TheDucksGhost
Offline
- Quote
- Posted: Tue, 09 Feb 2010 00:32:56 +0000
This is the first chapter of a much longer story that I'm writing. I'll periodically be posting the new chapters. Feel free to comment.
The Night and The Wolf
Days that begin in one fashion can end in any other fashion. A day that started extremely well can end with disaster, and the jaws of defeat can cough up victory. Night isn’t so fickle.
The shadows watched two men as they followed an ox cart down a winding forest road. Up one hill, down another, around bend and switchback they plodded. The men, deep down in the part of their minds that still crept in caves and worshipped thunder, knew about the constancy of nights. This one had started with a broken wheel. The load wasn’t terribly heavy, and the stone they hit should have been nothing but another sound in the night as the wagon trundled on, but the rim of the oaken wheel cracked like a shot.
The men knew immediately what had happened. They’d been carters for much of their lives and, owing to time spent on the road, they knew carts more intimately than their wives. The question of stopping was raised in each man’s head, and discarded before mouths formed words. If they had time to stop, they wouldn’t be moving in the night. Each man also knew that to replace or repair the wheel they would need more than moonlight. The cart creaked on, and the men followed in unaccustomed silence.
Perhaps it was the oppression of the darkness that stopped the usual good-natured gripes and joshing that are the constant accompaniment of working men. This was not their usual route. Prairie roads, their usual habitat, weren’t flanked by trees that harbor shadows so absolute it could give the impression that the edges of the road define the bounds of existence.
Being made of oak, and possessing the stubborn strength it is known for, the damaged wheel had held together for hours, and the carters had made a few miles progress. Each man, in the dark of his mind, followed the progress of the wheel’s destruction as, every round, the damage got just that little bit more severe. Before long, the wagon began to wobble a little as the wood splintered beyond its ability to hold the load and remain rigid.
“Well…,” one of the men said, drawing out the word in the manner of a farmer about to speculate on crop yield, or a mechanic going to deliver a price estimate, “won’t be long now, will it?” His compatriot grunted agreement. ‘Maybe another half mile or so,’ the men thought in unison.
The night rolled on, and so did the cart. As they progressed through the wooded hills, the oxen began to exhibit signs of nervousness. The carters had, on many occasions, stated that they used oxen because, in a pinch, they were tastier than other stock. The part of their mind that wasn’t busy with institutional jokes decided that oxen, though slow, were the best choice for hauling, as they were the strongest haulers, less stubborn than mules, and less prone to stampede than horses.
The oxen began to shift a bit in their yoke, becoming restless with the constraint on their movement. Every so often the pace of the cart would jerk, as one ox or the other paused for a step to smell the air. The beasts looked around as much as they could, while their ears swept the air like search lights. The concern filled the minds of the cattle. As the carters noted the unease of their beasts, it overflowed into the minds of the men.
A man’s mind is greater than that of an ox. It can hold more concern. It also has the ability to take that concern and shape it until it can breed in thoughts, and by this breeding expand to bend the thoughts for more effective breeding. Did that shadow move against the gentle night breeze? What forest creature could scare a pair of oxen? Were the night creatures here as formidable as the some of the grassland predators? Was that really the sound of the wheel giving way, or the sound of a grounded branch being broken by the tread of a nightmare creature waiting to rend flesh and destroy souls?
The wheel, just as the carters had expected, gave way very nearly a half mile after it began to wobble. By this time, the men were paying less attention to the cart, and much more to the sepulchral darkness under the trees. The shadows had watched as their nervousness grew, blossomed, and began to bear fruit in the form of little beads of sweat on the brow and lips.
They were not cowardly men, nor weak. They thought of themselves as decent, hard-working men who did an honest job for fair rates, wanting only to live their lives in satisfaction, and they were right. They carried heavy staves for rough walking and some sort of protection in a scrape. In short, they were just men put into an unfamiliar, unsettling place and it took its toll on them. By the time that wheel gave way, they were ready to see anything. That readiness didn’t help with what they saw.
It came with deception. Its bounding gait was deceptive, it ran through shifting shadows and small flecks of moonlight that would make its nearness deceptive, and the trees and brush could deceive as to its appearance. As it rocketed toward the road, its intent was ringing with truth.
