LYCAON: The First Pack

By: Ashton Simpson

Based on the Greek myth of King Lycaon.

Prologue~

They attempted to precede the dawn, to strike under the cover of still-dark in the hour just before daybreak. Their only light came from the moon, waxed nearly to fullness. They marched, steady, quiet, and armed through the forest, making each step soft, each soldier's foot falling into the same spot as they one before them that they should not make a sound.

One stopped when he heard a crunch several paces away to his right. He turned, others following suit, their hands moving to the handles of their swords. A shape dashed between the trees. Another followed it. They had seen that both had fur and pointed ears and tails. It was merely a pack of wolves nesting in these woods now migrating away because of these men's presence.

Ignoring the beasts, they moved onward. Their enemy's camp was just a short distance ahead. They were set to battle against the army of King Lycaon at noontime. But they decided that victory against them would be absolute if they were to attack before the morning light came, when they would be unsuspecting and vulnerable. Lycaon was reknowned for his savagery as King and the ruthlessness of his armies.

Soon, they came upon the edge of the wood. The clearing was just in sight. Tents stood all about. In the center was a pit built for a fire, now a mound of black ash. But no soldiers in sight.

"Where are they?"

They heard more noises to their left. With a quick look, they saw it was only more wolves. They ignored them, not seeing the animals rise to their hind legs and draw their bows.

A dozen men fell to the ground at once as arrows pierced their sides. The others lasted only one more second to see that the wolves were not wolves, but men cloaked in fur pelts over their armor, men who were now holding wooden bows and firing arrows at the soldiers. Their plans of an ambush had turned against them.

Those many still standing charged, swords crashing down against those of their attackers, when more enemy soldiers came from the high above branches of the trees, driving their swords through their bodies, killing them in one fell swoop. Within a single minute, half of their batallion had been taken out. Even while outnumbered, the remaining soldiers fought still. Though they fought bravely and skillfully, they were outmatched by Lycaon's army, and soon, every one of them had fallen.

Victorious, the soldiers all gave a great, loud, howling cheer, their swords and bows raised to the sky.

Now that the battle was over and done, they returned to camp to get ready for their return home.

"Well," sighed their captain, the King's daughter, Nora, as she removed her fur covered helmet, her long dark braids falling over her shoulder, "That was easier than I thought."

With an exasperated groan, she dropped her sword at her feet as she sat on a log by the fire pit and wiped her hand across her forehead. The mud paint she and the others had covered their faces with was dripping of her skin with sweat.

"Most certainly," grunted one of her soldiers, her brother, young Carisius, "Honestly, I feel let down."

"At least we all made it," said Menalus, another brother to Nora.

"Another glorious day of battle, my sons," announced their great and proud King, Lycaon, as he approached his army, his gray beard, blotted with mud and blood, curled in a smile.

He turned first to his daughter, his first-born child, strongest soldier, and commander of his armies, squeezing her hand then pulling her into an embrace, then did the same for his four sons; Nora's twin brother Nycotemus, Maenalus, Thyreus, and Carisius. Each of them were they greatest warriors that Lycaon had ever known and the pride of his army, and it made his heart swell all the more with pride that they were his children that he himself had sired and raised into the great and magnificent soldiers that now stood before him. He had raised up nearly every one of his sons, and even some of his daughters, to be the best and strongest they could be, and every one exceeded his expectations.

"Captain!" one of the soldiers called from a distance, "This one lives!"

Nora, as well as the rest of her family and her army, turned towards the soldiers who called. He was squatted over one of the bodies of the fallen army, who, as well as they could see through the dark, was still moving. Nora and her father and brothers ran to investigate. The rest of the soldiers subsequently followed.

It was the enemy captain, his armor made of Roman gold and red. He had four arrows in him. Three of them were in his torso, with two of them in his chest and one in his back, and the fourth was embedded in the hamstring of his right leg.

He writhed on the grass, now pooled with his blood and the blood of the dozens of dead soldiers around him, clutching the wooden arrows pierced through the plates of armor.

Carisius crouched lower, getting a closer look into the man's face through his helmet.

"You do not look well, my friend," he snickered, "Perhaps you need assistance."

With that, he drew his sword from his side and rose it high, aiming the blade to fall down into his neck.

"Hold!"

The boy hesitated at his captain's order.

"Yes... Captain?" Carisius sighed, annoyed by his sister preventing him from making the kill.

Nora sank low on her haunches that she hovered inches over the wounded man.

"You are going to deliver a message to your king," she whispered to him, her lip curled in a fierce snarl, her bright green eyes flaming, "Tell the oh-so mighty Thebus that if he desires our home so badly, he can come and fetch it himself, if he has the stones for it."

The soldier uttered a gurgling rasp, as if trying to speak, but when Nora got closer to listen, the man fired a wet shot of bloody spit that hit her cheek in a red splatter. The observing soldiers laughed and "oooooh"ed. Now they were anxious to see what she would respond with. Knowing who she was and what she was capable of, this would prove to be something quite... entertaining.

She rose to stand upright, wiping the spit off with the back of her arm. She turned to Carisius, and he tossed her his sword. She placed her foot in the center of the man's chest, making him curl and wheeze from the pain. She lifted her sword and drove it straight down. The blade ran through the man's skull, embedding in the earth beneath, pinning him to it. His limbs twitched and tensed for a single moment, then he fell still.

All of the men cheered, while the King stood back with a smile on his face.

Here is my adaptation of the myth of King Lycaon and his children, which is considered to be the first "werewolf" story in recorded history. This story serves as a kind of genesis tale telling the origin of werewolves (although this story contains my own version of lycanthropy; you'll understand when you see later)

Enjoy and review