Chapter Five
Several interesting sessions later, and approximately three days after discovering Alyssa had no magical blood in her soul, she sat on a snow covered boulder overlooking the entire town and a huge section of the wastelands in front of her. The snow didn't fall today, but the world still held a stark chill, and the plains, hills, forests and Fractured Spine loomed before in a ghostly blanket. The mountains were a barrier of protection against the Shadows that came from a dark city, where people went and got swallowed up, leaving no trace of their life or death.
Somehow, the cold felt bearable. She wore bearskin robes, a scarf over her face, and drank in the strange, wild and relentless beauty of the land. The cold had a way of taking over the soul, infecting it with the same brittle hardness, blunting her to the effect of normal life. What did it matter, of frivolous things like clothes, fashion, witches and petty social bickering? No one cared in the Lunar Wastes. Here, it was a node of survival, of constant conflict with the Shadows, and the certain knowledge that your life was on borrowed time.
She ran a gloved hand over her sword, returned at last, reassured by the familiar weight. She had, of course, finally given it a name, clichéd as it might be – Shadowbane. She watched Kain in the near distance, walking and talking with a few council members on whatever it was they talked about. Kain, the person she would likely end up spending a great deal of her life with. Providing werewolf sons, perhaps witch daughters, unless she found a way back to the south, through the treachery of the Lunar Wastes. Perhaps to the inn with that sly witch. Thinking of the witch, she pulled out the bone tooth with the strange rune, and examined it.
She jumped in fright when an old, lightly clothed woman leaned on the boulder beside her.
“That's a powerful charm you have there, girl,” Garcia said, pointing at the pendant. “I wonder how you came by it.”
“A witch in an inn,” Alyssa responded, tucking the tooth away. “An inn drowning in enchantments. She is called Raine.”
Garcia made a thoughtful, sucking noise with her lips. “I wouldn't mind meeting this witch myself. We could do with more upon the Wastes. Other clans may have more witches, but ours only has me. I had hoped you might have something... but it was not to be.” She let out a scornful chuckle. “Just me with the magic, then! Old and fangless and good for nothing but one more spell.”
Before she let Alyssa have a word in edgewise, since she was kind of annoying and garrulous, Garcia nodded towards Kain. “He's a good soul. A fine man. I can already see that the two of you together will achieve great things. Because he is not the type to chain people in the darkness.”
Alyssa briefly admired Kain. Yes. She could do a lot worse with someone like him, with his handsome, almost ethereal features, his gentle touch upon her in the long night, his steady and loyal devotion, and his embarrassed apology that perhaps she might not like arrangements, but he would do right by her, and give her the best life possible.
A gilded cage, with the door ajar.
Dare she admit it to herself, she actually liked Kain. More than liked him. Something about him just fit. That monster who had fetched her from the snow in the howling cold, who had carried her like a princess to his birthplace, and tended to her as she recovered from the frost and revived in her new world.
“It's a lonely vigil, here,” Garcia said. “It needs people like you, with iron in their soul, and perhaps a certain recklessness to go so far from their home to find someone they love.”
Alyssa scanned the borders of the town, and froze when she saw something distorted and blotchy, oozing a way past the border enchantments. Garcia's ancient eyes flickered to it as well, and she muttered then, “Not the time. Not the place. Defend me, Alyssa. I must get to my cave.”
More Shadows forced their way past the barrier, and amorphous shapes coalesced from the frozen cobbles, mouths open in silent screams.
Alyssa positioned herself into fighting stance, alert as Garcia huffed and wheezed as she shambled to her cave. Kain sprinted beside her, even as the warning cries rent the atmosphere.
“Shadows! Shadows! Hide in your homes!”
“Attacks much more frequent. Many of them. Food wagons being destroyed...” Garcia continued muttering. “Something... intelligent guiding them...”
“Alyssa! Will you retreat or fight?” Kain padded beside her, eyes glowing, his expression alight in concern.
She gave him a withering stare. “I did not train for years just to hide behind locked doors. If you want me for a partner, you will have to accept that I might die.”
A nervous lump appeared in Kain's throat, and he nodded. “So be it.”