Once again the cave-dweller portion of the mind showed its knowledge as the carters, prompted by a subconscious nudge, turned in unison toward the hurtling form. It broke from cover just ahead of the wagon, coming low to the ground and fast. It streaked in on two legs, its arms out in the attitude of any reaching childhood monster. The oxen bawled in terror as it came.
The men didn’t see it strike the first ox in a rending flurry of claws and fangs. They heard the creature’s expression of fear choke off in a pained bleat as it was killed in two seconds of bloody rage. The cart rocked as the second of the oxen fought the yoke that attached it to the horror-stricken mate it had been working beside, then heaved for a moment as the creature turned its rage to finish the cattle. After the cart stilled, there was a second of almost silence. The carters heard nothing, other than their own hearts and the faint, rasping snarl coming from the far side of their wagon.
Time stopped for the men, as the creature leapt completely over the wagon. Against the backdrop of a moonlight cloud, the creature was both less terrifying then before and infinitely more so. The creature was a Canna, one of the race of canine demi-human that lived in the area where the carters had grown up. The Canna were generally not a threat to humans. Often friendly, at worst standoffish, they were not like this.
This creature’s wolf-like features were all contracted into a snarl of senseless fury, its ears laid back along its skull, its fangs bared, claws flexed to tear, jaws open and dripping with blood and saliva, fur matted and slicked with the blood of victims and with streamers of ox flesh and hide clinging to it here and there. Its eyes, normally the deep and expressive eyes that man sees in canines, were what held the gaze of the carters in that eternal moment. Lifeless and totally black, they showed nothing but the thoughtless evil that drove the beast.
The carters, entranced by the specter attacking them, did not see the second shadow as it sped toward them from the behind. It moved like the mad creature now assaulting the carters, and a low growl was in its throat. It bounded from the trees in the moment the creature landed between the carters.
Its claws raked down one man’s face, tearing a bloody quadruple-furrow as the other hand slashed downward along the ribs, making a long, ragged wound. The wounded man screamed as the heat of agony overwhelmed his senses.
The next moment was a confused one for the second man. He saw a life saved, another lost, a myth confirmed, and incomprehensible savagery.
The man was going to hit the monster anyway. In his mind, to be attacked was to defend, however trivial such defense may be. An oaken stick that is one and a half inches through being swung by a man who wrestles heavy packages and various cargo for a living is not often seen as trivial. When the staff landed along the ribs of the monster, it knocked the creature a half-step sideways and turned it a bit, causing a swipe that would have disemboweled his partner to miss. In this way was a life saved.
The monster turned with an astoundingly quick backhand blow that struck the man’s staff and knocked it from his hands. Mouth opened wide, it bored in to tear the carter’s throat out. The monster was foiled in this by the arrival of the second shadow.
It struck the monster at a full on sprint, smashing it away from the carter and turning what would have been a missing throat into a couple of minor cuts as the fangs were swept by. The two creatures combined into a flying mass of claws, fangs, blades, and pain. The crazed monster slashed with blinding speed at its new assailant, while seeking a grip with its jaws. The new combatant used one hand to push the monster’s head back and the other to block attacks, ignoring the wounds it was receiving from the free hand of the monster. The monster’s snarling became a shriek of pain as the hand that blocked became a hand that countered and removed the lower arm of the monster.
The mass of angry battle hit the ground, and broke into two individuals. The monster and the newcomer both rolled nimbly to their feet. The newcomer was also a wolf Canna, taller than his foe but equally lean. His fur was the gleaming blue-black of a crow’s feather. A ragged dark cloak hung about his shoulders, and he had a saber sheathed at his side. His left hand was the usual collection of hybrid paw-fingers, but the right was a gleaming construct of metal fasteners and reinforcers that attached to a set of four foot-long semi-curved blades.
The monster gained its feet a fraction of a second after the dark Canna, and immediately lunged to attack. The newcomer slipped to the right of the attack, and with a single swipe of its right hand it took the monster’s head off as it passed.
The carter, too shocked even to be stunned, looked to his comrade. He mostly saw blood. Two running strides later he was on his knees beside the fallen man, trying to find a sign of life. He didn’t hear footsteps behind him. He didn’t feel the look at his throat, or hear the deep, questioning sniff. He didn’t hear the sign, and he didn’t notice the shadow on the ground beside him. He did hear the scrape of the saber being drawn, and he did see the upraised arm of the shadow begin to fall. Perhaps he felt just a nanosecond of the cold touch of steel to his neck before the blade swept through and through with surgical precision.
