Into the Wild Page 15

  “I can’t.”

  Long ago the druids had learned to harness the power of the Devourer Wurm to warp men into mighty beasts, but such beings lost their intellect and their reason before descending into constant savagery—they were imperfect weapons. Skinwalkers were different; change the warriors’ bodies but keep their minds intact. And who better to experiment on than a tribe whose warriors already had the ability to descend into blood-crazed madness and come out the other side whole?

  So, they had listened to the druids, taken their elixir, and changed. Caradoc’s tribe had been the first. The druids had killed many of them in the process, but they’d learned from their mistakes and refined their methods. Only his tribe was strong enough to survive this.

  Now there were skinwalkers in every land, from many tribes, but here was where the tradition had begun. The other tribes served as the most fearsome warriors of the Circle of Orboros. By day, they wore the faces of men and by night, they hunted. They served and died but never understood the greatness of their history.

  Caradoc’s tribe was better.

  They were the last of the first.

  Caradoc said, “If young Ivor had his way, we would abandon this mountain and live wherever the Circle would place us. He has no appreciation for our history. But, as long as I am chief, our secret will remain safe. We will kill every last outsider.”

  “And what of their giant machine?”

  Caradoc had seen the slumbering warjack. It was a clumsy, metal copy of a true beast. He would show the Cygnar a true beast. “I have called for Blood Drinker.”

  Guto swallowed hard. Even the skinwalkers were frightened of the Blood Drinker. He was a force of nature, as destructive as any flash flood or forest fire. “In the grip of his fury, he often mistakes friend for foe.”

  “A risk I’m willing to take. I am done trifling with these fools. Tonight, they die. Then tomorrow we will kill whomever it is Krueger would have us kill. And we will kill every night after, until the rivers run with blood and the outsiders leave us alone. Our children will no longer dwindle in disbelief. And then we will kill more until I am so tired that I can no longer lift my head.”

  “Whatever you decide, Caradoc, never let the warriors see their chief wallowing in melancholy. I warned you about the burden when you challenged me for leadership of this tribe.”

  The past and future were colliding, and Caradoc did not know if there would be a place for his people in either. He stared at the firelight dancing down his axe and felt his blood pumping. The druids would expend no resources defending something that meant nothing to them. There was no magic left in those ruins, no precious ley lines or arcane secrets. There was nothing there that would help the Potents cull the world, so they simply did not care. All that was left was the last remaining shred of his people’s dignity and a reminder that they used to be something more.

  Sometimes it felt like he was standing in front of a glacier alone, with no way to stop its motion. It would crush him eventually, but he was a skinwalker, and his anger would burn so hot it would melt a hole in the ice as it destroyed him.

  “After tonight’s slaughter is done, we will carry whatever is left of their mutilated bodies down to where their passing trains can see them. We’ll string the trees with their guts and sow the ground with their heads. The valley will be stained red with blood, spread as far as their eyes can see. It will be a sign, so the ones in their cities will be afraid to come into the wilderness. Let all the others see what happens to fools who trespass.”

  The two were silent for a long time. “Do you really want to go to war with civilization?” Guto asked quietly.

  Caradoc did not hesitate. “We’ve always been at war. It’s just time they knew it as well.”

  One would think that a lowly cog in a gigantic military machine would be used to having his legitimate concerns brushed off by his superiors by now, but Cleasby had never been able to accept how obstinate some of them could be. Baron Wynn was a remarkably stubborn man, so focused on potential discovery that he was willing to accept risks.

  By his decree, the Malcontents weren’t going anywhere.

  “So what happened next?” Acosta asked Cleasby.

  The two of them were keeping watch over a gang of workers chopping brush from one wall of the ruin. “The professor told me that the presence of an unknown species of predator was actually a good thing—an exciting find we could pass along to the Department of Extraordinary Zoology. In the meantime, it doesn’t change a thing. He won’t leave until he’s completed his survey.”