Alyssa grasped his hand, and kissed the strong knuckles. “Do not be afraid. And I'm holding to your promise that one day, I'll be able to search for my brother. Even if I don't have the magic.”
Kain hugged her tight, the warmth of his skin emanating through her robes, singing her blood in a pleasant way. Her eyes saw a small werewolf child following his mother indoors, and a strange wedge, like her heart getting stuck in her throat, made itself known.
Then, she tore herself away from Kain, and they positioned themselves on either side of Garcia, grinning as the Shadows began urging themselves through the stones.
She heard the growl and surge of feral grace, as Kain shapeshifted into his huge, shaggy wolf form, the werewolves, the dire wolves of the Lunar Wasteland. His form gave her comfort, rather than fear. She met his yellow eyes, his bared muzzle, and smiled. He barked in return, before advancing his huge, monstrous body, far more like a bear than a dog, towards the first of the Shadows.
Alyssa followed suit on her own target, blood singing, heart triumphant, resisting the urge to laugh in exhilaration.
Even without yet discovering her lost brother, she knew that this place was where she belonged.
Here, on the frontlines, fighting the Shadows, a powerful warrior by her side. Her sword hummed as it sliced the air, and lopped the head off the first of the Shadows. Without missing a step, she spun and thrust to another that had formed behind her, then rolled to assist Kain, surrounded by four of them.
This is my purpose. This is where I'm meant to be.
Watching the Shadows crumble and dissolve had to be one of the best things her vengeful mind experienced. Along with the knowledge that she was surrounded by shapeshifters, built to destroy, sworn to protect.
Just her kind of people. We have a lot to do, you and I, she thought, admiring Kain as he stood there, muzzle dripping with black bile. And as long as our purposes intersect, I'll be happy to remain at your side.
Maybe he caught something of her resolve, maybe he didn't. But he nudged at her hand, and she ran it along his coarse fur. He stood at shoulder height next to her.
Mine.
With a triumphant scream, she lunged at the next Shadow to form, her partner snapping at her side, as they guided the Snow Witch to her cave.
The End
Vrin’s Rescue
Guardians of Lunar Wasteland (Book 3)
Chapter One
Yarrow prowled through the darkness. The humungous tree that towered above all others in the Dreadwoods cast a wave of gloom, like a giant hand reaching up from a grave. It seemed to follow her with its branches, which grasped with spindly fingers, and groaned as the air filtered through the jagged, mould green pine needles. The sound reminded her of the sigh of wind blowing through the crevices of a mossy skull. She shivered her delight and fear, the members of her clan stalking alongside in their sacred grounds of their home.
The Dreadwood feared no evil, and bathed in the demise of their hated enemies, the Shadows that blighted the frozen land. Her werewolf father raised her up with the loathing instilled in her from an early age. Her witch mother taught Yarrow the ways of the old ones, of the madness of magic that etched at your soul, until one day, you went too far, and lost everything.
Her mother strode up to her now, her husband following behind in his black wolf form.
“I do not trust the Lunehill wolves,” her mother said, her voice a low rustle in the hiss of wind around them, the breath of cold that left their lungs with every heave. “Our ancestors have had conflict in the past.”
“But they offer answers,” Yarrow replied, ducking under the scratching arms of a twisted branch. “They offer an end to the ways of the Shadows. An answer to why so many appear in the sacred snows.”
“We can only hope,” Priya answered, as her husband growled in savage agreement, his hackles rising. Yarrow smiled at her father, huge and scarred and beta to the Dreadwood wolves. Hragun’s sharp, dagger like teeth had ripped through countless Shadows, and the milky blind eye on one side showed the price he paid for his life’s work.
Every step they made was one step closer to death. Whether from the Shadows squirming out from the permafrost, or the threat of the cold against their embattled bodies.
When Lunehill finally edged into sight, with a lemon slice of moon hung above as if upon puppet strings, Yarrow bared her teeth, and rubbed her cold hands together, before tucking them into her thick bear furs. Sentries stood at the archways, carved with complex protection runes, and rings of charcoal protected the premises. The Lunehill wolves spotted the black Dreadwood wolves, and stood diligently to attention, ready to accept the new delegation in.
