Blood of the Moon - Chapter 4

Cepnir padded through the trees; with each step he was careful to avoid making a sound. Though he would not admit it if he was asked, fear was creeping into his heart. These creatures were unlike anything he had ever faced before (the Prince was unaware of the extent of his naivety in this regard), preying upon a deep, innate fear. His own mind did not help to quell his feelings, wandering and asking questions to none but itself. How did the creatures get past the patrols unnoticed? Why are they attacking? What are they?

A leaf crunched nearby and Cepnir’s head flicked left and right in search of the source. Around him, both close and distant, some of his guardians turned their heads towards... him. Cepnir looked down and lifted his forepaw. His tension eased upon finding the crushed leaf below, but left behind a guilty embarrassment.

Before they continued onwards, a soft growl travelled through the darkness from further ahead. Everyone quietly converged to the point where the scouts were waiting human to relay their findings: that the creatures had reached the gates and were attempting to break through, the reported numbers narrowly varying around a couple dozen. In addition, though the guards on the wall were holding them off with their crossbows, more of the creatures were appearing to replenish their numbers and continue the assault.

The captains and several other werewolves with tactical experience gathered together to debate their next move, and though Cepnir was privy to the points raised, his impatience and other emotions cut into his limited focus. His ears did pick out the eventual decision though, and when the group proceeded onwards, they angled away from the gates.

As the walls neared, so did the sounds of battle. Howls and shouts and the loosing of bolts. Not as prominent as Cepnir had feared, but still it gnawed at his nerves. Eventually the walls came into view beyond the trees, and once they did the werewolves leading the group turned sharply to follow the wall to the corner and around. They stopped suddenly, and at first Cepnir was unsure if they had reached their destination. But then a pair of werewolves moved towards a tree (broader and paler than the rest, but inconspicuous at a glance) and, after a brief search, pulled open a trapdoor.

Cepnir peered down, dubious. He could see the bottom of the shaft, and there was a ladder along one side of it, but the space within was cramped, far tighter than Cepnir was comfortable with. Thinking about the passage put a sudden thought in his head.

“Why has my father not been evacuated?”

Ipnac turned to Ghurad. “You or me?”

In turn, Ghurad turned to Cepnir. “With the longest passages blocked since the Sundering, if we get the King out there is too much risk that he would be attacked with too few to defend him. He is safest where he is.”

“And that is why we need to get you back in. Ghurad shall go in first, followed by-”

Whatever was to be said was cut off as one of the werewolves cried out. More of the creatures had appeared, and, with their presence revealed, were now beginning to attack. A defensive circle formed in time against the charge, but when Cepnir made to join the fight, he was pulled back to the centre. Turning round, he came face to face with Ipnac. Ghurad was still beside the trapdoor.

“You need to get inside. Ghurad will go down first, then you. Once you are in, we will lure these creatures away. And should you complain,” Ipnac added just as Cepnir opened his mouth, “I have half a mind to throw you in and go down after you.”

At first, Cepnir did think to complain, their earlier argument still ingrained in his mind. But he conceded, worried about his father, and moved to the trapdoor. When Ghurad was far enough down, Cepnir started down as well, the ladder forcing him to face back towards Ipnac who was watching and waiting.

“Stay safe my lord.”

“Stay safe captain.” And then the trapdoor was pulled closed and darkness fell.

“Prince’s Guard! Time for a tactical withdrawal!”



His eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and though it did not make him anymore comfortable, he did start to climb down the ladder. Separated from the light of the moon, and unable to see far, the feeling of vulnerability slowly coiled around him.

Before long, Cepnir felt his foot come into contact with the bottom. Remembering which way the passage went from what he saw from the surface, and listening for the sounds Ghurad was making, Cepnir crouched and turned, his hands searching for the opening. When his hands fell forwards into the darkness, Cepnir stretched forwards to rest on his knees and elbows before shifting into his wolf form. After bracing himself, Cepnir's body stepped further into the darkness while his mind drifted away.

