Blood of the Moon - Chapter 3

Cepnir opened his eyes, initially wondering why he was already standing. And then why he was outside in his bedclothes.

The sky above was an evening’s dark blend of red and orange and yellow, the green canopies of the trees ineffectively obscuring the spectrum. A breeze, presumably too high to be felt, was trying to pull the leaves from their homes.

Cepnir wandered around, imbued with a faint familiarity - though another feeling began to grow. Eventually he stopped, and looked down at his bare feet. The grass was passing through them unhindered, with no sign of damage. He crouched down and felt the ground with his hands. They passed through the green blades without effect, akin to their reaction (or rather lack of) with his feet, but were halted by the soil. Confused, he shifted into his wolf form to test his sense of smell. He lifted his head, inhaled, paused, and inhaled again. The scents of the forest were stirring one of his memories, making the sense of familiarity grow. And then the breeze carried a new scent to him.

Already dreading what he would see, Cepnir felt his eyes compelled towards the source. He saw them slightly before he heard them, a pack of wolves – nine adults of mixed gender in a circle around an adult female and a young male barely more than a cub.

The Queen’s Guard, the Queen and Cepnir himself at an age of fourteen years.

The older Cepnir leapt into their path and growled towards them, trying to get them to stop. They ignored him, as if they could not sense him, the feeling bolstered when they walked through him without change of pace.

He tried again, this time running ahead and shifting into human form. He turned to face them with arms spread wide and pleaded for them to turn back.

You cannot change their fate.

When the captain of the Queen’s Guard stopped, Cepnir dared to hope that he had been heard. But the breeze had just carried a scent to the captain’s nose, and she lifted her nose higher to try to identify it.

Thrum.

A crossbow bolt sprouted from the captain’s exposed neck and she collapsed to the ground.

The werewolves further back started to shift into human form.

“Am-”

Thrum. Two dead.

The Queen’s Guard in instinctive tandem fitted bolts to their crossbows and set the strings. They were forming an outfacing circle and moving to remain equidistant. Even the Queen was preparing her crossbow, made difficult by crouching and holding the younger Cepnir close.

Thrum. The bolt embedded itself in one of the guards’ crossbows.

Thrum. Three.

The wildlings came into view – all male. Their numbers dwarfed those of the surrounded Queen’s Guard by over three to one. Many charged forward in wolf form. Others stayed back with crossbows poised to kill.

Thrum. The Queen’s Guard finally fired back. Six wildlings were hit. Five killed. One wielding a crossbow.

Thrum. One of the Queen’s Guard was hit in the arm, the crossbow dropped.

Cepnir – the elder – shifted into lycan form and lunged out at a wildling approaching. The wildling continued untouched.

The Queen’s Guard reloaded their crossbows as they guided their wards to a tree. Except for the one injured who instead shifted to lycan form and made towards a crossbow wielding wildling.

Thrum. He was shot in the leg and fell to the ground.

Thrum. Four.

With crossbows loaded, the Queen’s Guard and the Queen herself drew their swords. The defensive circle tightened.

Thrum. Five.

Thrum. Five wildlings killed. Two wielding crossbows.

Cepnir shifted to human form and fired his own crossbow. The bolt went through the target wildling.

Nothing can change the past. Not truly.

He blinked and looked down. He was dressed for battle.

Thrum. Cepnir turned back towards the Queen’s Guard. Six.

Cepnir rushed into the midst of the battle. The Queen’s Guard and Queen had discarded their crossbows. The wildlings were too close for reloading.

The Guard crouched and stabbed with their swords into the charging mass. In the same manoeuvre, they discarded the blades and shifted to lycan form.

Cepnir placed himself beside the memory of his mother, arms spread wide defensively, remembering what happened next.

Thrum.

Cepnir dropped to his knees. Behind him his mother cried out in pain and dropped her sword.

Your past is set in stone.

Cepnir watched, defeated, as the wildlings clawed the head and neck of one of the few Queen’s Guard still standing. Seven.

One of the last guards found the strength to throw the wildlings off him. He was bleeding from multiple ‘light’ wounds.

Thrum. Thrum.

