1
A splinter buried itself in Albeck's skin. He sucked in air through his teeth along with a wince of pain. He tossed his ax aside to free a hand, but did not realize how close he was to the edge of the path. The tool tumbled down the slope into the leaves and branches. Curses, thought young Al, now I have to go down there. Father just bought that ax, after all. After dealing with the wooden nuisance on his finger, he started down the slope. Keeping his hands on near by branches, he worked his way down the mud still wet from the Autumn rain. One branch, weak and covered with lichen, snapped, sending Al to fall down the wet slope. His fingers reached for anything to stop his stumbling, but all he could grab was leaves and twigs that snapped off easily. He rolled until he met flat ground and hit something. Something soft. It moved a little by his own force.
The ax was only a few hands away from where he landed. He reached for it and grabbed it's haft. The soft lump he landed on moved quickly closer to him. A sharp pain shot though his left arm as he heard a snarl from the shape. He screamed and crawled on hands and knees, his father's ax wrapped in his fingers.
He got up, bruised and sore and realized what he fell on. It was a girl. She was about his age, maybe a little older. She wore nothing but a long black cloak, caked in mud at its bottom edge, to hide her nakedness. Behind unkempt black hair, her silver eyes stared at him. He stared back, and they both stood there for a moment in silence. She probably expects me to apologize, Al thought, feeling stupid for forgetting his manners.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for falling on you." He said to her.
She said nothing, continuing her gaze. She blinked maybe once, Al thought. Those eyes never ceased their watch, making Al uncomfortable. He looked at his left arm. Teeth marks were on his skin. She had broken the skin, blood weeping from the cuts. He expected her to acknowledge the fact that he bit him, but she offered nothing to that either. But that wasn't the most startling thing about her. Looking down, he saw that the fingers that gripped her cloak over her chest glistened with blood. Under the cloak, he thought he could see more blood on her. She's hurt, was she... Going for the ax may of frightened her.
"Listen, come with me," Al tried to be more sympathetic and careful with his speech, "Back at my village, we have a holy house. The healers. They can treat you-"
She turned and ran, not waiting for him to finish his offer of help. She was fast. Faster than any person Al had ever seen move. Al started back up to where he left the timbers, taking the long way this time through the path. Strange girl. He thought as he made his way back home. It would be dusk soon.
The little village looked pleasant at night. The lights of the torches dotted the streets, and, in the houses, candles burned, lighting the interior. It was much nicer than the one they had lived in before the war had driven them out of their country. This new place he had made his home was different, and sometimes he yearned for his old village next to the river. He brought the wood back to his father and told him what happened in the forest. He showed him his bite and his father gasped in horror. Al was also frightened when he looked upon it again. The old red blood darkened and dried, yet the new blood that oozed out was black as coal. An infection? What is this? Al was afraid Am I going to die? His father took no time. Grabbing him by his good arm, he rushed him to the healers at the holy house.
Within there was a man lay on his back on a stone table. His body was ravaged and bloody. Long deep cuts across his torso and arms. He was missing a few fingers on one hand. Somehow he still drew breath. Somehow he had the strength to spring up and scream and shout at Albeck.
"No!" The wounded man screamed, pointing at Al with his maimed hand. "Get away from me! Kill him!"
Healer Agnisia, a plump middle-aged woman that Al had always seen as kind and friendly, tried to calm him down, saying it is only a child. Healer Marge prepared a sedative with herbs on a black wooden table.
"Easy, Harmon, there is nothing to be afraid of." Healer Agnisia's voice was sweet and soft, but it was not enough to quell the man's terror.
"His eyes, healer! His bloody eyes! Like silver coins!" The Harmon's face twisted in disgust and hatred at Al, "He's one of them, a whelp of the Moon Breed."
Al thought he it was impossible for him to be more frightened then he was now. The silence in the room proved him wrong. Healer Agnisia had a dour face, one that Al had never seen on such a warm person. A mirror in the room revealed to Al that his eyes were indeed silver, rather than the almond hue he had had for all his life.
"Father, what's the Moon Breed?" Al asked his father, hoping he would know the myths of this new country.