In such a way is a life lost.
The Night and The Wolf
Days that begin in one fashion can end in any other fashion. A day that started extremely well can end with disaster, and the jaws of defeat can cough up victory. Night isn’t so fickle.
The shadows watched two men as they followed an ox cart down a winding forest road. Up one hill, down another, around bend and switchback they plodded. The men, deep down in the part of their minds that still crept in caves and worshipped thunder, knew about the constancy of nights. This one had started with a broken wheel. The load wasn’t terribly heavy, and the stone they hit should have been nothing but another sound in the night as the wagon trundled on, but the rim of the oaken wheel cracked like a shot.
The men knew immediately what had happened. They’d been carters for much of their lives and, owing to time spent on the road, they knew carts more intimately than their wives. The question of stopping was raised in each man’s head, and discarded before mouths formed words. If they had time to stop, they wouldn’t be moving in the night. Each man also knew that to replace or repair the wheel they would need more than moonlight. The cart creaked on, and the men followed in unaccustomed silence.
Perhaps it was the oppression of the darkness that stopped the usual good-natured gripes and joshing that are the constant accompaniment of working men. This was not their usual route. Prairie roads, their usual habitat, weren’t flanked by trees that harbor shadows so absolute it could give the impression that the edges of the road define the bounds of existence.
Being made of oak, and possessing the stubborn strength it is known for, the damaged wheel had held together for hours, and the carters had made a few miles progress. Each man, in the dark of his mind, followed the progress of the wheel’s destruction as, every round, the damage got just that little bit more severe. Before long, the wagon began to wobble a little as the wood splintered beyond its ability to hold the load and remain rigid.
“Well…,” one of the men said, drawing out the word in the manner of a farmer about to speculate on crop yield, or a mechanic going to deliver a price estimate, “won’t be long now, will it?” His compatriot grunted agreement. ‘Maybe another half mile or so,’ the men thought in unison.
The night rolled on, and so did the cart. As they progressed through the wooded hills, the oxen began to exhibit signs of nervousness. The carters had, on many occasions, stated that they used oxen because, in a pinch, they were tastier than other stock. The part of their mind that wasn’t busy with institutional jokes decided that oxen, though slow, were the best choice for hauling, as they were the strongest haulers, less stubborn than mules, and less prone to stampede than horses.
The oxen began to shift a bit in their yoke, becoming restless with the constraint on their movement. Every so often the pace of the cart would jerk, as one ox or the other paused for a step to smell the air. The beasts looked around as much as they could, while their ears swept the air like search lights. The concern filled the minds of the cattle. As the carters noted the unease of their beasts, it overflowed into the minds of the men.
A man’s mind is greater than that of an ox. It can hold more concern. It also has the ability to take that concern and shape it until it can breed in thoughts, and by this breeding expand to bend the thoughts for more effective breeding. Did that shadow move against the gentle night breeze? What forest creature could scare a pair of oxen? Were the night creatures here as formidable as the some of the grassland predators? Was that really the sound of the wheel giving way, or the sound of a grounded branch being broken by the tread of a nightmare creature waiting to rend flesh and destroy souls?
The wheel, just as the carters had expected, gave way very nearly a half mile after it began to wobble. By this time, the men were paying less attention to the cart, and much more to the sepulchral darkness under the trees. The shadows had watched as their nervousness grew, blossomed, and began to bear fruit in the form of little beads of sweat on the brow and lips.
They were not cowardly men, nor weak. They thought of themselves as decent, hard-working men who did an honest job for fair rates, wanting only to live their lives in satisfaction, and they were right. They carried heavy staves for rough walking and some sort of protection in a scrape. In short, they were just men put into an unfamiliar, unsettling place and it took its toll on them. By the time that wheel gave way, they were ready to see anything. That readiness didn’t help with what they saw.
It came with deception. Its bounding gait was deceptive, it ran through shifting shadows and small flecks of moonlight that would make its nearness deceptive, and the trees and brush could deceive as to its appearance. As it rocketed toward the road, its intent was ringing with truth.
Once again the cave-dweller portion of the mind showed its knowledge as the carters, prompted by a subconscious nudge, turned in unison toward the hurtling form. It broke from cover just ahead of the wagon, coming low to the ground and fast. It streaked in on two legs, its arms out in the attitude of any reaching childhood monster. The oxen bawled in terror as it came.
