Takeo's Chronicles, page 156
Cyrus hadn't understood everything Ven had talked about, but he had caught enough to realize two things. Firstly, he was incredibly lucky to have a mentor like Ven. Unlike everyone else, she took a great interest in him, taking Nathok’s instructions to teach him to heart. She was unconventional by elven standards—that was for sure—but Cyrus supposed that was part of the reason she’d taken up the task in the first place. He didn’t know what he’d done to earn her dedication, but he never forgot it. How could he when there was no one else?
Secondly, it was fear that held him back from saving his mother, and in some way or another, he needed to conquer this fear. Admittedly, he had no idea how he was to do this, but he knew a good place to start. Challenging his stepfather might be too overwhelming, but challenging his former bullies? It was worth a shot.
The Phizeiros brothers scaled a steep yet short hill and disappeared. They were skirting a mountain’s edge as they approached their village on the western side. Not too much longer and they’d reach the patrol fringes where riders atop winged hippogriffs would have been soaring through the treetops if not for the storm. As such, Cyrus reckoned he had just a little more time than usual to track the brothers. He didn’t want to be spotted, that was certain. Tracking elves in werewolf form was a deadly game, as Cyrus was liable to get an arrow through the eye or neck if he screwed this up. He didn’t actually intend to do anything other than follow the brothers, as that was dangerous enough.
But then again, so was challenging his stepfather.
Cyrus slipped from under cover and made his way through the rain, mud, and underbrush, following the elves by a combination of intuition and scent. In the relative safety of being out of eyesight, Cyrus let his mind wander on his last-thought word: stepfather. It was a title Ralph wore proudly, always certain to remind Cyrus that he was an abandoned child, unwanted and unloved. Cyrus had only asked once whom his real father was, only to have Ralph lay down a stream of accusations about Belen’s loose past and questionable morals, concluding with how lucky Cyrus was that he had a stepfather who could forgive and shelter a whore and her bastard son.
Belen didn’t talk about Cyrus’ father. By her expressions, he detected a painful memory. At bare minimum, it seemed that Ralph was right. Cyrus and his mother had been abandoned. There was no evidence to the contrary.
The pain from that thought didn’t hurt so much these days. Having no memory of a father and having always lived this way, Cyrus didn’t know what it would feel like to have the opposite. He saw other children, both werewolves and elves, with loving and accepting families, yet he was smart enough to recognize families with fathers, or even mothers, not much different from Ralph. As much as Cyrus dreamed of having a family worthy of the term, he couldn’t convince himself that one existed for him. As often as he dreamed of having a father who was bold, courageous, and loving, not one of those words could describe a man who would leave his child behind. During times like this, Cyrus felt that no one was looking out for him, and he could rely on no one but himself.
Then his thoughts turned dark, and he had to remember Ven’s words.
“Forge your own path and strive to be better.”
Cyrus caught a flash of dark green movement—one of the cloaks worn by the elves. His heart skipped, and he refocused his attention on the task at hand. His werewolf form was a wonderous aid in this regard, as his paws ended in pads that softened his steps and his fur was as dark as the night around him. Normal werewolves had the extra boon of having gray eyes, which didn’t reflect the moonlight or lightning flashes so much, but Cyrus wasn’t so lucky. His two forms blended for some reason, granting him gray eyes in human form and one blue eye and one brown eye as a werewolf. He didn’t know why, and no one else either seemed to know or would tell him, though Ralph swore it had something to do with Belen trying to give him away as a baby. Cyrus didn’t remember that, and Belen swore it wasn’t true. He just chalked it up to Ralph trying to be cruel, as usual.
The memory proved Cyrus’ undoing as his paw hit a patch of mud with an air pocket inside. The layer squished under his step, so soft Cyrus barely heard it, despite being right on top of it.
Katar whirled on the noise with his younger brother shadowing the movement, yet glanced about without direction.
“What is it?” Urddusk asked, pressing up against his brother’s back.
“We’re being followed. I’m sure of it this time,” Katar replied.
“All the more reason to press on?”
Katar shook his head, shedding water from his cloak.
