04 - Rise of the Lycans

From
The Underworld Chronicles
by Selene:

A war has raged for the better part of a thousand years, a blood feud between
vampires and werewolves. It had its roots in the Dark Ages, when a great plague
burned through Eastern Europe, turning all the land into a graveyard. Corpse
wagons were piled high with the bodies of the victims, their lifeless faces
contorted by the fearsome agonies of their deaths. Blackened flesh and swollen
buboes hinted at the torments the doomed souls had endured before the Grim
Reaper put them out of their misery. Their limbs and extremities were rotted
from within. Pus oozed from open sores.

None was spared save Alexander, Duke of Corvinus. To him and his heirs, the
Plague brought not death but life eternal. He became the Father of all
immortals, beginning with his twin sons, William and Marcus.

William was the first to be changed. It began on a moonlit night in the
Carpathian Mountains, when the two brothers rode their steeds fearlessly through
a dense, black forest. Blessed with immortality, they feared neither beast nor
man as they raced past ancient firs and pines. Pounding hooves tore up the
winding dirt trail. Without warning, a great black wolf lunged from the shadows.
Ivory fangs glistened in the moonlight as the beast leapt at Marcus, who was
taken unawares by the wolf’s savage attack. His horse reared up in alarm,
whinnying in terror. All but thrown from his saddle, Marcus clung frantically to
the reins of his panicked mount, unable to defend himself. The wolf snarled
loudly as it went in for the kill, its hot breath steaming the cold night air.

The young nobleman would surely have perished had not his brother come to his
defense with lightning speed. Yanking his double-edged sword from its scabbard,
William struck out at the beast only moments before its fangs could tear out
Marcus’ throat. Tempered steel sliced through matted black fur. Blood sprayed
from the beast’s side. Dying, the wounded beast whirled about and snapped at
William’s outstretched sword arm. Powerful jaws clamped down on his armored
wrist, punching through chain mail. The wolf’s fangs sank deep into his flesh….

William saved his brother’s life, but at a terrible cost. Within hours, as
his thrashing form was laid out atop a rough-hewn wooden table at the nearest
inn, the wolf’s bite caused the mutated virus within his veins to react in an
unexpected fashion. Violent convulsions racked his flailing body as a hideous
metamorphosis forever robbed him of all semblance of humanity. Snow-white fur sprouted from his
agonized flesh. Bones cracked and twisted audibly. His skull stretched beneath
his skin, transforming his once handsome features into a canine snout. Jagged
fangs protruded from his gums. Hairy ears tapered to points. Claws slid from his
fingertips. His hands and feet gave way to large, shaggy paws. His fine clothes
and armor came apart at the seams. Bloodshot brown eyes turned cobalt blue and
opalescent. An anguished scream devolved into the howl of a ravening beast. On
that terrible night, before the shocked eyes of his brother, William became the
first werewolf, a soulless monster with a bottomless appetite for slaughter.

His bloody rampages became legend. He and those he infected laid waste entire
villages. Packs of marauding werewolves ran amok through the countryside,
devouring the populace while creating ever more of their kind, much to the
horror of his brother, Marcus, who in time became the first vampire. It fell
upon Marcus to create the Death Dealers, an army of vampire soldiers dedicated
to the destruction of William’s inhuman spawn. Vampire waged all-out war against
werewolf in a series of horrific battles—until William himself was cornered at
last. Led by Viktor, the Death Dealers’ ruthless military commander, the great
white beast was finally brought to his knees—and locked away in a secret prison
for all time.

But even after William’s capture, his vile breed lingered for centuries.
Death Dealers fought an endless battle against the beasts he had created in his
own image. Like William, the werewolves were nothing but wild, unreasoning animals, forever trapped in the shape of monstrous beasts.
Only upon death did they regain their humanity.

Until, one fateful night many years after William’s downfall, he was born.

Lucian.

Hungary

The Thirteenth Century

The werewolf whimpered in pain as its captors dragged it through the shadowy
corridors of the underground dungeon. Silver barbs, embedded deep in the beast’s
bleeding hide, were affixed to heavy iron chains that weighed down the
werewolf’s shaggy black form; unlike their albino progenitor, William’s
successors were covered with fur the color of midnight. Even with its massive
head bowed in submission, the monster’s pointed ears brushed the low ceiling of
the dungeon. Its clawed feet scraped against the dank stone floor as it
staggered down the tunnel on its hind legs. Death Dealers, clad in gleaming
black plate armor, tugged on the other ends of the chains, being careful to stay
out of reach of their captive’s razor-sharp fangs and claws. The immense
werewolf, more than eight feet tall, towered over the smaller vampires. Additional knights, armed with
crossbows and silver truncheons, warily escorted the procession, in the event
that the beast was not quite as cowed as it appeared. Too many Death Dealers had
seen their immortality end beneath the slavering jaws of an enraged werewolf;
no one wanted to take any unnecessary chances with this prisoner until it was
safely locked away in its cell. Even a chained wolf could bite.

Loathsome animal,
Viktor thought. The regal Elder watched with
satisfaction as his soldiers led the beast away Piercing azure eyes peered from
his gaunt, clean-shaven face. Sandy blond hair receded from his lofty brow. An
aquiline nose distinguished his patrician countenance. A black velvet robe with
golden trim clothed his narrow frame. He looked to be roughly fifty by mortal
standards, although, like most of the inhabitants of the castle, his true age
was measured in centuries.

Not for the first time, he pondered whether it was worth the risk to take
these monsters alive. His alchemists and advisers insisted that they needed
living specimens to experiment upon, in hopes of finding new means to combat
their bestial enemies, but Viktor sometimes had his doubts as to whether their
efforts were truly necessary. Fire and silver had always served the Death
Dealers in the past. What more did they need to rid the world of these wretched
beasts?