“Looks like they’ve summoned everyone,” her mother, Priya, murmured. Her hazel eyes scoured the parameters, already searching for weaknesses in the defenses. Yarrow’s instant distrust for the Lunehill came from years of conditioning, from mocking and hatred for the Dreadwood way of life. They were wrong to mock. The cold had shaped them. They were winterborn, made of the ice the Lunar Wastes coated itself with.
Hragun morphed back into his human form, displaying a pockmarked, scarred form, his left eye milky.
“We have quarters ready for you, Dreadwoods,” one of the Lunehill guards said, gesturing for them to follow him to the other side of town. They followed, of course, eager for warmth and food, and a safer place to sleep, and Yarrow took her time to observe the rest of the clans that had gathered here. She saw the white wolves of the Spine, the red of the Scarlet Caves, and the gold of Ice Lake, mixed with the iron gray furs of Lunehill. Not as many clans as she’d hoped, but perhaps they might arrive in time, stumbling through the swirling blizzard that clogged the atmosphere. Yarrow’s boots crunched into snow, compacting it, joining the thousands of other prints that mixed in the white froth.
“Look at them,” her father sniffed, upturning his nose upon the Lunehill residents. “Weaklings. They could barely defend themselves against human infants, let alone a flock of Shadows.” He growled at one teenager werewolf, who flinched at his intimidating, heavily scarred appearance.
“Papa. Don’t scare everyone you come into contact with,” Yarrow said. “We are their guests, and they our hosts.”
“Bah.” Hragun waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m only here to kill Shadows. These pups claim they’re taking the war to them, with new magic. So full of their own self-importance. I bet they have nothing new, but I’m not about to sneeze at a chance to slaughter.”
“They are one of the oldest werewolf tribes around,” Priya pointed out, though her lips curled in amusement of her husband’s rant. “And are based upon the site of the Cursed Queen. And have currently one of the most powerful witches in the Lunar Wastes. You know. The Snow Witch.”
“I’m well aware of the fact. And how every Lunehill whelp seems to think being born in this place automatically makes them special. We Dreadwood have killed more than all of them put together!”
He snapped then at a pudgy seven-year-old, who squeaked and rolled out of sight. Their guide looked back upon them disapprovingly, even as they made it to their new lodge. Settling down, Yarrow took off her backpack but kept her sword belted on, intending to explore the town and find out more of the knowledge they claim to possess in the oncoming expedition against the Shadows.
She wouldn’t mind seeing the Snow Witch first hand, either, if that cranky old woman was still kicking. She must be ancient by now. She’d probably look like a bag of bones.
Stepping outside into the town, her attention settled upon a man who oversaw some of the escorts. His yellow eyes appeared golden in the faint light, and she examined his features in great interest.
Tall, with a notable bulge of muscle in his arms, and a neat, combed look to his dark beard and mustache. Sensing her gaze, he stopped mid-conversation and spotted her. Their eyes met, and something clicked.
A smile lit up his face. He said something to his companion, then strode over to Yarrow.
“Hello, Dreadwood witch. It’s good to see you here, ready to join the fight.”
“I’m Yarrow. You are?” She smiled at him, inhaling the musky scent of his body as she bit her bottom lip. His eyes flickered to the motion.
“Vrin. I’m part of the main council here.”
“Hmm…” She idly played with one strand of her dark hair, allowing the tip of her boot to dig a hole in the snow beneath. “You wouldn’t happen to be a single werewolf, would you?”
His answering grin was wicked. “You don’t dance around things, it seems.”
“No. I find you attractive. Maybe we can go someplace quiet later and… explore some things,” she said, allowing her tongue to wet her lips.
He blinked, inhaling sharply. “I’d love to. But there’s a few things I need to sort out first.”
“Don’t take too long,” she answered, gazing at him coyly. She saw the lust flare in his eyes. She leaned to whisper in his ear, “I’ll be in my quarters later.”
She enjoyed his momentarily speechless reaction, before skipping off to explore the rest of the town. The anticipation of having a romp with the werewolf rejuvenated her mood.
