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  Crow Valley

  The air stank of man. The pack had caught the scent five minutes earlier, taking cover just beyond the lip of a small bluff overlooking the valley floor. Since then they’d lain low, watching, waiting, listening. It didn’t take long for the source of the smell to become apparent – there were crowmen hunting in the valley below.

  “Stay down,” Saarl said, placing a hand on Ulthric’s shoulder. The young werekynd nodded, pressing himself closer to the rocky earth.

  “Can we shift?” he asked, trying not to pant. His blood was up.

  “No,” Saarl said. “Now is not the time, Ulthric. Prove your control to me. Restrain your urges.”

  “Do you smell them?” came Vega’s low growl from somewhere off to the right. The question was a poorly-veiled insult to Saarl’s progressing years. Ulthric sensed the old longfang beside him bristle.

  “Ten to fifteen strong,” he snarled back. “Am I right, Vega?” There was no reply.

  “Keep yourselves under control and wait for the word,’ Saarl went on. There was a rustle of movement as the pack readied itself, blades whispering from scabbards, chainmail clinking, fists tightening around axe hafts. Ulthric felt the tempo of his heart increase, a low growl rising irresistibly in his throat.

  He edged forwards and squinted over the edge of the bluff, trying to make out the prey in the semi-darkness below. He could hear them clearly enough - the scrape of displaced shale, the occasional, guttural murmur as they conversed with each another in their savage tongue. They were hunting, hunting for the pack, not realising all the while that it was they who were the hunted.

  “Strike now,” Captain Aria said from the gloom. Ulthric couldn’t help but flinch, as much at the man’s court-cultured voice as the unsubtle volume at which he spoke.

  “No,” Saarl said, in no mood to play games of courtesy with the Duke’s envoy. ‘Hold your tongue, or I will have one of my kin hold it for you.’

  Ulthric sensed the pack’s disgust with the human in their presence. He suspected it was only Saarl’s crude threats that stopped the likes of Vega and his cronies from tearing the arrogant Protectorate human to shreds. If he continued with his man-bred ways for much longer Ulthric didn’t rate his chances of leaving crow valley alive.

  They waited. The crowmen below stank. It was an alien smell, at odds with the familiar wet pelt scents of the pack. The hairs on Ulthric’s back bristled. He could feel an itching sensation in the tips of his fingers and at the ends of his toes, and his jaw had begun to ache. Not now, he told himself, tightening his grip on his old hand-axe. Not in front of Saarl. He would not lose control. Not again.

  “Go!” the pack leader barked. He sprung to his feet and bounded over the bluff’s edge, landing on the shale below with a jagged crunch. Howling, the pack followed him. Ulthric slammed into the rocky slop below and was stumbling after Saarl before he’d even fully regained his balance. The need to rend and to tear had taken him completely.

  The crowmen reacted to the ambush with their own brand of savagery. The first one to meet Saarl’s twin axes had his right arm lopped from his body and his head cleft in two, but before he had even fallen his bondsman was lunging forwards with a flint-tipped spear, scraping a long gouge across the werekynd leader’s flank. Saarl howled and tore into the wild-haired savage with his fangs. The two went down, a sprawling mass of muscle, fur and mad, desperate strength.

  The outcome of the clash was lost in the wider press as the two sides met, man and man-beast launching into one another with a frenzy that would have left the civilised humans of the Protectorates feeling decidedly ill. Ulthric smashed into a screaming crowman, pitching them both to the ground. The werekynd snapped down with his fangs, trying to find the soft, unprotected flesh of the tribesman’s throat, but the stinking human anticipated the attack and twisted, slamming Ulthric’s head off the rocky ground. The werekynd snarled and spat, trying to shake away the sudden dizziness, but the tribesman had the advantage now and used it well, rolling hard and straddling the young man-beast’s waist. He raised his stone dagger, a split-second away from plunging it through Ulthric’s heaving chest.

  He never got the chance. Vega’s notched broadsword sent the man’s head tumbling from his shoulders.

  “Useless pup, get up and kill!” the older man-beast barked at Ulthric. “You’re a disgrace to the pack!” Ulthric scrambled to his knees, clawing for his fallen axe. Vega was already moving on, his passage through the melee marked by the brutally dismembered corpses his heavy blade left in its wake.

  Another crowman came at Ulthric, club raised, bellowing in his coarse language. Ulthric met him with a snarl. The werekynd caught the human’s first blow before it could connect with his skull, twisting the man’s wrist sharply. There was a snapping noise and the tribesman shrieked. Ulthric hacked down into the man’s sternum and then kicked him to the dirt. It was all he could do to resist the urge to savage the screaming warrior. The stench of blood was thick in his nostrils. Around him the crowmen’s battle-spirit finally fled as the primal fury of the werekynd overcame them.