It was not long before the glow of light revealed the ladder at the end of the tunnel, calming Cepnir’s unease. He found Ghurad at the top of the ladder, and once the trapdoor was closed behind them, they together moved up the stairs and to a window from where sounds of battle were coming from. The scene Cepnir saw lowered his spirits. Somehow, the gates that had once held back the creatures had been thrown from their hinges, trapping a number of werewolves beneath them and leaving them vulnerable to the dark tide that had swarmed through the breach. The remaining survivors had managed to form a defensive line, but they were getting felled one-by-one and were gradually being forced towards a wall. Cepnir looked to the great doors that lead into the palace. It was not yet targeted by the creatures, but to get to it they would have to get past the swarm. Ghurad tapped his shoulder and pointed first to the balcony opposite from them, and then to the door leading to the nearer balcony. Cepnir nodded and followed Ghurad out of the guard tower and onto the balcony, quietly closing the door behind them. Both changed into their wolf forms to better use the obscurity given by the balcony wall.

Halfway to the door at the other end, a wave of heat washed over Cepnir from above, causing him to look above him, to where a scorch mark had appeared on the wall. He peered over the balcony wall to try to find the source, but had little chance before Ghurad pulled him away in time to evade a repeat. Though Cepnir had been unable to identify the source of the heat waves, he had found the creatures’ attention drawn upon them.

The two werewolves’ footsteps hastened, initiated with a brief stumble in their rush to the door. Ghurad pulled it open just as the creatures were climbing onto the balcony, holding it open for Cepnir who ran past and skidded to a stop on the other side. The door slammed shut and Ghurad held it in place, reaching for the handle as repeated impacts threatened to open the door wide to the creatures. When his hand grasped at empty air, he looked first at where it should have been, then to Cepnir.

“The latch is gone.”

Cepnir stared at the captain of the King’s Guard for a time, making the most of what would be his last sight of him. Eventually, the Prince nodded and rushed down the corridor towards the door for the throne room. A sudden crash, muffled by stone walls, hastened his steps. He slipped into a crouch as he went through the door, and peered over the low balcony wall.

Down below, the King’s Guard were ushering their ward toward a – now not-so-secret – secret doorway. Cepnir was about to jump down when the doors to the hall suddenly burst open, the locking bar snapping, and something unseen pulled his father away from sanctuary and threw him onto the throne. The Guard were briefly stunned, leaving them further defenceless as the same force that had pulled their ward away got amongst them, throwing them into the walls and each other with fatal strength.

Recovering from his own paralytic shock, Cepnir crouched back down and continued watching through the horizontal slit that ran along the top of the balcony wall. A female lycan with blood-red fur stepped forwards from the main entrance, the shadow lycans letting her past without confrontation. As Cepnir’s father tried to get back up, she made a motion with her hand and the King was pushed back down.

Cepnir prepared a crossbow bolt as the apparent enemy shifted into her human form – the fur giving way to black hair and pale skin, over which went a crimson dress. On a belt around her waist were two daggers. A stone as black as her hair was fixed into an amulet around her neck and a silver ring went around a finger. She stopped within the crest on the floor.

“If I am going to die here, would you care to oblige me by saying who you are and why you are doing this?” Cepnir could not tell by his father’s voice alone whether or not he had seen Cepnir, the narrowness of the slit making it difficult to see the faces.

The attacking werewolf raised her head and let out a laugh over the sounds of battle, before she returned her gaze to the throne. “Were you always this playful with words, or has the prospect of death changed your tongue?” Cepnir could see her cross her arms and focus her weight on one foot as he moved along the balcony and past her. “Or are you stalling for time? You will hate to hear it, but, unfortunately for you, no one is coming to save the day.”

The King made a mock sigh. “I would have preferred to leave this life clinging onto some sort of hope. Still, you have yet to answer my original question.”