Yes. Not a bad specimen indeed, that Vrin. She might have some slight issues trying to persuade her father that she planned to take to bed a Lunehill werewolf.
Exploring the town yielded a vibrant, cheerful community, despite the constant threat of Shadows. She loved experiencing the life. She tried to enter the Snow Witch’s cave, but was barred by about eight guards, leaving her a little disappointed. She’d wanted to see the legendary Snow Witch.
More werewolves gathered over the next week, until the expedition was formally arranged. Vrin never joined her in her quarters, though they exchanged many glances after that. Hragun caught wind of some of the interactions, and purposefully started positioning himself to make it more awkward for Vrin and Yarrow to find any time alone.
Now they all gathered in the square, preparing to leave for the Fractured Spine.
Leading the expedition was that mysterious Erlandur, with his dark armor and gloomy stance. The others in command gathered their people together, and the witches were designated werewolves to ride and supplies to carry.
Immediately, of course, which caused quite a stir, Yarrow requested a ride with one of the Lunehill wolves – and grinned when Vrin took up the offer.
She gave her father a hug, despite his ominous growling, and her mother’s raised eyebrow of disapproval.
Vrin morphed into his russet werewolf form, and Yarrow hitched herself onto his, the supplies rattling in her backpack.
When Erlandur gave the word, everyone began to move.
Yarrow clung to Vrin’s back, her hands dug tight into his reddish furs, a short distance behind the leading party. They left the safety of Lunehill and ventured into the white plains. Erlandur led in his dark armor, riding the largest of the undead wolves. The other werewolves gave him a wide berth. The aberrant spectres repulsed them, instilled fear into their otherwise brave hearts. Yarrow privately thought the same. Such magic was heinous and vile. Yet Erlandur worked for them to topple the threat of the Shadows, once and for all. The banner leaders showcased the alphas of the clans.
Hragun of the Dreadwood, her powerful, battle scarred father, with his jet black fur and the menacing, lopsided curl of his lips. He had left his son in charge of the Dreadwood with his absence – and Yarrow knew her older brother to be strong and reliable. Then there was Nox of the Fractured Spine, son of Targun Wasteborn, a child who had lost his former clan to become the greatest leader the Spine had ever known. Trailing on either side of them was Kain and Linther of Lunehill, their partners astride upon them, and Balthus of Ghost Lake. None of the others heeded the call.
Four clans. All warriors willing to risk their lives in this expedition, to venture into the Fractured city, where no one ever returned.
No one, except Erlandur Malgrave, with his dead blue eyes and his solemn demeanor. Something felt off about him. Yarrow assumed that whatever had happened in the Fractured City, it had scarred his soul – done something to it that no amount of magic could ever heal.
Vrin panted underneath her, his huge footpads crunching into the snow, leaving long pawprint bounds behind him. A total of about three hundred werewolves and six witches made up their entire expedition. A formidable force.
Yet, Yarrow couldn’t help but picture all of them within the Fractured City, surrounded by an infinite number of Shadows, their numbers draining until the whole army whittled out, dead and tainted and forgotten, whilst the wind shifted the snows over their lifeless bodies.
No one entered the Fractured City for a good reason. The culmination of all evil resided there. People whispered about it at night like children hiding under their covers, scared of the noises that haunted them outside, or the way the candles created flickering, distorted silhouettes upon the walls, like spidery hands and lashing tongues.
Yarrow hoped that her visions, her innate fears never came to pass. She knew as well as everyone else that the attacks were getting worse. Something was up with the Fractured City. The Lunar Wastes no longer did their duty the way they had centuries before.
The wind seared her eyes, so she settled her face into Vrin’s mane, trying to keep the heaviness of her heart from weighing the werewolf down.
Travelling by werewolf foot took just over a week. They ran through the day and part of the night, before setting up camp for eight hours – two for hunting and eating, and six for sleeping in shifts, making sure they kept themselves in prime condition, not allowing the travel to cause mental and physical fatigue. Each sleep, Yarrow curled up with her family amongst the Dreadwood section, as they isolated themselves more than others during the shifts. Sometimes Vrin came over to talk to her as well, but the hackle rising of her father to have her associate with a Lunehill wolf, let alone ride one, and her mother’s stern gaze made it hard for them to have any sort of decent conversation. At least, not without side glances and speculation.
