The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

As the sun sank beneath the tree tops, the village of the Scarlet Hand stirred for the evening hunt.

Vidarr was the first one awake in the dormitories, dressed in dark, woolen clothes a single, leather spaulder that served as both a guard and a clip for the cloak wrapped around him. The fire in the hearth crackled as he read from a book with dimming eyes. Sleep coaxed him as he tried—and failed—to continue reading. He dozed.

The book slamming against the floor after it fell from his fingers jolted him back to life.

He had not obeyed his High Priest’s advice to rest. There were tomes scattered around him, some of them open to a specific page. One of them had a faded title on the spine, and leather bindings with metal embellishments: Common Procedures and Tactics of the Scarlet Neophyte. When he looked up from the book in his hand: The Shadow Syndicate: A History or a Foolery? he was surprised to find his brothers and sisters already bustling around the great house.

There were quips and jests made in murmurs, but aside from the occasional chuckle, the rooms were quiet; the loudest noise of all being the popping of the fire.

Smells of wolf flank being roasted with diced garlic wafted from the kitchen. Vidarr got up from his chair, slung his bow around his back, and walked to the hall with the kitchen’s entrance.

A tall, bulky elf was cooking the flanks on top of an iron rack over a pile of burning coals.

“What are you serving tonight, Will?” Vidarr asked politely, though he very well knew. It was dark in the kitchen, save for the light of the fire and a lantern hanging on the wall.

Will cleared his throat, and with a toothy grin, said, “Last month’s kill.” The light of the fire made his eyes sparkle. He swept aside some of his long, dark hair that fell to his back.

“We’re still eating that?” Vidarr frowned.

“We killed the beast while it was still a beast. You know how large they are. We’re down to the thighs tonight!” He offered a more energetic version of the same grin, but Vidarr did not share the enthusiasm. It was just as bad when they were getting through the arms.

“Hasn’t it spoiled by now?”

“Priest had me stuff it into salt barrels and wrap it in linen. I didn’t see any maggots when I pulled it out today. Well, not too many.”

Vidarr wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. He grunted and walked out of the kitchen, face turning a shade of green. The amount of Cursed in the lands were dwindling, but the Priest would only let them eat other animal meats in dire circumstances. There was something in the Cursed’s flesh—especially the blood—that gave them power, he said. Vidarr hated the irony of it all, even if it was true. Something invigorating hit your system after you digested a few bites of the meat. Nothing noticeable—no tufts of fur growing or blood-thirsty fangs—but it was certainly a way of sharpening your edge.

Ashara was sitting in a chair beside Vidarr’s in the living room, thumbing through one of the books absentmindedly.

He sat down and pulled out a whetstone to sharpen his dagger. A handful of others had drawn up to the fire, mostly younger assassins who were already dressed and were waiting for the hunt to start.

Dalibor was hunched over the flames, coaxing them to unnecessary heights with the poker. He was grinning like he always was—the sly grin that made Vidarr want to smack it off. “Do you suppose we’ll find the beast?” he asked to no one in particular.

Signy came from the dormitory stairs, straightening his wool jerkin. “Evening to you all,” he yawned warmly. A few murmurs responded.

Vidarr felt annoyed just by hearing Dalibor’s voice. He didn’t have the sleep or the patience. “I wouldn’t think so,” he said, “there’s no certainty the last one afflicted anyone to begin with. Our archers shot him four times, did they not?”

“Aren’t you an archer yourself?” Signy asked.

“I am,” Vidarr said. Ashara glanced at Vidarr nervously.

“Wouldn’t you have known, then?” Signy tossed in.

“One would think. I counted six arrows,” Dalibor added.

“That matters little. It was dark, and we paint our arrows black, and the fletchings are from ravens, or crows,” Vidarr said, recalling the days when he fletched arrows for hours as a young elf. “The fact still remains: that beast was wounded. If our daggers and arrows didn’t kill it, the transformation surely did. Tonight’s hunt is a waste. We will find dirt at the bottom of our soles, nothing more.”

