The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 23: Shadows and Ghosts

“I’ve been keeping a close eye on ‘em. Haven’t seen many out during the day. They’ve got strange habits, you know. The other guards are startin’ to get a little on edge with them. Had to stop a few brawls in the guard towers myself.” He looked a little proud, at that, and adjusted his belt. “I’ve seen Hands are trying to get up on the battlements to keep watch during the evenings, but I won’t let ’em near an inch of those ladders. You’re safe, by my accounts. Don’t think anyone knows you’re here but me, ’course, and Arienna.” It was Markus again, reporting to Deidre dutifully.

That’s right, she thought, no one knows I am here; no one who is alive, anyways. She had neglected to tell Markus about the piling bodies in the crypts.

Deidre was sitting cross-legged at the foot of Calan’s statue when Markus came to give her this news. “And what about that boy I described to you? Have you seen someone like him enter the city?”

“No, lass. Though I’ve told other guardsmen to keep a lookout for him. Why is it that you want us lookin’ for him, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just someone who passed through my village, once. An old friend, you could say,” she lied. Markus was a compassionate man. She wasn’t certain how compassionate he would be with a werewolf, though.

“I see. Well, I best be going, else folks will be wonderin’ why a man such as myself is visiting Calan’s chapel so often. It’s not exactly orthodox, you know. Calan is more of a woman’s goddess, mind you.”

Deidre laughed. “If somebody asks, simply tell them your wife is a priestess here.”

“Speaking of priestesses and potential wives,” he said under his breath, “where is Arienna?”

“Went to the market.”

Markus left before Deidre could say farewell. He had a bit of an infatuation with her; she did not blame him, most people did.

Deidre started her morning walk around the chapel. Every corner and crevice in the stone walls had become good friends. One of the windows had a crack in it that grew larger with every passing week, but doubtless, she was the only one who recognized the nearly imperceptible growth of it.

She was finding out the difficult way that, even the most astounding and awe-inspiring things can become dull; the beholder is susceptible to becoming desensitized to it. The first day she arrived, she gaped at the architecture of the chapel just as every passing traveler or visitor does their first time. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Now Deidre sat upon a bench behind the massive stained-glass windows of the front entrance, watching the blurry figures of people walking by. Their pasts, their worries, troubles, desires, and secrets. She wished so desperately for a conversation with a stranger.

Watching passersby was as close to roaming free as she could get. Although most of glass refracted the light terribly, there were a few shards that allowed her to see clearly through.

From the outside, she was just a silhouette.

A pair of feet were coming up the path to the chapel. From this angle, Deidre could only see below the knee, though it was enough. She had killed and dragged enough of their bodies away to know what their uniform looked like. It was one of the Crimson Hands.

Deidre looked around her; there were a few followers, most of them under a vow of silence that is common amongst Calan worshippers. The rest were out doing chores or simply asleep. She had killed Hands in the dead of night before, when no one was watching, but this was different. This would cause alarm, and yet, she could not sit up from her bench to run. The feet had already stopped at the door …

One of the large, wooden halves creaked open. The rusty, ring handle was screeching in its socket, and was released to clang against the wood as the door shut again. Those sounds echoed in the large hall.

Deidre pulled her hood over her head, turned away toward the corner. All the other followers were ignoring the visitor, as they were taught to, unless directly addressed. The footsteps continued in the chapel, wandering slowly, the tapping echoing all around until it felt as if they were right behind her.

“Excuse me. Could one of you be of assistance?” But the voice—soft and gentle—was unlike the others. In fact, it was familiar.

Deidre couldn’t help herself; she turned in her seat, frightened that what she heard was some spell to deceive her, but too curious to distrust her suspicion.

It was no spell. It was Fenris. His eyes had caught her movement behind him, and he gasped as soon as he saw her, removing both the dark mask and cowl covering his face.

Even as she stood from the bench, she hardly believed herself, she was starting to shake, and the most uncontrollable smile was taking over her cheeks.

Fenris rushed to catch her in an embrace, her eyes shut tight and his staring at the ground in a daze. There was a warmth building in her chest, now. She was surprised to find she’d nearly forgotten it existed at all to begin with.

When he pulled away, she was sad to see there was an iciness about him that never coated him before. Even just inches from her, there were things hidden behind his expression, eating away, devouring. The Curse was feeding off him. And although there was a grin on his face …

“Fenris, that scar. How …?” she reached up to touch it. How did he survive this? Why does it look as if he’s had it for years?

