Brutal Justice

The old man slowly returned from his drug-induced stupor, the world around him becoming real once more. Feeling that he was tied to something, he turned his head about in order to see what bound him. He found that he rested against a rough and gnarled trunk; its branches spread high and wide above him, allowing him to see only part of the full moon, the significance of which would soon become known to him.

A loud noise broke the silence, and the old man turned fearfully to see its source. In front of him was a scene that twisted his gut in horror. There was a roaring fire that lit up the silhouettes of his kidnappers, who no longer looked like people; instead they appeared to be otherworldly fiends, wearing fierce-looking masks, fur-capes and metal claws strapped onto the hands, and they were dancing to the beat of drums around a large fire. The old man whimpered in terror, for these were the Mal'Ursus, a cult that worshipped the Ursaring and were notorious for their sadistic ritual killings. They were imitating the Pokémon's appearance in donning the latter's fur and fashioning their metal weapons in the shape of its claws. Soon they were going to finish their ritual dance and come for him. He wondered why he had to die in this cruel way and lamented the fact that he would never see his family again.

Help me, he wept bitterly. Someone help me.

...

The huge Houndoom loped to the hilltop. The land unfolded itself before his keen eyes, which scoured the landscape for any signs of danger or food.

Then he heard it.

No, it could not be … the distant beating of drums echoed through the darkness. The Houndoom sniffed the air and let slip a deep, menacing growl.

He knew those drums. It was his long-lost enemy, the enemy which he had sworn to destroy.

The Pokémon leapt down from his vantage point and lightly ran down the hill and onto the level ground before him. He darted between the dense stands of vegetation that dotted the landscape around him. As the hated noise became louder, the Houndoom slowed a bit, now a little more cautious in his approach. He caught a brief glimpse of flickering flames through the branches of the large bush in front of him. He snuck closer.

And there they were, carrying out their vile rites before his very eyes. Carefully scoping out the area, he saw the fire crackling as the dark shapes moved rhythmically around it. The hellhound-like Pokémon shifted his attention to the lone tree in the background, and could just make out the slumped figure at the base. The animal stood for a moment, surveying the whole scene, after which he turned around and melted into the darkness.

...

With a note of awful finality, the drums ceased and the figures slowed to a halt, turning to face the old man. Terror again clawed at his heart; he knew he was now going to die. Frantically he began to struggle against the thick ropes binding him, scrabbling as he could though he was bound so tightly.

"What the…?" someone cried.

All the cultists turned to discover the source of the voice, which had come from behind. A lone person in what could very briefly be described as traveling attire stood rooted to the spot, looking alarmed at the scene before him. The crowd of cultists gazed back, his expression mirrored on each of their own faces hidden behind their masks.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" asked the cult leader in a cold, dangerous voice. The newcomer's apparant alarm visibly grew.

" I – look here, I don't mean to bother you," he said quickly, his voice sounding somewhat uncertain. The cultists seemed to settle down and leered at him from behind their masks, rubbing their metallic claws against one another in anticipation. "It's just that I, you know, came here by accident. So if you all please, I'll just, uh, leave. Goodnight." He made to go.

No! Don't leave me here, cried the old man silently.

"Just one moment, stranger." The leader's voice was now calm and calculating, replacing his earlier surprise. "You stumbled upon something that was not meant for your eyes, my friend. I'm afraid you cannot be allowed to leave so easily." With a devilish grin that was hidden from view, he nodded to two of the biggest figures present. They sprang forward and each laid a vice-like hand on the stranger's shoulders.

"W-what!" the traveler yelped, " What the blazes are you doing!"

"You will find out soon enough." The leader gestured with a clawed hand disdainfully towards the lone tree. "Tie him up besides the old one!"

And with that, the stranger found himself with the frightened, weeping old man.

"We shall dance once more for the great Ursa, who has sent us another sacrifice tonight!" declared the leader, arms raised high above him. The fire was stoked to increasing heights and the drums sounded once more.

...

