Milos glanced to the curtained entrance, his earlier humour draining rapidly. The cold, diamond hardness returned to his eyes. “Excuse me. It seems my other guests are rowdy.”

  The curtain flew open and familiar figures poured over the nest of carpets. Hunt-leader Jairus lead them—his body contorted in wrath—while Berard followed with the reluctance of a cur about to be scolded. Adelmar and a masked cultist that Wurhi assumed was Haldrych—the two dogged each other’s steps like stench and shadow—swung their heads this way and that, gawking at the chaos spread along the walls.

  “Sacred Alpha!” Jairus stalked forward. “I⁠—”

  “Stop.” Milos held up a hand.

  His mighty voice struck as surely as any blow, freezing Jairus in mid-step. The Sacred Alpha’s utterance was calm and low, but it bore a cold menace as threatening as a blade being drawn. “You have entered my dining chamber as a guest, and I have had meat, bread, and spices lain out for you.” He gestured to the wolf heads over the fireplace. “Under the eyes of Lycundar himself.”

  A strange sound came from outside. Wurhi stiffened.

  Her eyes drew unwillingly toward the large, curtained passage. Something had stirred in there. She flared her nostrils, but the scent of fire, food, and the Sacred Alpha obscured all else.

  Milos’ gaze grew less human by the heartbeat. “Do you display the proper respect this calls for? Answer with honesty.”

  Jairus shuddered, his teeth audibly grinding. His head dropped. “I… I apologise, Sacred Alpha.” He bowed so low he nearly tumbled. “Forgiveness from you and Lord Lycundar.”

  “Good.” The cult leader cast his hand toward the three already seated. “These lambs are captive, yet have conducted themselves with more respect than you, Hunt-leader Jairus. Your shame mounts—take care not to build it further. Now, sit. All of you.”

  The four new arrivals glanced to each other, then hastily made their way to their seats. Haldrych stared at Wurhi and Merrick with a hateful leer, but Adelmar dragged him to the table.

  “Good. At last.” Milos took up his bronze knife. “Come, eat. It has already begun to cool.” He glanced to Haldrych, who had found a seat as far from the thieves as he could manage. “You may remove your mask to sup at my table.”

  “Yes…” He paused, seeming to struggle to remember the term of address. “S-sacred Alpha.” With a final, vicious glance toward the thieves, he took up his own knife.

  As Crixus tucked into the feast, Wurhi and Merrick reluctantly followed suit. The small Zabyallan did not think herself as having much in the way of appetite, but the first taste of meat proved that notion false.

  She tore into her meal as though it would be her last, avoiding ruminating on how accurate that might be. The flavour motivated her fervour, with exotic northern herbs dancing together upon her tongue.

  Jairus, Adelmar, and Berard ate about as well as one would expect man-wolves to. Yet it was Haldrych Ameldan that feasted with the most vigour. The young patriarch loosed himself of every lesson of propriety pressed into him throughout boyhood. With enthusiastic bites and liberal helpings of butter and salt, he gorged himself to a chorus of groans and grunts as he sucked the juices from each finger in turn.

  Milos watched, his eyes sparkling as though he were party to some private jest. “Alright, Jairus. You have entered with respect, accepted my invitation, and we have broken bread. I will hear that grievance now: am I to understand you question your beasts’ fate?”

  Jairus swallowed an over-large mouthful of meat, grimacing and pounding on his chest. He spoke only after he chased it with half a chalice of water. “Lord Milos. I must ask—with all respect to the Sacred Alpha’s wisdom and power—what did my pets do to deserve death at the claws of your beast? They…” he grimaced. “They stood no chance. I trained them well, but your prize was forged by your blessed work. Why? Why have them face such deaths?”

  Milos took a long, silent sip with his eyes settled on Berard. The hulking man’s knife had been lain on his plate and his eyes hung low.

  “Why, indeed?” the Sacred Alpha repeated the question. “Berard. What did our progenitor cry out when he first felt the touch of moonlight? After his meeting with Lycundar on the crossroads of Weren?”

  The large man sat up quickly and repeated the verse from memory. “Yea, did Remus cry out: Why? Why hath such a curse fallen unto me? Have I not sacrificed to the gods? Is my heart not pure and untainted by wrath or gluttony? Why must it beat as the heart of a beast when the moon is full and bright? Why must I suffer so!”

