by Mario Caric
in Issue 122, March 2022
Fourteen covered wagons treaded along the woodland trail. Reins dangled nigh-lifeless from the tired hands whilst oxen heads slung low to the ground, clouds of breath puffing from dilated nostrils into the dry air. Here and there the trees would part or disappear, opening up the late afternoon horizon to the hunched travelers. From there the fall sun cast its weak rays upon the vast stretch of the dark green conifers that made up the magnificent Lasota Forest, the largest arboreal mass on the entire continent, and the most vital route from the west coast to the unsurmountable wall that was the Sky-Piercing Mountains.
Five dogs ran alongside the spoked wheels, either members of certain families or former strays that had come into the haphazard-looking fold. A few kids accompanied their four-legged companions, all of them old or able enough to take care of themselves. Save for some, most women stayed within the wagons, men being the only visible presence upon the battered vehicles.
The wagon train ascended a mild slope and kept its bearing. The cacophony of its rumble mixed with an occasional bark or a child’s laughter shattered the otherwise silent surroundings.
Until the barks were replaced by growls.
Even before the driver and its senior counterpart noticed, the dogs darted past the lead wagon, followed by children’s yells. Fangs bared, the beasts formed a wide circle about a lone figure that stood at the side of the makeshift road thirty feet up front. Light, dented armor rested over the tattered scarlet uniform. Black mane fused with a trailing beard, obstructing the face. The gauntleted hand gripped the pommel-less handle of a long, somewhat curved blade.
Oxen bellowed their protest at the sudden disturbance. The drivers answered with commands and rein pulls. Soon after, the entire train came to a crude halt. Men jumped down, armed with axes and sickles and pitchforks. The simple clothes betrayed them as peasants. Exhaustion, underlined by fear, painted their every move. Children, confused by the abrupt change of pace, peered behind the adults. The rest followed suit from the safety of the wagons. In turn, the wagoners’ gazes sought guidance from the gaunt man beside the lead driver.
Across from the group, the dogs inched closer to the stranger, who did not seem threatened in the least. The chilling lack of response from their potential target kept the zealous guardians at bay, unsure what to do next.
“Greetings, fellow traveler,” came the trembling voice from the co-driver atop the wagon.
The figure responded with an upraised palm. Everyone craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the shrouded face. None succeeded.
“What brings you to this perilous land?” A hint of nervousness colored the elder’s words.
“War,” rasped the stranger. Upon looking up, a piece of cloth that hid his eyes became visible. “I’m the last of my unit, seeking to reach Volban.”
A sense of elation spread through the group at the sight of the man’s misfortune.
“I am saddened by your ill-fate, friend . . . ?”
“Glain.”
“Glain,” repeated the old man. “We, too, are on our way there. My name is Savran. I am the village priest. Or was, when it was still standing?” he finished with a sigh.
“Falchard?” asked the blind soldier.
The elder’s brow rose. Gasps of surprise emanated from the crowd. “Were you there when it fell?”
“Close enough,” said the newcomer. “Its pastures were the last thing I beheld.”
Quiet ensued. Savran was the first to begin conversation anew. “It seems we have all left something precious there.”
The soldier bowed.
“Then indeed you are among your kin,” said the priest. He turned to others. “Get rid of these damned mutts.”
Three peasants intervened and had the dogs scattered in an instant. The children greeted their playmates with joy.
“Tell me, friend Glain, your sword—it is of the North, is it not?”
“As am I.”
“The northmen are considered the finest warriors in our military. It is therefore no surprise that you’ve managed to survive the onslaught.”
Glain bowed again, made it more pronounced the second time. “You’re kind.”
An unknown figure stepped forth, yelled to those behind, “Now wait a minute!” Trimmed hair and a five-day-stubble framed the nervous green eyes. An accusive finger found the newcomer. “I hope you’re not thinking of letting him tag along, are you?” While he spoke to no one in particular, it was obvious the disapproval was pointed at their leader.
“He’s an Aladrian soldier, Keiv!” said a short villager close by. “It’s our duty to help!”
“So what?!” snapped the angry man. “It’s his job to defend us! We’re not a charity, Danth. We have to take care of our own!”
“I’ll give him my share of food!” a female voice joined the fray. A voluptuous, middle-aged woman appeared from behind the first wagon. Tousled, fire-red hair and dark freckles stressed the fury on the round, almost boyish face. Head held high, she closed in on Keivan. “As I’m sure the rest will as well.”