The duo watched the scene in silence. Suddenly the stranger leaned toward the old man as best as he could, and said in an undertone, "Do not worry, old one. Yes, I have come to rescue you tonight as well as to finish off these evil people." The old man was astonished beyond the point of speaking. "The moment I act is the moment you leave - at once! Understand?"

All the old man could do was nod his head.

Finally the music stopped, and the Mal'Ursus turned to contemplate their prey. They regarded the stranger quizzically as he drew up to his full height and closed his eyes as if bracing for something.

Then something strange happened. His clothes tore and the ropes snapped as he seemed to grow and fill out, as if he was inflating like a balloon. His eyes turned acrid sulphur yellow and the irises became dark dots. His mouth and nose mutated into a pair of powerful, snapping jaws, complete with gleaming razor-sharp teeth. A pair of curved ivory white horns grew out at the top of his head. Suddenly, dark fur sprouted all over the body as he dropped down on all fours. The last thing to appear was the whip-like tail.

Then the creature turned and ripped the old man's ropes to shreds. Before anyone could do anything, with a burst of fire and a snarl the were-Houndoom pounced upon the surprised cultists, some of whom fell like tenpins.

Pandemonium broke out.

"FLEE! FLEE THE FORSAKEN ONE!" they cried even as they fell, whether one by one or in pairs, victim to the were-Houndoom's jaws or its terrible blast of fire.

The words of the cultists as they ran about reminded the old man that he was supposed to be fleeing as well, as per his fellow captive's instructions. He hastily got to his feet and ran away into the darkening, moon-lit night. He could hear the desperate pounding of feet on all sides as his would-be-killers fled for the lives.

Suddenly he felt someone grab him and knock him to the ground, which elicited a cry from his tortured lungs. He felt the heavy weight of the other atop him, the stinking breath gusting over the old man's ear, making him recoil in disgust. "No," muttered the other feverishly, "Not over my dead body! Not even a Forsaken One will stop me -"

It was the voice of the evil cult leader. The old man felt the cultist's hands, cold from the metal protrusions on them, reach around to press at his throat, seeking to strangle him. The metallic claws bit into the skin on his neck. The old man cried out in fear, thrashing and kicking to get his enemy off, but the cult leader proved too strong.

Suddenly the old man was released by the other, who screamed suddenly and was almost immediately cut off, and looking up the old man saw why.

The Houndoom had its powerful jaws locked over the cult leader's throat, his broken frame shrouded by the glow of flames come from his executor. The cult leader's throat was becoming charred, burning from the intense heat of the were-Houndoom's flames roiling in its mouth, and his mask was thrown awry, canted at a strange angle on the man's anguished face.

The old man had seen enough. He scrambled to his feet while at the same time wrenching his eyes from the gruesome sight. Despite the protest of his lungs, he turned and ran. And ran. And ran. He ran even though there was no longer any other sound apart from the thudding of his weary feet. Only when he stumbled did he pause to look around.

He realised he was alone.

...

The last cultist fell before the Houndoom, clothes smoldering. The Forsaken One's gaze fell upon the silent scene, corpses strewn about it. The chase was over. The fools had made it easy for him to round them all up, neglecting to split up and instead stayed grouped together as they fled.

He shook himself, the adrenaline that flowed through his sinewy frame beginning to drain. He gave the lone tree in the distance a final glance, remembering the old man he had rescued this night. The were-Pokémon threw back his head and howled in jubilation at the moon.

Far, far away, the old man smiled as he heard the howl. Thank you for saving my life, he murmured gratefully. For a time, he had always heard that those cursed to turn into Houndooms were evil, much like the cultists that had almost ended his life this night. However, this was no longer the case; his eyes had been opened to the truth. Indeed, his new resolve was such that he would proclaim far and wide the demise of the long and greatly-feared Mal'Ursus cult, and this all by the hand of a Forsaken One no less.

This he would do to honour the courage of this particular Forsaken One, to whom he owed a debt of gratitude -no, to whom he owed his life.

The End