SciFi and Fantasy Stories: A Not-So-Soft Moonlit Night

            Sickly and pale, the yellow harvest moon rolled ponderously over smoky clouds.  Its languid shivering touch sucked all life and color from the gnarled grey wood below.  Slithering vines fell limp where they had crept, thick curled roots hardened where they had stretched, and the thin leaves hung themselves in defeat from arching branches where they had tried to shield the road from the moon’s parasitic pallor.  Under the shadows of a sagging oak the man stood tall, his jade-green eyes glinting in the moon-glow from beneath his sable hood.  His equally black cloak whipped sharply in a cold wind that blustered over the broad road, a ravenous tongue of dark flame fluttering across his mail shirt and pitch leather vest.  Like an eerie shadow enlarged and made monstrous by the late afternoon sun, he waited with muscled arms crossed over a vast chest; not even the cloak could hide the broadness of his shoulders.  The bracers on his wrists could have fit as greaves on the shins of a normal man.  And seven feet up from his thick boots, the jade eyes moved carefully back and forth, not letting a single knotted oak or tall prickly pine escape analysis.

            “My chieftain?”  A few branches creaked as they were carefully pushed aside, and a tall grey-eyed man moved beside the waiting figure.  A similar black cloak hung around his shoulders, and one well-worn glove held a long double-headed axe that did not shine in the moonlight.

            The jade-eyed warrior’s voice was deep and hot, as though a bestial snarl lay continually at the back of his throat.  He gazed pensively at the clouds that rolled under the moon like smoky waves.  “Form up the Clan on the road.  Four columns.  Swiftly.”

            Grey eyes glanced in calm surprise at the chieftain.  “Sah!, but we are not safe yet, Laston; the sea is still many leagues off.  We should cross the road quickly and continue taking cover in the shadows, where…”

            “…where we can be hunted down like scapegoat dogs,” interrupted the Clan chieftain, turning his dark green eyes at last to his lieutenant.  “You would have us die like that: ripped to pieces from behind with the sea still out of sight but the salt breezes tingling at our nostrils as we fall dead?”

            “No, my lord.”

            “Good, else I would’ve begun to doubt your concern for my wellbeing.  Malaarn, the Lupins are nearly upon us now, far closer than you think.  I know it – in my dreams I can feel the heat of their breath on my neck, hear their frantic sniffing as they seek our trail.  There is no hope of escaping their hunt.  They are determined to destroy us.  He is determined to destroy us.”

            Malaarn rested his leg on a high rotted root and leaned against the oak.  His right hand stroked the top of his axe.  “If we do not run, then do we fight?”

            Though his master’s face was shadowed by the hood and nighttime air, Malaarn heard the warm exhaled breath accompany the sudden grin – the grin of a wolverine that knows he has been cornered and exults in the thought of blood and battle.  Laston uncrossed his thick arms and stepped forward into the center of the dirt road, where a wan curtain of moonlight hung down through the grasping withered branches.  He reached over his shoulder and swiftly drew the mighty two-handed sword whose battered black scabbard was always at his back.  The broad blade gleamed fiercely in the light, flashing this way and that at the forest shadows as its master extended it before him and gloried in its keenness.

            The Clan chieftain brought the sword close to his face, whispering, “Well, Rebelslayer, what now?  Do we fight with the mountain at our backs, like cornered bears that turn on their hunters and destroy them?  Or do we run?”  He studied his reflection in the blade, taking in the chiseled wind-thrashed chin, thick woven eyebrows, and hard pointed nose.  And those piercing, jade-green eyes.  A few long wisps of ragged black hair flared out from the hood and danced lightly towards the sword.  “No,” he murmured, “you don’t like my running, do you, Rebelslayer?  This skulking about in the woods?  Very well…you never have, for you are made of steel that does not bend and you will not break unless you can kill with your shards.  For you I will make my stand, I will stay true to your mythos…if at least I can drive your thirsty blade through his Lupin flesh.  He hopes to serve me at least as well, and even if we both are granted our wishes, I shall be satisfied.”

            “No, we shall not run, not this time,” Laston continued, letting his voice grow louder so Malaarn could hear.  “We shall march swiftly into the dale of Ûncarr, cross the dark river, and ascend the jagged shadow of Mount Findvir.  There we shall wait for them.  What a beautiful irony if we win beneath the sacred mountain where the Lupin conquests first began!  What a wonderful, beautiful irony!”

            He swung the sword suddenly to his left, pointing its tip to where the dirt highway plunged down into a forested valley some hundred feet away.  Silhouetted by pale moonlight against the smoky sky was a massive serrated fang of rock, wide at its tree-studded base and tapering rapidly to a fine cockeyed point.  An ancient and wild aura pressed out from the mountain as if it were aware of the dark warriors gazing at its form and welcomed them, as a bear welcomes the salmon leaping upstream into its mouth.

            Malaarn stepped away from the trees, the axe swinging loosely in his hand.  “Into the Dale?” he asked incredulously.  “Laston, are you mad?”

