Greetings o reader. This is just a brief introduction to allow me too babble momentarily - please feel free to skip ahead to the actual story. I've been looking forward to getting this story published up here. It is a sequel of my earlier Fall of the Heroes story and contains a continuation of that storyline and features many of the same characters. That said, this story *does not* obligate you to have read the first adventure (not that I'll stop you if you wish to read and review, of course, I'll take my cheap plugs where I can get them!). Perhaps I'll have some more interesting thoughts to offer up at the start of next chapter (that does. of course, presume I even *have* interesting thoughts...) but for now I think I'm just excited to get the prologue and first chapter up, since hopefully that will prove a useful catalyst to drive me onward in finishing up this story. Thanks in advance for your time if you read any part of this, hopefully it will be good enough to interest you to show up when I get chapter 2 up. Regards, Thor.
Rise of the Heroes: A Tale of Detroit
Prologue: The Claiming of Blades
Overlooking the city of Detroit from a comfortable distance to the northwest just shy of the Canadian border is a jutting range of mountains. Their towering peaks reached high into the blue-gray skies. They were often ignored by the humans who lived in the sprawling metropolis or the many smaller suburbs and towns that nestled around their bases, but the local government had long had a hand in affecting the large nature preserves and state parks that make up the bulk of the range.
One such preserve is of especial interest. There is only one road that winds up through ancient cliff cuts and teeters along narrow byways with deep plunging drops on either side. The ragged dirt road eventually gives way entirely at a small ranger's station and general store that has been run by the same family for generations. To go any further into the mountains from this point, one has to go on foot.
If one were to know the way, and was to follow a sparkling riverbed they could find something truly amazing. Far up, near the very tip of the mountain is a triple waterfall that cascades and crashes down in a roaring stream more then one hundred feet long. Nestled around the base of this waterfall is a ragtag collection of huts and cabins, all built by hand from the materials of the mountain itself, and designed to be hidden from all but the most intent of aerial observation.
This is the Caern of The Raging Falls.
Founded nearly two hundred years ago it is populated by the Garou of the Detroit area. The Garou, perhaps better known in common parlance as werewolves, are a secretive race dedicated to the preservation of the natural order of things and to the worship of the essence of the Earth, the Mother Spirit, Gaia. Their ancient battle is one of a spiritual nature given physical form. Their foe is The Wyrm, a spiritual concept involving decay and destruction. Its servants are set upon the world with the desire to corrupt and destroy it. The Garou are the defenders appointed by Gaia to protect her creations from this threat.
Currently a young werewolf sat in a pool of polished stone, worn smooth from the punishing stream of water that even now pounded around him with the force of striking stones. He was a young man; his muscular and broad shoulders seemed to bear the pounding of the water with calm forbearance. His bare flesh was well tanned but tinged slightly blue from the harsh chill of the fresh mountain water that had been gushing down upon him for well over eight hours. Numerous scars cut across his chest and arms, most notably a pair of cuts on his right cheek that formed a lopsided 'X' that traced down to just under his narrow jaw. His sandy blonde hair was soaked and dripping as it danced and shook under the impact of the falls.
In front of him was the reason for his meditation. Sitting upon a rock ten paces in front of him and glistening with a fine sheen of moisture was his klaive. A klaive was a special ritual blade of the Garou, crafted with the express purpose of serving to slay other Garou. It was a great honor and a heavy burden to be chosen to carry a klaive, and the rare blades were often imbued with many powers to help those who were found worthy of bearing them in battle.
That was his purpose here.
The blade was known as Bonespur, and despite his inability to see it clearly through the blinding sheets of water that beat at him constantly he could remember every inch of it as though its image had been burned into his memory. The klaive was carved from a large bone into the shape of a large and slightly curved dagger. The handle had only slight bony protrusions for a hilt and had been wrapped tightly with a thick leather cord to provide a solid grip during the violence of combat. Etched into the face of each side of the blade was an intricate rune of the Garou tongue, each rune had been filled with silver so that they flashed and caught the light. The rune on one side stood for duty, and the other for death; the twin obligations of the Garou to Gaia and a reminder of the laws the klaive enforced and the price it exacted from those found wanting.
