The Realms of Animar (30 page)

The woman slithered back into the cave a bit, her radiant green eyes staring back at them as she appeared to consider her reply. At last she spoke in a soft, wispy voice, “Don’t be afraid children. I am just a mouse. Come in out of the rain.”

The brothers all broke out in laughter but the woman offered no reaction. This was not the first time they had been mistaken for children. Their lack of height and inability to grow facial hair had left them in a permanent state of youth.

“You’re safe here, come on little one,” she said to Clotch. “That wound must surely hurt.” She then motioned for Clotch to sit on a rock beside her.

Her cryptic words worked their way through his mind as Splotch considered what they should do. The woman must have spotted his brother’s limp as they approached since the bandage was hidden beneath his trousers. That had to be it, but what if she had smelled it? Only the bad things had an enhanced sense of such odors. It then struck him that she had not answered the important question that had been posed. His hand slowly crept to the hilt of the sheathed sword hanging at his side. Something was wrong.

“Come on Clotch,” Splotch urged. “We need to be going.”

His defiant brother ignored the request and lowered his aching body to the rock near the woman and took off his backpack.

“I really can’t go any further,” Clotch said. “Come on boys, you are getting soaked out there. Come rest a minute.”

Sensing the danger, Blotch looked at Splotch who was standing next to him near the cave mouth then said, “Come on! Don’t be such a donkey. We need to go.”

Without warning, a sudden rush of movement spilled forth from the dark recesses of the cave. Countless pale figures crawled from the shadows, a collection of arms and legs and fiery eyes that shone like torches as they moved from the blackness. Like the woman, they lacked hair and their bodies were thinned by hunger and although human in form, they did not run or walk, rather crawled on all fours in an awkward yet frightening manner. They had been lurking in the dark, silently waiting for the right moment to strike.

When the attack began, chaos ensued.

Clotch turned toward the movement and scampered to his feet. Unable to balance on his injured leg, he lost his footing and plunged to the cave floor in a heap. He screamed and clawed at the ground in a desperate attempt to escape while the woman lunged for his legs.

“Help me!” Clotch begged as he kicked with his feet.

Blotch ran in from the rain and grabbed his arms and tugged with all of his might while an eerie mixture of screams and hisses spilled from the cave depths. Her companions were drawing near and more were close behind.

Without thought, Splotch drew his sword and charged into the cave, hoping to stall the attack long enough for his brother to be pulled free. He could not tell how many were scampering toward them but such concerns did not linger in his mind. His only thought was for the lives of his brothers.

Splotch reached the woman and kicked her squarely in the head, breaking her grasp on Clotch’s legs, allowing Blotch to pull him free. With the tension now released his brothers tumbled from the cave and down the muddy hillside where they disappeared from view, the only evidence of their existence being the yells they produced as they fell. At least they had escaped.

The occupants of the cave reached Splotch and descended upon him in a swarm of hostile fury. He felt their cold arms and legs all over his body as he thrashed and fought, at times striking without aim. He knew the cave opening was just a few feet away if only he could reach it.

Calling upon his deepest strength he worked his way closer, closer until he could almost reach the entrance where the rain fell from above and provided a translucent portal to his survival. He was going to make it.

A sharp pain then erupted in his calf, different than the throng of punches or kicks, something deeper, a shooting sting that made him scream in agony. He looked down and saw the head of a long, dark limbless creature attached to his leg, peering up at him with emerald eyes that were frighteningly familiar. The woman was a snake. What fools they had been.

Splotch kicked the serpent free and dragged his attackers closer to the opening as an adrenaline-fed fury overcame him. He hacked and slashed with every ounce of energy left within him while a flood of screams and hisses filled his ears. He detected the voices of his brothers and his only thought was on getting them to safety.

“Run!” he yelled. “Run now!”

In just seconds his body had grown numb but Splotch somehow fought on, pushing, willing his way forward. Through the horde of grabbing, clutching bodies that jumped him his fingers at last touched wet rainfall.

