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“Walk the cobbled road north. The path goes far, towards the evergreens of Missefth, past the wilderness of the black men, to be joined by others alike and become the great Silver Way as it nears the capital of Kolim, close to the edge of the world.

“You will not walk as far as that, though your destination may be just as distant.

“Depart the road in the town of Ferri and seek the mountain trail there. It climbs towards the Steps of the Sun, where blind priests live. They will bother you little, with stories and advice. Kind they may be, but do not seek shelter with them or they ask for a greater price than you may ever be able to pay, boy. Remember that well!

“The trail circles around the snowcaps for three days, so pack well from Ferri and from the priests if the herders may be close. Pray a herder may be making his journey back, and you can accompany him. It is towards their settlements that the trail leads and it is there that you may truly rest yourself. The mountains are treacherous, but the goat herders are sturdy men and you would do well to steal, even if a little, from their sage advice.

“Ask them for the way to Sacramn but answer not their questions.They are welcoming to strangers, fast to laughter, fast to banter, but there have been many lost in the mountains, sent along treacherous paths. Be wise and speak little of your mind.

“When the cold of the snowcaps is but a memory and you have discarded your furs - you will not need them again – the great Yellow Plain will be spread as far as your eyes may carry. Walk proud through the tall grass and pay no mind to the great cats or the striped horses, nor the laughing great dogs and the giants with floppy ears. Intrude not amongst them and no harm will befall you. Rest often, for the heat is deceiving there and to lose your strength so far from humanity is the staple of a great fool.

“Keep to the compass as the herders instructed and in a week’s time you shall come upon a great marsh. Do not fear the mud or the water; there is solid ground just a finger’s width beneath. But walk leisurely and merrily, and keep in mind where you are headed. Lose your heading or your good humor for but a heartbeat and the Murs will be upon you, with curious eyes and prying hands. They are small and ugly and froglike, but they are many and they are quite insisting, sensing the stranger in their land. Be confident and they will leave you alone as you reach the great wall of Sacramn.

“Walk along the wall to the wooden doors at the edge of the moors. They will be unguarded yet locked; the only sign upon them a doorknocker. Raise it with all your strength and rap upon the doors just twice. A third one will not be answered, a forth will be answered by an arrow that rarely misses.

“Wait to be allowed inside and ask for Angar. If you have companions, leave them behind as you are led to his home.

“Bow to him and offer your gift. Only when he asks for you to rise may you tell him your purpose. If he does not and leaves, remain there, on your knees, for a day. If he does not return, leave with your head bowed in shame and never return to his house. You will not be greeted well.

“Prepare your bag boy. There is little left for you here. And I have too little now to keep you around.”


Such were the words of my father to me. My father who had spoken so very little to me before that eve, now sat by the fire and smoked his pipe, absentmindedly massaging his wooden leg. I had listened intently to his instructions and had nothing more to say to him. I even slept like a babe that night, despite my long journey ahead. There were too few ties for me there.

As dawn cracked outside and the first roosters were sheepishly crowing on fences and rooftops, I was already on the back of an oxcart, patiently awaiting my departure. There was the smell of morning smoke in the air, and the chill of autumn’s rapid approach. Still the villagers rallied their cattle towards the grazing fields. Women wide in girth were returning slowly with sticks or whips in hands, talking slowly amongst themselves. Cow bellows and bells broke the otherwise frigid silence.

With a jolt I felt myself setting off. The cart had begun moving, the driver walking slowly next to the two massive oxen, only rarely whipping them harshly back into alert motion, along with a “Hais!” on his part.
The village fell slowly behind as the light got stronger and I could see the morning smoke rise higher, denser than earlier. Pyres were probably lit again in the fields, with the night’s dead farm stock and villagers. Still, life carried on, rattling and creaking at the seams; it went on for those that I had left behind, too stubborn, poor or stupid to leave. They were those so like my father, himself at that time probably ambling slowly towards the horse stable, having already made ready the plow for its work.