“It’s keeping pace. Too quiet for a centaur. Could be a kobold or a werewolf.”
“Werewolf? This far north? It couldn’t be a clan of them. Our scouts would have seen them approaching before the storm.”
“Could be just one, then.”
Katar said this absentmindedly, as if he knew the words were a joke until they left his mouth. The brothers shared a glance, and Katar touched a hand to his face, right where Cyrus had struck him so long ago. The two drew tighter, nocked arrows, and retreated slowly.
Cyrus swore internally.
Yet before he could think much more on this, a new scent crossed his nostrils. Faint and lost a moment later, it was enough to provoke his instincts. He sniffed as quietly as possible, drawing the damp air down his long snout. He closed his eyes and tasted the smell, letting it draw forth his memories so that he might identify its origin.
His eyes flew open.
Bugbear.
Cyrus’ hair stood on end, and a flash of cold sweat rushed over his body. His tail was tucked between his legs, and he had to fight the urge to run. By scent alone, he had no idea where the bugbear was at, but since the air was still, he determined the beast must be close. One look at the Phizeiros brothers revealed that, wherever the creature was, it was motionless, as neither elf showed signs of having heard it.
Indecision wracked Cyrus, as he debated sticking his head out and yelling at them to run, but then he remembered how his vocal cords didn’t work so well as a werewolf. The best he could hope to do was howl. They might run if he did that, or they might shoot him. At worst, his howl would only signal the bugbear and doom them all. All the while, the scent neither grew nor faded, and Cyrus dared hope that nothing would come of it.
Then it was Urddusk's turn to make a false step. In his backwards retreat along the hill’s ridge, his heel caught the tip of a large boulder sticking up from far below. At least, it looked like a boulder in the dark night, sheltered beneath the ridge, yet the thud was duller than it should have been for solid rock. Urddusk immediately noticed the difference. Katar heard it, too, and both retracted from the boulder.
Then it moved.
Without light and lacking a werewolf’s sense of smell, neither brother could know what they had unearthed in that moment. Both elves mistook the shadow for their pursuer and loosed arrows into it, and by then it was too late for Cyrus to do anything. Not even a howl would frighten them away in time as the dark mound unfurled, revealing its true size.
The bugbear was a black mass in the storm. Its short, thick fur was fully drenched and partially covered in mud, while its bulky head and short snout were mounted upon a neck thicker around than most humans. Despite standing a human body’s length below its attackers, the bugbear soon towered over the brothers, and its arms stretched wide to either side. Large claws attached to equally large paws glinted in the flashes of lightning. Rage consumed the bugbear, and it let loose a monstrous roar that made Cyrus quiver despite his distance from the scene.
Katar and Urddusk, pale and shaking in the paralysis of terror, recovered and screamed as the bugbear brought up a stubby arm to crush them where they stood. The elves dived apart, and not a moment too soon as the paw slammed down and sent a small tremor through the area. Katar tumbled away clean, but Urddusk stumbled, and the bugbear swept his paw in that brother’s direction. A stray claw caught his ankle, flipping Urddusk over and sending him sliding down the short hill.
The bugbear climbed out of the rut where it had been sleeping and let loose another bestial snarl. Its bulge of a head leveled at Urddusk, and it took one harrowing step forward before Katar shouted. Katar hastily drew an arrow and loosed it, the shot hitting just off the mark beneath the bugbear’s sunken and beady eyes. The shaft skirted along the cheekbone, drawing blood before disappearing into the storm, but the monster hardly noticed. Katar made one more useless shout as the bugbear raised its paw to crush Urddusk into the ground.
Cyrus hesitated for one heartbeat.
The bugbear’s paw came crashing down, missing Urddusk by a fraction of a second as a second mass of wet fur, muscle, and teeth struck the elf and vaulted them both out of harm’s way. Cyrus whirled about as he held the younger elf brother close, breaking their fall by landing on his back and sliding through the mud and leaves. Urddusk recovered from his near-death experience, only to scream as he recognized his savior.