Even with two bolts in his chest, he somehow remained standing – though barely. The wildlings kept their distance, wary of the unexpected burst of strength.

Thrum. The bolt took him in the neck. Eight.

The last of the Queen’s Guard was quickly overwhelmed, her strength not enough to surpass that of four wildlings who had her pinned to the ground.

The Queen picked up her own sword from where it had landed and lifted herself into a stand, using the younger Cepnir and the tree for support.

The wildling alpha stood before the pinned guard. One holding her growled something, but the alpha simply shook his head.

Nine.

Filled with anger, Cepnir drew his sword and slashed at the wildling alpha. Again and again he struck, but the sword may as well have not been in Cepnir’s hand for all it accomplished.

The alpha turned to the Queen, looked her up and down and traced the path of the bolt that was embedded in her flank with his eyes. He shifted to human form and motioned for the crossbowman to approach. When they were close enough, the alpha snatched the loaded crossbow and brought it to bear.

Thrum.

The alpha reloaded the crossbow from the corpse’s supply of bolts. He aimed towards the younger Cepnir.

“Put down your blade.”

The Queen complied, and several wildlings stepped forward. They tied the Queen and Prince’s wrists behind them with rope and blindfolded them with cloth. The memory suddenly became veiled in darkness.

“If either of you even dare try to call or run for help, we will cut the little prince’s throat open.”

Cepnir moved a hand to his neck, feeling the echo of cold, sharp metal pressed against his skin.

“You. When we are far enough away, burn the bodies and this spot and then catch up to us. I want no trace of our scents left here.”

The Prince found himself alone in the darkness. Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. Nothing to touch. Nothing to smell. He found himself feeling around the inside of his mouth with his tongue and grasping his arms just to ensure that he himself was there. Wherever ‘there’ was (he had both an idea and doubts).

You have a new foe to face.

A flame suddenly rose up out of the darkness. Cepnir was forced to shield his eyes and blink.

You must see the path you have to take.

Cepnir pulled his hand away and watched the flame. It was growing.

You must not show fear. Though do not be foolish.

The fire began to take on a shape. A wolf.

You do not yet have the strength to win this battle alone.

Cepnir brought his crossbow up and aimed.

Know your friends. Know your enemies.

He paused. The fire was beginning to spread from the fire wolf’s paws.

Yes... she is your enemy...

Cepnir fired his crossbow. The bolt flew forwards.

It stopped before it struck.

And then turned to point back at Cepnir.

The past may be unchangeable, but the future...

The bolt flew back towards Cepnir.



Cepnir woke, gasping, and felt at his chest.

There was no trace of the bolt. Or a wound.

Ipnac swiftly rose from where he lay beside the bed and threw open the drapes. His free hand was aiming a primed crossbow. Cepnir grimaced at the sight of it.

Seeing his ward unharmed (though shaken) and in no danger, Ipnac removed the bolt from the crossbow and placed both on the floor against the wall. “Nightmare?”

Cepnir nodded and moved to the edge of the bed as Ipnac moved to the window and peeked through the curtains. He returned a moment after and poured a glass of water for the Prince from the jug left on the table beside the bed. “The Sun is still a while from rising; I would guess at three hours.”

Cepnir again nodded and sipped at the water. Three hours. He did not feel tired: it had been a day of his lessons with his father (on duties and responsibilities as king) and out of listlessness he had gone to sleep early. Nor did he wish to try to go to sleep with the risk of another nightmare. Cepnir looked wistfully at the empty bed behind him – his nightmares always seemed lessened when Evol was with him.

Evol, her parents and the mage representative (Cepnir made a mental note to ask after his name next time) had left the palace a few days ago, on the tail of the mobilised werewolf forces. The couple-to-be had argued the night before – over waiting until marriage to mate – and though they reconciled in the morning, with Cepnir promising to wed the next available instant should another delay occur (full moon or no), he still felt uneasy. It was not that he felt Evol was in danger. On the contrary, as well as her parents and the representative, she was travelling with an honour guard composed of skilled mages and warriors, and self-defence rights extended the magical freedom of the mages while between settlements. In addition, since the Queen’s Guard massacre, there were more frequent patrols that checked the common routes for danger.