She did catch Vrin on his shift duty on one of the nights, his yellow eyes surveying the landscape in the dark. Yarrow’s eyesight saw nothing, but she sat next to him on a log, next to the low flickers of a warm flame, wrapping her fur robes tightly.
“Do you really believe Erlandur will lead us to victory?” Her breath unfurled in the air like dragon’s breath. Vrin stared at her, the light causing odd, distorted contrasts upon his high boned cheeks. A thrill of excitement and fear went through her. He looked so regal. So full of purpose. Something about him drew her to his presence, made her want to dig into that mind with fervour, to see what lay underneath.
He scrutinized her as well, eyes trailing over her dark, short hair, her sharp features flushed from the cold. The temperature dropped the further north they headed. His high cheekbones were so elegantly curved, that Yarrow wanted to run her hands over them.
“I don’t know, honestly. I don’t know if anything will happen from this. I certainly don’t know if any of us will be alive once we cross the threshold. But I do suspect this. If we continue trying to live the way we do, I think we will all die. Their attacks are growing more frequent. Bolder. Stronger. Raine and Linther met a Supreme, as well. A Shadow with intellect.”
“What’s the working theory on the Supremes?” Yarrow asked. She’d only heard about them in whispers before hearing the tale of Raine and her inn, and the creature she kept imprisoned in her basement.
Vrin wrinkled his nose, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet. “Erlandur and Raine claim they are puppet masters. You kill a Surpreme, you kill the army associated with them. The Shadows alone have no mind of their own. They merely obey the summons of their masters, or are summoned and released to do whatever they want. Unfortunately, we haven’t exactly met any Supremes ourselves, or killed any. We don’t really know where to go from there.”
“Doesn’t the Snow Witch know about them?”
“Yes. She knows they were dangerous. Just not quite how dangerous. This is the first time for her to see such magic like Erlandur and Raine’s.”
Yarrow chewed the inside of her cheek, briefly admiring the lines furrowing between Vrin’s eyebrows, before sighing. “It’s all speculation. And the best lead we have is Erlandur.”
“And the Blood witch.”
That’s what they’re calling Raine? Irritation flared. Witches like Raine were opportunists, talentless without the use of forbidden magic. And she got a name like that? “She’s an enchanter. A lucky one.”
“Whatever she is, we need her enchanting skills. And we need your mother’s lightning.”
“And mine.”
Vrin smiled. “And yours.”
They sat in tense silence. The aroma of smoke wafted into their nostrils, and the warmth sank into their bones.
“This is one of the biggest expeditions we’ve done in years,” Yarrow said, gesturing to the other troops that sat around their fires, eating, sleeping, or keeping watch in the night gloom.
“More when we reach the Spine. Erlandur wants us to stop there. He says the Fractured Spine have several Shadows chained up like Raine did, and the plan is to deck up as many warriors as possible with the Shadow armor and weapons.”
Raine gave a little gasp, along with a shudder of revulsion. The image of all the wolves around her, being undead, blue eyed entities, soulless and silent, stabbed her mind. “We’re playing with fire. We use their magic, it will backfire.”
“Maybe,” Vrin agreed quietly, his eyes focusing fully on her. Part of Yarrow wished in that moment that no one else was around, so that she could spend some time exploring the body that hid beneath his clothes. “Maybe not. But you do agree that in a time where we have no true answers, sometimes it is best to think of things we wouldn’t… normally consider.”
Yarrow shook her head stubbornly. “I refuse to use that kind of magic. My mother will as well. I will not lie in bed with my enemies. I will not use their vile taint to further my powers.” Her voice came out a snarl. Anything but that disgusting magic. Even though Erlandur had persuaded people that this was part of the answer.
She now let loose on another small suspicion. “I don’t know about him. He came back from the city, but he’s the only survivor. I can’t be the only one thinking these thoughts either, right?” The firelight illuminated a scowl on Vrin’s face, as he considered her words.