Before he could come up with an answer, Healer Agnisia ran up to him and yanked his bitten arm as if she thought he would put up a fierce fight to hide his wound. She scowled at him, eyes full of disgust.
"You've got bad blood." She said curtly. Her fingers were like iron, cold and digging into his skin. She turned to Healer Marge. "Go and fetch Frantismo, we need the chair."
The young healer had her hands over her face, but she moved them away to speak."But, Agnisia, he is too young."
"Do as I say." Was her response.
"What are you going to do to my boy?" Al's father asked.
"The black blood means a black heart. His soul is corrupted. We must drive the evil out." Such dark words from the healer were as frightening as they were difficult to understand.
Frantismo joined them. He was a tall, skinny man with a pale skin. No hair grew on his head, but he kept a thin black beard on his chin, oiled to a point. His face was made for nothing but frowns and scowls. Behind him a big bellied man in rotting clothes carried the chair Healer Agnisia referred to. Leather straps were attached to several parts of it, ensuring that anyone buckled in could not move their arms, legs, or head. Years of blood had painted the seat and the armrest.
"No..." Al pleaded "No, no, no." When the healer began to drag him to the chair, his rejections turned to screams for help. Help did arrive, however, but not for him. The commotion had brought forth a few of the village's guardsmen. They held back his father and mother, who also came to see what was amiss. Al could hear more villagers gathering outside. Why are they doing this? I just want to go home! Al tried to bite the healer, but got backhanded instead. The cut from his lip also yielded black blood.
"Help me, you lout!" She screamed at the big bellied man.
He looked to Frantismo first, though, and after a stiff nod he came to her aid. As the big man approached, Al saw Frantismo pull something from the pockets within his dark robe that covered him neck to toe. Two little metal hooks and a small hammer with a spike on its head sat in his palm as he gazed at Al with unsympathetic eyes.
"Don't be afraid son! I'm coming!" His father drove his fist into one guards belly, but another jabbed him hard in the ribs with the butt of his spear. One guard pulled out a wooden club and started beating him until he lay on the ground. You leave him alone!
At one moment, he felt his heart change.
He didn't want to cry anymore, though he was afraid before. He was sad, too, sad that he thought he was going to die. It all melted away. And in its place was fire. It was anger, hatred and blood thirst. Al had never felt such viciousness in his life. He was a simple son of a peasant. Father would need help on the farm when all he wanted to do was rest or play. That was the only frustration he would have, but it was nothing compared to what he felt now.
He hated them. Healer Agnisia for her harshness, Frantismo for what he meant to do, that man Harmon for condemning him, even the big bellied man who just did what he was told. He was on the bloody chair when his hearing left him. Nothing but muffled voices around him shouting commands. What's happening? His eyes forsake him too, leaving his torturers among him to blur into vague shapes. He felt the straps tightening around his neck and arms, as his eyelids grew heavy. You will all die.
Then, darkness.
2
Cold. Wet. Al's mind awakened and his eyelids opened slowly. He was naked, and the forest floor stained his body with rotting foliage and mud. He lifted himself up and realized he was surrounded. Strange, unclean people. Men, women and children that all wore stained and torn clothing. Their hair messy and unwashed. But they all had something in common: Their eyes. Eyes like his. Eyes like the girl he met the day before.
"Made quite a mess, boy." Said one muscular man, who wore only breeches. "Blood everywhere, heads rolled." He shook his head as he clicked his teeth together.
His companion jabbed him in the rib with his elbow with a smile "Don't scare him like that, Rory."
"You killed no one, don't worry." A woman's voice sweet as honey told him.
He looked in her direction and saw the strange girl he met yesterday clinging to her hip.
"You took the arm of the village butcher, though, but those types had it coming." The woman continued, "One of the guards may not be able to walk for a while."
No matter how hard Al tried, he could not remember anything from the night before. Only being strapped to the chair and beyond that he could not recall.
"I don't remember," He told them, "I did all that?"