“Very well, since you are so eager for that knowledge, I go by the name of Anvi. As for why I am here… well, I am sure that the King is aware of what occurred three and a half centuries ago.”

“The Sundering? When the king at the time hunted magic users before dying without any true born heirs-”

“-plunging the entire race into a civil war between his two bastard children. I already know my history. But what caused it all?”

Cepnir looked out over the balcony – unseen by Anvi behind her but not his father – and aimed. He could see a frown creasing his father’s face and Cepnir hoped that he would not be given away.

“The then king was forced to execute his queen when she was found to be practising dark magic.” Cepnir’s father eventually replied.

“Slight misnomer: it would be more accurate to call it demonic.” She smirked. “‘Dark magic’ – even if it is used for the best of reasons, people fear what they cannot understand or see past – they associate it with darkness and say its evil.”

“Yet you use these creatures to kill.”

“I can just as easily order them to less destructive tasks. Still, I will not deny that she likely lacked selfless intentions.” Anvi then smiled in a way that sent chills down Cepnir’s spine, even though from where he was he could only see the corner of it. “But your history is flawed: that fool of a king could not bear to kill the woman he had loved. So he faked her execution and had her and their unborn child exiled instead. The truth was hidden from all but a few and recorded history went on as if she had died there and then. Until now that is.”

“So you are here to claim the throne?”

Anvi shook her head. “It is not my prime aim, but it would be a prize to be proud of. No, that same ancestor of mine vowed that she would have vengeance and made a pact with demons so that her descendants would grow in power. And thus, here I am, thirteen generations later to fulfil those vows. And I will not let anyone stop me…”

Anvi drew her twin daggers and Cepnir fired his crossbow – aiming for her head. The bolt stopped in midair, inches from hitting her.

“…certainly not a pathetic excuse for a werewolf prince” she finished as the bolt turned to point back at Cepnir. She made a gesture and the bolt flew back at him, whistling past and bouncing off the wall when Cepnir dived in time to avoid it.

Cepnir peeked out over the low wall just as the trapdoor opened beneath Anvi’s feet – his father having activated the hidden switch on the throne. Anvi dropped one of her daggers and grabbed the ledge with her now free hand. The distraction caused the bonds on the King to break and he swiftly turned into a wolf and charged at Anvi. Cepnir himself vaulted off the balcony – shifting into his lycan form in midair and into his wolf form as he landed – and dashed towards the pit. His father would reach Anvi first.

To Cepnir, it felt as though time slowed down. Anvi pushed her feet against the side of the pit and proceeded to clamber out and into a crouch. Cepnir’s father was almost upon her when she swung her empty hand up in an arc. The King was lifted into a vertical position, his rear feet barely touching the floor. Anvi swiftly took advantage of his vulnerability; her dagger plunged into his exposed neck before slicing down through the torso. When the blade was removed, the body fell limp and lifeless to the floor.

A blood rage filled Cepnir, giving him the energy to run faster. But it was not enough. Anvi turned to face him, his father’s blood dripping from her dagger. Cepnir jumped the pit and shifted to his lycan form in midair.

Anvi threw her free hand up towards him. Cepnir stopped suddenly, still suspended above the pit, though his feet still carried momentum and were flung forwards, missing Anvi by a few inches. Her mouth moved as she said something unheard by Cepnir, who was struggling against the incorporeal bonds. Magical flames formed in her hands, eventually extending into thin streams of fire that trailed over his body, lightly burning his skin, before they coiled around his neck, making it hard to breathe. He naively tried to pry the flames away with his claws, ignoring the additional pain.

His senses were dulled as his mind vaguely registered a werewolf in lycan form jump from the balcony and ram into Anvi’s side. Cepnir, now free from both fire and suspension, fell through the trapdoor, his flailing arms missing the edges.

He fell straight down briefly before hitting a steep slope, yelping at the contact with his burnt flesh. Another vertical fall caught him by surprise and he soon found himself lying face-up on a hard and rough surface. But it was level.