  Milos nodded his approval. “So it is written on the Third Tablet of He Who Consumes Himself. And what did Siodmaka write as Remus’ failing?”

  Berard glanced at Jairus. “Remus failed to account for himself. And he failed to turn his suffering into the forge of his renewal. For Lycundar’s bite is passed as a curse, but it is a blessing hidden within a trial: a boon for those of strong mind, faith, and purpose.”

  “Very good! So it is written on the Seventh Tablet of He Who Consumes Himself!” the Sacred Alpha roared. “For it was Remus’ carelessness that caught him on the crossroads in the dead of night! It was his foolishness that offended Lycundar and brought about his cursed bite! It was his lack of strength that caused his curse to control him, leaving him to slaughter his children!”

  Milos looked to Jairus once more. “Think well, hunt-leader. Think on Remus’ folly and Siodmaka’s will: why did your beasts need to die?”

  The hunt-leader’s eyes widened. “I… they committed no carelessness!”

  “Indeed, they did not.”

  The words hung in the air.

  All had long placed down their knives, for they could not cut the silence, let alone the fine meat: not with the way every hand trembled.

  “Mmf! This is delicious,” came a quiet murmur.

  Only Haldrych Ameldan continued to feast in contentment.

  It was the only sound aside from the crackle of flame and the hiss of mountain wind.

  Milos smiled on him as one would upon a contented child, yet there was a hardened curve to his lip. His eyes returned to Berard. “You know the answer, Berard; I can smell it. You are showing more insight than your commander.”

  The large man grimaced. “My lord… the beasts died to punish failure. Hunt-leader Jairus’ failure. Our failure.”

  The hunt-leader whirled on him. “What madness is this? What failure!”

  Milos loosed a sigh great enough to bend his back. “Very well. I suppose I shall show you, for I share in the fault as well.”

  His eyes hardened. The predator’s musk grew until it stung Wurhi’s nostrils. The Zabyallan whimpered, quivering in her seat. Jairus, Adelmar, and Berard recoiled as hounds when their master’s whip rises. Yet, his body remained at ease as he turned to Haldrych Ameldan. “Tell me, Haldrych, are you enjoying the feast? You certainly seem to be.”

  The young poet groaned happily. “It is exquisite, my lord! Fresh roast is best in the heart of winter! It sets a man’s blood to singing like a beautiful maid in a bright, green glen.”

  “That pleases me,” said the Sacred Alpha. “Trust our resident poet to speak of my table in verse.”

  Haldrych swelled as though ready to preen himself. “Thank you, Lord Milos! It is my hope that I may write of the deeds I undertake!”

  “I see, I see.” Milos said. “Just as you… oh, what was it that young Adelmar said you did? ‘Made it snow silver,’ I believe?”

  Adelmar coughed. “Er, yes, Sacred Alpha⁠—”

  “It was glorious!” Haldrych crooned. “Truly a missed opportunity, though. Only two nights later I thought of what I should have cried—” He cleared his throat. “‘You thought only the gods had the power to make it rain or snow? But hark! Behold as I bring snow upon you all! A snow of silver!’ Ah! It would have been glorious.”

  “Indeed.” The Sacred Alpha nodded. “And perhaps you could have likened it to the coat of your steed? A handsome beast: as though coated in silver himself. Is that why you shoed him in gold? To ride upon a king’s prize?”

  “Mmf! No, Sacred Alpha, but well put!” Haldrych grinned. “Perhaps you have the soul of a poet as well.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. Ah. That reminds me. I nearly forgot something.”

  “Lord Milos?”

  The Sacred Alpha reached beneath his seat and drew up several objects. “Here. I do believe these belong to you.”

  There was a clatter of metal.

  With aim birthed of inhuman precision, he cast a quartet of shining objects across the table. They clashed to the oak and slid just before the young poet. All eyes followed their path, widening in recognition.

  Adelmar gasped.

  “Oh shit,” Wurhi muttered. “Oh shit!”

  Haldrych’s grin slowly faded even as his eyes grew.

  Before him gleamed four golden horseshoes. Dark red stained their shining surface.