"No one remembers their First Night," said the man named Rory, "Honestly, I'm quite impressed. Most of us have been told to have killed maybe two or three after we wake." Judging by Rory's expression, that last part was not a joke, Al noticed.
The memory came like lightning, and he almost bolted from where he was back to his village. My family! He thought.
"I have to go back!" He said rapidly and started toward the edge of the group.
"You will not." said Rory's companion. "Whatever it is, you must let it go." He made his tone more sincere. "I know it's hard, but you are one of us now. Everything, your life, before your First Night, is gone."
"But my parents. They were in trouble-"
"Get over it." A younger man missing an ear and closer to his age said with impatience in his voice. "You'd just get yourself killed or back in the chair."
"Dirk, please." said the woman with the sweet voice.
"They'll worry about me." Al defended.
"They're glad to be rid of you." He spat. "You'd just be a burden them, maybe even get them killed."
Al heard himself growl and began to charge towards this one they called Dirk. His target licked and bared his teeth, welcoming his advance. But Rory got in between them.
"Easy, boys." Rory said to both of them. He turned to Dirk. "Dirk." He said to him.
"What?"
"Shut up." Then he turned to Al. "Come with us. We're your family now."
He went with them. For now, he would pretend to be loyal to his new family, but when they all slept, or when their back was turned, he would return to his family. The place they lived in was more of a camp. In the middle of the woods, they lived in tents, some held up by staves while others relied on a tree or a large stone for support. Several wagons were scattered around; most likely used to carry the tents when it came time to move. Dalia, the woman with the sweet voice, explained that the Moon Breed had no permanent home. When the Holy Order or hunters came sniffing a little to close, they had to move or else be captured or killed.
There were campfires, but none of them cooked any food. No pleasant smell of stew or roasted meat filled the air; just the smoke of the burning wood. He understood when he looked upon a cluster of blood-smeared children feasting on a dead deer. Their fingers clawed morsels out of the bone and sucked the blood and meat off their hands. Dirk sat on a big, mossy boulder near them, his teeth buried in a freshly caught rabbit. Al felt sick looking at the grisly breakfast feast before him. Rory saw his discomfort and laughed and patted him on the back.
"You'll get used to it, Al." He said, "You'll have to, actually. Blood and meat are the only things we can keep down."
"Have you... I mean, do we eat people?" Asked Al fearing the answer.
"Of course! They're the best! Especially the old." He licked his lips and rubbed his belly. "Your grandmother ever tell you, 'Old bones make great broth?'"
Al felt sick again and bit his lip. After Rory saw he succeeded in tormenting Al, he guffawed loud enough to disturb the whole camp.
"No! No, no, boy." He said trying to catch his breath, "Most of us don't feed on people. Though, a few tribes do, but that's one of many things wrong with them." He said, pointing and wagging a finger at his head.
Al wanted to know more about these tribes, but before he could ask, man as thin as sword with hair that grew down to his hips rushed towards them.
"Rory!" He called out.
"Mole!" He replied, mirroring Mole's enthusiasm.
"We've got trouble. Yeah, that we do." At that, Rory made his way to the front of the camp where he was needed, his mood now serious. Al followed him to see what the trouble was.
Five men were on their knees. Four of them were well beaten and bloody, but one was unscathed, the youngest of the five. His face was wet with tears and snot.
"Who are they?" Al asked a child who was about five years of age.
"Hunters." He replied as he sucked on the rib of some beast.
"Rory'll sort 'em out." Another child added.
A little farther, Al saw two injured Moon Breed men. A crossbow bolt still stuck in the shoulder of one of them, black weeping from where it burrowed in the flesh. The other covered an eye with a hand, and with another he gripped an arrow with a black, dripping tip. A woman cried in anguish over a corpse. Several others came forth to comfort her. Mole handed Rory a peculiar sword. It was smaller than usual and it gleamed brilliantly in the sun.
"Twas' this that did it, yeah." Mole said quietly.
"Silver." Said Rory to no one in particular, admiring the blade. He spun it by its hilt, making it shimmer in the sunlight. "Pretty little thing, yeah?" He looked to the Moon Breed crowd for agreement. Several men nodded with grim looks on their faces.