“I lost my dagger to that beast, too. Two of us did,” one of them added—a neophyte with more muscle than wit. Everyone in the main room glanced at that assassin’s hip. His usual scabbard was removed and replaced with another to befit a lesser-looking weapon of cheap steel with a simple handle.

“Though the hunt is still noble. We’re guarding the lands, in a way,” Dalibor said.

“Who was the other who lost their blade, then?” Vidarr asked, ignoring his comment.

It was awhile before Vidarr worked it out. The look of sadness that glanced across Ashara’s face confirmed it. “Oh,” he muttered. “Apologies.” She nodded, reaching up to pick at one of her long, pale ears nervously. The silver in her eyes hardened as she stared into the fire.

Dalibor was taken aback. “Did you just apologize to her? She got what she deserved. Weak-minded, weak-bodied fool. A Cursed in the early stages, if there ever was one. Gods knew she was a traitor to begin with, just like her bastard of a sister.”

Ashara played the role that Dalibor wanted of her: ghost in the room.

Vidarr’s skin turned its own shade of scarlet. He stopped sharpening his dagger, knowing the angry trembling might very well cause him to cut himself. “We’re all bastards here, Dalibor. We all have the same name, and you have no right to talk to one of your own in that way. You deserve nothing more than to have Sinara Scarlet haunting you until the end of your ignorant days for saying that.” His voice was calm, though he knew if he said anymore it would shake.

“She’s not one of our own, and neither was her sister!” Standing, Dalibor dropped the poker into the fire. Embers flew from the crumbling logs. Signy had to duck to avoid one flying for his head.

The assassins looked at one another awkwardly while Vidarr sighed, unimpressed.

“It pains me to say it, but your blood is my blood, and it’s her blood and it was her sister’s blood, too. We’re all bastards, here,” he repeated. “Do you know your mother? Your father, even? No. For all you know it’s your High Priest, or another elder Hand. We’re just humble swords and marksmen with a hankering for wolf flank and a pure blood line. So stop pretending as if you’re royalty and she’s something you’re not.”

Dalibor huffed like a child, not sure if he was more angry at Vidarr for belittling their purpose of hunting Cursed, or accusing him of being ‘humble’. “But we don’t apologize to Cursed things, or outcasts, or traitors,” Dalibor persisted. “If she became afflicted, it was for good reason. Afimer marked her as one of them that night.”

Vidarr wanted nothing more than to stick his dagger through Dalibor’s side, though he sheathed the blade instead and got to his feet with his bow, intending to go to his dormitory before he said anything more that would cause him to lose his own head.

“You smell to me like a traitor, Vidarr,” Dalibor said to his back.

“And you like a sheep herder’s son. When was the last time you bathed, child?” he snapped. The rest of the room guffawed. It was only then that they noticed a crowd had gathered at the top of the stairs, looking down at them.

Vidarr did not suppress the triumphant grin behind his mask.

“Gods curse you, Vidarr. Where were you, truly, when that Cursed attacked? Where was the archer who should have known six arrows instead of four?” Dalibor asked loud enough that the Priest may have heard him in his cottage. Though it was pointless, he had made himself look like a fool.

Fortunately, Will called them all to dinner, his voice the loudest, incessantly cheery, echoing into the large dining hall.

The Hands went to seat themselves at the massive table, leaving behind Vidarr and Ashara.“You old fool,” she said, “that sort of talk will turn you to ashes like my sister. You’re lucky Dalibor seems no wiser than an angry child. If someone else had made those accusations—”

“He was insulting you, and your sister,” he interrupted.

Ashara grabbed his hand and stood up, not wanting his eyes to find the weakness behind hers. “I pray you do not say things like that anymore. Because when the time comes that you need someone to defend you, I won’t hesitate. And they need only half the reasons to kill me: the only true bastard of the Scarlets.”

With that, she walked away, and Vidarr was left there, staring down as he watched the flames heat the end of the poker to a bright, orange hue. He nudged the metal out of the embers. Even he could not help but wonder where Ashara got her eyes, or her hair.

