*******
Alaris couldn't sleep. Desperate for work so he could earn enough coin to feed and care for his young family, he had left his village, and travelled to Petralis. Unable to find work as a loader on the docks, and his fear of enclosed spaces ruling out the possibility of working as a miner in nearby Luallis’s silver mines, he had settled for the back-breaking toil of a woodsman. In a lonely camp in the high country to the north of Tor- Arnath, he and twenty other men worked as loggers.
A slightly built man, he was not strong enough to swing an axe to fell the towering beech trees. His task was cleaning the trunks – hacking away branches and limbs, and attaching chain traces to the stripped trunks so they could be hauled south by workhorses.
The men who worked on the site slept on double bunks in a large crudely-built log cabin. Over twenty men living and sleeping in such an enclosed space didn't make for the most pleasant environment. The detritus of working men without their wives to ensure they maintained a modicum of cleanliness and order, festooned the place. The more palatable included dirt-and mud-encrusted boots, and various items of dirty clothing. The stench of unwashed bodies and festering feet was all-pervading.
Alaris groaned in frustration and tried to wrap his pillow around his head in the forlorn hope it would help deaden the nightly lullaby of snores, grunts and mutterings of various tenors. He so wished he was lying in his own bed back at home next to his lovely wife, with his young twins – a boy and girl – safe and snug in their cot next to them. The thought of his young wife – dark-eyed, dark-haired sultry Annura, made him groan again.
The man in the bunk above him, the fat cook Ollianus, let rip with a sonorous fart. Alaris squeezed his eyes shut, his irritation and frustration swelling. “Beleth’s balls,” he cursed. “You smelly whoreson, Ollianus.” The man was an excellent cook and popular among the loggers. His propensity for breaking wind at the most inopportune moments was a source of great merriment in the camp, but none wanted to be his bunk partner. As the newcomer and smallest in the camp, Alaris had drawn the short straw.
As the essence of Ollianus’s offering wafted down, Alaris grimaced, cursing under his breath. His bladder felt full, so he climbed out of his bunk and made his way to the door. Stepping into the night, he walked over to some bushes and relieved himself, sighing with pleasure as the stream of water hit the ground. Scratching his groin, he hitched up his leggings and breathed deeply, sucking in the clean night air.
Alaris yawned, stretching his arms upward and arching his back. His shoulders and back were stiff and sore, and he was tired. He needed to sleep. Returning to the unwelcoming cabin, he grabbed his blanket and stepped back outside. Walking over to a stand of trees to the west of the cabin, he sat against a tree, wrapped himself in his blanket and closed his eyes.
Sometime later, his eyes snapped open. He was not sure what had woken him, then he realised he couldn't hear the usual night-time sounds; unseen little creatures rustling in the undergrowth, cicadas, crickets and the occasional owl screech. He remained stock-still, senses questing; there appeared to be no immediate danger, but the silence gave the feeling the forest was holding its breath in anticipation of something awful.
A high ululating scream ending in a choked gurgle made him jump. It had come from the direction of the cabin. Pushing himself upright, he moved quietly toward it, placing his feet carefully to avoid stepping on any dry branches or twigs. Shielded by the thick bole of a beech tree, and thick brush, he peered at the log building.
The door was wide open, and he could hear more screams and shouts, and sounds of fierce struggling. Bears were sometimes known to break into cabins searching for food, but it was no bear that emerged as he watched.
A huge hound leapt through the door, splintering the frame and surrounding timber. Frightful jaws locked around its victim's midriff, the beast loped off into the darkness. Alaris blinked in disbelief. What manner of hound could carry off a full-grown man so effortlessly? More of the creatures followed, dragging and carrying away more of Alaris's hapless workmates.
Three figures appeared in the doorway and stepped into the open. Alaris shrank back behind the beech tree as they looked in his direction. He saw they were not men, but yellow-eyed demons from the seven hells, impossibly tall and massive.
Those eyes continued to stare in his direction. Terror swamped him and he started shaking. He held his breath, so they wouldn't hear him breathe. Someone had once told him people sensed when they were being stared at, so he turned his eyes downward, fervently praying the demons hadn't sensed his presence. He let out a gasp of air as they turned away and followed their hounds into the night.