  They were atop a small rise that gave them a decent view of this area. Cleasby had scattered his men in pairs around the entire site, but the most dangerous thing they’d seen so far today had been the mosquitos. A pleasant afternoon sun beat down on their armor. It truly was a fine day, but Cleasby couldn’t shake the feeling that ravenous monsters were surrounding them just the same. Fair-weather fiends.

  “Interesting.” Acosta stroked his goatee. “And how did the professor react when you argued with him?”

  “How did you know about that?” Cleasby had deliberately kept his disagreement with the professor out of sight. It was better for his soldiers and the expedition as a whole if they thought their leadership was unified.

  “Cleasby, honest words practically fall out of your face. I marvel that your complete inability to lie has not gotten you killed yet.”

  “I suppose lying would have kept me from getting a few gloves thrown down on me, but that’s why I took dueling lessons at the university. Anyway, yes, I debated the point.” Debated was an understatement; it had been more of a vigorous argument. “The professor won’t budge. He requested the Malcontents to keep this expedition safe and, as far as he is concerned, that mission hasn’t changed.”

  Even though the light had been bad and it was hard to get a good look at something trying to climb down their throats, Rains and Thornbury’s eyewitness report was too close to Ranger Novak’s account for it to have been something else. They’d seen two animals and badly wounded one; she claimed to have seen at least half a dozen of them.

  As a group, they had come up with a few theories as to what the beasts could be. Horner knew the most about the Immoren’s wild creatures. When Cleasby had suggested that the monsters might be warpwolves—a rare type of bipedal super predator he’d read about—Horner had just laughed and pointed out that warpwolves were huge; there could be no mistaking them for anything else.

  Both Novak and Rains’ reports agreed their attackers were not much larger than a man and showed signs of intelligence. Cleasby didn’t know what they were dealing with here, but the mystery creatures were deadly and more than likely responsible for the missing miners as well. He would have preferred to retreat to Ironhead and return with more soldiers, but Wynn wouldn’t tolerate any more delays.

  Some workers came out from the ruins carrying a sizable stone. The whole thing was carved with intricate lines. Three struggling humans were holding up one end, and Raus had the other by himself. When one of the humans slipped, the rock fell and struck the steps. Horner rushed over and began shouting at them to be more careful. The historian in Cleasby grimaced at the possibility that the precious markings might have gotten chipped, but the soldier in Cleasby wanted them to keep hurrying so they could get out of here faster.

  Acosta spoke quietly. “You realize your beloved professor is lying, don’t you?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “He’s a nobleman. His lips are moving. It’s obvious he believes something extremely valuable is hidden here. He will not leave until he has taken it for himself.”

  Cleasby was in already a bad mood. Baron Wynn had devoted his whole life to learning, so his passion might blind him to danger, but that was a much different flaw than dishonesty. For a man the likes of Acosta to question the integrity of such a man was frankly offensive. “And here I thought the only person lying to me was you.”

  “Oh, of course not, my
friend. I’m but one of many! I think the injured ranger is hiding something, too.”

  “I agree, but don’t change the subject.” He’d tried once before, but the Ordsman had casually brushed off Cleasby’s concerns. Now he wanted the truth at last. “What are you hiding about last night, Acosta?”

  “I already told you of the woman who tried to tempt me into following her.”

  “And you just happened to come across this spear-throwing seductress while wandering about in the woods for no reason.”

  “Exactly.”

  It wasn’t as if he could cajole Acosta into talking. The night before, Rains had been inclined to try threats of violence, but that wouldn’t have ended well, either. Cleasby could have simply ordered Acosta to leave the expedition, but that was an order the Ordsman would probably just ignore. Plus, if there were several more of the vicious creatures lurking nearby, it made no sense to send away their best swordsman.

  Damn it. I’m stuck.

  “At least give me your word you’ll do nothing to endanger these people. Our people.”