The men didn’t see it strike the first ox in a rending flurry of claws and fangs. They heard the creature’s expression of fear choke off in a pained bleat as it was killed in two seconds of bloody rage. The cart rocked as the second of the oxen fought the yoke that attached it to the horror-stricken mate it had been working beside, then heaved for a moment as the creature turned its rage to finish the cattle. After the cart stilled, there was a second of almost silence. The carters heard nothing, other than their own hearts and the faint, rasping snarl coming from the far side of their wagon.
Time stopped for the men, as the creature leapt completely over the wagon. Against the backdrop of a moonlight cloud, the creature was both less terrifying then before and infinitely more so. The creature was a Canna, one of the race of canine demi-human that lived in the area where the carters had grown up. The Canna were generally not a threat to humans. Often friendly, at worst standoffish, they were not like this.
This creature’s wolf-like features were all contracted into a snarl of senseless fury, its ears laid back along its skull, its fangs bared, claws flexed to tear, jaws open and dripping with blood and saliva, fur matted and slicked with the blood of victims and with streamers of ox flesh and hide clinging to it here and there. Its eyes, normally the deep and expressive eyes that man sees in canines, were what held the gaze of the carters in that eternal moment. Lifeless and totally black, they showed nothing but the thoughtless evil that drove the beast.
The carters, entranced by the specter attacking them, did not see the second shadow as it sped toward them from the behind. It moved like the mad creature now assaulting the carters, and a low growl was in its throat. It bounded from the trees in the moment the creature landed between the carters.
Its claws raked down one man’s face, tearing a bloody quadruple-furrow as the other hand slashed downward along the ribs, making a long, ragged wound. The wounded man screamed as the heat of agony overwhelmed his senses.
The next moment was a confused one for the second man. He saw a life saved, another lost, a myth confirmed, and incomprehensible savagery.
The man was going to hit the monster anyway. In his mind, to be attacked was to defend, however trivial such defense may be. An oaken stick that is one and a half inches through being swung by a man who wrestles heavy packages and various cargo for a living is not often seen as trivial. When the staff landed along the ribs of the monster, it knocked the creature a half-step sideways and turned it a bit, causing a swipe that would have disemboweled his partner to miss. In this way was a life saved.
The monster turned with an astoundingly quick backhand blow that struck the man’s staff and knocked it from his hands. Mouth opened wide, it bored in to tear the carter’s throat out. The monster was foiled in this by the arrival of the second shadow.
It struck the monster at a full on sprint, smashing it away from the carter and turning what would have been a missing throat into a couple of minor cuts as the fangs were swept by. The two creatures combined into a flying mass of claws, fangs, blades, and pain. The crazed monster slashed with blinding speed at its new assailant, while seeking a grip with its jaws. The new combatant used one hand to push the monster’s head back and the other to block attacks, ignoring the wounds it was receiving from the free hand of the monster. The monster’s snarling became a shriek of pain as the hand that blocked became a hand that countered and removed the lower arm of the monster.
The mass of angry battle hit the ground, and broke into two individuals. The monster and the newcomer both rolled nimbly to their feet. The newcomer was also a wolf Canna, taller than his foe but equally lean. His fur was the gleaming blue-black of a crow’s feather. A ragged dark cloak hung about his shoulders, and he had a saber sheathed at his side. His left hand was the usual collection of hybrid paw-fingers, but the right was a gleaming construct of metal fasteners and reinforcers that attached to a set of four foot-long semi-curved blades.
The monster gained its feet a fraction of a second after the dark Canna, and immediately lunged to attack. The newcomer slipped to the right of the attack, and with a single swipe of its right hand it took the monster’s head off as it passed.
The carter, too shocked even to be stunned, looked to his comrade. He mostly saw blood. Two running strides later he was on his knees beside the fallen man, trying to find a sign of life. He didn’t hear footsteps behind him. He didn’t feel the look at his throat, or hear the deep, questioning sniff. He didn’t hear the sign, and he didn’t notice the shadow on the ground beside him. He did hear the scrape of the saber being drawn, and he did see the upraised arm of the shadow begin to fall. Perhaps he felt just a nanosecond of the cold touch of steel to his neck before the blade swept through and through with surgical precision.
In such a way is a life lost.