Cyrus flung the elf aside, dimly aware of Katar hastily nocking another arrow. The bugbear dashed unperturbed toward its escaping prey, an impressive burst of speed for its size, and reached back for another massive swipe.
He didn’t hesitate this time. Cyrus understood what he’d gotten himself into the moment he’d left cover. There would be no running or hiding now or even carrying the brothers to safety, not against this beast of the forest.
Cyrus launched himself at the bugbear before it could swing.
Werewolf jaws clamped onto the creature’s throat, surprising the bugbear and causing it to reel back and roar. Wet fur and blood filled Cyrus’ mouth while his body was tossed about, his head rattling with the throaty vibrations of the bugbear's roar. He dug his claws into the bugbear’s chest and raked, trying to find purchase so he could rip out a chunk of flesh with his teeth, but he wasn’t fast enough. The bugbear swung about and caught Cyrus with a paw.
A claw the size of a large dagger rammed into Cyrus’ shoulder, making him lose his hold on the bugbear’s throat as he howled in pain. The bugbear’s swipe, intended to fling Cyrus into the storm, instead only swung him about, the dagger-like claw holding him tight. The other paw caught hold and slammed against Cyrus, snapping a rib and holding him in place. Cyrus yelped, then snapped at the creature, tearing into the corner of one paw, but the bugbear only snarled and bared its fangs. It opened its massive jaws to tear Cyrus in two, its hot breath filling the air about the werewolf and giving him a glimpse into the bottomless pit that was its stomach. A gut-wrenching terror ripped through Cyrus’ body.
Then an arrow shaft split the darkness and burrowed into the bugbear’s left eye.
The creature yelped, then howled in pain, dropping Cyrus to the ground. It swiped at the shaft, breaking it and driving the point further into its skull. It screamed, as much as its thick vocal cords would allow, and then whimpered. It hit the mud on all fours and burst off into the darkness. The thunder of its retreat faded into the distance as the rain and thunder continued to pour down undisturbed. Cyrus barely noticed, so weak was his body from loss of blood. He pressed down on his shoulder the best he could, gnashing his teeth against the pain. Breathing grew difficult as two short figures loomed over him.
“Good shot,” Urddusk said, “and you were right. A werewolf was following us.”
Katar didn’t say anything. Cyrus let loose a low, involuntary whine.
“He saved me,” Urddusk said, astonished. “I can’t believe it. Look at the eyes; it’s Cyrus. Do you think he even knows what he did? He’s just an animal.”
Still, Katar remained silent. Through Cyrus’ fading vision, he saw Katar tighten his grip on his bow.
“What do we do?” Urddusk continued. “He looks bad. I don’t think he’s going to make it. We should really get going. This storm is getting worse. You think, maybe, before we go, we should, you know, put him out of his misery? It’d be the merciful thing to do. Better that than to let him suffer, don’t you think?”
Katar looked to his brother, held the gaze, then swiveled back to Cyrus. A tear rolled down the werewolf’s cheek, imperceptible as it mixed with the rain.
“We carry him,” Katar said.
“What? But—”
“I said we carry him!”
Cyrus closed his eyes as soft elven hands slipped about his blood- and mud-soaked body to bear him aloft.
World of Myth XII
A Legend Falls
Prologue
Qadir, the most insulting thing about the pillows he sat upon was the fact that he had to sit. With a missing foot and only six fingers left on his body, standing was out of the question. He could have sat on stone, but that was seen as a peasant thing, and Qadir would not be mistaken for one of the common masses. He was a rakshasa, and to make up for his deformity, he made sure to always appear in his true form, with orange fur and bared fangs lest anyone make the mistake of thinking him an invalid.
Qadir wasn’t old enough to remember the time before, when humanity had been subjugated and served the rakshasa race, but it was recent enough that vivid stories circulated among his kind. Tales of lavish excess, of drinking human blood like wine, and of spending days lounging on thrones of comfort not unlike that which he sat upon now. It was their rightful place, owed to them through superior strength and intellect. It was a black stain on their history that they had ever lost that position.