“‘Help those in need.’ The Sacred Knowledge is clear in that regard, Keiv,” stated the broad-shouldered, corn-haired driver beside the elder. In his late prime, an unmistakable likeness bonded him to his senior.
“Spoken as a true follower, Varn,” nodded Savran, turned to the woman, “And you too, Balnea. It is what the Lord demands.”
“This is no time for scriptures!” spat Keivan. Arms flayed about as he continued. “We can’t afford someone who can’t contribute in any way! Those Yatteranese dogs are right behind us, and if we—”
Varn released the reins. He stood up, and the wagon creaked. All fell silent. Righteous glare challenged the fatigue-filled rage.
At length, the enervated rebel shook his head in defeat. “You’re making a mistake,” he said, spun on his heel, and disappeared into the crowd.
The Falchardians were like statues.
Varn settled back in his seat. Balnea took his hand.
“I’m in your debt,” said Glain.
A sorrowful smile descended upon the priest. “You have put us in yours when you left your sight on the green fields of Falchard.”
* * *
That starless night, as the wagons formed a circle around a small grove and the first shy fires flickered in the dark, there was a certain sense of relaxation among a good number of villagers. Other, battle-able individuals—exhausted eyes and muscles fighting to stay alert—prepared for the night watch, bows and spears in hand. They spread about the temporary fortification, merging with the shadows.
The blind soldier had been shown to a cargo trailer in the middle of the train to rest. Nestled between crates and boxes, Glain was fed a generous bowl of heated deer stew by Balnea who used the opportunity to confide to the northman that her late brother had also been in the military, and had lost his life defending the kingdom’s western border. Glain could only give her a cold reassurance that his death had not been in vain, for as a result of Bal’s sacrifice, Balnea and her family were given time to save themselves. The red-haired woman appreciated this rather calculative approach to comfort more than any other she had heard until then. As a sign of gratitude, she snuck a piece of dried jerky to the man when the camp had descended into silence. The reclusive guest thanked her with a nod. Inspired by Glain and his words, Balnea went to her bed with a newfound purpose.
It was not long after that the soldier received a different kind of visitor.
At first the scuttling seemed to increase in a gradual manner, but the moment Glain—his back against the side of the trailer, the lean blade reclining in his lap—picked it up, the noise somehow intensified. Driven by instinct above all else, the man in scarlet grabbed a firmer hold on the sword.
A strange figure materialized at the entrance, circular eyes aflash with an eldritch glow, a pair of animal ears pointed upwards in caution. Despite the simple clothes, its slim frame bristled with thick fur. The apparition hissed at the soldier—a sound no human throat could produce—and plunged within the trailer’s cover, its four-limbed landing as light as a feather.
Glain remained motionless.
Negotiating between the cargo with soundless swiftness, the creature inched closer to its prey. The hisses, though weaker, persevered. A clawed hand extended toward the hair-shrouded face.
A white flash pierced through the blackness. Blood spattered both man and beast. A howl of pain burst through the gleam of two long incisors. The monster staggered, clutching a mangled arm. Then, a pair of even weirder eyes—bathed in spectral fire—flourished beneath the northern brow. Before the creature could react, Glain was already on his feet. With an agility that trumped any battlefield experience, the soldier drove the steel deep into the powerful chest. Another scream ensued as the mysterious enemy was pushed back into the boxes, which smashed and rattled and broke open under the storm of violence. The combatants flew out and found themselves on the hard ground, Glain on top.
By then the wagoners had been roused by the commotion. Armed with makeshift weapons, they observed the impossible scene before them under the weak torchlight.
Glain wasted no time in getting back up on his feet. Beneath him, the blade lay lodged in the were-rat, bestial maw wide open in the last attempt at life. All-too-human blood gushed from the wounds. Mattes of soaked fur gave an additional note of unsightliness to the picture. The northman yanked the sword out with a single, measured pull. Another red wave spurted out. The pool around the creature swelled.
Upon registering the phantom stare that scanned them, shock engulfed the crowd. One word rolled off the tongues more than any other.
“The mark.”
Even the dogs, among the first to have arrived, now kept their distance; more from the stranger than from the thing at his feet. This time around, yelps overpowered the growls.
“What is going on here?!”