He recoiled, limping a little as he did, and brushed her hand away. “There will be time for stories … later.” The grin lingered, yet the emotion behind it was dissipating. “You needn’t worry.” After looking over her again, the warmth returned. “And what of you? Why is it you are so concerned for me?”

Deidre was shocked. “What? Well because you …”

Fenris held up a piece of parchment with her face drawn on it. “A guard told me to come to this chapel straightaway, to see a witch who’s been looking for me, and not to linger in the courtyards too long because there are Crimson Hand assassins hiding ‘in the shadows,’ he said. My first instinct was to leave this city as fast as I could, seeing as how I just escaped those gods-forsaken creatures.”

“Escaped?”

“Again … the stories aren’t for now. But this is serious, Deidre.” He looked around the chapel, for the first time noticing the architecture. “It’s beautiful here. Is this where you’ve been hiding? Why didn’t you try to leave?”

“For weeks, now. You might not have seen many of them because it’s midday, but the city is overrun with them. When you came here, I thought you were another one of them. Just look at you! How did you come about finding their clothes?” Her hands searched up and down the seams of his garments.

A few followers of Calan were looking suspiciously at Fenris. He returned glances uneasily.

“Don’t mind them. They’ve been helping me. I know their priestess.”

Fenris was holding Deidre’s hand. He looked down, turned her palms upwards to look over them, go over their lines with his thumb and feel how soft they were to his callous touch. She smelled of fresh herbs like sage and lavender, though he didn’t want to know what she thought he smelled like. He still hadn’t washed since the potion was spilled over him …

“Have the gods been good to you?” she asked him.

Fenris chuckled to himself. “In some ways, yes.” He shut his eyes, and winced, as if something had stabbed him. “And in others … no.”

“You know you don’t deserve any of this. You might as well have been the reason that Crowshead survived that night. If you hadn’t jumped on its back to save me, save them …”

“But that doesn’t matter; they’re all gone now, all of them. Isn’t that right? Someone in my travels, he told me that the whole village was set afire.”

“It’s true. Well … not all of it is true. One other survived besides me.” Deidre pointed towards a cot pushed up against one of the walls of the chapel. Timothy’s small head of brown hair was just barely peeking out from beneath a heap of blankets.

The look of depravity in Fenris’ eyes all but melted entirely away, and a broad smile grew on his face. “Timothy?” The rest of his features lit up, he let go of Deidre’s hand and got closer. “Is it truly him?” When Fenris saw his little nose protruding from between his scrunched up cheeks he held a hand up to his face and felt tears sprouting.

Someone’s angry footsteps interrupted the happy scene, as they usually did. It was Priestess Arienna, who reached for a dirk at her waist the moment she saw the would-be assassin intruding in her chapel. Deidre saw her before she got the chance to attack, though. “He’s an old friend!”

“Old friend? You have friends in the Crimson Hand?”

“He’s only dressed like them. This is the one I’ve told you about.”

Fenris hurriedly dried his tears. “Apologies, priestess. It’s been a long, strange journey. My name is—”

“—Fenris, isn’t it?”

That is getting annoying, Fenris thought, though he bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. She was a strikingly beautiful woman in surprisingly simple clothing; the tan-colored robes which usually insulted appearances somehow served to complement hers.

“Well, I am Priestess Arienna. It’s quite wonderful that this chapel is blessed with your presence, but at the same time … quite dreadful. I’m sure Deidre has already told you, or at least, you saw for yourself?”

“She has. We should leave as quickly as possible. Even you, priestess. I have seen how the Crimson Hand treats people who are not of their own kind. In fact, I’ve had a sickening thought since I heard that Crowshead was attacked … ”

“That wouldn’t be wise, to be hasty with such a thing as escaping. Have you seen the portraits of Deidre? Their artists have been copying them wildly. They’re looking for her frantically, you know.”

She is not the type to listen, he thought. “I saw them.” Fenris tried not to impress his anger upon the priestess, though with the lack of sleep, the pain throbbing throughout his body, it was difficult to hide it. “But it’s not enough to frighten me into being slaughtered in a cage—excuse my words—may Calan bless us with her wisdom, but I’ve come from the darkest corners of torture to seek refuge, and if I won’t find it here it’ll be in some other place. If the gods would will it, it’ll be in a tree. But as sure as Silfos’ unholy step, it won’t be anywhere where the Crimson Hand is.”

Arienna chuckled, and shook her head as if what he said was a silly superstition. “My child, look at yourself. Your face is battle-worn, your skin is covered in scars. You wish for refuge, do you not? For now, that much I can give you. Leaving this very instant will only bring more pain, almost certainly your death, or at least hers.”