  The pack had neither the time nor the inclination for prisoners. The screaming humans were ended with sword, axe, fang and claw. Ulthric caught one of the younger ones, wide-eyed with terror, as he tried to escape. He knocked the boy to the ground and swung his axe up triumphantly, howling for the human’s death. But something knocked him sprawling before he could administer the fatal blow. He rolled in the dirt, just in time to see Vega plunge his broadsword into the prostrate boy’s belly, twisting the steel with maniacal glee. The boy’s anguished wail was cut short by one hard stamp of the big werekynd’s boot.

  What few rational thoughts remaining in Ulthric’s head fled, his blood still keening with the wildness of battle. Before he could think he was back on his feet and swinging for Vega.

  The blow had more enthusiasm than finesse, but was still hard enough to knock the pride from the older werekynd. The man-beast recovered with a low growl, spinning to face Ulthric. It was only with Vega now towering over him that the younger werekynd suddenly realised what he’d done. His bloodlust fled, and he opened his mouth to apologise. Vega didn’t give him the chance.

  The first blow knocked the young werekynd back a pace, the second doubled him over. The third, a brutal haymaker, left him splayed on the ground. Vega didn’t stop there. He set in with his boot, snarling and spitting. The rest of the pack gathered slowly to watch, Vega’s supporters jeering, the others silent as they allowed the punishment to play out. It was the law of the pack – if a challenge was made there would be consequences.

  Eventually Saarl stepped forward.

  “That’s enough,” he said. Vega showed no signs of having heard him, continuing to slam his boot heel down on Ulthric. The young werekynd had curled up into a ball, grunting with pain.

  “I said that’s enough,” Saarl said, taking Vega by the shoulder. He spun furiously.

  “Don’t touch me, old dog,” he spat. His nose was inches from the pack leader’s, their eyes locked and fangs bared. For a single, torturous second it seemed as though the challenge for the pack’s leadership, so long anticipated, was finally about to play out. But after a
momentVega turned away.

  “You need to be more careful in future, Saarl,” he said, pacing over to where his sword was still embedded in the dead crowman boy. “These humans can bite.” He glanced at the bleeding gash in Saarl’s flank and grinned.

  Saarl said nothing, just limped to Ulthric’s side. The young man-beast groaned, barely conscious.

  “Can you walk?” Saarl asked. Ulthric murmured something incoherent.

  “Get up,” Saarl demanded. “We have no room for weaklings. And the rest of you,” he turned to address the pack. They were bloodied and some bore fresh wounds, yet none had fallen. The sudden and fury of their assault had seen the crowmen butchered wholesale.

  “We’re running out of time,” Saarl said, raising his voice. “You can all feed later. These won’t be the last humans to try and block our path to the Seers. We move further up the valley.”

  As the pack began to disperse Captain Aria’s unwelcome voice rang out once more.

  “Good work, Saarl,” he said, striding towards the longfang. The man’s plate mail was unblemished.

  “I trust we’re to make camp here?” he asked, addressing Saarl as though speaking to one of his slave-hands. “You do realise nightfall is drawing near?”

  “We carry on,” the longfang said. “The crowmen will be less active in the darkness, and we have a better chance of reaching the Seers.”

  “But what if – “ Aria began. Saarl cut him short.

  “It was your Duke Lorenzo who hired us, and your Duke Lorenzo who wants his daughter rescued from the Seers. The sooner our contract is fulfilled the sooner you can crawl back to him and claim your own snivelling reward.”

  Aria bristled, his haughty features turning an odd shade of puce. He took a pace forward, but the low growls of the werekynd around him stifled any outrage he cared to voice. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Then we go on.”

  * * *

  At birth Ulthric had torn his mother limb from limb. His father would doubtless have opened his skull with a woodsman’s axe, had it not been for the laws of the Protectorates. The werekynd were not to be harmed, for fear that such cruelty would bring down the wrath of the packs. Because of this the young half-thing was spared, and cast out into the Tanglewild to live or die as nature decreed.

  She chose life, and the succour of the pack. The raggedy werekynd child was ten years old when they found him – snarling, savage, lost to the transformational urges. They taught him the truth of what he was. Had they not picked up his scent it was unlikely he would have survived another season with his sanity intact.

  Nearly four years on and Ulthric still had not found his place among the pack. His smell was foreign, his lack of control a source of scorn. Only Saarl showed him any patience, and even then it was sparing. The old longfang couldn’t afford weakness with the likes of Vega around.

  Vega. Every day he drew more and more supporters to his cause. His disgust at Ulthric’s presence was common knowledge. What would become of him if Vega usurped Saarl and took control?

  The doubts refused to leave the young werekynd as they pressed deeper into the valley. Walking was painful after Vega’s ministrations. He didn’t dare complain though. If he couldn’t go on he’d be abandoned.

  “Do you think the Seers know we’re coming?” Ulfhelm, one of Saarl’s stalwarts, wondered aloud. Vega scoffed loudly.

  Of course they’ll know. They’re Seers!”

  “You don’t seriously believe in the power of prophecy?” Captain Aria mocked from the rear of the column. “The crow valley Seers were proven to be frauds centuries ago!”