Everyone turned, made way for the priest and his son. Savran regarded the northerner with rage and, after glimpsing the phantom gaze, pure dread. Varn shared his emotions. “W-what is the meaning of this?!” demanded the leader, all sense of faux composure lost to helpless hysteria.
“Look!” shouted someone.
The hideous form began to change. Hair and claws retracted. Bones, given life of their own, broke and remodeled. The formidable bulk shrunk to half a size. In a matter of moments, a familiar shape replaced the preternatural horror.
“What in Hell . . . ?” whispered another villager.
The body of the small man, Danth, who had stood in newcomer’s defense, was a shriveled mess of sinew and puss.
“They massacred a village northeast of Falchard,” spoke Glain as he ambled up to the carrion. Retrieved the large front tooth from the debris. Put it away. “Been on their trail for weeks.”
Balnea peered out from the mass. Taken aback by the sight, she sought Varn’s arms. Found them. Disbelief dominated her pale features. A skeletal woman with ruffled, ashen hair dashed past her. She fell before the corpse, sobs drowning in the bloodied tatters.
“They?” asked Varn, wife held close.
The stranger nodded. “Shapeshifters. Always work in pairs. There’s another one among you.”
Murmurs seeped through the peasants. Panic loomed below the outrage.
“They’ve taken the appearance of those who fell at Falchard without you noticing.”
“How can you possibly know that?” butted in Savran again.
Glain’s glare provided the needed, if uncomfortable, answer.
“Why did they attack you?” dared Balnea.
“I appeared the weakest,” clarified the hunter.
“You saved us,” stated Varn.
The sprawling shadow swelled upon approach, choking the vibrant life out of the glistening blade.
“What are you saying?!” The elder swept the arthritic arm at Glain. “Have you seen his eyes?! He’s a Marked! Cursed! His very presence puts us in far greater peril than any beast-men!”
Varn attempted to retort, but fell back. Balnea was as lost as her husband. A child, no older than six, sprouted out of nowhere and now stood between them. Whether a boy or a girl, the northerner could not say, but an uncanny similarity could be traced to the two adults.
The priest addressed his flock. “Friends! The Sacred Knowledge is clear! This interloper who profaned our kindness simply proves what One Lord says—the Marked ever work for their own nefarious ends, whatever they may be.” Zealous hatred seethed in every uttered syllable. “We must banish this foul demon at once lest we pay the ultimate price!”
In the sea of confused faces, Keivan’s emerged. Savran spotted him at once. Walked over to him. Twig-like arms grasped the peasant’s shoulders.
“Brother,” spoke the old man, words painted with regret, “I beseech your forgiveness. I have done a terrible transgression against you.” The feeble grip attempted to strengthen, give a notion of reassurance to the villager. “The Lord has gifted you with providence and in my hubris, I have allowed myself to become blind.”
Keivan pressed his lips together. Considered the stranger. Produced a shallow nod. A tinge of uncertainty bled through the otherwise solemn stare. The same insecurity pervaded in other gazes from the crowd. Savran, paying no heed to it, returned Keivan’s gesture in a far more energetic way. The next moment, he had his sights on the intruder.
“You have used our fears and our goodwill toward fellow Man against us!” thundered the priest. Fervor emanated from him like a forming stormcloud, the earlier fragileness nowhere to be seen. “Begone, spawn of Hell! Or face the wrath of the Almighty!”
The northerner’s glare bore through the elder. Savran turned silent, fighting to keep his posture. The threat he issued, the realization then struck him, had become a challenge. Instincts told him to step back or at least say something to soften the tension, but he persevered. Remained unmoving. In the last act of defiance, the pointed chin rose. His prayers were not as apparent.
Pitchforks and axes gleamed in the night, poised to strike. Fear fueled violence, and madness had overtaken all. Uncertainty smeared determination in some, but not enough to make a difference. Danth’s wife, wallowing in sorrow, remained on the ground. A few others stood aside, Balnea and Varn included, much to Glain’s surprise.
Ever cautious, the mass headed for the stranger. The figure responded with a forward step. The Falchardians jumped. Formed an involuntary path. Glain grasped the blade tighter. Made another step. Reached the first line.
Strode through them.
“Kill him! Slay the demon!” cried the elder. Rage shook the old bones. But he did not move.
The hunter disappeared into the night before anyone even realized he was gone.
The dogs dared bark again.