“You Dreadwood lot aren’t so trusting, are you?”
Yarrow smiled thinly back, before sensing eyes upon her, stirring the little hairs upon the back of her neck. She turned to see her father watching her in his wolf form, the chilling savagery displayed in his curled lips.
“My dad doesn’t approve of me talking to you.”
“No,” Vrin said, checking out the hate-filled stare. “He doesn’t. But I don’t care. It’s not like anything is going to happen.”
“Isn’t it?” She allowed a faint note of disappointment to curl her voice. Except, it wasn’t completely fake. Something did drop in her stomach at his words.
Vrin raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more on the matter. She gave him a wry smile, before whispering goodnight into his ear, and returning to her family’s side.
She noticed how her father tactfully positioned himself between the campfire and Vrin, who ignored the whole show, focusing on his watch in the highland terrain.
Briefly, one of the witches and her warrior friend from Ghost Lake stopped by, open in her admiration of Yarrow’s mother.
“I heard once that you managed to kill eight Shadows with one spell,” the witch said as she addressed Priya, open in her admiration, dark eyes alight. Her friend, a short, stocky woman with two blades belted into her waist, looked bored.
“Once,” Priya responded, smiling modestly. “It did give me a banging headache for a few days afterwards.”
The witch tossed her long, frizzy dark hair. “Impressive, though. I’m a fire witch, but it’s the same principle. I have to be careful with my power, in case I combust.”
Yarrow laughed. “Still a neat ability, though. Are you a witch as well?” She directed her question to the silent sword wielder, who nodded.
“Yes. But I’m not a caster. My magic is combat intuition.”
Priya inhaled sharply. “A rare, rare talent.” She stood up then, to inspect the witch carefully, allowing her fingers to trace over her cheek. “Almost unheard of. What are your names?”
“Geraline,” the fire witch said. “Faith,” the melee witch murmured.
“Why don’t you sit by our fire tonight? I’m sure we must have some tales to swap,” Priya said, although Yarrow knew her mother was particularly keen in gouging information out of Faith.
Ah well. Best leave her to that. And Yarrow, in the meanwhile could close her eyes, and try not to stress herself out with the ominous grasp of the future. It pervaded her mind, though, like rustling leaves, gradually closing in on every inch of her brain until nothing but blackness remained.
Something told her that if they failed, if they died… the northlands would likely collapse. Because, what if the Supremes who dwelled within the city had the same strange power Erlandur held in his gear? Could they stand up to that?
We might all become their weapons. How can he be so sure? How do we know he’s not a Supreme himself? Leading us into a trap. Leading us to death.
She curled up in the snow beside the fire, pulling her hood over her face to protect it from the cold. Her breath steamed up the inside, and a blanket of silence fell.
She thought of Vrin. She thought of lying by his side, and hearing his soft, measured voice wash over her. Maybe in another time, another place, they might have had a chance to associate better even with the death glare of her father and his blanket hatred of anything that wasn’t Dreadwood.
To be fair, the Dreadwood ways were lonely and harsh. They never stayed in one place for long. They wandered up and down the entire Wastes, and had likely explored more than any other clan out there. They’d been everywhere except the Fractured City. The few numbers that braved their lives for it had vanished like all the rest. The Lunar Wastlands, after all, had a way of claiming the lives of those it gave birth to.
The thoughts continued swirling in her head, preventing a restful sleep, filling her mind with the bone deep worries that existed there.
She heard her mother and the two Ghost Lake witches murmuring to one another, before they returned to their part of the camp, where about fifty Ghost Lake warriors lay.
Fifty Ghost Lake. Thirty Dreadwood. Two hundred Lunehill and around twenty Spine, with more waiting to join them once they arrived at the main clan.
Such a small number, compared to the clans that existed. Yet, it was also one of the biggest collaborations in years.
The wind hissed over her body, and she shivered, despite the heat of the fire, and the comforting presence of her mother and father.
When she finally tipped into the realm of sleep, the nightmares made her twitch. They never went away.