He was so close. Just a bit farther. He sensed freedom and then, like a beacon of hope, through the mass of writhing flesh he saw his brothers standing in the rain. They were yelling and reaching for him, crying and screaming, their faces fraught with panic.

He could not hear their words, the screams and hisses of the assault had blended with the rain and deafened his ears. He tried to call to them but his throat was somehow choked from within. His dear brothers reached for him but then backed away as if shocked by the swarm that had engulfed him.

Splotch felt his energy fade and his will dampen. He wanted to sleep, let it all go away. The pain, his suffering, he longed to let it end. He had no choice but to give in to the desire forced upon him by the poison that now flowed through his veins.

He felt the load atop him lessen when one of his attackers started toward his brothers. With the last of his strength, Splotch dropped his sword and grabbed the wiry man by the ankle, sending him crashing to the ground. He held tight with both of his hands, a difficult task after the man changed to a snake in an effort to slither free.

“Run!” Splotch gasped weakly. “Run!”

***

When at last they could run no more Clotch and Blotch came to a halt. Exhausted and overcome by grief, they collapsed to the muddy ground crying as the merciless rain continued to pelt them from above.

Sitting on his knees, the pain of his wound momentarily forgotten, Clotch pounded the ground with his fists. He hated himself for going into the cave. It was his fault that his brother was dead. He should been the one left behind. Splotch was the strongest of them, he wasn’t meant to go first.

The brothers shared a bond greater than their mother ever could have hoped and memories of their adventures flashed in Clotch’s mind as he struggled to grasp the reality of their loss.

“We have to go back!” Clotch yelled as the rain mixed with tears and trickled down his cheeks. “We can’t leave him in there!”

Blotch sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “You saw how many there were. He was right to tell us to run. He saved us. Even in the end he saved us.”

Clotch was overcome by emptiness. They had always been three and he knew no other way. He could not imagine going on without Splotch.

Blotch shook his head and stood up. “Come on, we need to keep moving. They will come after us.” He held out a hand and helped his brother to his feet.

Clotch brushed off his pants and said, “We need to go home.”

“We will after—”

“Not Avryndale. Our home. We can’t do this.”

The brothers stood quietly for a moment as the rain continued to fall upon them. They were numb to the world.

Lost without Splotch, their once clear paths were now clouded by despair. Blotch took a deep breath and then nodded.

Chapter 32

C
rouched low and embraced by the familiar touch of darkness, only the watchful eye of the moon could detect the cunning wolf as it crept silently through the cold high grass. The creature moved with the slightest of steps as each paw was gently placed, each breath slow and calm and each beat of his heart no more quickened than if he was sound asleep, dreaming of a future life with his one true love.

Always cautious, Mordigal took in every detail before making his move. Sitting in the middle of a large flat pasture, the perimeter of the stables was still and quiet. Though none were yet visible, he knew the area was guarded by an assortment of brutes, most likely playing cards, drinking ale or tormenting some of the residents of their master’s favorite prison. Mordigal was quite familiar with the stables, having visited many times over the years, either borrowing or returning horses as required for his various duties.

The main area was a field roughly two hundred feet in diameter and surrounded by a tall wooden fence. Although easily permitting escape when in human form, the fence served its purpose since the captured horses were locked in equine form by crude, yet painfully effective horseshoes. The guards checked the shoes each night and any sign of tampering or attempted removal resulted in severe punishment by branding or other, more torturous, means.

Located near the gate that sat just outside the eastern edge of the fence was a dilapidated building that served as the sleeping quarters for the guards. A dim flickering light was visible seeping from the shuttered windows, confirming his initial thought that the building was indeed not empty.

When last Mordigal had visited, the stables contained just over fifty horses, but as he moved closer it seemed a good deal more had been corralled. The reason was obvious. War drew near and Fatalis was gathering more for his assault.

The only comfort in this chilling thought was that they had guessed correctly and the attack would wait until the winter months had passed. Unfortunately, their trip to the stables had taken nearly three weeks and time was now working against them.