* * *
“It won’t break.” Balnea’s nervous hand trembled on the child’s forehead. The skin glistened under weak candlelight. She took a wet rag from the faded vessel beside the palliasse, wrung the water out and back into the pot, and applied it below the ear-length copper hair.
Buried under the blankets, the little girl shook despite the fever. A thin line that was her lips muttered something incomprehensible. Sometimes, a whine would escape from the parched throat. Crust-caked eyes were shut tight, trapped in a nightmarish delirium. Like dark speckles of ink atop an aged parchment, freckles dotted the nose and cheeks of the bone-white face.
“The herbs and the prayers aren’t working. Nothing’s working,” said the woman. Turned around for Savran’s reaction.
The priest sat on a makeshift bench beside the wagon’s entrance, a calculative gaze bouncing between the mother and the child.
“It’s been two days,” said Balnea, desperate for any kind of response. “Janni’s twins—”
“I know!” the elder cut through, voice once again atremble. He shook his head in frustration. Slammed a feeble fist on the wall. Balnea jumped—and failed—to shield her daughter from the sound, if such a thing was even possible. The girl jolted, returned to her private nightmare.
The woman glowered at the old man. A glimmer of hatred shone through her, bright and clear, but not only because of the elder’s lack of compassion toward his granddaughter.
Savran paid no attention to such hints. “It’s all that cursed hellspawn’s fault,” he grumbled. “It began right after he left. I knew something like this was bound to happen. I knew it.”
“It began after he revealed the monster in our midst,” dared Balnea.
Savran’s shrunken frame straightened. Akin to a snake in waiting, cold fury sprung up from within him. The well-known finger lanced, passing judgment. “It was you who had gotten too close to him,” he said. “And he used that weakness to sire this pestilence among our offspring!”
“I am beginning to suspect,” said the woman, “that there is someone else here who is using our weakness.”
The wrinkled eyes bulged out in shock and anger. “Blasphemy!” thundered the priest and stood up as much as the cover above allowed.
“Then prove me wrong!” spat Balnea. “Ask our Lord to lift this curse and free us from it!”
“What do you know of the Almighty and His truths?!”
“I know enough of the worldly ones,” stated Balnea, “and that’s enough for me.”
The place rocked as Varn entered the premises. Soft brightness of the campfires outside spilled through the flaps. “Two more,” he said. Much like fresh earth soiled his shirt, so too did worry dominate his features. Whether he had heard the commotion or pretended not to was a mystery. Forced to a crouch by the low ceiling, he headed toward his daughter, crossed the wagon in a single bound.
“Son,” called the priest, but Varn didn’t give him a second look. The callused palm reached out for the burning forehead. Turned the rag. Balnea sidled from the palliasse, offered support with a firm grasp on her husband’s shoulder.
“Son,” repeated Savran, made a step forward, “your wife has spoken ill of our ways, of our very faith. It is your duty as the head of the family to cleanse her vile behavior.”
Balnea looked down upon Varn, but the shadows obscured his reaction.
“Yes,” said the wagoner in a semi-whisper. The woman’s hold on his shoulder loosened. He rose. Balnea’s hands drew back. Fingers interlaced in anxiety.
“Just like you cleansed your own wife all those years ago.”
The old man tilted his head. “W-what are you saying?”
“What was it?” The corn-haired villager turned. Coal-black eyes replaced the blue ones. Cheekbones jutted out. Nose enlarged. The front incisors, whilst retaining their size, now sported a more spiked, menacing shape.
Balnea’s mouth opened for a scream, but none came as the creature met her gaze. The woman kneeled, helpless to muster a yelp, let alone a move.
“She spoke out of turn too many times?” said the changeling. Faced the priest. Despite his clear lack of strength, an attempt at action surged through Savran, but the moment the elder made a step back, he froze, his stare ensnared by the monster’s.
“No, that came later,” the thing that was Varn shook its head.” First, she couldn’t give you an heir. Then, when she finally did, she began caring for him more than she did for you. And you didn’t like that, did you?” It approached the terrified victim. Although the changeling no longer kept its sights on the woman or the old man, the two found themselves lacking any sort of control over their bodies.
The shapeshifter stood before the priest, albeit in a semi-crouch. Savran winced. “No, that’s not right. The Lord wasn’t pleased. It went against the Holy Law, didn’t it? The father, especially one anointed by the Lord, was ever to be looked after first. And you, being the Lord’s prophet on this earth, simply did what you had to. You cleansed the sinner. Forever.”