Cepnir eventually found the strength to lift himself from the ground, his senses gradually returning to normal. Even then it was dark. Torches were widely spaced along the walls and their faint light was reflected on metal bars and chains.

Suddenly he realised where he was and pushed his hand against a stone wall to steady himself as he changed to human form, his burns healing in the transition. The dungeon’s passageway went on through the darkness towards the face of the hill the palace rested upon, cells running along the sides. None of the cell doors showed signs of damage, but the few occupants within had claw marks biting deep into their skin, and dark patches marked where their blood had flowed.

Cepnir paced to the door of the cell he was in and rattled it, finding it locked as it always was. He tried to pry it open with might alone, but to no avail. It was only when he turned away from the metal bars that he noticed the dagger Anvi had dropped. His grip tightened around the hilt as he lifted it up and memories of its twin coated in crimson rose to his mind. He looked around; the feeling of entrapment on top of his father’s death filled his mind with rage, which culminated in the dagger flying through the air to one of the stone walls. Cepnir turned away from the dagger, his hands quivering from the outburst, before a thought snapped through all the rage and he turned back to the dagger – the dagger which had embedded itself into the wall and showed no signs of falling to the floor.

He pulled the blade free with more ease than he anticipated, and looked at it with curiosity. Another thought entered his mind, and he took the blade with him back to the door of the cell. There he pushed the tip through the solid face of the lock and out the opposite, the blade sliding through the iron with little resistance. Pulling the dagger back out, he pushed at the door again, and, eventually, the lock fell apart and the door swung open.

Though he was still in the dungeon, the feeling of freedom calmed Cepnir’s mind and he breathed deeply. He looked back down at the dagger in his hand, initially considering discarding it. He eventually decided against his initial thoughts and instead tucked it beneath his sword belt as he walked down the passage.

He passed a wooden door on one side, but paid it only enough heed to test that it was still sealed shut. Soon he reached another door, this one slightly ajar, at the end of the passage, moonlight sliding in through the gaps. The guards were lying in their own blood, deep claw and bite marks covering them from head to foot.

Ipnac found him in his room. Clothes and pillows, torn by claw, had been thrown across the floor. Cepnir had been about to tear at the curtains, but stopped when he heard Ipnac enter. The Prince glared at the intruder.

Cepnir pulled open the door and stepped out into the moonlight. The forest was silent but for a gentle wind brushing through the leaves of the trees. Cepnir raised his eyes to where the moon hung in the night sky.

“You believe it was your fault. That your mother and her guards died because you were unable to stop it. That you were weak.” Ipnac said as he walked towards the Prince.

A twig snapping brought him out of his reverie and turned his gaze to the source. More of Anvi’s creatures had appeared from amongst the trees. Cepnir shifted into his lycan form as rage filled his mind once more.

Ipnac crouched down in front of him. “You are right, but it is more than that. You were afraid.”

Cepnir lashed out a fist at the head of the nearest shadow lycan and raked his spare claw through the stunned creature’s neck, quickly tearing it from existence.

Ipnac easily stopped the fist Cepnir lashed out, and twisted it behind his back. He then lifted the Prince up and threw him onto the ruined bed.

A shadow lycan tackled him from the side and brought him to the ground, its jaws trying to find purchase. Cepnir grabbed them in his hands before they closed on his neck and ripped them asunder. The creature dispersed and Cepnir rolled into a crouch.

Cepnir rolled onto his hands and feet. Bed covers got tangled around his feet and briefly held him back before he tore them away with his hands. Now free, he shifted to his lycan form and lunged.

Cepnir charged at the nearest creature and knocked it to the ground, from where he tore at the neck with his jaws. When it vanished, he looked up with a growl forming from his throat, daring the creatures to try and attack.

Ipnac turned into his lycan form and, by grabbing Cepnir by the neck, threw him onto the floor and pinned down his limbs. Even when Ipnac shifted back to human form, Cepnir was unable to break free.