Charlie had been handed the blade by its previous owner, Dominic 'Rends-the-Darkness' Winford, shortly before the legendary warrior had died forcing a mighty Wyrm spirit back into the darkness from which it had been summoned. But even though Dominic had wanted Charlie to wield Bonespur after him there were many challenges to overcome. The first was that most Garou would find it improper to leave such a potent weapon with such an honorable legacy to one so young and inexperienced. Many elder Garou would no doubt take pains to attempt to discredit him and strip the mighty weapon from him. But, in all truth, this was the easier of the two problems.
The most difficult aspect was convincing the klaive that it should allow him to wield it. Potent spirits had been bound into the klaive upon its creation, they granted it its many powers and capabilities and made it as deadly as it was. But these selfsame spirits also could decide whether or not they would allow someone the right to use the klaive to its full capabilities and it was these spirits that had brought Charlie here, to the most potent spiritual spot in the whole caern, in order to convince them of his worth.
He had been sitting under the waterfall, which was the heart of the caern, and existed as much in the spirit world as it did the real one. He had immersed himself under the pounding waters to prove his strength and durability as he had meditated upon his duties if he were to be allowed to take up the great weapon. He'd been meditating for hours now, as he had been doing every day for many weeks. As usual, Bonespur seemed to give no sign to him.
Then he saw it, and it took everything in him not to gasp in eager anticipation. The silver rune of duty had started to glow with an inner light, as though some massive spotlight were shining through it. He had seen this before, and now began looking at the shadows being cast by the twinkling light. Twice before he had achieved a state to summon this light, and each time there had been a shadow that had seemed to shape itself into a human form. He was certain that the spirits of the blade were choosing to communicate with him, if only he could focus enough to prove himself to them.
The shadow appeared as he had hoped it would, crouching at the edge of the pool next to the gleaming klaive. The shadow slowly stood up, pulling itself up regally with a rigid back as it regarded him through the flashing curtain of silvery water. Charlie fought hard to continue to accept the battering pain of the waterfall even as he calmed himself and opened his spirit to the energies of the caern and the klaive.
"I am Charlie 'Blackmuzzle' Snyder, galliard of the Get of Fenris," he announced his title firmly. "I wish to serve your purpose, Bonespur, and I wish you to aid me in defending Gaia and all the creatures of her creation. I wish to wield your silver light and to illuminate the dark places. I wish to serve with honor, my duty, until death." He waited, fighting hard against his anxious desire to demand the spirit speak to him, he remained calm and composed within the heart of the raging power of the falls.
"I know who you are, pup," came a sharp voice that dripped with ill-disguised annoyance at this seemingly bothersome interruption. Charlie gasped at the sound of the harsh tone.
"Dominic?" He leaned forward suddenly, the urge to look upon his now gone mentor and hero overcoming him as he thrust his head out of the pounding waterfall. The shadow was gone and the klaive lay upon the rock, glistening with condensation but seeming to have no glow beyond its own natural silvery sheen. Charlie paused for a moment, breathing hard as he looked around the empty field of stones and wading pools seeing that he was indeed alone.
"Damn!"
Water cascaded down upon his broad and hairy shoulders and splashed about in glittering and silver streams. In front of him lay the great weapon that still did not deign to speak clearly to him. His lips peeled back from large and yellowed fangs as he snarled menacingly at it. Kneeling in front of him the human female continued its plaintive monkey wailings.
What a puny and helpless thing she was, not at all like him, not like one of the Garou! He stood towering over her in his mighty crinos form, the form of the man-wolf, the battle form. He stood easily nine feet tall, and his thick and muscled body was coated in patchy and wiry black fur that jutted out in mangled clumps from his black, leathery skin. He had painted his flesh in decorative red patterns with the blood of the monkey's male mate, and his bloodstained claws flexed eagerly as he began the guttural chanting to honor the mighty spirits of death and war bound into the sword in front of him.
Torment's Wail was the sword of the War Leader, and well looked the part. It was six feet long with a massive grip and could only be properly wielded in the crinos form. The huge blade was coated in carvings of screaming faces twisted in looks of pain from unspeakable agony. Every single upraised surface and edge of those faces was carved into a wicked cutting surface and glittered with a wicked silver light, as if begging for flesh to rend and tear. The guard seemed to be carved of glittering black obsidian, and even this was edged with sharp surfaces designed to cut and bleed the strength from those who opposed the wielder. The hilt was over two feet in length and bound in thick strips of finely cured skin carved from the flesh of two innocent children, one a wolf and the other a human.