“Ouch!” Vidarr sucked on the tiny wound where a thorn had pricked him. “I can’t see piss in this darkness.”

“Are you coming or not?” Ashara whispered through a bush. They were sifting their way through the Duskenwood Forest after being rallied by the High Priest just an hour before.

“I will, once you lend me your torch. Mine isn’t enough to go by.” Ashara slowed her pace to wait for him, while the rest of the elves kept moving forward, their torches flickering in the distance like shrinking fireflies.

“There,” Vidarr said, as he lit Ashara’s torch with the flame from his own. “Your eyes put starlight to shame. It would be damnable if we were all deprived of seeing them.”

Ashara grinned sheepishly behind her mask. “Thank you,” she said with a laugh. Her hand tightened around the wood, but she nearly dropped it after she felt a warm substance drip to her fingers.

“Sorry …” she mumbled.

Vidarr shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said, even though the wound on his palm throbbed. Each time they hunted, the Priest made them cut their palms to show their loyalty. Only this night, when Ashara motioned for her dagger; he instead grasped her hand tightly with his own. In the darkness, it the difference was unnoticeable.

After Sinara had died, he wouldn’t let Ashara repeat her past, only to suffer a similar fate. In any case, the Red Hand lost too many of their own kind to self-inflicted wounds.

“These roots are larger than I am,” Ashara remarked as she climbed over one and Vidarr held her hand for support. The Duskenwoods were as old as Calan’s first creations. The ghosts here had seen more things than Vidarr wanted to know, though the forest did not intimidate him as they went deeper into the fog-permeated air, where the moonlight could not penetrate through the canopies. As young elves, they had dared one another farther and deeper into the woods; perhaps as one of the only games the elders let them play, so they may get used to their future hunting grounds. It had once been teeming with the Cursed, but now was left with only shadow cats and old spirits. The remaining folks afflicted with the Lupine Curse simply wandered the lands now and died off, much like flies at the beginning of winter.

Vidarr and Ashara were far behind. Any other Netherwayan would feel the fear of death walking into the woods, even if they hadn’t heard the legends. But as the darkness surrounded them and the smells of fungus and damp wood pervaded the air, they felt at home. The light from bioluminescent plants became brighter as they traveled further. Soon their boots had a glowing tinge of sage to it.

When the ground became too overrun with foliage, they climbed up the trees and walked on the thick branches with a deftness only elves were capable of.

Vidarr dared a glance to the ground below to see a shadow walking beneath them. It was the High Priest. His great longsword was on his back as it always was, the silver sheath reflecting the light of thick mushroom caps and ivory leaves pulsating dim shades of green and teal.

It was said that Afimer scorned his brother Bafimer by creating a forest so thick that it blocked out the light of the sun. Beneath the darkness, the light of the moon—Afimer’s own creation—was in the plants.

Someone began coughing, and that inevitably turned to retching. Here, that could only mean one thing: mushrooms. Vidarr was no more susceptible to the humor of it all than anyone else, and soon the whole forest was alive with laughter. It was a common mistake to step too close to one of the fungi. Clouds of noxious spores would erupt from their caps, producing aromas that ranged from harmless, to alluring and deadly.

Though, the High Priest did not find it amusing. “Do you all see what happens when you are inattentive?” he asked loud enough for them all to hear. “The next time you make a wrong step, pray to the gods it’s not when you cross arms with a Cursed. They won’t be as forgiving.”

Vidarr and Ashara muffled their snickers.

Hours passed in the Duskenwoods this way: sniffing, searching, feeling about the trees and waiting for the scent of werewolves to creep into their senses. But that night, none would come.

“I can’t stand these damned thorns,” Ashara said, sucking on her hand.

With a dead, unamused stare, Vidarr showed her his still-bleeding palm. “Yes, the ‘thorns’ here are quite nasty.”

“Just because you’re charitable doesn’t mean you’re funny. Maybe the brush isn’t too thick anymore. I’m climbing down.”

