David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

For the first time in many years these fierce warriors were fighting not for gold, nor women, nor glory but for land. And he sensed the difference in them.

“It will not be easy,” said his carle captain Briga, a swarthy black-haired veteran who had been Drada’s first Aenir tutor.

“Nothing worth having comes easy,” Drada told him.

The man grinned. “They fight well, these clansmen.”

“Did you expect less?” Drada asked him.

“Not after the Games.”

“No.” Drada finished his meal and returned to his tent. Briga watched him go. He had been Drada’s carle captain for five years, and before that his sword master. He liked the boy; he was unlike his brothers, but then he had been brought up as a hostage in a foreign city and upon his return was less Aenir than foreigner. He was soft, and his learning sat heavily upon him. Asbidag had made him Briga’s charge.

In the years that followed Drada had learned of battle and death, horror and hate. But blood had run true and he had become, outwardly at least, as much an Aenir as his brothers. Only Briga knew of the lack.

Drada did not love war. He loved the planning of war.

Briga did not care. He sensed that Drada would one day rule the Aenir, and he waited patiently for the day to come.

The Aenir warriors were anxious to push on, but Asbidag gave no orders to move. For ten days they remained in camp until, on the morning of the eleventh day, Tostig rode in alone, reining his lathered mount outside his father’s tent. Asbidag hauled him from the saddle, eyes blazing.

“Where is the witch woman?” he stormed. “If you have failed me I’ll kill you! Your body will hang on the same tree as your brother.”

“She is coming, Father, I swear it. She refused to ride, said she would come in her own way.”

Asbidag hauled him to his feet. “She had better,” he hissed.

At midnight, as the fires burned low, a bitter wind blew up, flashing sparks from the coals. Men shivered as dark clouds obscured the stars and Asbidag, sitting alone before his tent, drew his red cloak around him. A shadow fell across him, and glancing up, he saw the old woman standing before him leaning on a staff. She was as grotesque as ever-almost bald, the remaining greasy white patches of hair hanging like serpents to her emaciated shoulders. Her teeth were broken and black, and her face adorned with wrinkled, leathery skin, as if her skull had shrunk to half its size, leaving the flesh around it to sag monstrously. She wore a matted cloak of human scalps and her tattered gown was said to have been made from the skins of flayed maidens. Asbidag believed it to be true.

“What do you want of me?” she asked, her voice a sibilant hiss.

“Terror among the clans.”

“You have brought terror to the clans. What do you want of me?”

“I want your sorcery.”

“And what will you offer the Grey God?”

“Whatever he asks.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Whatever?”

“Is your hearing going, woman? Whatever!”

“A hundred virgins slain by midsummer.”

“You shall have it.”

“And seven of your strongest men slain tonight.”

“My men?”

“Yours. And I’ll need your war dogs. Bring them to the woods in an hour.”

Asbidag’s carles roamed the camp until the seven men had been chosen, bound, and gagged. Together with the Aenir Lord’s Hunt Master Donic, and his seven hounds, they were taken to a circular clearing within the woods. Asbidag was waiting there with Drada, Morgase, and Tostig; the woman, Agnetha, sat close by on a round boulder.

The bound men were forced to kneel before the woman and she waved away Asbidag’s carles who returned, relieved, to the camp. Agnetha called Donic forward, ordering him to set each dog before a bound man. He did so, then ran back to his blankets and the guttering fire behind Asbidag’s tent.

In the clearing the kneeling men were sweating freely as they stared into the eyes of Asbidag’s hounds. Agnetha glanced at the Aenir lord and nodded.

“Kill!” he shouted.

The hounds lunged forward, ripping at the exposed throats before them.

Agnetha ran along the line of dying men, hurling a grey misty powder over them and chanting. One by one the dogs sank to the earth, their teeth embedded in the flesh of the slain men. The witch woman lifted her arms to the night sky, screaming the name of the Grey God over and over again.

“Vatan! Vatan! Vatan!”

By her feet the hounds began to writhe and swell, while the Aenir corpses twisted and shriveled. Morgase turned away. Drada swallowed hard, flicking a glance at his father. Asbidag was grinning. Tostig squeezed shut his eyes.

Within seconds the dead warriors were bone-filled husks, while the hounds had grown to triple their size. Their front paws had stretched into taloned fingers, and their dark fur-covered forms parodied men-long muscular legs, deep powerful chests, and round heads ending in elongated maws and sharp fangs.

Agnetha danced around them, bidding them rise. Releasing the empty husks, the beasts pushed themselves to their feet, red eyes scanning the clearing. Their gaze fell upon Asbidag and their howling rent the night. Tostig stepped backward in terror and fell. Morgase gripped Drada’s arm.

“Is this what you wanted, Asbidag?” said Agnetha.

“Yes.”

“Once unleashed they can never be brought back. They will follow no one. They are created out of hate and they will kill any man they find, be he Aenir or clan. Is this what you want?”

“Yes, curse you! Just send them north.”

“They will go where they will. But I will send them north. Have you done with me now?”

“I have.”

“Remember your promise, Asbidag. One hundred maidens by midsummer. Or the werehounds will hunt you. ”

“Don’t threaten me, hag,” thundered Asbidag.

The woman cackled and turned to the silent beasts. Lifting her arm, she pointed north and the ghastly pack loped away into the darkness.

Asbidag walked forward, pushing his boot against a shriveled corpse. A dried bone split the skin and fell to the grass. He shook his head and began to laugh.

Agnetha stopped him, placing her bony hand upon his arm. “What is so amusing?”

“This,” he answered, pushing the corpse once more. “This was Anias, son of my brother Casta. Only yesterday I told him he was empty-headed. Now his body matches his head.”

Drada approached Agnetha. “How can those things live?”

“In the same way as you, Lord Drada. They breathe and they eat. It is an old spell, and a fine one, taught to me by a Nadir shaman in another age.”

“But what are they now, hounds or men?”

“They are both-and neither.”

“Do they have souls?”

“Do you?”

“Not anymore,” said Drada, gazing down at the corpses.

The pack made their first kill that night, drifting silently through the pine forests in the northwest. The leader’s head came up, nostrils flaring in the breeze. His red eyes turned to the northeast and he led the group deeper into the trees.

A young Haesten clansman and his two daughters were hidden in a cave. Having escaped the assault on their valley, they had met a Farlain scout who told them to head for Vallon. The clansman traveled by night carrying his youngest child, a girl of six years. His other daughter was eleven and she walked beside them. On this night, exhausted and hungry, they had made an early camp in the pine woods after spotting the Aenir army to the south.

The man had fallen into a light sleep when the werebeasts struck and he died without a struggle, his eyes flaring open to see wide jaws lined with fangs flashing toward his face. He had no time to scream.

His elder daughter, Jarka, took hold of her little sister and sped from the cave-only for talons to lance into her back, dragging her to a stop. In the last moment of her young life, Jarka hurled her sister into the undergrowth. The child screamed as she crashed through the bushes; then she was up and running, the awful sound of howling echoing behind her.