  “Oh… oh no,” Adelmar murmured.

  Haldrych’s knife dropped into his plate, splashing the meat’s juices upon his face and robe. “M-Marctinus?”

  Milos watched him. “We have a belief among the followers of Lycundar: that the fallen allies we consume grant us strength. In this, take comfort that your steed may no longer bear you, but he will now live as your strength forevermore. As all of our strengths.”

  Haldrych looked at his plate in horror. “Argh! Aaaaargh!” he wailed as a mother over her slain son. “Marctinus! No!”

  The patriarch of House Ameldan pounded the oak with his fists, his screams echoing out through the window and into the mountains.

  Wurhi’s only regret was that she proved too frightened to laugh.

  “I shall allow you to keep your bauble.” Milos glanced to the Eye of Radiin. “I thought to take it from you, but you already suffer, my child. May its sight serve as a reminder of your folly and the loss it has inflicted.”

  The Sacred Alpha looked to the stricken hunt-leader. “And so, we come to the crux of it, Jairus. Punishment. How many brothers did you allow to be slain by your bungling? I know what excuses you may use to balm your guilt, my child, but see them for what they are: falsities. And Lycundar can smell even the lies we speak to ourselves.”

  “But…” Jairus choked. “But there were warriors we were unprepared for!”

  “Indeed, there were. And you were unprepared,” Milos agreed. “But by mere accident? No. Lying as such would be a disservice to our fallen brothers. Haldrych Ameldan is punished due to having brought this request without proper warning. You have been punished because you have not behaved as one of Lycundar’s chosen. Easy prey in Laexondael has left you lax and foolish.”

  “They took us by surprise!”

  Milos’ lips tightened. “And how is that? Did you stalk your prey? Scent out their allies and hideaways? Search their weaknesses and strengths?” He gestured to Adelmar and Haldrych. The first was pale while the second sobbed into his platter of Marctinus. “You had two members of the domicile where your quarry resided, and you used none of their connections. Instead, you revelled in your own power and charged in blindly. That is the way of a rabid boar, not a cunning wolf.”

  “I…” Jairus muttered. “I…” His will crumbled by the heartbeat. “I apologise, Sacred Alpha. I see your wisdom now.” He seemed sick.

  “Sacred Alpha!” Berard suddenly stood. His chair teetered on the carpets. “I wish to account for myself!” He bowed his head. “Let me cleanse my shame!”

  Milos watched him evenly. “That will be what happens…” His eyes appraised the hulk of a man. “But I shall allow you to wield the instrument of your punishment.”

  He raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

  The curtain wrenched aside over the chamber’s second entrance, drawn by a large, ruddy hand.

  Wurhi gasped.

  A hulking monstrosity filled the passage—so broad and towering that it needed to fold itself to stalk into the dining chamber. Ruddy tones filled pale skin covered by a coat of grey fur, save for upon its hands and loathsome countenance. Its face was that of an ape, but with a cruel cast to its features that told of a brutish cunning.

  Yellow-green eyes sparked with the beginnings of sapience, as one might witness in a child first awakening to thought, but with none of the accompanying innocence. Powerful limbs extended from its lumbering torso, each of an uncanny length, as though caught between those of a human and a loping ape.

  A girdle of studded leather hammered into bronze chain protected its body, and it clutched a club of bronze studded in silver—longer than Crixus was tall. The weapon looked like a battering ram whose end had been twisted into a rough handle. The other weapon it clutched suited it far less: a beautiful sword with jewels pressed into its hilt. Wurhi’s eyes widened as she recognised her blade. With lengthy strides, the beast-man came to stand by Milos’ seat, eyeing the table’s occupants with a challenging, flinty gaze.

  Milos watched the gaping Merrick and transfixed Wurhi. “Impressive, is he not?” He patted the giant’s arm. The beast-man gave a low rumble of approval. “His kind multiply in the wild places where the cave folk used to rule, but while that elder race withers, his ilk grow strong. They are at the crossroads of animal and man, having just awoken to sapience. Do you see? Do you see the power of flesh? What blood and training can hone?”

  He gestured to the beast’s club and girdle. “I raised him from infancy, building his body and mind into what you now behold. Of my many pets, he is one of three of my most prized. Pray you do not upset him.” He pointed to Berard. “Give him the sword, my pet.”