Thinking about the massacre brought the Prince’s mind back to his nightmares. He had nightmares about that day before, but even when Evol was distant, none that Cepnir could remember had that much clarity. Or the disembodied voice. Or the fire...

Cepnir downed the last of the water and pushed himself from the bed. The previous day’s clothes had already been taken away by the servants, forcing Cepnir to sift through his wardrobe himself.

“You wish to go hunting?” Ipnac asked as his Prince pulled out green and brown shaded hunting wear, his voice sounding his scepticism. Since the night Rucetir had been inducted into the Prince’s Guard, no one had been successful in their hunts – a co-ordinated sweep of the area was being planned. Even Heral was beginning to be suspicious.

When Cepnir nodded and closed the wardrobe, clothes draped over one arm, Ipnac sighed. “I shall wake the others and inform the Palace Guard and King’s Guard where we are.”



Beware the shadows.

Cepnir paused and tilted his head, lifting one ear higher in a vain attempt to hear the voice from his dream more clearly. Ipnac stopped and turned his lupine head to him, wordlessly asking what the Prince had heard.

Cepnir kept his ear raised a bit longer, but could only hear the rest of his Guard searching for a scent or trail, and so brought his ear back down and quickened his steps to catch up. Terrack and Coros were furthest forward (the group’s most experienced hunters), with Rucetir and Heral furthest back. Cepnir was in the centre; Ipnac, Feroc and Ilklis forming a loose, forward-pointing triangle around their ward.

They continued on for a while, and just when Cepnir considered calling a halt, Terrack suddenly stopped and lifted his head towards the bushes to his right.

Then he growled and took an aggressive stance.

A shadow leapt from the foliage at Terrack, the former member of the Queen’s Guard reared up to avoid the creature’s black jaws. He came back down in lycan form, bringing two feral fists with him. The shadow sprawled onto the ground, limbs splayed.

Terrack edged away as the creature rose back to a crouch. It had the shape of a werewolf in lycan form, but that was where the similarities ended. Its fur was same midnight black throughout: no pattern, no markings, no change in shade. The teeth and mouth were the same, as if the creature was made from pure darkness. The only difference in its coloration was in its soulless eyes, somehow seeming even darker.

When the creature made to strike at Terrack again, Coros, who by this time had changed to his human form, loosed a bolt into its neck, throwing it onto its side. Black drops fell from the wound, but when they began falling from elsewhere and the creature seemed to be getting smaller, Cepnir realised the creature was dissolving.

“Ilklis! Feroc! Forward with Terrack and I!” Ipnac’s commands caused quick glances in the direction the group had originally been heading. More shadow lycans had appeared, apparently having waited in ambush. “Rucetir – show no weakness – you and Heral on our flanks! Coros, watch our backs!” Ipnac briefly shifted to lycan form to howl, and then shifted back.

The Prince’s Guard swiftly responded and moved into position. Ipnac, Feroc and Heral fired bolts into the oncoming mass: three of the creatures were hit and fell, slowing the dark tide behind them. A shot from Rucetir caused another to stumble, but it was able to resume its charge. Ilklis made to throw a knife, but then reconsidered and kept it to hand. Cepnir and Coros both had their crossbows primed, but lacked a clear shot.

As the shadows closed on the forward line, Ipnac and Feroc loosed a last bolt each, threw their crossbows into the swarm and drew their swords in time to stab into the nearest foes. They sliced their blades through, out, and into another pair, before they joined Terrack and Ilklis (who had felled another pair) in lycan form.

With progress slowed at the front and centre, the nearest creatures began to surround them. The rest went around, going for the defenders further back; allowing the latter to safely fire. Running short of room, they loosed a single volley before forming a outward circle, each mimicking Ipnac and Feroc as the darkness closed in.

Cepnir lashed out a hand as one of the shadows leapt at him, grasping it by the neck and slamming it down onto another. A third took the opportunity and clamped down on the exposed arm, drawing blood. With his free hand, Cepnir gripped the creature’s upper jaw and wrenched it away, ‘killing’ its owner.