In the back of his mind, Qadir knew that’s why the female had not come to him. That rakshasa cub he had summoned at the jinni’s cave would have been full grown within the year, and she would be far too intelligent not to know of his existence and far too powerful to be barred from seeking him out. Yet she had not come, and Qadir knew why. She had watched him be made into a cripple by the hands of a human. Even if that human had been aided by jinni powers, there was no greater shame. Hunters do not submit to the hunted. Rakshasas do not bend to lesser creatures. The female would know that, even if she’d never spent a day with another of her kind.
And so, it stood to reason that this throne of pillows, with all the status it should have implied, served only to remind Qadir of his weakness. The only solace he had was that the ronin had not taken his greatest weapon of all: his mind.
To add insult to injury, Qadir didn’t even have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity. To do that required time and solitude, and he was afforded neither between the prying Nguyen royalty pleading for their lives and the bloodthirsty ronin charging out with an army the likes of which Juatwa hadn’t seen in an age. The storm was brewing no longer; it had arrived, and it was a tempest—a tempest of fire, brought forth by a human with short black hair and even blacker eyes.
The thought of which made Qadir shudder, and that made him ashamed.
“My lord,” Aiguo Mein said from the rakshasa’s side, “did you hear me? Takeo gathers his army along our southern border. From the reports, I believe his intention is to spearhead an assault straight for the Nguyen fortress, to us. As he did with the Katsus, he wants to cut the head off the body.”
“I could have told you that without the reports,” Qadir replied, sighing and rubbing his forehead with his one good hand. “It is his style, to aim for the throat. He has no flair for the extravagant. Tactful is not in his vocabulary. To think I’m being backed into a corner by such a brute.”
“The necessity of winning, my lord,” Aiguo pressed.
“Need not be stated,” Qadir replied, adding a growl at the end.
There was a time when his disapproval had caused men to fall to their knees. With one glance, Qadir had silenced hordes of hardened veterans. Then the ronin came along, and now it seemed everyone had something else to fear. Even Aiguo, kneeling within arm’s reach of a rakshasa, was so afraid of Takeo that he did not flinch at Qadir’s aggravation.
The shame in Qadir’s stomach deepened, as well as his resolve.
“Xianliang awaits your orders,” Aiguo went on. “He wants to know where to send our troops.”
“That’s because he is a fool. Anyone with a half a brain should understand by now that Takeo thrives off pitched battles. I should have realized this when he held off the Katsu army with only fifty men, but I was hopeful. Takeo’s entire persona has been built off thrusting himself into impossible situations where defeat and victory stand in totality. It’s only because of this that he is so powerful now, and I’ll not make the same mistake again. Twice already—twice—he has turned my victories into defeat, and this time will be the last, one or the other. I will not risk a pitched battle against him, not again. If I were leading an army of my kind, then it would be different, or if the ronin didn’t have his damned sword, then it’d be different. However, as things stand, only a fool would meet that fiend head-on. I don’t care about the damned Nguyen at this point. I just want to see that man defeated!”
Qadir clenched his jaw and snarled, regretting the emotional display yet feeling powerless to stop it. In some sense, he understood that he was hinging on insanity. Caught between the feelings of ineptitude and defeat, fear and loathing, his control over his own mind was starting to fray. He, a rakshasa, was losing his grip, and he didn’t know if he wanted to stop it.
Perhaps it was better to be mad than afraid.
“You’ve heard the rumors?” Qadir whispered.
“My lord?”
“The rumors, what they’re calling him. They called him ‘lord’ before, despite lacking title, lands, or servants, so his enemies tried to taunt him by calling him a dark lord. Who’d have thought his followers would love the idea. The Dark Lord, that’s what they’re calling him. The ronin dons a mantle of fear as he descends upon this place. It’s exactly, precisely, what I should be doing instead. Look at you, Aiguo. Even you have fallen prey to his persona. This land should fear me, not him.
“The daimyo hide, unwilling to join either army lest they stick their neck out for his sword. The ninjas, as much as they hate him for wiping out a clan, are too afraid to take any contract against him. Even those who follow him, as those who once followed me, only do so in awe of his terrible power. You may wonder why I’m saying this, Aiguo, but soon you will understand.