Alaris slumped to the ground in relief. He had loosened his bladder in fear, and his leggings were sodden with urine. He felt ashamed at his weakness, but in truth, there was little reason to berate himself. After all, it wasn't every night one saw his workmates devoured and carried off by denizens of the pit.
Too frightened to move in case the creatures came back, Alaris stayed where he was, his urine-wet leggings uncomfortable against his legs, until dawn-light started streaking the sky. Afraid of the gruesome sight that might confront him, he had no wish to return to the cabin, but he was compelled to. Cautiously stepping in, he was surprised how little blood there was. He saw mounds of human bones on bunks and on the floor.
Shuddering, Alaris backed out of the cabin. He walked to the stockade at the rear of the building where the horses were kept. He saw they had all bolted except an old black mare. Walking up to the animal, he stroked its neck, whispering soothing words.
He saddled the animal, jumped on its back, and rode away from the logging camp, setting his sight homeward. None had told him the forests of Petralis housed ochre-eyed demons. He would return home, and find some other work to help care for his family.
The Hunting Party
The twelve city elders sat at a long table set on a stage overlooking the packed Hall of Elders, which was attached to the great library. Casca, sitting in the front row couldn't remember seeing so many people in attendance before. But then, most of the matters debated and decided by the elders tended to be of the mundane, such as recruiting enough numbers for the city guard, and solving the problem of the city's open sewers.
Krocus, the leader of the Council of Elders, a thin man with a rapidly receding hairline, raised his eyes from the notes in front of him and fixed Casca with an unblinking stare. “Will Casca stand and speak. He wishes to address this meeting.”
Casca stood and swung around to face the people. He recounted the tales his father used to tell him and what his research had revealed. He believed the attacks at the feast of Mithros and the unexplained disappearances were but the beginning, and the city was in grave danger. He requested the elders recommend a full evacuation of Petralis.
Clearing his throat theatrically, Krocus leaned forward, his dark eyes on Casca.
“So, you want us to believe these ridiculous tales from your childhood, and that we are all about to be devoured by shape shifting demons and giant dogs? What did you call them...Gualich or was it Bahktak?” He turned his head left and right, glancing at the other elders, then faced the mass of men and women in the chamber. “Forgive me if I laugh, for I have not heard such a pile of horse dung in a long time.” He laughed – an irritating gurgle. A few on the table smiled, and more laughter came from the audience.
Casca's eyes hardened. “It is not horse dung, Krocus, I know it to be true. I was in the park. One of the creatures killed two men and carried off a child. Another attacked me and my family, but my dog killed it.”
“Your dog killed it!” Krocus mocked, wide-eyed. “If your...dog killed it, then maybe these creatures are not as fearsome as you make out. And pray, where...”
“You haven't seen the size of Casca's dog,” a voice rang out to further laughter. “It's bigger than a pigging wolf, and its pigging jaws can take
a grown man's leg off!”
Krocus frowned at the interruption and continued from where he left off. “...where is the body of this beast your dog so bravely killed?”
Casca glared at Krocus. He had never liked the rat-faced man. “The body rotted away to nothing in no time,” he responded.
“How convenient,” Krocus sneered.
An elder at the far end of the table interjected. Klara, a matronly looking woman of middle years was one of the longest serving of the elders, and commanded considerable respect. “I was at the park for the festivities and saw the attacks. Whatever those creatures were, they must be stopped. They didn't look like any beasts I have seen before, and we shouldn't be quick to discount Casca's words.”
A few murmurs of agreement came from the audience.
“Pah, what does he know?” Krocus snorted “He is only a tavern keeper.”
“That may be true,” Klara snapped “but he is a man of sound judgement, something you know little about, Krocus, except in the matter of accruing wealth at the expense of ordinary citizens. I too have read some of Elander Zucross's works, and am aware of the dark legends surrounding Tor-Arnath.”