  Acosta glanced over to see Cleasby grinding his teeth together in frustration; the Ordsman gave him a knowing smirk. “I recall Madigan giving me that same look on a few different campaigns. I am here because my Lady wishes for me to be here. Trouble is coming, and, no matter how angry it makes you, it is not within my ability to keep it from happening. If it makes you feel better, however, you have my word. I will do nothing to make your already dire situation worse.”

  “Thanks,” Cleasby muttered.

  “You are very welcome. I am glad we had this talk, my friend.”

  Shouts of alarm rose from the other side of the dig site. A worker came running out of the trees, shouting for Horner and Raus. Cleasby couldn’t hear what the messenger was saying from this distance, but from the horrified reaction, it wasn’t good news.

  “Stay here,” Cleasby ordered. “I mean it. If any of these workers get picked off by wolf monsters while I’m away, it’s on your head.”

  “How ever would I live with myself after such tragedy?” Acosta asked. Cleasby glared at him. “I joke. Go.”

  Cleasby slid down the hill and ran after Raus. The worker led them around the corner and down a small ravine. There was quite a bit of activity at the bottom. The professor and Pickett were already there, grim and ashen faced. The brush had been cleared away, revealing another doorway. The workers who were gathered there were clutching their tools and looking around nervously.

  “We found a secret entrance,” Pickett told them.

  Horner reached the opening, looked inside, and then backed away, covering her mouth. Raus got there next and ducked his head to enter but turned away as a cloud of black flies swarmed out of the hole. The ogrun saw Cleasby following. “I think we found the missing miners.”

  The smell was horrible. It was as they’d found the bunkhouse but magnified by volume, time, and humidity. The daylight cut a narrow line through the chamber, just enough to reveal the edge of what appeared to be a pile of body parts. Cleasby readied his glaive. Pickett had prepared one of the alchemical lanterns and drawn his repeating pistol. Raus picked up a nearby sledgehammer that looked like a toy in his huge hands.

  “Stay here,” Cleasby told the professor. Thankfully, the nobleman didn’t argue this time.

  Pickett swallowed hard. He’d wanted adventure, but this probably wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Cleasby looked to his old friend and, without a word, they entered together.

  The stench of rot was so unbearable, Cleasby felt momentarily jealous of the bandanna Horner had tied over her nose and mouth. Fat black flies crawled into his open visor and bit at his watering eyes, and old dried sticks cracked beneath their boots. Pickett’s lantern light was able to fill the entire space. Raus had to stoop a bit to not scrape his head along the intricately carved ceiling. This chamber wasn’t very big, but, like everything else they’d found so far, it was as covered in writing.

  “Such carnage,” Pickett whispered.

  But Cleasby had already clinically detached himself from the horror and had begun analyzing the situation. It was hard to estimate how many bodies had been thrown into the room because of the sheer number of pieces they’d been torn into, but the scraps of clothing and scattered bits of armor suggested they were all that was left of the miners and Rathleagh’s mercenaries. Because the room was damp, the parts were in a far more putrid state than the first body they’d found, but in spite of their terrible condition, he could see the marks of claws and where teeth had gnawed on bones.

  “There’s not enough…” Cleasby muttered.

  “You think some escaped?” Raus asked.

  Cleasby shook his head. There were more than enough parts to account for all of them. “I mean there’s not enough mass. I think some of them were partially devoured before being thrown down here.”

  “That’s it. I’m waiting outside,” Horner said as she went back toward the sunlight. Pickett looked as if he wanted to go with her, but it was either loyalty or embarrassment that kept him from fleeing. As Cleasby listened to the crunching of sticks as Horner left, he had a terrible realization. Kneeling down, he ran his hand across the dirty floor and discovered he was right.

  They weren’t sticks.

  He brushed the grime off of what looked like a round rock and found eye sockets looking back at him.

  “Morrow preserve us,” Pickett gasped when he saw the old skull and came to the same conclusion as Cleasby. He lifted one boot slowly as he realized he was standing on what had to be centuries of decomposing bones. It wasn’t that the ceiling was that much lower here; instead, they were standing on a raised pile of death. “How many are there?”