Vidarr had always been more inure to the weariness that the other assassins felt during the hunts, even with little to no sleep. It was getting early into the morning, now, when the sky is darkest. “Whistle if you need something,” he said with his mind elsewhere. He thought it was strange that she was returning to the ground, but he dismissed the thought. He had been traveling with her atop the trees the entire night, and even with his heavy cloak, it was hardly a problem stepping from branch to branch.

An owl hooted far off, Vidarr pricked his ears.

As she descended the tree, disappearing into the fog below, he thought he’d heard her sniffle, and paused a moment to watch her wipe something off her face. He frowned, and continued.

I wonder if the gods mistake this forest for a jade lake when the winds blow, and the winter turns the plains to grey, Vidarr thought as he stepped into the groove of a bough. He couldn’t see anything beneath him, now, not even the fog through the dense branches and leaves.

A thought gnawed at Vidarr as time crawled on; an instinct that only hunters and marksmen knew crept on to him. He went to his hands and dipped to a lower set of branches. The intuition kept biting at him, more bothersome than any thorn.

He poked his head through the lowest layer of branches.

Far beneath him, Ashara was advancing towards the High Priest’s back, crouched, with her dagger drawn. The silver gleam of the blade was unmistakable, as long as it was sinister.

Vidarr scrambled down from the tree with every bit of silence and haste he could muster. He had not realized how high he had climbed. Branches stuck out in random places and pricked him as he rushed to grapple with the trunk of a tree, ignoring the pain as he hugged it with his whole body, sliding down it. Though his heart was racing, his mind was unperturbed because he’d seen the distance, and he knew he could get to her. It was simply a matter of being quiet.

A stray branch caught his face, and dug into the side of his cheek as he leapt silently from the last of the trunk, watching Ashara getting closer …

He muffled a grunt as he landed. It felt as if the front of his body was soaked in oil and set aflame. One particularly thick root of a tree was in the way between Vidarr and Ashara. He sprang over it, and was immediately upon Ashara, seizing her wrist with the dagger.

But she didn’t blink before slamming her elbow into Vidarr’s face and advancing further while the High Priest continued onward, unaware. Vidarr was on the ground—shocked—the blood from his nose started to flow. He just barely caught Ashara’s heel, which only rewarded him with a boot to the forehead.

Even with stars in his vision, Vidarr spotted a mushroom close to the High Priest. Letting her go, he unsheathed a throwing dagger from his belt and flicked it towards the heart of the cap.

The sound of spores hissing into the air had never pleased Vidarr more. The High Priest whirled around, seeing only darkness as Ashara dashed behind a tree with a hand covering her mouth.

Vidarr was so low to the ground that it seemed only the Priest was to blame. Still, the High Priest’s stare was filled with suspicion as he scanned the woods around him. Vidarr’s heart was beating against the mossy ground. Foolish elf, you should’ve known. You should’ve known … he cursed himself.

Before long the High Priest started off into a jog, the red hand on his cowl bouncing away into the fog.

They waited a long while, until his footsteps finally died away. And even then, they remained in silence.

Vidarr rose and retrieved his dagger with a cloaked hand over his face, wondering if the accuracy was precision and intuition alone or luck of the divine. Ashara was shaking beside a tree, vomiting, the dagger still in her hand, and Vidarr’s face still dripping blood.

“What in the name of Afimer was that?” he hissed at her. “The only reason he ran so quickly was because he was scared someone would noticed he’d triggered the spores himself. If that hadn’t been there, gods, Ashara, you’d be—”

She spat and wiped her mouth. “That was justice … or would have been.”

“Justice, or vengeance?” He looked around. They were alone.

“Son of a Leor,” she cursed. “How could you, of all people, stop me from that?”

Vidarr chuckled with a growing rage. “How could I? What did you expect would happen, Ashara? You think they wouldn’t notice? You think, even if they didn’t find the body, they wouldn’t tie you up and sling your neck under a tree somewhere?”