The wolf stopped and sniffed the air. A rush of information filled his mind as the scents he detected from his surroundings were quickly deciphered into visual images. The smell of the grass and the thick trace of the horses and their manure scattered about the pasture were quickly discarded as he narrowed his focus. Human perspiration was detected behind him. It was Caballus, hiding in the grass where they had discussed.

A faint breeze tickled his nose and carried with it more evidence of his surroundings. There was a hint of ash in the air from a recent fire, various fragrances from wild flowers and the unmistakable smell of man urine that lingered to his left. None of these odors were of importance. Filtering them from his thoughts, he concentrated on finding the stink of the unseen guards and in a matter of seconds he knew for certain that a few were in the building.

Mordigal quickened his approach with his tongue tasting the air as he ran. A skilled stalker, he made no sound as he moved in. Death approached unseen.

His once composed heart began to pound. His blood rushed. An innate hunger tugged at his stomach. He needed to kill. He longed for blood.

He stopped twenty feet from the door to the building and crouched down into the high grass, instantly vanishing from the world. He sniffed the air again. Someone was outside, likely around back, hidden from view as he had approached.

Remaining at a distance to remain concealed in shadow, Mordigal crept to the rear of the structure. He suddenly stopped when he saw a thick specimen of a man seated on a chair with his back against the building. His eyes were open and focused on the surrounding fields. This was quite unexpected. The guards were generally too lazy to be on active watch. Fatalis must have warned his men.

Even more surprising was that Mordigal did not recognize the guard. He was likely a newcomer to their ranks but no matter his origin, with his animalkind unknown, Mordigal would have to proceed with caution.

He considered his options carefully. If he approached from the side and was spotted, the guard would likely yell and warn the others. Straight on was clearly not an option so he had no choice.

The wolf glanced up at the moon then lowered himself to the ground, muttering a soft whimper of disappointment. The night was still young and surprise was his ally. He needed to wait for the ideal moment to strike.

The minutes ticked by at an agonizing pace. Each moment spent in his wolf form drove him deeper into an unwanted bloodlust. The cravings denied by his human will became insatiable. His stomach growled and his mouth filled with saliva.

Suddenly the guard stood up and stretched his arms over his head. He was of medium height and adorned in ratty clothes but carried no visible weapons, a fact that generally meant his animal form was deadly enough. His hair was dark and his face blanketed by a thick beard. His stink was unmistakable. Mordigal moved in.

***

The guard briefly scanned the fields around him, his eyes unknowingly passing over the very grass in which a wolf had been hiding just moments before. He then walked away from the building and strolled into the fields allowing the tall grass to consume his legs up to the hip. He stopped a few feet in and tugged at his trousers.

Moonlight covered his face as the guard gazed into the night sky, looking over countless stars while a strong wind ruffled his hair and swayed the grass around him creating an intoxicating series of gentle waves. It was a glorious night indeed. He moaned with relief as his bladder began to empty.

Lost in his surroundings, the guard sensed no danger. He did not fear the unseen wolf as it gracefully ran towards him, he was not aware of the unheard shift from beast to man that occurred in an instant. At peace in that moment, his world was content.

And then suddenly a hand covered his mouth. Someone was behind him. Before panic could ensue, an arm clutched him from his right and a shooting pain erupted from his chest. The light fell to dark before he even hit the ground. He would never know what had killed him.

***

Mordigal stood over the fallen man, clutching a blood-stained dagger as he watched the body shift into a large black bear, validating his thought of its nature. His eyes examined the thick matted fur and powerful, claw-tipped feet of the beast, its broad, gaping jaw and small blackened eyes.

In that moment, alone with his latest victim, when he might normally consider satisfying a thirst for flesh, Mordigal was stricken with a most remarkable feeling. As if a stranger had taken over his mind, pushed aside the hundreds of victims who had fallen at his hands and forgotten the powerful rush that came with each kill, in that flicker of a moment, for no reason he could apply, he felt guilt. Confused by the unfamiliar feeling, he kneeled down and placed a hand on the warm fur of the bear. Sadness overcame him. His eyes began to water. What was wrong with him?