  Cleasby scanned across the space, doing a quick calculation. Thousands upon thousands of bones—and a human body only had a few hundred. Assuming everything tossed down here was human, that were enough bones to account for hundreds of corpses. Maybe more. For once, he was at a complete loss. “I don’t know. Too many.”

  “What is this place?” Raus looked to the educated men, but neither one had an answer to give him.

  There was a raised section in the center of the room. It had probably been a stand of some kind, but moisture, vegetation, and sheer time had turned it into a crumbling pile of bricks. Yet something stood out from the green, rotting mass: a single flat stone on top of it, suspiciously free of moss. Cleasby approached, trying not to step on and thus disrespect the dead, but eventually he gave up and concentrated on avoiding just the fresh ones.

  It was no mere stone but rather a carved tablet, inscribed with a language Cleasby couldn’t recognize. Pictograms accompanied it. Cleasby moved his glaive closer and studied the pictures by the blue glow.

  Men. Wolves. And something in between.

  “What is it?” Pickett whispered.

  “The reason we rushed here. The reason I refused to leave,” Professor Wynn answered from the entrance. He was covering his mouth with a handkerchief to keep from gagging. “This is hora ze viti vulku. The mountain where wolves howl.” He approached the tablet carefully, almost reverently. “I thought it was a myth. I prayed it was a myth.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pickett said. “I thought the translations—”

  “Valuable, yes, but they pale next to what someone could learn from this. There’s folklore in the Wyrmwalls about an ancient lost tribe who absorbed the strength of beasts. Legends told of warriors who would degenerate into a berserker fury, impervious to pain and injury, virtually unstoppable in battle. I found enough documentation to suggest these legends were true. There has long been a belief, spread by cultists and backroom gossip for the most desperate fools at the Fraternal Order of Wizardry, that if these old rites could be found, their secrets could be studied, unlocked, and used again.”

  Cleasby was still trying to decipher the pictograms. It was as if they were pulling him in. “This is a record of a ceremony—people wrapping themselves in animal skins and absorbing the pow
er of their slain enemies. All these bodies...they bathed in their blood.”

  “Look away, lieutenant. Such a dark thing is best studied in the light,” the professor warned.

  But if I study it a bit longer, I can understand it. When Cleasby realized that thought hadn’t been in his own voice, he forced himself to look away. “There’s something evil here.”

  “Raus, pick up that tablet,” the professor said. “We’ll take it back to camp.”

  “No. I’m not touching that thing.” the ogrun shook his head. “It’s not for us. We shouldn’t disturb it.”

  Cleasby was torn. The enlightened, scientific part of his mind wanted to know, but the primitive, primal part was telling him to run. For once the primitive won. “I think Raus is right.”

  “I’m afraid once a discovery is made, it can’t be unmade.” Wynn sounded almost smug. “Would you prefer to have it secured at the Royal University or left here for someone like Rathleagh to take it for himself?”

  “I’ll get it,” Pickett said. He looked to the professor for approval, and his mentor nodded. Pickett put his pistol away and then carefully went to the altar and picked up the stone by the sides. Nothing disastrous happened. “It’s not even dusty.”

  Cleasby understood what this place was now. These body parts had been left here the same way a Morrowan would leave small offerings or a Menite would light candles. The pile of rotting bricks was an altar. This place was a shrine to a dark, primordial god.

  That tablet was clean because something still worshipped here.

  The shaman stood within the circle of stones, crying out to the Beast of All Shapes, praying for strength to fill their warriors’ bodies and fury to stretch their souls. As the holy man danced and shook his necklace of finger bones, the chief stepped forward. His warriors began to chant his name. Caradoc. Caradoc. Caradoc.

  The basin before him had been filled with the blood of the forest predators, bear and wolf; the great beasts of the mountain, gorax and satyr; and soon, to complete the offering, the blood of their prey.