“Time is something I haven’t got, priestess. And so long as Deidre wishes to leave with me, she doesn’t either … I am regretful to say.” Fenris looked at Deidre, his eyes suddenly pensive. “Deidre, you do wish to leave with me, don’t you?”

Deidre opened her mouth, but Arienna interjected. “She has all she can wish for here: food, shelter, warmth and family. On the road, you can scarcely hope for one of those.”

Deidre stammered. “My pardon, priestess, but I can’t stay here. You’ve earned my eternal gratitude, yet I am not one to be kept in by walls. The assassins have already attempted to kill me. One of these days, they may be successful.”

Fenris expression flared in surprise. They already tried?

Arienna, as was her usual style of conversing, ignored her reply. “Speaking of those wretched elves, you are wearing their raiment. How did you come across a whole set, and so well fitting?”

Although the Crimson Hand was a repulsive cult, their uniforms were not. The style was unique; the design made for comfort as well as flexibility in battle. Her tone was almost envious.

Fenris took a deep breath. Before he could continue, the two elves from his would-be story slipped through the chapel door, interrupting it completely.

“Leave, you filths! You have no business in this holy sanctuary!” Arienna shouted at them.

Vidarr looked battle-torn, too tired to deal with hyper priestesses. He raised up a lazy hand, not sure who to convince first that he wasn’t trying to kill anyone. Fenris interjected, suppressing a fluttering in his heart from seeing Ashara after being briefly separated. “Priestess, I know this must be strange …” he began cautiously.

“Strange?” she asked, brandishing her dagger wildly. “You’re damned right this is strange. Now I’m starting to see some things come together. You, wearing their clothes. You, with that deep scar across your face. What unholy acts have you been getting into, child? Tell me now, tell it true and clear. And the two of you won’t move an inch.”

Vidarr was splattered with dried blood. Some of it was even in his hair; he didn’t feel like moving, anyways. His bow was still strung, as he hadn’t the time to unstring it due to the harried flight from the encampment. It hung loosely in his hand, next to a nearly empty quiver.

“Surely,” Fenris noted aloud, “They would have their weapons drawn if they were like the others. The Hands are not ones for mercy or hesitance, are they? Perhaps you should sheathe your blade, priestess, before I continue my story. Calan is, after all, a peaceful goddess.”

But she was not amused.

Deidre stopped standing so close to Fenris. Seeing him defend the assassins made her stomach turn, as if his Lupine Curse was not horrifying enough.

The priestess’ dagger with her frustration, looking from Fenris to the others. “I’ll die a defender of Calan, not a fool convinced by cheap words. What are you, anyways?” she asked Fenris, analyzing the deep scar on his face. “Deidre did never tell me why her village was burned. But it’s quite obvious, isn’t it?”

Fenris hardly expected to be the object of attention in the room. Vidarr did, after all, look like a crazed killer who needed rest after a long spree of murders. Instead of using his words, Fenris lifted up his shirt.

The shallow wound of his curse was now enflamed. It wasn’t infected; the nail was too small to cause any serious wounds, on the surface, at least. The veins all around the scratch were stretching into his body like tiny roots set afire, the longest of them curling up and around his left breast where his heart was.

Arienna gasped, while Deidre tried to hide her surprise.

“He’s a Cursed One,” Ashara finished calmly.

Arienna gasped, looking utterly betrayed, wounded, and disgusted all at once. “And you never thought to tell me?” she asked Deidre. “Now one of Siflos’ children is running about my chapel like it’s his own plaything.”

Fenris looked down at his feet. At least in his eyes he was not running like a child.

“As you can see, we’re not here to kill Fenris or take the girl,” Ashara said. She removed her hood and mask. “Believe me when I say that, if we were truly who you think we are, Fenris and Deidre would be captors, being dragged through the streets. The only reason we took time to delve deeper into this city once we arrived was to save this girl, perhaps get her past the front gates in some sort of guise. Not to kill her.”

Arienna didn’t give in. She just lowered her dagger, and kept her distance. “You’ll need to explain more. The blood, the sweat, and the stench of death drifting from all of you. It’s thick enough to reach the skies, I swear it. Yes, you’re going to start weaving your story. Tell it fast, tell it true, if I am to sleep well at all tonight, without killing you, that is.”

Vidarr chuckled. “Quite understandable, priestess. Do you have any ale? It has a way of loosening the lips.”

