Lycan Fallout 1: Rise Of The Werewolf Page 18

CHAPTER 12 - Harbor’s Town

  The werewolves were kept on short leashes as their Lycan masters led them through the woods – the smell of the humans nearly driving the untamed hoard into a frenzy. Muzzles dripped with long spools of spittle. Large, yellow curved teeth glinted in the burgeoning moonlight. Choke collars were pawed at as werewolves did their best to howl through the constricting devices. Fires were burning all along the human wall-way. The smell of the smoke incited instinctual responses in Lycan and werewolf alike. For the Lycan it was fear, for the werewolf it was the pang for what was familiar and now lost.

  “Wait,” Xavier said as he walked among the werewolves.

  He loathed that he had to use them, that his race was not yet strong enough to destroy the humans grated on him. To use mankind against itself was a brilliant leap on his part, but he longed to be in the midst of the fight and not watching from the sidelines. He wanted to be there when man fell; not need to have the information relayed back to him. The werewolves cowered when he was in their presence, their tails tucked deeply between their legs, more than a few groveling in their fear urine, some whining uncontrollably. It was not lost on him that he was sending cowards to kill cowards.

  Then he remembered back to Yutu. That man had not been a coward. In fact, he welcomed his journey into the underworld and the great passing. To be a great leader he would have to remember not to underestimate his enemy – something he had not grasped quite yet. He waited a little while longer until the moon in all its intensity and cruel beauty was overhead.

  “Leave the collars on and release them,” he instructed his handlers.

  Three hundred werewolves raced across the fields that led into the small city. Stalks and crops folded under the assault as they were ground into the dirt. Farm animals were the first to warn of the danger as the silent enemy bounded towards them. Sheep bleated and ran as the herds were torn apart.

  “Stupid werewolves,” Xavier hissed as the alarm was being raised. “They could have been over the walls before anyone knew it. Now there will be a battle. More of them will die.”

  “Does it matter, my Lord?” One of the handlers asked. “It is still man killing man.”

  Xavier spun. “You, of all Lycan, should know the resources that went into capturing this many of the hairless ones. Housing them, feeding them, training them. Once this attack is over, the humans will be alerted to what we are attempting to do and it will be twice as difficult to round them up in numbers. If this doesn’t go well, more of us will die.”

  Yelling could be heard from the village. Questioning words quickly became cries of warning.

  Torches began to blaze. The twang of arrows being loosed was quickly being replaced by the sound of steel being drawn as the werewolves drew close. The cries of men were intermingled with the stunted grunting of the werewolves on the prowl.

  The moon was making its final descent when the screams began to tail off and diminish into the wind that pulled them away. By the time the Lycan strode in, the village had been destroyed; some structures still stood but would not make it through a winter untended. Bodies and parts of bodies littered the small street that led down the center of town. Werewolves were in the process of turning back into their more familiar form. Some were languishing in guilt and horror at the travesties they had performed mere moments ago.

  The werewolves would remember their actions through a haze of confusion and feral feelings. Some, if given the chance, would find ways to make sure they could never again perform these atrocities. Werewolves and humans, alike, who had been injured in the fight, were disposed of with impartial justice by the Lycan. The werewolves who had survived were rounded back up and leashed. Nearly a hundred had died in the attack. The residents of Harbor’s Town had suffered far worse. What remained of the settlement was huddled in the town center, in a small, steeple-capped structure that served as the religious and governmental headquarters such as it was. There was a minor skirmish as the Lycan broke through the doors, two old men with pitchforks tried to keep them at bay.

  The fight was over before Xavier strode over. Women, children, and the infirm were pushed into the far corner as four Lycan closed in.

  “Take the women and anyone of middling years or greater, throw them in the cages with the other infected,” Xavier said, his guttural language not understood by the congregation.

  “The rest?” one of the herders asked.

  “Is it not feeding time?” Xavier asked as he strode out.

  It was midday when the Lycan left a smoldering Harbor’s Town. The crying as mothers mourned for their lost children was compounded upon by the cries of the ones that harbored the guilt for bringing this calamity upon them.