Upheavel

PART 1: The Stage is Set




Death echoed through the halls of Carlet, Capitol city of the Sanian kingdom. A mournful bell tolled eighty-six times, one for each year of the dead king’s life. He had died of old age alone. Or so the doctors said.
But Haerlach suspected he had been assassinated. As head scholar for the kingdom of Sania, he had a duty to inform the people. He was currently writing a speech to do just that. His gray, greasy strands of hair shook as he wrote vigorously. He glanced over to the window of his tower as he thought.
The land on the gate side of the castle was plains, and on the opposite side, there was the ocean. He sighed as he looked out to the calming waves of the Kensant sea. In his ninety-six years of life, He had seen three kings die. The first was a tyrant, and when he was finally killed, there was a celebration. The second was a wonderful king, and the people of Sania mourned for two months for him. And now King Semparu had passed on. The people mourned for only a day, and then prepared for the coming violence. For the king had three rightful heirs, who had never truly gotten along. By custom the king was to have only one child, but the queen, who had died two years ago, had given birth to triplets, two boys and a girl. Semparu had always pretended everything would be fine when he died, simply ignoring the issue.
Now violence would blanket the city. Perhaps the whole kingdom. But Haerlach was writing a speech that would change all of that. He turned back to his cluttered writing desk. As his quill moved across the page, he heard someone coming up the spiral staircase to his room. He figured it was probably his new student, the one with much promise.
But it was not. The door burst inward with a sudden explosion of noise. A man strode in, sword in hand. His bulky armor was black, and his cloak a similar color. He had white hair and a bleached complexion. It was Prince Cenric, son of the King. Behind him came three men. They stayed by the door.
“I’ve come to deal with you personally, old man.” Cenric said in a calculatedly cruel tone. Haerlach shivered. With the man came a horrible coldness, as always.
“You will leave!” Shouted Haerlach. He was old, but he was not afraid. Cenric swung his sword black broadsword, imbedding it deep in Haerlach’s writing table.
“I will allow you to live, if you give me the information I’m looking for. I need to know how the king died.” Cenric said as he strode to the window.
“We all know he died of old age,” said Haerlach.
“DO NOT TAKE ME AS A FOOL!” Cenric shouted. He whipped around, tore his sword from the table, and stabbed Haerlach in the arm, pinning it. In the same motion, he pulled a wad of cloth from his belt, and stuffed it into the scribe’s mouth. He pulled a leather pack from his cloak, and laid it on the table.
From within the pack he pulled out two nasty looking rusty hooks, a needle, a flask of acidic solution, a forklike tool, a hammer, and a variety of surgical tools. Haerlach had a feeling the following hours would be painful.

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Three hundred miles away, in the heart of the Evania forest, a fire blazed. Around it were a score of robed figures. They stood, so silent and motionless that one could have mistaken them for statues. Once in a great while they would retrieve a piece of wood from a pile nearby and lay it in the fire. They repetitively glanced at the moon, dull in the noon sky.
For a great while this state continued. In fact, it lasted for twelve hours. Three or four robed figures would arrive every hour, and eventually their numbers had tripled.
Finally one spoke. “Are we all assembled?”
“Where is Demear?” A female voice called.
“I’m sorry,” said the first speaker. “Demear was... hunted down. Now. The moon is perfectly full. It will only remain like this for one hour. Let us commence with the ritual.” One robed figure strode from the crowd, carrying a girl of about nineteen over his shoulder like a potato sack. He laid her next to the fire, and retreated back into the crowd. One man came forward and bound her feet and hands to a board. The crowd waited. Slowly she came to.

Renora Beneir awoke to the heat of a fire. She could feel her nut brown hair glued to her forehead with sweat. The figures began to slowly advance on her, whispering some chant. They lifted the board she was tied to into an upright position. All but one backed away. He held a bone knife. She tried to scream, but he shoved a gag into her mouth. He danced around her, the knife twirling in his gloved hand. Tears came to her eyes as the man began to press the knife into her wrist.
The man let out a low animal growl and sliced into her wrist.
Suddenly the brush at the edge of the small clearing exploded, and a dark shape shot forth. Blades flew, and the dark shape bounced around the clearing, drawing blood where it went. Seconds later one of the robed figures drew back his hood, revealing his face.
At first it was normal. But then his face began to change, the skin stretching and warping. Renora could hear the cracking of his bones as they split and reformed. The rest of his body was changing, too. His cloak tore open to reveal rippling muscle. The face had now changed into a wolf’s head. Fur began to spurt from his skin. His spine grew out a tail, and extended, causing him to grow to seven feet tall.
Renora noticed the rest of the hooded figures had gone through a similar change. She looked up at the moon, which seemed to have grown to a massive size, and understood. Werewolves.
The shadow stopped speeding around and stopped in front of Renora. It was a silhouette of a man, crouching. The werewolves let out a howl and charged forward on all fours. The man’s sabers flashed, and the first werewolf staggered back. The wound was sizzling, and began to turn black. The sabers flashed again, and four more werewolves squealed in pain. The wounded beasts flailed about, and a few got back up. She could see some of the wounds had now healed into dark scar tissue.
The man turned around and sliced off Renora’s bindings. She dropped to the ground, trying to stay the bleeding of her wrist. She felt herself being lifted up, and lost all consciousness.


Renora woke up, being carried by her rescuer. “What’s happening?” She whispered. She felt a warm liquid running down her hand, and spraying off with each leap her carrier took.
“Shhhhh.....” Her rescuer whispered in a scratchy tone. He stopped, glanced around, and reached to the leafy floor of the forest. From it he pulled a chain, which he yanked on. A small segment of the forest floor opened up, like a trap door. A glowing light came from within.
Renora heard voices before she passed out. “Quickly! She needs...” The voices faded off, and blackness consumed Renora’s world once again.


“Are you ready to talk now, old man?” whispered Cenric. Haerlach’s face was smeared with blood and tears. The old wooden table was stained red with his blood. Two of his fingers were horribly mangled and he was blind in one eye. Countless wounds covered his body. But he just glared with fiery resistance.
“Fine,” said Cenric. No-one heard the final cry of the High Scribe of Sania.