaughter.”

“But if I give myself to them, won’t all this stop?” Fenris searched Vidarr’s eyes.

The clouds in the sky spun, the surroundings contorted. Fenris gripped his trembling hand. And Vidarr shook his head, with the utmost certainty in his eyes. “No,” he said, “in fact, they will only be spurred by your surrender.”

“I’ve found him!” a cry slurred by intoxication rang out.

They saw the source of the outcry; a middle-aged man, his shiny lips surrounded by an unshaven scruff and unwashed hair, clutching one of the cultists like a doll, holding him by the chest with a sword pressed to his neck.

The assassin squirmed, jabbed his elbows and insults into the drunkard.

A portion of the crowd quieted to observe the spectacle.

Surprised that his plan had worked, the drunkard stumbled and dragged the elf around, unsure of what to do next.

Not a single pair of eyes in the courtyard were looking elsewhere. Almost impossibly, that man had gained their interest..

“Ignorant, insolent rat!” the cultist growled, kicking his heel into the man’s groin. “I am not the scoundrel they call ‘Vidarr,’ you drunken swine!” he shouted with a bloodlust, now free of the man’s bear-like hold. The drunkard was on his knees, groaning, and tried to assemble some form of a garbled apology, but the assassin unsheathed his dagger and ran the edge across the man’s exposed neck in a swift, enraged stroke.

The man’s life spilled out of him. As if on cue, awe-inspiring, winter rays of sunlight beamed through the clouds and illuminated the courtyard as the body was still for a moment, wavered, then collapsed.

It seemed as if, with his last moments, he’d grasped the noise of the crowd and brought it with him.

“You were right,” Ashara said to Vidarr. “They’re going to start grabbing cultists at random.”

“But now I see more.”

“What?”

A shrill voice pierced the silence. “That was my father! Gods damn your soul to Siflos’ realm!” A boy came surging through the throng, picked up his father’s sword, and shoved it clean through the assassin’s chest before he could react.

It was as if the courtyard was inhabited only by ghosts. That was the kind of silence they all stood in.

The son simply stood there, shocked that his rage had manifested itself so quickly into the vengeance he’d envisioned just moments before.

Emotions, especially thoughtless ones, are the most powerful and dangerous tools the gods gave us.

Capably of only one last, lazy swing of his dagger, the cultist slumped to ground, dead as he was intended to be moments before.

Fenris fixated his gaze at blood snaking through the cracks in the cobblestone, as if searching for another body to inhabit, glistening in the rising, winter sun that would watch ambivalently as the substance went cold forever, as the city would descend into mayhem.

Is he proud? Did it feel as satisfying as he thought it might? Will it bring back his father from the dead? Will it stitch up his neck? Fenris asked the blood on the ground.

An arrow found the son’s chest, the first from a watchtower. He stumbled back, falling on his backside. Two more came from behind, and tipped him forward. The three thuds rang out like thunder. The silence afterward was deafening. The loudest silence Fenris had ever heard.

A howling wind went through the courtyard. A gale to sweep the souls away, their performance executed stunningly, to elicit the breath from the crowd before ending abruptly.

“M—Markus. He knows this city better than any of us. If there’s another way out, he will guide us there.” Deidre’s words came timidly.

“If he’s not dead already,” Vidarr added.

Minutes before, they had been yelling. Now, their voices were just above a whisper.

As they set off to find him, avoiding the main paths, they heard behind them more sounds of hatred, violence, madness. The uproar began once more.

They found him on a street not far from Calan’s chapel, between a tavern and an alchemist’s shop. Deidre recognized it as Saronis’ shop. It looked vacant and dead inside.

He was standing over an unconscious assassin. Deidre was the first to try and approach him, but quickly jumped back when he whirled around, brandishing bloody fists.

“Back away, demons! I killed this one with my hands. Don’t tempt my blade!”

“Markus, it’s us,” Deidre said calmly.

The Captain of the City Watch wiped his eyes, growling as he did, giving the cultist one last kick before approaching them.

“Markus, we—”

“You fool!” he jabbed his finger into Vidarr’s chest. “Why did you let her go out alone? Did you lose your wits? Where did your bravery run to?” His voice carried, but in this part of the city, Vidarr was not sure there would be anymore than a rodent to hear them. Most of the people had gathered at the entrance. Shopkeepers had locked their doors, and even the thieves that would have tinkered with the locks, try their luck at pillaging, were gone to watch the tension snap.

Vidarr didn’t have anything to say to the guard, yet he couldn’t simply stand there, either. Fenris knew the look in Markus’ eyes all too well: it was the loathing eating away at his senses. Oh, how difficult it is to refuse the indulgence of it.

“Markus, we still need your help,” Deidre finally said.

“Help yourselves. This city has fallen to murderers and cutthroats.” He took of his helm and sat against the stone wall behind him.

Vidarr wasn’t one for mourning. If he was, he’d have years of catching up to do. He walked briskly to the cultist, stripped him of his weapon and sheath before tossing it to Fenris. “Pray to the gods you won’t have to use it. These blades are not forged only with steel. But it will be better than what you carry with you now.”

Fenris wasn’t sure what he meant entirely, but he strapped the sheath and dagger on, all the same.

“It doesn’t appear that he wishes to help us. Fine. It is not as if he owes us anything. If Markus wishes to join the slaughter and participate in this makeshift battle, he may die like the rest of them. So be it.” Vidarr started away, but by the time he was on the street again, he realized Deidre was not with them.

She was kneeling in front of the guard, speaking to him softly.

“I’ve no patience for this,” Vidarr hissed to Ashara and Fenris.

“I never cared much for him,” Ashara added.

Fenris, the one who had been personally stabbed and threatened by the man, shook his head. “Give her a breath, won’t you? Deidre has a way with people, when they let her close.”

After a short while, the guard rose and donned his helm, and with it a sense of collectedness. “There’s no way out of the city other than the entrance,” he said. “The Lord’s court has a backdoor, but we’ll get killed in there faster than we would out here. This city is a place of rest, not for battle strategies and ways for sneaking around advancing armies. I’ve walked through every last place you can imagine this city has. The entrance is the only way out.”

“Were the architects lame in the head?”

“When they built these walls, they were dreaming of days when men didn’t have to sneak in and out of places to find shelter. There’s a reason why the front gates have always been open, day and night.”

“But Markus, the doors, is there a way to close them?” Something vivacious sparked in Vidarr’s imagination.

He rubbed the bristly hairs on his chin. “Of course, though it hasn’t been used in years. But why would you want to? We’re already trapped with these bastards, aren’t we?”

“Of course. But the Scarlet Hand isn’t planning just to kill Fenris, me, or even Deidre. They want to control the entire city. One of them said so at the front gates. They are sending more of our kind to the city, until they can overthrow the city itself, and with it, the beloved Lord that let them in to begin with.”

Despite what was happening around them, Markus burst out laughing, “That is absurd. Why would they want to do something like that?”

“Be quicker,” Vidarr advised while he tapped the guard’s helm. “The Lupine Curse is all but cleansed. Now, if they wish to keep their hold on the Moonlands, it’s simple, they will need power. That means land. Control. This is their first conquest, and a rather easy one, don’t you think? A city famed for revelry and good ale.

“A’right, a’right. A good explanation. But where’s the solution?”

“We don’t need a way out. We just need a way to, well, in their words, purge this city of them.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Vidarr’s red eyes flickered with excitement. He took a deep breath.