There was no respite, as one of the previous two latched its jaws onto the Prince’s ankle. Cepnir made to stab downwards, but the other creature grabbed his hand with one of its own and pulled it away, throwing Cepnir off balance. He threw himself sideways to avoid the creature’s slash and fell onto his back, a spike of pain darting from his ankle as the flesh was torn further.

He kicked out at the shadow lycan lunging for his ankle again, stunning it just as the one still standing stabbed down. Cepnir intercepted the claw with both of his and kicked upwards with his good foot. No bone broke, but the creature’s head was thrown far enough back to tear open the throat.

Cepnir half-rolled sideways to his feet and lashed out at the nearest creature in sight. With the new found space he rose to a stand, just before the creature behind him latched onto his ankle (again) and pulled the Prince face-first to the ground.

He attempted to push himself back up, only for shadow lycans to pounce and pin him down. Claws and teeth dug into his skin and he yelped as he struggled to shake the creatures off. Too many were on him, his struggles getting nowhere as his flesh was torn further.

Cepnir heard the rapid steps before the creatures were wrenched off him, before a furred hand gently slapped his senses clear. Ipnac was crouched over him, a worried expression on his lycan face. Splotches of blood marked his otherwise white chest fur, and though they were fresh, the wounds were already healed over. Behind Ipnac, Cepnir could just make out two more of his Guard still fighting. Others he could hear to the sides and behind.

He groaned against the pain as he forced his body to repair itself, closing the wounds on his arm, back and ankle. A spike of nausea flew into his stomach and he lifted himself from the ground in time as bile climbed to his mouth. A human Ipnac supported the Prince as Cepnir retched onto the grass, the smell of the first batch alone bringing out a second. He was handed a waterskin, the water from which he poured into his mouth and spat back out, clearing out the vile dredges. A second helping he let travel down his throat before he handed the skin back to Ipnac who had already buried the bile.

The Prince made to rise, only for Ipnac to push down his ward’s shoulder. “Stay. You are injured.”

Cepnir growled at the command, resulting in Ipnac grasping his muzzle in one hand.

“You. Are. Injured. Fight, and you shall be a liability. Stay in the circle, and you shall be safe.” Ipnac roughly released his ward, rose back to a stand and drew his sword. “Feroc! Ilklis! Give me space!” He stabbed at a shadow lycan that attempted to exploit the gap before he shifted and joined the defence, letting loose another skyward howl.

Cepnir’s senses blurred as he rose to a stand, and he stumbled briefly as he tried to keep upright. His former wounds still ached where the flesh was healed; his back especially gave him grievance as the skin stretched. His Guard were all accounted for, in a defensive ring as they fought back the creatures. Feroc and Terrack both bore unhealed wounds, but neither seemed particularly hindered. Contrastingly, Coros and Ilklis displayed only a scattered few and Heral, though she showed some fatigue, appeared untouched. It was Rucetir who was the weakest link in the ring, and Cepnir believed the creatures were aware and focusing on him. Though he showed fewer wounds than Feroc and Terrack and his limbs were still swift to strike and defend, his pain and fatigue were becoming apparent in his posture and motion.

Occasionally a creature managed to get past the Prince’s Guard and attempted the Prince himself, sometimes two at a time. However, a quick (though a bit unbalanced) stab with his sword took them out of the battle, and even when two did strike simultaneously, Cepnir was easily able to defend against both.

During a pause between incursions, Cepnir glanced around at both his friends and foes. His first observation was that his Guard were nearing their limits, each bore reddened wounds and their fatigue was causing them to receive yet more. His second inverted his view on the tide of battle; though the creatures still had the numeric advantage (though it was hard to tell just how much so) and none showed any fatigue, Cepnir could tell that the horde was far smaller than when it had initially attacked.

“Prince’s Guard! We are winning! These creatures mimic our form, yet they fall while we still stand! Why?! Because we are werewolves! We are the Blood of the Moon! And we have her blessing! Stand strong! Strike swift! And we shall survive!” Cepnir shifted to lycan form and howled, holding onto it for as long as he could manage. Though out of harmony, each of his Guard joined a quick howl to his when they got the chance.