Riders in rusted armor started passing us by before the noon sun was high. Sometimes alone, sometimes in twos or threes, oftentimes alongside carts full of corpses; they were surely riding towards the pyres in the fields, back to the village that was but a speck on my horizon. The riders looked grim and most of them exhausted and holding their swords rather attached to the saddle than their belts. The sounds of shoed hoofs on the cobbles echoed for a while after they had passed by, only to gradually die out.

I soon moved to the front, holding the reins as my travel companion ate and rested. He was a very old man, slight yet strong despite his appearance; I had seen him often loading the cart alone, and even harnessing the bullocks, alone, with just a whip to help him. He was in no way impressed by the road he had travelled so many times, and lay on his back on the sacks of grain, smoking his corncob pipe. I was amazed that the illness had not taken him, as I had often been amazed to see my father out of the home, working seemingly without a care, healthy as a bull. That comparison holds no real meaning now.

That first evening we ran into a patrol of soldiers. The men were weary, and the horses shining with sweat, though it was surprisingly cold then.

There were three of them, and a fourth could be seen far off in the meadow, his head bobbing up and down between the stalks of corn. I believe he had been the unlucky one to be patrolling off the path. The other guards were spread out on the side of the road, or lying on their backs in the ditch. On the harvested field nearby, a few hundred paces away from the road there was a fire dying out. One of them went and rekindled it as the others came and barred our way.

We were kindly asked to present ourselves for inspection, though their swords were always just in reach if we were to refuse. We did not resist, of course. We undressed as they asked and were checked for the signs. It took little time for them to do so and, mercifully, we were dressed once more before the chill could creep into our bones. I helped them unload the wheat and opened up each bag for them. The wheat was to be properly checked in Ferri, and then further along in Grivertorch and Priess, but for the time being a hasty inspection ensured our own health more than anything.

The oxen were healthy and we were soon allowed to leave. The sun had however gone too low for the road to be safe anymore. We did not carry a great provision of oil for our lamp, and were none too keen to be using it as early as the first days of travel. Wolves had taken to prowling in the north and it would come in handier there.

The guards, whom we’d learn were called Matei, Daniel, Andew and, the fourth one riding in the meadow, Gabriev, were thankful for a bit of company for the evening and an extra pair, or two, of eyes for guard duty that night. They laughed at the idea of one of us trying to slit their throat while they slept.
“If you’re traveling these parts now, with healthy wheat and healthy farm stock, your very least of problems would be a few guards checking out travelers”, Daniel joked by the fire that evening. “Slitting our throats is not even worth the effort in these light forsaken times.”


Night under the starry sky, next to a rarely traveled road, surrounded by nothing but the vast expanses of moors and crops shuffling, is unsettling. I was not left alone on watch. Matei took the shift with me close to midnight, only sending me out to bring more stalks to the fire.

“We’ve been watching the roads for days, you know.” He spoke in a whisper, careful not to wake the others, or even the oxen. The cart was next to the road, a stone throw away from us. “It’s not like the sick are wondering the roads nowadays. You’ve seen them in your parts, haven’t you?”

I simply nodded. The memories of them were not pleasant ones.

“You know they can’t get far if they try. Sure, there’s the eventual one that’s just been infected and can carry it to the next town, but it’s so rare to see one nowadays that all this guard duty is just a waste of time and men.” He took a sip of wine and listened to the stale sounds of the fields. I moved closer to the dying embers, feeling the cold’s dark grasp on me. Somewhere, distant, a wolf howled at the half moon in the sky...or so I would have believed.

“Indeed…that’s the exact reason we’re here now.” I could not grasp his meaning and simply nodded as he got up and walked to the others, kicking Daniel and Andrew awake. I could not understand why they remained laying there as he returned to the fire.

“There’s always one damned fool that gets one God awful idea in times like these. Some magical trinket, some incredible poison, some crap shield…all set to backfire in some horrible way or another.” He sat hunched over the fire, his eyes closed and a look of the most intense concentration about him. Instinctively, I looked around and listened. Nothing came to me.

“Some fool, some appalling fool, got it into his skewed little mind that there is a way to oppose the sickness, to live through it. He thought the wolves were immune…or rather the werewolves. Some idiot, or some manner of Demon worshiping trickster, bought into the tale that you transform into a wolf and that’s that, fairytale come true, you become human when the moon dies in the Heavens. And he’d be safe; everyone would be safe that way. Ain’t that the most convenient thing ever?”