"Whose?" He asked the hunters.
"His!" The oldest man quickly snapped. He jerked his head towards the crying hunter. "He's the one that did it. Look at him, young and craven. Didn't think himself man enough to use steel against your kind."
"Jacko, you liar!" The boy screamed between sobs, "You killed him with it! It's yours."
"He is the one who lies." defended Jacko, "You can see it in his eyes. Your sharper than us aren't you?"
"Yes, we are." Rory mused. "Yet you insult us as if we were fools."
He made exaggerated sniffs at the handle of the silver sword. He panted like a dog. He crept up to Jacko. He stared at him for a moment than suddenly started barked in his face. Cruel laughter went up as the startled hunter stumbled backwards and pissed himself.
"I smell craven." Declared Rory.
Jacko sighed in distress at these words.
"My man, Mole, saw you do it anyway. Right?"
"Yeah, in a tree. Hidden I was, yeah." Confirmed Mole.
With that being said, Rory drove the silver into the old hunter's heart, so quick he wasn't able to beg for mercy. The silver's point sprouted out of his back, red and dripping.
He put his foot to the dead man's chest and yanked the silver sword out of him. The other hunters cringed and looked at him, hoping they would not meet the same fate.
"Drag him to Blackleaf," said Rory, gesturing to Jacko's corpse, "They'll be grateful. Stop bothering us for a few weeks, they might." Two boys came and took Jacko, one lifting him by the legs and the other lifting him by his arms.
He looked to the remaining hunters. "You know what to do with them."
The living hunters were blindfolded, gagged and bounded up. They were then thrown into a wagon.
"What's going to happen to them?" Asked Al out loud to anyone who was around to hear.
"Rory's soft." Al didn't even notice Dirk standing behind him. "He leaves the 'good ones' far away from here instead of killing 'em." Dirk shook his head.
"I don't feel safe letting hunters live." A little girl with short hair added.
"If it were up to me, I'd kill every hunter I see." Dirk turned and walked away.
3
They were furling their tents and packing them on the wagons. Men carried the wagons, Al noticed. Dalia had also told him that they set horses on an edge, a disadvantage that came with the wild spirit. Though, as they were stronger than natural men, the wagons weren't so difficult to carry. Even stronger when they transformed. It's not like they packed and kept a lot anyway, observed Al. This was his chance. Rory and all them were busy. Al slipped away from the camp.
The first stars were shining when he reached home. He smiled as he ran closer to his house. Though there were more guards in the village, he was able to sneak past them. The front door faced the street, and the street was well-lit and infested with armed men. Al went around back. He knocked on the window. If he remembered correctly, this would be the one that looked into the room where his parents slept.
"Mother? Father? It's me Albeck," he whispered, "Anyone in there?"
The shutters opened. His father and mother were on the other side. Jill, his little sister, was also inside. They were overjoyed to see him.
"Al! You've come back!" His mother cried tears of joy, "Father will come get you, you must be cold."
"I'll distract the guards." Offered Jill happily, "I helped make dinner, Al. You should try it!"
The talk of food made Al feel an itch. A desire for meat, red and bloody. He felt the beast rising in him.
"Son, are you alright?" His father noticed him trembling.
"Actually, father, I just came by to..." Al began.
Most of us have been told to have killed maybe two or three after we wake. Rory's words rang in his head.
"What's wrong?" His mother's smile melted away.
"To say goodbye." Al finished.
"Al, that's nonsense," his father said, "We'll hide you, keep you safe, and when it all dies down, we'll move somewhere else."
You'd just be a burden them, maybe even get them killed. Al had hated Dirk for his harsh words, but they were true.
"You'll never be safe," Father was covered with bruises and cuts, the ones he earned from trying to get him back that night. "It may even be me that will cause harm."
"Al..." His father was close to tears.
"I've found others like me. They're good people. We keep each other safe."
"I can keep you safe." said Jill holding a dinner knife. Her eyes started to well with tears. "Please, don't leave again."
The itch persisted. Al didn't know how much longer he could keep his wild spirit in.