The werewolf prince shifted back to human form and looked around him once more. His Guard were reinvigorated, almost into a battle frenzy, having managed to find the strength to fight back both the creatures and their fatigue (though Cepnir had to admit that it could not last and that words could not heal wounds). Battle lust started to take root in Cepnir’s mind, and badly restrained energy leaked through into thought and motion.

“Rucetir! Get ready to fall back! Switch back in when you are ready!” Cepnir drew his sword and stepped into the circle beside Rucetir, stabbing at a shadow lycan before he shifted and punched away another. Gradually, he strafed closer and closer to Rucetir, and only when there was but a foot length between them did the latter step back and the former take his place.

As they continued to fight the horde began to thin out; what formerly appeared infinite evidently not. The Prince’s Guard continuously switched out their most fatigued, stretching the combat beyond what their stamina would normally allow – though it did not stop the toll the battle was taking. Howls for aid were frequently thrown to the heavens; but if there was a reply they were unable to hear or see it. Fortunately, it all ended soon enough; the last creature watched from a distance as its last sibling fell. Then fell itself when pierced by one of Ilklis’ knives.

Each werewolf stood wary as they waited for another attack if and when it came. When enough time had passed with no threat apparent, they each followed Ilklis’ lead and reverted to their human forms.

“Is being in the Prince’s Guard always like this?”

“No. Sometimes we have to defend our crown prince from himself.”

Cepnir turned to Ipnac. The captain’s eyes were fixed onto the Prince with ire.

“When we return and have reported this attack, we shall speak with your father about your disobedience.”

“I am-”

“-the prince of the werewolves. But I am the captain of your Guard. When it comes to your safety, you follow my command!”

Silence fell. Cepnir felt feral rage rising up, threatening to be released. Ipnac was watching, waiting for his ward to respond.

“Just my luck.”

Everyone turned to look. Ilklis was holding up the hem of his top – the fabric had been torn, evidently by one of the shadow lycans. Everyone else made a subtle gesture of irritation, with the exception of Feroc.

“Ilklis...” he spoke, drawing back everyone’s attention whilst pointing to his own waist. “Your skin...”

Ilklis frowned and lifted the hem higher for a clearer view. And then they all saw it. A single black line: the length about the width of a hand and as narrow as the edge of the bearer’s knives. Ilklis grimaced as he forced his body to remove the scar, the attempt, though a failure, evident by small, unnatural motions in the flesh. Heral moved near to investigate as Ilklis tried and failed again.

“Does this hurt?” she asked, as she pressed a finger to the scar. When Ilklis shook his head, she turned away. “Was anyone else wounded while human?”

An almost unanimous series of negatives met her question, except for Terrack who, seemingly oblivious, was in wolf form and silently focused elsewhere.

“Terrack. Were-”

A short but deep growl halted the half-asked question and silence fell again. Cepnir shifted to a wolf to sharpen his hearing, sounds formerly faint and indistinct were identified as howls. Howls of battle. Howls for aid. Howls of pain. The Prince looked about him; the rest of his Guard had also shifted to listen.

They had been so intent on the distant howls that, when one rose up much nearer and clearer, several of them were jolted out of their skin, shifting to humans and drawing their swords (having yet to reclaim the discarded crossbows). From the direction of the howl, something was moving through the trees towards them and as it got nearer, the shape separated into a small group of wolves. They paused and one stepped forward into clarity, shifting to human form with hands raised. The Prince and his Guard relaxed.

Ipnac, human, stepped forwards. “Ghurad? Why are you here?” He paused and peered at the werewolves further away. “Where are the King and the rest of your Guard?”

“The King is secure. He had sent me to bring Prince Cepnir to the safety of the palace. I assume you have already realised we are being attacked,” he added, noticing the scattered crossbows.

“We had just enough warning. What is the situation?”

“When I left, the palace had yet to be attacked, though that may or may not have change by now. The town however... they appeared out of nowhere; the place is in a panic. We have sent some of the Palace Guard to help restore order and repel the creatures. However, we can only send so many without comprising the safety of the palace.”

Ipnace nodded in silent agreement then turned away. “Prince’s Guard! Get your weapons and heal your wounds: we are escorting the Prince to safety then going to battle.”