  “Then how did they snatch your Duke’s daughter from under his nose?” Vega countered. Aria didn’t reply, and the werekynd laughed.

  “Quiet,” Saarl said. “Vrak, do you smell that?”

  Vrak, another of Saarl’s old fangs, possessed the keenest senses of anyone in the pack. He stood stock still, eyes closed, nostrils flared, breathing in the chill night air.

  “A cooking fire,” he said. ‘Woodsmoke, meat. Mountain hare I think. Less than a mile ahead.”

  “As I thought,” Saarl said. “More crowmen. Stay quiet, keep controlled, and follow me.”

  It wasn’t long before the rest of the pack caught the scent. Ulthric felt his fingertips beginning to itch again.

  “Up there,” Aria hissed, for once showing a degree of stealth. A dull glow was visible on the westernmost valley side, flickering eerily in the encroaching darkness.

  “A fire,” Saarl said. “Hayka, Vrak, Ulthric, come with me. Vega and the rest, stay here until called.”

  Vega growled, but said nothing. Saarl lead his chosen band in the climb up the valley side.

  It was hard going. The slopes were little more than unstable scree and broken rock, and in the darkness it was almost impossible to be certain of a good footing. There were no stars, and a blanket of heavy cloud hid the twin moons. The only point of reference was the flickering firelight above, growing closer with each uncertain step.

  Ulthric’s body was in mounting agony, the pain of his injuries becoming more apparent as the night’s cold ate into his bones. As they climbed he wondered whether the only reason Saarl had chosen him was because if he’d been left behind Vega may have finished what he’d started. He felt shamed and angry, as much with himself as with the rest of the pack – he’d sworn he would not lose control again. True, the full shift hadn’t occurred, but it had been close. He had felt the wild savagery of the beast just below his skin, fighting to be free. He could feel it now, that accursed itch set off by the prospect of bloodshed. The beast within was sullen, biding its time.

  “That’s coming from inside the rock,” Saarl said. Ulthric glanced up and saw that the pack leader was right. Upon close it was clear that the fiery glow was emanating from within the slope itself.

  “A cave,” Saarl said. “Vrak?” The hunter shrugged.

  “Definitely crowmen, but not many. It doesn’t smell like a trap to me.”

  The firelight revealed what Saarl had already guessed – the jagged entrance to a cave, itself little more than a hollowing in the scree slump. They approached it silently. The longfang had only to nod.

  There was a howl, a scream, and a wet ripping sound. By the time Ulthric made it inside it was already over. Two crowmen, or rather the remains of two crowmen, were smeared across the floor. Their fire cast a hellish, bloody light over the entire scene, glinting off the werekynd’s bared fangs.

  “There are more,” Vrak growled, motioning towards the back of the cave. There was a crack in the wall there, barely wide enough for a man to fit through. Beyond it was only darkness.

  “Ulthric,” Saarl said, plucking one of the burning sticks out of the fire and handing it to him. “You’re the smallest. See what’s through there.”

  “It’s definitely human,” Vrak said, sniffing. “But it smells different.”

  Face a mask of determination, Ulthric edged up to the crack, shoving the torch in first. He squeezed in after it, fangs gritted at the pain flaring in his damaged ribs.

  The sight that greeted him beyond the opening caused him to come up short. Four sets of eyes stared back at him in mute terror.

  “What is it?” Saarl growled.

  “More humans,” Ulthric replied.

  “Crowmen?”

  “No. I think they’re prisoners.”

  The four humans looked like a family, one man, one woman and two children, boy and girl. They were all bound and gagged, and shaking with terror.

  “Stand aside,” Saarl said, forcing himself in after Ulthric. He glared down at the prone, helpless four.

  “These aren’t crowmen. Must be Protectorate serfs. Probably taken during a raid. They’re lucky they haven’t been sacrificed yet.”

  “What do we do with them?” Ulthric asked. “They’ll slow us down.”

  “We’ll get rid of them before – “

  “Saarl, are you in there?” came Aria’s voice from
the cave entrance. Saarl cursed quietly.

  “Have you found something?” the Captain said. “I heard something about prisoners?” Saarl turned sharply back into the first cave. Captain Aria was waiting for him, his unblemished armour gleaming in the firelight.

  “I thought I told you to stay…” Saarl began. It was only then that he noticed Vega, standing behind the Captain. He was grinning. Aria raised an expectant eyebrow.

  “There are four more humans in the second cave,” Saarl admitted. “Alive. I think they’re prisoners. Serfs, it seems.”

  “Then we’ll have to take them with us,” Aria said.

  “They’ll slow us down,” Saarl began, but Aria shook his head vigorously.

  “I will not abandon the Duke’s people in a place like this, werekynd. They come with us, or our contract ends here.”

  “So be it,” Saarl growled. As Ulthric followed him out he caught Vega’s eye. The big werekynd’s vicious grin never wavered.