            The chieftain raised Rebelslayer above his head and thrust it violently into the cold dirt.  He turned sharply and glared, his thick brow furrowing.  “And what is madness?! ‘Tis but genius laced with passion!  Are you afraid of madness, my friend?  It has served us well in the past.”  Malaarn stepped back and bowed his head briefly as an apology.  His master nodded in acknowledgement and moved on.  “There is no hope for our survival if we keep running like this.  The army that hunts us is too fast.  But if we fight…fight here even…there is a chance.”

            The gray-eyed lieutenant sighed and glanced at the mountain that towered on the other end of the silent valley.  “A chance of what, beyond a well-earned death?  I do not question your authority or your skill.  But, my chieftain, there is a Lupin fortress on Mound Findvir, the first one they ever built.  It is sacred to them, and if we threaten it, they will not spare us.”

            “They don’t plan on sparing us as it is,” replied Laston.  “And we shall not threaten it – we shall burn it.  The garrison is small and unaware of our presence.  Our hunters will be forced to attack the ruins of their king’s own sacred house in order to destroy us.  And besides,” he added, sniffing the chill air and glancing up through the shadowy tree canopy, “the Raven Clan is coming.”

            Malaarn looked up into the trees and the sky above.  A strong wind whistled above the forest and caused the clouds to churn and boil madly, obscuring the stars.  The sickly moon stained their gray fringes with a yellowish amber tint, yet despite their frantic scuttling they never completely covered its pale orb.  A few skeletal branches obscured the warrior’s view for a moment, and then suddenly the wind caught them and creaked them back.  The glowing moon-circle disappeared as dozens of dark-feathered birds flew by, the flutter of their wings breaking the deathly silence of the wood.  The gray-eyed lieutenant watched as the creatures soared out over the dale of Ûncarr and beyond his vision.  “Ravens,” he whispered, gripping his axe shaft tighter.  “Their clan has no love for us.  We are doomed.”

            “Perhaps not,” his chieftain replied.  He smiled at the uncertainty on Malaarn’s face.  “Form up the Clan,” he said.  “Four columns.  Swiftly.”

            Malaarn looked at him hard for a few seconds, and then nodded.  The wind had blown his hood off, and now he pulled it back up, turning as he did towards the treacherously dark tree line.  A few steps and the shadows enveloped him completely.

            A sudden gust blew a few loose sticks out from the underbrush, tossing them and countless leaves onto the highway around the cloaked giant that stood there, muscled arms crossed, in front of his standing sword.  The black cloak billowed and danced.  Between the shoulder blades could now be seen thick red lines that curved sinuously into the shape of two elongated eyes.  The embroidery was simple, almost crude…but effective.  Laston gazed at the rearing mountain ahead of him in the dale and pondered.  His iron-plated leather gloves rested lightly on his sword’s hilt.

            A faint flicker of purple on Rebelslayer’s blade was the first warning, and then the mighty weapon lurched strongly.  Laston glanced down at it, surprised.  He heard them then: the claws scratching lightly and quickly on the road, the hot breath.  Wolfsblood! he cursed to himself.  In one movement every bit as graceful as it was violent, he hefted the two-hander out of the cold ground and swung it around in a complete circle.  Only the slightest snap was heard as the blade cut through bone, and a small round shadow with a long snout and gray mane fell to the ground; a headless corpse reeled backwards as it collapsed, its paws still grasping a short thick spear.

            Two more creatures leapt from the forest without a noise and bounded towards the barbarian chieftain.  They were as tall as he, nigh seven feet, and covered in blackish gray fur that rendered them as tall shadows loping through the night.  Tunics of hard studded leather were their only garments, beyond the fierce yellow glints in their eyes.  Silent they were, with teeth bared at the Man-chief before them.  One wielded a long saber in either paw; the other brandished a short spear and dragged a weighted net behind him.  All this flashed through the barbarian’s jade-green eyes in slightly less than a half-second.

            Laston whirled to the side as both Lupins converged on him, dodging the heavy net and shattering one of the sabers with a blow from his blade.  The two-handed sword came again quickly, but the beast leapt dexterously back, tossing aside the useless broken hilt and drawing a long knife to accompany his remaining saber.  A series of quick stabs came from the other Lupin’s spear, causing Laston retreat a few steps.  His eyes were burning now, hot and mad, and his chest heaved and puffed.  With an angry noise somewhere between a grunt and a yell, he reached out and grabbed tightly the spear shaft as it came towards him.  There was a sudden spark of light as he squeezed, and the spearhead fell to the ground.  The Lupin dropped his useless shaft and swung the weighted net, but Rebelslayer caught it at its zenith, tangling in the interweaving cords.  Laston yanked hard and flung the net off the blade at the saber-wielding beast, who was moving in for another attack.  The weighted rocks snapped sickeningly on his head and the beast fell to the ground noiselessly.

            Rebelslayer leapt back towards the remaining attacker, but the Lupin had already pounced.  The great gray body slammed into Laston’s side and threw him hard to the ground.  Instinctively, Laston’s elbow twitched up into the beast’s snapping fangs, smashing them aside and drawing out a sharp pained snarl.  He let go of his sword and rolled on top of the Lupin, grasping his enemy’s neck with an iron-plated glove and pinning him.