A wolf’s cry sounded stronger now, as if it had gotten closer. I felt my heart shrink with every beat. Matei stabbed at the fire with the scabbard of his sword, eyes still closed.


“So the werewolf bane’s begun. Folks know crap all about them and suckers…there are plenty of suckers.”

Shadows in the night play strange tricks on the eye and the mind. Many times did I feel the urge to look over my shoulder, to check some blacker darkness as it ghostly trembled and swayed. I felt the pull of sleep as well, but I could not settle my mind for it. The wolves had quieted down, yet Matei would not relax his vigil. With his back turned to the fire, the wine by his side, untouched for some time, he was silent and would not answer me again, absorbed in thought.

Which was well; I confess I had no wish to hear any more of what haunted my ailing homeland.

It was a fell night, I felt. The wind had a bite to it and the fire couldn’t seem to warm me up enough for sleep. I tossed a few more sticks to the embers and held myself tight, my face to the heat, wishing all my senses be taken from me at such damned hours. The oxen shuffled in their sleep and swiped their tails at imaginary flies. Even old man Joac was snoring peacefully, wrapped in fleece covers, close to the cart. But for me, there would be no rest that night.

I cursed the armoured man for filling my head with such stories. Wolves that walked as men in a land ravaged by plague and ill tidings!? I cursed at myself for believing him and imagining them all walking just outside the protective circle of light. In my young naiveté I thought that surely I would have known of such things, that surely there would be word of mouth spreading like wildfire if such things of lore would ever roam our fields and roads.

The embers crackled, filling the chilled night air with their sparks. The corn stalks rustled in the cold breeze. And they kept on rustling even when the wind died and I could not feel its chilling breath on my back anymore. Yet chills I felt.

Matei grabbed my sleeve, pulling me to my feet.

“Wake the old man and keep the oxen calm.” His eyes looked past me, searching the night. I felt my muscles ache and protest, yet I stumbled over to Joac and rustled him to alertness. He muttered his curses and ambled over to the cart, stretching and snapping, his age showing.

Swords in hand, Andrew and Matei closed in to the wall of stalks, banging from time to time on their battered shields.

“Come out mutts!” Their voices were horse and angry, and I swore I could hear their words returning; a distorted echo, from a throat not meant for words. Daniel tossed wood on the fire from their satchels and sprayed it well with oil, the flames rising high, shattering the shadows of early dawn.

The bulls heaved and got up, almost knocking us over, fear in their big, dumb eyes. We held fast to their reins and spoke calming words, rubbing their foreheads. Had Joac not broken them into submission over so many years, they would have trampled us there and then.

“Mongrels, come out, come out!” Matei sounded amused, strangling down his laughter as he poked his sword through the stalks, Andrew holding up a torch behind him. “We’ll burn the field down, mongrels; and the one next to it, and the one after. It’ll reek of burnt hair and dog meat for days round these parts.”

In the blink of an eye Matei had disappeared into the field, his head visible for nary a moment as he went in further and further. Yelps resounded and the night exploded with shapes, scattering from the corn. No taller than a man, yet gaunt and shrivelled, even as shadows, they scattered on all sides, only to pause as Gabriev and Andrew barred their way further, shield and sword at the ready, the fire behind them.

Matei strode out, holding a slender, agitated figure by the neck. It was yelping and thrashing about, clawing at his armoured glove, kicking up the dust. He ran in through and tossed it aside as if it were nothing more than a wooden doll.

“One for the fire…” he bellowed and laughed, joined by his brothers in arms. There was something manic in their laughter, inhumane.

I watched the figures spread out, twitching at every sound now, ready to flee. Gaunt bodies dressed in nothing but rags, their limbs long and clawed, these were people I realised, starved and transformed worse than even the plague would manage. Their faces were melted and crudely rebuilt in short muzzles, their eyes dark and small, their ears sharpened and elongated as well. Hair showed in tuffs on these deformed bastards of nature, here and there, sickly. Had the times been different I may have found them disturbing or frightening. But at that time there was nothing in me for them except pity.