The Falchardian leader tried to speak. Once. Twice. Croaked.
“This mind remembers everything,” said the changeling. “Even what was forced to be forgotten. I dug it out. Brought it forth. And now I will use that to feed.”
A flash of metal pierced the cover and lanced through the wererat’s back. The creature issued a bone-chilling scream before something pulled it. The shirt tore as the monster was flung outside the wagon, a trail of blood spreading out into the open air. Released from the intangible hold, Savran and Balnea reacted in an instant. The woman sought her daughter whilst the elder’s thin hands examined his own husk in search of an injury.
After it had regained its footing, the shapeshifter grasped at the wound in the abdomen. Its senses were a blur of shapes and sounds; the sharp sight clouded by pain and blinded by the surrounding campfire, the all-too-human ears drowned in the onlookers’ screams. Yet despite the obstacles, the wererat discerned a dark shadow that advanced toward it, wielding a slim beam of light. More foreboding than the beam, however, were two glowing dots at the shadow’s peak.
Flaps of a feathered mantle danced about Glain like wings of some vengeful bird. Now clad in black, the hunter charged at the man-shaped menace, ready to strike the final blow. The changeling reeled, awareness directed into stern concentration. The phantom eyes shattered the creature’s hypnotic glare as the northman’s sword cleft the torso from shoulder to rib cage. Knees buckled. Bloodied teeth released a drawled-out yowl, and the lifeless body crumpled to the ground with finality.
Interjected with an occasional gasp, babbles and murmurs spread through the throng that had gathered around the scene. Shock dominated the crowd.
Glain noted the stir. Tried to act as relaxed as possible. The sword remained in his grasp.
The Bestial gaze was frozen by the sudden arrival of death. Soon it began to melt into Varn’s. Solid black eyes gave up to faded blue. Glain spotted the change. Kneeled. Gloved fingers invaded the yawning jaw. Snatched out the still elongated incisor. Though not as evident as the other one, its shape would suffice as a proof of a successful hunt.
“Demon!” came Savran’s howl. The old man had gotten down from the wagon and stood beside it. He shook with a combination of hatred and dread. Waggled the bent finger at the northerner. “It was you who’s been spreading this disease! Turning us into these things! And now you killed my son!”
“Your son died in Falchard!” growled Glain. “This was another shapeshifter.” He raised the tooth for everyone to see. “A more refined form. It feeds not on flesh, but on the mind. That’s why it took me so long to spot it. Its presence caused the fever.”
Two dogs scuttled to the corpse. Inspected it. Yapped their protest. Ran off. The rest were nowhere to be seen.
“We have been victims long enough!” claimed Savran. “And if we should face Hell itself, we shall not be trodden upon any longer! Let us banish this monstrosity once and for all!” He motioned toward the Marked stranger. “Save what’s left to save!”
“No!” shrieked Balnea. Fury burned through tears. She jumped from the wagon. Pointed at the mad priest. “He’s lying!” she said to the villagers. “He cares only for himself! That thing wasn’t Varn! It attacked us! It wanted our souls!”
“Silence, wench!” Savran bolted at the woman, but Balnea slapped the skeletal hand away. The elder stood there in disbelief, as did the peasants.
“I lost my husband,” said the widow. Solemnity painted her voice.” But not tonight. Not here. As Glain said, Varn died with our village.”
The priest grasped for his daughter-in-law anew. “How dare you—”
“Mommy?”
Everyone gasped. Balnea’s daughter stood in the wagon, rubbing her eyes. “Mommy, I’m better now.”
Other calls for parents echoed across the camp, followed by the oxen’s restless lows.
“Brothers and sisters,” pleaded the old man, “this is another one of his tricks. An illusion. Trust me.”
But the time for talk had passed.
* * *
It took Glain mere moments to once again vanish into the depths of Lasota. Akin to a demon Savran had described him as, he moved between the massive trunks of the ancient forest with an almost inhuman swiftness, each step sending him further away from the creased face he yearned to forget.
The priest’s screams, on the other hand, stayed with him long after Lasota had become a memory.
© March 2022, Mario Caric
Mario Caric’s work has appeared in Whetstone and previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine and is forthcoming in Tales from the Magician’s Skull.