Another elder, a big man with folds of fat under his chin spoke up. “I was at the park,” he said in a hoarse voice. He raised a linen cloth to his mouth as a coughing fit hit him setting his multiple chins a-wobbling. “Forgive me,” he croaked, “I have had this damned cough for the last week or so. I was at the park, and all I saw were wild dogs or wolves. The city guard found their spoor, and will track them down to their lair. We may be too late to do anything for the child they took, but we can kill them.”
“Cow dung!” shouted a voice from the audience. “It was no wolf or wild dog that did for my poor brother.” Looking around, he continued. “You… Masrel, Dion, Ilka, you were all there. Beleth's stones! You all saw it! What sort of wild dog or wolf attacks a large group of people in daylight and tears men in half with its tail?”
Arguments broke out in the chamber, men and women shouting at each other. Casca glanced at Leonna and Marcos sitting quietly next to him. Leonna met his gaze. Her eyes were steady, certain. The set of her jaw and light in her eyes reminded him of Castillan.
His mind made up, Casca stepped forward and vaulted onto the stage. Krocus got to his feet, his face pale, and eyes bulging with anger. “How dare you,” he blustered, this stage is reserved for city elders, not some drunken tavern owner who wants us to believe fanciful tales of demon dogs and soul stealers.”
Casca, his blood now up, placed his hands on the table and leaned forward, his face a mere hand breadth from Krocus's. “I dare, you pompous windbag, because I care about the lives of the people of this city, and will not stand idly by while you keep your head up your back passage.” Krocus stumbled back and sat heavily on his chair. He wasn't used to people standing up to him, and something in Casca's eyes had frightened him.
Casca turned and faced the assemblage. “Those of you who know me know I am not given to flights of fancy,” he said, his voice ringing loud and clear in the chamber. “Some of you would have heard stories of the Gualich from your fathers and grandfathers. Believe me when I say they are real, and coming back. Days of blood and dark sorcery are upon us. My ancestor Castillan, helped defeat this horror a thousand years ago. It has fallen upon me to do the same. Trust me, I didn't want this. I am no hero, but a time comes when every man must look into his soul and accept the duties the fates have placed upon him. We all have different paths to follow, and for better or worse, this is mine. But I will not be standing alone. Others destined to face this horror are on their way, one of them, my friend Pagan – many of you know him as a man of exceptional abilities, is already here. These creatures grow stronger with every death. If they devour enough souls, they will become unstoppable. They will rebuild their towers in Tor-Arnath, and spread their evil throughout the land and beyond. I urge you all to pack what you can, and leave the city. I cannot force you to go, but I beg you to think about your families, your wives, sisters, mothers and children. Don't doom them as... fodder for these...demons.”
There was silence in the chamber as the people took in Casca's words. Then, a voice rang out. “Casca's words are wise. I for one will be taking my wife and children and leaving!”
“Horse dung!” cried another voice. “You never had much brains, Masrel. Will you be taking your whore as well? I wouldn't mind a tumble with her while you are away!”
“A pox on you, Lane,” Masrel retorted. “She only wants real men! You are so shrivelled up, even your wife refuses you!”
Casca raised his voice as laughter rang out. “For those of you who choose to leave, Marcos here, has two ships sailing for Paros. He has berths for around two hundred people.” He glanced at Marcos who nodded his assent before adding, “We set sail in two days. Those who wish to go, be at the docks at first light. Room will be cramped, so bring only one chest per household. Lock and board up your homes. Your possessions will be awaiting you when you return.”
Krocus rose to his feet, trying one last time to reassert control over the situation. “Let’s not be hasty,” he beseeched. “Even if the tavern keeper is right, we don't have to leave our homes. We can arm ourselves and fight together with the city guard.”
“Yes,” Masrel mocked. “With you in the front ranks leading us, Krocus. Beleth's balls, man, you wouldn't even know which end of a sword to use!”
“No,” Casca interjected. “These creatures are spawned from the darkest sorcery. Your weapons would be useless against them. Even if you get lucky and kill one or two of the Bahktak, you couldn't stand against the Suanggi or their masters. You must flee the city.”
As more voices were raised in arguments, Casca leapt from the stage and moved toward the doors with Leonna and Marcos in tow. He had done all he could here.