"I love you all," Al said "I will never forget my real family." Though my heart is black, I'll never forsake the ones I've loved when it was red.
A loud cry rent the air from the center of the village.
"Moon Breed! To arms!" It said.
What? They never saw me. Am I not alone?
"Run, my boy, take care of yourself." His father told him, though a goodbye was the last thing he wanted to say. But Al knew what would happen to him if he got caught and his father would rather not see him tortured.
Turning the corner on a house, on the street he saw what all the commotion was about.
And there he saw what the Moon Breed became when the sun slept and the moon rose. Larger than any natural man, it was, about eight feet tall. Fur grew over dark grey skin stretched over muscles of great size and strength. Its fingers were bony, and at there tips were long, sharp claws. Its legs were like that of a dog's, and Al thought of how fast they were able to move. The face was what terrified Al the most. It was that of a wolf. Its large head matched its large frame. Long, sharp teeth lined its mouth; strong jaws that could snap the bones of even elephants. Its eyes were large and silver. They glowed, producing its own light.
Harmon crawled beneath it, dragging himself backwards on his palms. He begged for his life and was apologizing for something.
"I'm sorry! I needed the money! Your wife, your child..." Harmon raised his hand in front of him in a feeble attempt to defend himself, "Please don't kill me, Vemar. As an old friend-"
That last plea only threw more fuel to the beast's wrath. A roar and quick swipe across his neck was his answer. Harmon begged no more, his life rushing out of his open throat. He howled into the night sky. A guardsman drove his spear into his side. By the way Vemar cringed and spat his dark blood, Al knew the tip wasn't made of steel. Silver. More guardsmen closed in on him. Escape was impossible, and the silver and steel pierced him from all angles. He did not even try to escape, rather, he stayed, swinging at everyone who came near; seeing how many he could take with him to hell. Al could sense a sadness in his Moon Breed brother. He didn't care if escape was possible.
Al knew better than to stay any longer. He ran, and the light from the village's torches faded behind him. It was easy as all the attention was given to Vemar's demise. He gave one tearful look at his old home and headed for the trees.
Then a light ahead, within the trees, approached.
Al stopped in his tracks, and before he could decide on what to do, a crossbow bolt whistled past him tearing some flesh from his shoulder. Another ripped through the side of his thigh. The pain drove him to the ground. The riders came closer.
Frantismo the butcher sat on one horse, his right arm's sleeve folded in. Accompanying him was four men, dressed in the hunter's fashion, though they adorned themselves with religious accessories. Two of them were armed with crossbows. The other two had swords ready.
"I knew you'd be coming running back to your family." His voice was thin and unintimidating, yet, in this situation, he was anything but laughable. "The tips of those bolts were silver. They hurt, don't they, you little demon?"
You will all die. Al intended to scratch his itch. The fire of his rage burned once more. He wanted to tear the legs and the arm from Frantismo's body as he drew breath. He snarled and snapped at the butcher, though he was yet to transform.
Frantismo giggled and feigned fear. "You threaten me, though the Highest stands behind me?" He snapped with his fingers at his hunters. "Dismember him, keep him alive though." He stroked his pointed beard. "My hooks have been dry for too long."
Yes, agreed Al, far too long. He grinned at Frantismo, I'll make sure to wet them in that rotten heart of yours!
But before he could transform, a shadow swept in, pouncing on the hunter closest to him. The sword flew from his hand as one of the Moon Breed bit at his throat. It made short work of him, then it turned its attention to the other. But before it could make its attack two bolts sprouted from its back. The silver bolts knocked it down. The hunter muttered a curse as he raised his sword at his fallen savior. But another shadow came from the woods, picking up the hunter and throwing him against a tree, his bones breaking against its trunk. Frantismo made way for the village without even giving his crossbowmen a warning. Not waiting to see what the shadows had in store for them, the crossbowmen rode off towards the village as well. Another shape born from the darkness prevented the butcher's escape, knocking him off his horse. This one was missing an ear. Dirk? Before it could do anything further Al called out.