They ran, scattering in the field as sheep would. There was something desperate in their flight, despite there being more than a dozen of them, while the soldiers were three. Some mongrels attacked them, most tried to run back into the covers of the night.

The first arrow that struck a beast’s skull reminded me of Daniel, whom Matei had posted to guard the road for any night time wanderers. The creature tumbled over head first, its dying sounds muffled by the din of the massacre behind. Another paused for just a moment and fell as well, the arrow sticking out of its back. It thrashed on the ground, howling and whining in a feral tongue.

Matei and the others had taken to the fight in a quiet, precise manner, swinging their weapons in wide arcs, slicing limbs and throats with ease. Their shields were discarded as the extra protection was unneeded. They did not taunt, did not laugh, did not even seem to notice one another as each enveloped himself in the gore of his work. There was a clockwork precision to the way they fought, something born of practice. Born of maybe too much practice, I thought.

The oxen bawled and drew away. One of the creatures had jumped into the cart, pulling savagely at a sack, ripping it open. It held a small pouch to it and looked around nervously, watching the slaughter with twitching eyes. Joac noticed before me, picking up his whip and lounging at it, swearing loudly. It tried to fight him off, but I was behind it – my reaction was not bravery but pure instinct after years of chasing stray wolves off my father’s farm in the dead of night – , pulling it off the wheat, straight to the ground. I heard a bone crack and felt sickened by the dry sound. The old man didn’t care and came over, whipping it hard, yelling to the soldiers for help.

It held out a clawed hand towards us, trying to shield itself from the whip. “P…phlease” it whined in our tongue, trying to get to its feet. “Children…” it said again, but the word sounded wrong, more a growl in that deformed form. It reached for the pouch as we watched it, even Joac at a loss for cussing. We did not notice Daniel next to us until it picked up the pathetic thing and smashed its head against the strong wooden frame of the cart.

He turned a sly smile, his moustache speckled with blood. “Now they won’t get near you on the road.”

Light mercifully erupted from the East soon after. It trickled at first, creeping across the moors, and soon rolled over us in a golden tide. The thick, choking smoke rising from our freshly lit pyres did little to stop it. It rose to meet it in the sky and was easily shattered and scattered to the winds, carrying with it the miasma of charred flesh and bone, and the faint fragrance of death. Not one beast escaped the cull, not a single one was spared or even questioned. The soldiers had been ruthless and efficient, both in hunting down the stragglers and in lighting the great fires to consume them.

Joac had taken care of harnessing the bulls as I helped carry the bodies to the fire, a simple courtesy to their efforts, and fine exercise to shake off the morning chills. Matei and Daniel were talking by the embers of our camp site, merry and tired. This had meant nothing for them, just a purge of the unclean.

“Why?” I asked Andrew by the pyre, my shirt raised to cover my mouth. “Why come among us? Why go for grain? There are villages all over; there is live stock out there, granaries. Hell, we’re in the middle of a stinking corn field…” My voice was getting away from me, rising higher as if I were a dumb child, ignorant of the world.

To his credit Andrew did not mock me, nor laugh at me for my compassion. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me away from the fire, offering me a sip of his own wine flask. It was sour and warm, but it still calmed my skittering nerves.

“Ever wondered why these things are usually so feared?” His voice was almost fatherly, though he did not seem a day over twenty. After seeing the night’s massacre I really wonder how such pathetic things had become such terrors of the night for the people.

“Outside of the full moon, any other food aside from bread will give a mongrel the shits of his miserable life. Theirs is an amusing curse.” He did not believe this, yet he smiled all the same. ”The only time of the month when they can actually feed is the night of the full moon, when their transformation takes hold for real. You’ve seen, I’m sure, how starved animals will take your arm off in moments if given the chance. Add some really big claws and teeth to those bastards, and you get a very good image of a werewolf on full moon nights. Enough of them starve to death before even getting there, but one is all you need to get a village full of them next month.”

He had led me to the cart and patted my shoulder. “Take care and keep to the road. They’ll hardly bother you with blood smeared like that.”

We waved our goodbyes and our thanks and were back on our way. Somehow, I was missing home. And it would not be for the last time.