  “Mrmmm,” the beast-man grumbled, stepping past the table. Wurhi’s gaze crawled up its long, powerful form in trepidation. Its movements flowed with the ease of water, bespeaking of a terrible speed and grace were it roused. Yet, its size rivalled that of the ogres dwelling in Gergorix’s ruined city. Even in the grip of his hulking transformation, Berard would only have risen to the top of its monstrously powerful chest.

  As a man, his towering height crested at its breastbone.

  “Mrrrm,” the beast-man rumbled, extending the sword to the big man. “Here.”

  Its voice was terrible—deeper than any man’s and coated in the sandy rasp of an animal.

  Berard took the blade without meeting its eyes.

  “Good, my pet,” Milos smiled. “You remembered the word and to hand it by the hilt first. I shall ensure you have a treat later.” He turned now to Berard, gripping his toga and shifting it aside.

  Jairus gasped. “Sacred Alpha!”

  An ugly cut ran from the side of Milos’ breast and down over his ribs. Choleric red framed the jagged wound and the scabbing upon it looked to be fresh. “This was my penance.” Milos pronounced. “My carelessness allowed the pack to suffer such a loss. I engraved that into my flesh with the silver of that sword. What will you do, Berard?”

  Without a single word, the large man brought Wurhi’s sword to his face.

  Flesh parted.

  “Aaaaargh!” The blade fell silently to the carpets. Berard clutched his countenance as crimson poured between his fingers from a deep slash.

  His penance would mark his face for the rest of his days.

  “Excellently done.” Milos rose from his seat to gently clasp the larger man’s shoulder. “See that you have that attended to, Brother Berard.”

  The large man nodded through clenched teeth and fled the chamber, his heavy steps disappearing in the outer passage.

  “All of you, take into account what you have seen today.” The cult leader turned on all present. “Adelmar, witness how a member of the pack conducts themselves. Mark how one must hold themselves accountable lest they once more become a mere lamb.”

  His tone indicated his dismissal.

  Adelmar rose and bowed. “Er, yes, Sacred Alpha.”

  He grabbed the weeping Haldrych by the shoulder and dragged him from the chamber.

  Milos looked next to Jairus. “What will you do now, hunt-leader?”

  The small man’s face had washed bright red. His eyes shone fervently in the firelight. “I will find those who slew our brethren and capture them. I will see their souls fed to Lycundar by way of the arena. This will be my penance.”

  “Very good.” Milos nodded in approval. “Stalk them properly.”

  “Yes, Lord Milos.” Jairus bowed, but his eyes turned a hateful gaze upon the thieves across the table. “But why, lord? Why are they not punished?”

  Wurhi and Merrick stiffened.

  Milos sighed. “They proved themselves in the arena once. They will have to again. Punishment will come in time, but for now, they have pleased Lycundar. They are safe.”

  Relief washed through Wurhi’s body. For an instant, she let her guard down.

  She missed the signal passing between Milos and his beast-man.

  If she had not, she might have reacted in time.

  A ruddy paw cracked out.

  Its lanky, steel-hard arm reached across the table to seize the Zabyallan by surprise.

  With a crash, it pressed her into the oak with all the weight of an avalanche.

  Her breath tightened and her eyes rolled every which way. Her heart hammered in her ears, and she thrashed violently in its hold. Plates and chalices were dashed to the floor. Merrick leapt from the table with a strangled cry. He looked to the window.

  “I would not.” Milos warned him as he rounded the table with slow, deliberate steps. “It opens onto a sheer drop. You would be a red smear before your screams stopped echoing through the mountains. Of course, that would only be if you made it to the window… Which you would not.” The cult leader appraised the thief. “Not whole.”

  “Ach! Aaargh! Let me go!” Wurhi shrieked. “Let me go!”

  “Not until penance is paid.” Milos leaned down until his grave expression was level with hers. His inhuman scent stung her nostrils and his breath washed over her face. “You survived Lycundar’s trial, but it was you and your companions who slew my pack brothers.” His eyes burned like frost. “You may have passed the arena’s trial but to see you unscathed… sits ill with me.”

  He glanced up to the beast-man. “Only the hand, my pet.”

 

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