“This way, sire.”

A jailor gestured to the right, reminding the Elder of his errand here
tonight. A bizarre story had reached his ears, one that frankly beggared belief, but which had seemed to demand
his personal attention. With Marcus and Amelia presently hibernating beneath the
earth, enjoying two centuries of interrupted slumber, Viktor was the sole Elder
in command of the coven. As such, it was his solemn duty to investigate anything
that might affect their eternal war with the werewolves—even if, in this case,
he suspected he was wasting his time.

Surely there must be some mistake,
he thought.
Such a thing is not
possible.

“Lead on,” he instructed the jailor.

The club-footed turnkey, whose pasty complexion was even paler than an
ordinary vampire’s, guided Viktor down a murky subterranean corridor. He held
aloft a sputtering torch that did little to dispel the gloomy shadows shrouding
the dungeon, while gripping a crossbow with his other hand. Heavy iron bars,
reinforced with silver, guarded the dismal cells lining both sides of the
passageway. Chains rattled as caged werewolves shuffled behind the sturdy bars.
Low growls and angry snarls escaped the cells. Filthy straw littered the cold
stone floors. Water dripped down clammy, slime-encrusted brick walls. Arcane
runes were inscribed on the greenish-gray masonry. The fetid atmosphere reeked
of sweat, piss, offal, and foul wolfen blood. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling.
Rats and lizards scurried away from their approach.

Viktor’s nose wrinkled in disgust. He seldom ventured into these noisome
depths. “This had best not be an idle rumor,” he warned the lumbering jailor. “I
have better things to do with my time than go prowling through this cesspool in
search of a drunken hallucination.”

“No, milord!” the jailor assured him fearfully. His voice quavered at the
prospect of incurring the vindictive Elder’s wrath. He nervously licked his
lips. “It’s true, I swear it upon my life!”

We’ll see about that,
Viktor thought darkly.

They came to the mouth of a cavelike cell at the end of the corridor. A
barred gate blocked their path. “Here, milord!” the jailor proclaimed. “You can
hear for yourself!”

He struck the bars with the stock of the crossbow, producing a harsh metallic
ring. Annoyed snarls greeted the noise, along with something else. To Viktor’s
amazement, the unmistakable cry of a newborn baby issued from within the cell
before him. He exchanged a startled look with the jailor, who nodded in
confirmation. After centuries of immortality, few things surprised the Elder
anymore, but the inexplicable wailing left him speechless.

No,
he thought in disbelief.
It cannot be….

Shoving the jailor aside, he stepped forward and peered through the sturdy
bars of the cell. The stygian darkness beyond strained even his vampiric vision,
yet as he squinted into the gloom, he thought he perceived a small pink shape
clutched to the bosom of a squatting female werewolf. The infant’s high-pitched
squeal continued to echo through the subterranean recesses of the dungeon. The
cries agitated the other werewolves, who barked and howled incessantly, raising an infernal racket that chafed at the Elder’s patience.

“Open it,” Viktor demanded.

The jailor hesitated. He seemed more afraid of his bestial charges than
Viktor thought suitable. “Milord?”

“Open it, I say!” He snatched the crossbow from the jailor’s trembling grip,
barely resisting the urge to cuff the fool. The weapon fit comfortably within
his hands, reminding Viktor of many a glorious battle. “And be quick about it!”

“Yes, milord!”

Depositing his torch into a nearby sconce, the jailor hurried to carry out
the Elder’s command. He grunted with exertion as he drew back a tarnished
silver-plated bolt. Rusty hinges that sounded as though they had not been
employed in months screeched loudly as the barred gate swung open. Chains
clanked inside the cell as the she-wolf lurched up from the floor. A warning
growl escaped her throat. Her hackles rose. Glistening black lips drew back,
baring her fangs. She crouched above the bawling infant… like a mother
defending her young?

Viktor could think of no other way to account for the baby’s presence in the
cell. Yet that defied all reason; werewolves bred, certainly, but they gave
birth only to primitive animals such as themselves. No she-wolf had ever whelped
a human child.

Until now.

Raising the crossbow, he stepped warily into the cell. “Take care, milord!”
the jailor cautioned, remaining safely outside in the corridor. The bitch barked
furiously and tugged at her chain. If not for the riveted metal collar clamped
around her neck, she would have gladly ripped him to shreds. Her cobalt eyes
blazed with murderous fury.

Viktor took the she-wolf’s show of aggression very seriously. He knew full
well how dangerous a wild animal could be when guarding its young. Should his
lady wife ever bear him a child, he intended to defend his own heir no less
zealously.

He took aim with the crossbow and squeezed the trigger. A silver-tipped bolt
flew from the weapon, striking the werewolf directly between the eyes. She
yelped in pain as the force of the shot knocked her backward against the far
wall of the cell. Her mangy bulk collapsed against the straw-covered floor. She
spasmed once before falling still and silent. Blood streamed from her sloping
brow. Smoke rose from the silver arrowhead buried in her skull. The smell of
burning hair and flesh added to the noxious atmosphere of the cell.

The baby cried out in fear and longing.

Was the beast truly dead? Viktor waited a moment or two, just in case the
fallen creature was feigning death, until he saw her thick black pelt begin to
recede into her mottled hide. The prone body of the werewolf contracted as much
of her size and weight evaporated into the ether. The creature’s grotesque
exterior melted away until only the naked body of a dead peasant woman remained,
sprawled lifelessly amidst a spreading pool of blood.