A shadow lycan came in from an angle behind him and barrelled into his side, scratching deep into his shoulder as it did so. Cepnir managed to lash out a claw, but got knocked onto his back by yet another of the creatures. Before he could respond, his limbs were pinned to the ground and Cepnir found himself again face-to-face with a shadow lycan. Cepnir snapped his jaws at it in the hope that it would back off. It didn’t, but at the same time it did not rush to finish him off. From the emotionless face, it could easily have been savouring the moment.

“You are letting your emotions control you instead of the other way around. Use your rage as strength, but do not let it make your decisions for you. You will get your chance for revenge, but, until then, you need to survive and you need to survive afterwards to get any satisfaction.” Ipnac then released him and rose to a stand, but Cepnir remained where he was, his rage fading away. “You are the only heir to the werewolf throne. If you die, the monarchy will fall into anarchy.”

Cepnir heard crossbows being fired around him and a werewolf – a normal and natural werewolf – knocked off the creature that had been pinning him. Cepnir remained lying until Ipnac appeared and offered him a hand up. Around them, each of the Prince’s Guard were present, injured and weary but alive. Some of the werewolves that had joined them with Ghurad were also there, but many were missing. Amongst them were some werewolves Cepnir did not recognise, and so assumed were survivors of the attack.

“Are there any more survivors?”

“None that we are aware of.” Ipnac looked first at Cepnir, then lifted his gaze up towards the palace. “Dare I ask what happened?”

Cepnir felt his hands clench and looked away. “The King, my father, is dead. Killed alongside his guard. Anyone else who was in there is likely dead as well.” Everyone’s eyes were towards the ground as they silently mourned. “Do we have a plan?”

“We are going to take you away from here, to where you will be safe and-”

“No.”

Ipnac looked up into Cepnir’s eyes, seeing the rage and determination within.

“We are going to go back up there, and we are going to make these accursed creatures pay!”

“Cepnir... we are a small group of tired and injured werewolves against, the sky knows how many, of these creatures. We do not even know where they are coming from, or what they want.”

“A red-furred mage named Anvi appears to be controlling them.”

“Damn mag- wait, red fur?”

Cepnir nodded. “She killed my father in front of me with a blade akin to this one.” Cepnir tapped at the belted dagger. “And magic. The way I see it, if we kill her, these creatures will disappear or at least be easier to deal with.”

“While your idea is certainly... thoughtful – I apologise for my surprise – trying to kill her now would be suicide. Regardless, we are under obligation to ensure your safety.”

“I am the prince of the werewolves and you are the Prince’s Guard. You are under my command!”

Ipnac shook his head. “Do you wish to know why I was chosen to command your guard above anyone else?”

Too slow to react, Cepnir suddenly found himself the target of a loaded crossbow. His limbs froze stiff, refusing to move.

“Hands away from your weapons!”

The other werewolves halted in mid-motion, and then complied with Ipnac’s orders. The threat of the alternative did not need to be said.

“I was, and am still, willing to do whatever is necessary.”

“Ipnac, cease this madness!”

“What could you possibly gain from killing him?!”

“Is taking his life worth losing your own?!”

“Silence! Please. Have none of you noticed where I am aiming? I am not aiming to kill.”

Cepnir looked at the crossbow again, paying particularly close attention to its angle. If Ipnac fired, the bolt would go into his leg. As long as the wound was treated in time, it would not kill the Prince. But it would be painful.

“Better a temporarily crippled prince than a dead one. Now, your crossbow – unless you wish to walk with a limp.”

He reluctantly held out his crossbow handle first, letting Ipnac take it from him.

“Not my sword?”

“We need you to be able to defend yourself.” Ipnac looked around at the faces glaring at him, and sighed. “You may not agree with my methods, but I was doing my duty: to keep the Prince safe. I suggest you continue to do yours, and aid me in escorting him to sanctuary.” Ipnac turned to focus on Cepnir. “With or without his compliance.”