By the time they had all told their stories and tapered off to other details of their pasts, they were gathered in the kitchen, warmed by the fire burning in the stove, and the stew that Arienna had prepared for them.

“Slightly different than what I’m used to,” Ashara murmured to Fenris, as she sipped some of the brownish soup, chunky with meat, beans, and other vegetables she could not name.

“Oh, I and what are you used to, eating things like me?”

She made an unamused expression, though she was.

Vidarr cleared his throat. “I have a question, myself.” He picked out a piece of meat from between his teeth. “What about that Sun-elf who killed the High Priest? Do you know what became of him?”

“Sun-elf?” Deidre repeated. Arienna had her arms folded across her chest, by now completely warmed to the group of travelers.

It had been a rather intense session of storytelling, and the moon had sunk across the sky, well past its midnight rise.

“Indeed. Strange, in these parts, isn’t it? I had not noticed him in the slightest, well, not until he assassinated the Priest. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to save you two from your date with the longsword. By the time I had reached the rooftop and surpassed some of the sentries in the dormitories, it was too late; I was just barely nocking an arrow.”

“What did you think, then? Would you retreat?” Ashara asked aloud.

Deidre was enthralled—horrified by the stories—yet she was distracted by the fact that Fenris’ hand was lingering a little too closely to Ashara’s.

“I decided to kill as many as I could,” he shrugged, “at the time it did not seem so terrible an idea. For a moment I thought I would be killing the Priest out of vengeance instead of malice—or justice, however you wish to see it—but then that Sun-elf came along. Ash, you said his name was? Curious, for a highborn. You could say I was … pleasantly surprised.” Pale skin still blotched with dried blood, Vidarr’s devilish grin looked more demonic as the embers burned lower and lower. Although that night was a nightmare for Fenris, Vidarr had fulfilled his deep, lifetime-nurtured fantasies of betraying his cult in the most gruesome manner possible.

Winter’s bite was creeping through the early hours of dawn, so Arienna cured the cold with more firewood and tossed it into the stove, casting the kitchen in a brighter glow of orange and red.

“And after the Priest died?” Fenris enquired into the darkness. Ashara’s hand slipped under the table.

“Many of them went after Ash, while some hunted me, as well. And, of course, a few followed you.”

Fenris wasn’t sure how many times he was going to say it; he would have preferred to do it privately, with a whisper. “Thank you, Vidarr. I owe you my life.” He followed her hand, and let hers fold over his.

Meeting death, and surviving her kiss, it seems, has a way of binding two people.

“It was more for me than you,” he admitted with a sly grin, though Fenris knew better than to trust the surface of those words, and nodded at the elf.

Deidre resisted the urge to look beneath the table, to see their hands together. She was attempting to hide her jealousy, though her lips were tight and her eyes were like onyx as they reflected the flames in the stove. It was excruciating to realize that the person she never had romantic intentions toward, the person she’d lived her whole life with, was suddenly the only one she wished to belong to.

“Regardless,” Arienna said, “you’ll all be needing a night’s full rest until you depart. No sense in sending a fowl out to fly with a wounded wing, now is there?”

Vidarr chuckled. “Our ‘wing’ is hardly—”

“What is that noise?” Fenris titled his head to hear it better; it was a loud clanging far in the distance, growing louder.

Arienna chuckled. “I’ve seen that look before. One of the girls here came from a distant village in the middle of a forest. Never once heard bells in her life.”

“Bells?” The volume alone was enough to astound him, the way the ringing reverberated through the whole city. Its foreign power seemed esoteric to him, and it made him uncomfortable.

Everyone in the room had heard them at least once before, while Deidre and Arienna had memorized at the times they rang: the dawn, noon, and midnight.

“But why are they so loud? And why at this hour?”

“Well, they’re the midnight tolls …” Ashara began.

A shared look of confusion passed over their faces, though Fenris’ remained alert and pondering.

“Come to think of it …” Vidarr began.

“The midnight tolls were several hours ago. It’s well into the early morning, now,” Arienna finished.

Deidre lifted her head up from the table, just as exhausted as the rest because of her spellcasting. “They must be for something different,” she mumbled.

“The ringing is chaotic, frantic, unlike the usual tolls we hear,” Arienna explained further.

“Someone is being trained in how to use the bell?” Fenris asked, still oblivious to the nature of them.

But nobody laughed at his dubiousness. Discomfort had settled into the rest of them. “No, this is something different. Someone is trying to draw attention. And at this unholy hour, it can’t be for anything good.”

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