"No! He's mine!" It was more of the wild in him that spoke. Frantismo squirmed in the beast's grasp. The wounded beast barked in disagreement, but the one that held Frantismo patiently waited for Al to change.
Before he knew it he looked like them.
He looked at his arms and hands. Claws of his own, sharp and cruel. He kept his wits this time. He would remember this, he knew. He would enjoy it. His Moon brother stomped on and broke Frantismo's leg. Dirk receded, and the butcher was Al's.
Pressing one hand against his chest, he raised the other to his face. He traced the claw on his pointer finger around Frantismo's face. He closed his eyes as he muttered a prayer in a foreign language. The things he would do to him. A slow death. These claws so hard, so sharp. His skin so, so soft. The pain he could inflict while his heart beat, the screams he would make. He would forget every sweet memory he'd had since childhood and beg for an end to his life, an escape for his soul from the hell created with his claws.
The arrow found its way through the butcher's throat, his prayer silenced forever. What? Who? Mole stood, bow in hand. Next to him was Rory. Dalia ran to the wounded beast along with others who meant to treat it. Al growled at Rory, angry at the denial of his kill.
"Its for your own good." Rory said in a serious tone.
The wounded beast morphed back into human form. The girl, thought Al, the one who started all this. He still didn't know her name. She was lifted into a wagon, Dalia sitting in it to accompany her.
"She'll live." said Dirk, now in the shape of a man.
Al was relieved. He didn't want anyone to die for him. He hoped Dalia didn't hate him for what happened to her.
"Why'd he do that? Rory. I had him." He asked Dirk.
"I told you already. He's soft." Dirk saw that his words didn't quite make sense to Al. "The black heart we all have. In it dwells evil. We love to do harm, its only natural. You felt it, standing over that butcher, didn't you?"
Al would be lying if he said he didn't. "If I did what I wanted to do, what would that mean for me?"
"Rory says we become like the tribes in Blackleaf. Freaks and idiots." Dirk turned his head and spat. "I don't believe it, though. Any of it."
They had to leave right away. Al's actions had delayed them, and they would be traveling all night. The camp was waiting for them to return, and they would not leave without Rory and Dalia. The escaped crossbowmen would surely alert the village of their presence and what befell their holy butcher.
On the way back, Al sat in the wagon, keeping the girl who saved him company. She was awake, and her eyes met his.
"Thank you," Al said "for saving me from the hunters."
"Don't thank me," she replied, "If it wasn't for my bite, you wouldn't be here."
"How did you know where I was?"
"I saw you leave. I followed you. Dirk and the rest, I think Mole was watching me." She looked at the skinny man and smiled weakly, "Nothing gets past him."
The moon was a bright crescent. The wind was cool and gentle, yet took the dead leaves from the branches all the same.
"I have to ask you something." Al thought back to the day they met.
"Sure, what is it?"
"When we met, you were covered in blood. Red blood. Was it from your First Night?"
For a moment, she did not answer, and Al regretted asking something that made her remember unpleasant memories. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
But she answered him anyway.
"It wasn't my First Night, but I did lose myself. The black heart took over." She tugged a blanket over her body as the night's wind grew colder. "I returned to my old village, according to Dalia. I killed. My black heart knew me well. It knew what I went through in that village. The parents that took me in beat me and treated me like a slave. The boys and girls threw stones and rotten fruit at me. A healer named Borastor, he pretended to be my friend. But when he found that I was bitten, he wanted me to be cast out." The memory made her clench her teeth. She winced from the pain of her wounds.
"It's alright." Al said, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She went on, "I returned home like you, but not for love. Outside of the village, I gave the beast the blood it desired. I didn't want that to happen to you. I'm glad Rory killed the butcher."
Al understood. Thinking about the violent thoughts he had while Frantismo was in his hands frightened him. "I'm glad too."
"Dalia says we all carry a darkness inside us, but how is it different from the evil we had when our hearts were red? The butchers, the hunters, are they not capable of cruelty, too?"
"Yet we are the monsters, exiled and forced to live hidden in the woods." Al looked into her silver eyes and smiled. "My name's Albeck, by the way."
"Rylia." She said, smiling back.
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