            “You picked the wrong human, Wolf,” the chieftain seethed, his eyes glinting.  “Thought you could jump Laston, did you?  Saw me through the trees, thought to return to that monster general of yours with the head of the Black Racon’s High Chieftain?  What a fine glory for your scouting pack now, eh?!  Fool of a mutt.”

            The Lupin gasped for air through his bared teeth, for Laston’s bulk was pressing like a mountain on his chest.  “The reign of blood and ghosts has already passed its midnight mark,” he snarled weakly, though his yellow eyes flashed boldly in defiance.  “You Man-Pagans have no place in the new Lupine Empire and your barbaric superstitions will die with you in the dale of Ûncarr.  For we are those who fight under the banner of the Pearl Moon!”

            “Pearl Moon, eh?”  Laston laughed scornfully.  “Well then,” he whispered deeply, “I guess this just isn’t your night.”  He grinned predatorily before looking up at the sky.

            Sailing in from the east was a white cloud, noticeably lighter than the shadowy billows that were tossed windily about the rest of the night.  Long sleek arms seemed to reach out and embrace the hellishly amber moon, and the whole evening went pitch black as the lunar sphere was utterly engulfed.  But a few long seconds later, the cloud passed away.  The whole scene was now bathed in clear silver light, and the moon itself was shining bright, white, and pure.

            Laston stared in horror at the night sky.  A stuttering growl came from deep in the pinned Lupin’s throat; he was laughing.  The cloaked warrior stood up, grabbed Rebelslayer, and kicked the beast savagely.  “It means NOTHING!!!” he roared, and swung the blade down on the still-laughing Wolf.

            A few moments later, Malaarn appeared from the forest with his axe in hand.  Laston grunted as he swung the last hairy Lupin corpse back once before tossing it heavily into the dark bushes to the side of the highway, where it landed with a soft crash beside the other two.  The lieutenant adjusted his cloak as he walked over, glancing with surprise at the three bestial bodies.  “I heard scuffling,” he said.  “Though I suppose you’ve handled everything.”

            “Aye,” sniffed Laston as he stooped to the ground, wiping Rebelslayer clean on the roadside grass.  “And where is the Clan?”

            “Right here, my chieftain,” replied the gray-eyed Malaarn.  Other cloaked figures began materializing from the forest behind him, all wearing different shades of hard beaten leather armor or chain mail shirts, some with swords, some with spears, many with axes.  They were tall and dirty, and moved silently into a long loose column four men wide, two hundred long.  Some muttered darkly amongst themselves, or glanced down the highway to where it dropped out of sight into the valley.  The gigantic fang of rock was only a few short miles away; it looked as though it were trying to slice the clouds.

            Somewhere far back in the forest, a wolf howled.  All private conversations among the Clan members fell silent.  The song was deep and rich, full of a wild intelligence, of chill north winds and pounding pawsteps, of hot breath and adrenaline – a song of the hunt.  Another voice picked up the song a few miles to the north, and a third to the south.  Suddenly the night was full of howls, every beast calling to another, although most seemed to come from one particular area in the woods behind them.  Fear darted from man to man, whispering its nightmares into their ears.

            Laston rose to his feet, letting Rebelslayer hang loose in his right hand.

            “Racon!” he shouted.  Every man’s hard eyes locked onto their chieftain.  “They are beasts.  They are dogs.  They will die.”

            A few men snickered as they fondly caressed their cold weaponry.

            “You know this is our last chance at survival, so I won’t buzz in your ears anymore about that.  I know what hardiness and strength I can expect from every hot-blooded man of you, and you know what to expect from me.  Have I led you well, my brethren?”

            “Yes!” cried one stout warrior in the front, thrusting his double-headed axe aloft.  Malaarn laughed, and eight hundred other voices spoke out haphazardly in agreement.

            Laston grinned widely.  He stood in the center of the road, his thick arms hanging by his side, his sable red-eyed cloak billowing in the fluttering gusts of wind, and his jade-green eyes glinting in pure delight.

            “There is a Lupin fortress on the mountain,” he said, speaking strongly so all could hear.  “They say it is sacred to them.  Burn it!”

            Laughter erupted from the dark barbarians and slowly turned into a rolling warcry that gathered speed and power, rising above the curving highway.  Eight hundred voices shouting in unison, their powerful throats pushing the sound over the dampening trees towards the sensitive ears of their hunters.  They had a message to send, one of welcome, one of battle.

            The barbarian chieftain heaved Rebelslayer aloft and swung it in a circle about his head.  Moonlight glinted purple from its keen blade.  Laston roared one last time, then turned and jogged off toward the valley.  Eight hundred pairs of booted feet tramped behind him.  The cool wind gusted up, riffling through his cloak, his hair, and into his eyes.  He smiled and looked up.  True, the moon was pearly white, but silhouetted against its brightness flew a flock of dark-feathered, sharp-beaked ravens.