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| - by Phil Brucato Like a cloud of corpse-flies, they pour across the land - Bane-spirits born in Malfeas, the realm of the Wyrm. As the blizzard grows, they whip through field and forest, chasing their prey. In their wake, the wind chills; thistleflowers wither and trees snap like hollowed bones. Ahead of them, the Kin-Fetch flees. Sharp ears catch the laughter of the Banes behind him, and keen senses recoil from the corruption they bear. His instincts draw the spirit-hound back to the cave, but unless he can mislead the Banes.... Too late. They surround him like wildcats. Too many, too fast. He turns, bristles and bares his fangs. As they rush in, he shifts to a war-form, grows six extra legs and a dozen barbed mouths. The Bane-spirits laugh, a high, chittering sound, and throw themselves at him. The Kin-Fetch spins and slashes, scattering black bile and tatters of spirit-stuff. But a hound cannot stand long without a pack, and the Kin-Fetch falls beneath a whirling black storm. The battle echoes in the mortal realm. Far away, people draw close to their fires and whisper old charms. Banes pour into the Kin-Fetch. Like dirty water, they fill his ears and mouth, swell his belly, mat his fur. The Bly Tach howls as he drowns. His war-form shrinks and withers. Within him, Bane-essence washes away the old oaths. Far off, a ragged howl rises above the wind. Then it gurgles, fades, and is gone. Soon enough, the Bly Tach is dead. A new Kin-Fetch rises, Wyrm-born and treacherous. Soon he stands, growls and shakes himself. No longer bound to Alyn Ma Cullogh, he plans to return to him anyway. Not the child, the dreamer prays. Not the boy! At the fire in the cave, Elyr shivers. She has lost too much blood, has not eaten in far too long. The babe saps the last of her strength. But if she gives up and sleeps, who will raise him? If she dies, her child dies too, as does the line of Kil na Korr and the last of the White Howlers. Elyr has never felt so tired or alone. Even so, she doesn't wonder where the spirit has gone. She isn't sure she wants to know. A new wind washes into the cavern, colder than the others. With surging panic, Elyr senses the returning Bly Tach. Strengthened by one hundred Banes, the Kin-Fetch manifests - a huge, grinning nightmare of teeth, fur and torn flesh. Elyr rolls to her feet; dripping blood, she grasps her child and snatches a burning stick from the fire. It's a poor weapon, but Elyr Ma Cullogh will not die on her back. Keening, the Kin-Fetch advances. Elyr stands by the fire and curses him in Pictish. "Come at me, ye bastard! I'll put out a few of those pretty eyes before you take me down! My father was a warrior and I've stood beside my man in battle! I've seen worse things than yourself, and I'm not damned afraid!" The last is a lie, but the boast helps her spirits. Frantically, she races through her memories, trying to recall a warding charm. Nothing comes to mind. Like a wolf, the nightmare springs. Elyr steps aside, slashing out with her brand. The beast lands in the fire, cries out and is engulfed in flames. Elyr grabs the sharpened-stick spear she has kept these last few months, and she stabs deep into the monster's back. "Hach Ta!", she screams - a battlecry from her people. The spear crunches through a spine. The fire consumes fur and flesh. The creature screams, tries to stand, fails, falls. Its skin sizzles. Smoke bursts from its eyes and mouth, filling the cavern with a thickly-sweet smell. Alyn screeches. Elyr draws back, surprised. The beast is down. She stabs again as the Bly Tach writhes helplessly. Surely it couldn't have been so easy? No. The Bly Tach has another plan. As fire consumes its mortal form, the Kin-Fetch returns to the Otherworlds. Releasing his essence in a cloud of smoke, the Bly Tach coils around Elyr and Alyn both. As they choke on the sweet smell, the Bane-essence runs down their throats and drifts into their souls. In a battle-fury, Elyr puts her son aside. Screaming obscenities, she runs her spear through the burning beast. Again! Again! Again! A dozen times. A hundred times. Every bit of fear and rage and sorrow she has felt since the death of Kil na Korr travels down her arms and pounds through the flesh and bone of the beast. Sparks shoot from the fire and burn her bare feet and arms, but Elyr doesn't stop. Cannot stop. Tears pour from her eyes and a torrent of words, sounds, screams flows from her mouth until her throat is hoarse and torn. The baby is screaming, too. The mother stops. "Quiet!" Her child screams louder. "Quiet!!" Louder. "Silence, you little beast! Quiet!!!" And the spear lashes out. The dreamer tosses and weeps, but cannot awaken... Elyr knocks her baby sprawling with the haft of the spear. "Ah! Gods!" The mother gapes, horrified. She drops the spear. "Ah, no." With a quiet stream of Pictish oaths, she kneels and holds her child close. In the confines of the cave, the infant's howls swell. Still Elyr rocks him, shelters him, promises him it will never happen again. A lie, as she'll soon find, but she means it all the same. As the winds and the child cry, she keens with them. Pain and poison bind the mother and her son. Their hearts open and the Wyrm drifts in. And the dreamer hears a voice in his head, the cry of two thousand years: "Thus is the line of Elyr Ma Cullogh, last survivor of Kil na Korr, accursed fourfold: "Cursed with solitude. Their offspring will grow up alone. No spirit guides will teach the Old Ways. No brothers or sisters will comfort them. No packmates will stand beside them. No tales will honor them. Each Ma Cullogh rises and falls by his own hand, and none shall remember him. "Cursed with hate. The venom of their blood will rise at the slightest challenge, and their passions will tend to brooding and rage. "Cursed with sickness. Each one will bear a weakening flaw, and that flaw shall spell his downfall. Cursed with thin blood. Not one in one hundred generations will bear the Changing Gift." But the curse is not complete, nor is it eternal. Not even the essence of a hundred Banes can drown the hearts of the White Howler tribe. For the courage and love that sustained Elyr fights down the Banes' corruption. And the power of the Changing Blood, so strong within Alyn, protects him from a fomor's fate. The line is cursed, but not forsaken. The Ma Collughs will have another chance. After too long a time, Elyr dries her face, kisses her child, sets him down and rises to drag the beast's carcass from the fire. Outside, cold winds scour her, body and soul. She raises her arms and face to the winter sky and prays for a forgiveness she cannot allow herself. And the dreamer weeps for her.... And soon he awakens.
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