“It’s my neck! Not yours! I’d rather die knowing my sister’s death was avenged than live a long life of quiet shame. That wretched coward killed her without … without even … and they all … ” Ashara shook her head and cried. Vidarr stepped closer to put a hand on her shoulder, her arm, anything.

“Don’t, please,” she begged as she crawled to a tree trunk and brought her knees up, holding them tightly. Staring at her with wide eyes, Vidarr wondered if he’d really done her any good or not.

“I’m so sorry—”

She held up a bloodied, pale hand to stop him. “Don’t. Just … leave.”

Vidarr caught up with the other assassins. They had not noticed him missing. A few times he caught Dalibor’s eyes, always ending with a childish game of stares. Something was starting to make Vidarr shiver more often, now, and although he told himself it was merely the cold air, he knew better.

Repositioning the bow on his back, Vidarr escaped from the forefront of the hunting party and the strange silence to relieve himself on a tree. He heard footsteps come from behind him. It was Will.

The chef was collecting mushrooms in a linen bag already bursting with herbs, roots, and other things Vidarr could not name. “My legs are going to thnap like twigths if we keep going like this,” Will said with a mouthful of mushroom. Vidarr started laughing while a piece of one fell from his mouth. “What?” he asked, confused.

Vidarr shook his head. “It’s nothing. Do you have any of those for me?”

“Say no more.” Will gulped down another, hardly chewing, and tossed him one as big as his hand. Vidarr broke it in half and put the spongey, moist cap in his mouth. He tossed the stem in last after the earthy flavor had set in enough.

“Dawn is getting nearer,” Will noted, a tone of seriousness returning to his voice as they went through a copse of trees and looked over a hillside not suffocated by the Duskenwoods. The air was refreshing here; not foggy, not filled with the stench of old mulch. As sweet as it was returning after some time, being in there for hours made it a strange dreamscape that Vidarr did not particularly enjoy. The brief scuffle with Ashara seemed unreal.

“There’s smoke in the distance,” Vidarr added. He looked at Will—one of the only elves friendly enough to speak with him in this way. Far more loyal than me, perhaps, Vidarr thought. There’s a kindness there that I don’t have. He didn’t even ask about the bruise on my face.

The chef’s hair was in several braids with scarlet ribbons knotting them. Usually neat, now long locks were hanging over the sides of his face, bordering the toothy grin and making him look something like a bear.

“So here’s the famous beauty of the Moonlands: grassy plains as high as the knees, dense forestry and rolling foothills,” Vidarr said with a sigh. The hills after the forest stretched onward, falling downward and getting steeper until dropping off to a cliff in the distance with a river just beneath it.

“Shame we don’t—”

“Cursed yellow-faced bastards. Got what they deserved, I hope they freeze up there. They can keep their eternal winter,” Will said, stuffing another mushroom into his mouth. He was perhaps one of the most well-fed assassins in the cult with his knowledge of herbs. Anyone else would’ve starved in the Duskenwoods. But Vidarr had to say, he hated the Sun-elves more than anyone he knew. The feud between them was becoming a tiresome political obligation amongst Moon-elves that he rather did not care for.

Minutes into the silence, Will’s face had turned a deep shade of red, and small bumps were rising across his skin, the biggest at the base of his neck. “Oh, the gods be damned,” he said. “It was a white cap with green spots, not a green cap with white ones! Excuse me, I need to find a remedy.” He spat out a mouthful and started away, leaving Vidarr with a small grin on his face.

Ashara joined his side almost as soon as Will left it, so soon Vidarr was suspicious she’d snuck the poisonous mushroom in there just to get a moment alone with him. “I meant no harm in my words,” she said as if they’d been talking for hours.

“I know,” he said quietly. He wanted to add curtness into his tone, but he didn’t have the heart. He merely glanced at her, and looked over at the horizon.

“What is that smoke?” she asked.

“Will and I think it must be a village. It’s too small to be a town.”

“I hope not.”

“Why?”

“The High Priest is not in a pleasant mood.”