The blade had been claimed by him from the cold, dead hands of the previous War Leader who had just been murdered during a disastrous battle with the weak Gaian Garou. Stinkface had taken up the blade and led his fellow Black Spiral Dancers away from the battle and to safety, and he had used the power and symbolism of the blade to claim for himself a place of leadership amongst the now leaderless packs. But still the blade had not fully given itself to him, and until he could actually wield its power none would accept him as the true War Leader. Until he was War Leader his position was at risk and every day brought an increasing chance of a potential challenger who might seek to wrest the blade and its glories away from him.
Stinkface's voice grew louder as he neared the end of his ritual chant, and he reached down and gripped his hand firmly upon the mewling monkey's neck. She begged him in her mincing ape language while he grunted out powerful words from the very texts of The Wyrm itself. As he reached the end he howled in glory to the Wyrm, his bellow filling the small underground chamber of leaking sewage pipes and echoing madly back to him. His clawed hand tightened its grip as he tore her throat open. Her blood gushed and bubbled out of her throat as she attempted a gurgling scream of pain and horror.
Stinkface grinned in pleasure as he tilted her forward and allowed her blood to froth out upon the many cutting edges of torment's Wail. He spoke in an ancient language of madness known only to his people and the mighty spirits of The Wyrm as he promised the deadly weapon oceans of the blood of his foes. His eyes widened in glee as he saw the faces along the blade seem to drink deeply of the blood that splattered across them and he heard the faint wailing hiss of the spirits bound within the weapon as they feasted upon the life fluid.
"You are mine now!" Stinkface reached down and plucked the blade off the floor. He spun it about in a mighty arc and howled in glory. Yet suddenly the blade seemed to twist in his grip and with a cursing snarl he was pulled off his feet by the heavy weapon to crash ungracefully to the floor. He rose with a howl as he hurled the offending blade away from him. It clattered across the floor with great ringing peals that almost sounded like laughter.
"Damn you! I have performed the rituals, I have brought you the blood! You are mine by right, it was I who dragged you out of Kendar's dead hands and it is me you'll serve!" He bellowed at the blade, which sat and gleamed quietly upon the floor in simple insouciant glee.
Stinkface grew silent, worried that his howls might be heard beyond this chamber. His pack was in a tenuous position of late, and his inability to master the spirits of the powerful great klaive was starting to cause problems. When he had first claimed it many had been the pups who had flocked to his banner and proclaimed him the new War Leader, but if he continued to fail to prove that he controlled the blade he suspected their were elements of the packs that would be quite content to see if perhaps the sword would be happy to have someone else wrest it from the dead claws of its owner.
"This isn't over yet," he hissed at the sword, "you shall be mine, I swear it!"
Chapter 1: New Faces, Old Songs
She was dreaming about her family again. She still couldn't remember that night clearly, and she wasn't sure if that was a terrible or a wonderful thing. She could clearly remember the sound of the screams though, and that sickening sensation as steel hard talons had torn through too soft flesh. She could still smell the blood too; it had filled her nostrils and had somehow made her both heady with pleasure and queasy in sickness. But at least the faces all seemed blessedly blurred out of focus, which spared her from having to look into their eyes.
"Bridget, wake up."
The voice was warm with a slight lilting musical tinge to it that softened it pleasantly. Still, it came crashing through her dreams roughly and brutally, tearing apart the half remembered shapes and bodies more then her claws could ever have done.
The voice was given extra force by a firm hand shaking her shoulder. Bridget's sea green eyes fluttered open to peer about the dark room. Her entire left side felt painful and stiff from sleeping upon the rough wooden floor for so many nights in a row now. It still took her a few moments to remind herself where she was and why she was here. She blinked her bleary eyes slowly, hoping the aching itchiness would go away soon. She looked up at the figure shaking her and sighed.
"Go the fuck away, William," she snarled in annoyance.
He simply smiled at her, it was his usual response to almost any abuse being heaped upon him and it always filled Bridget with a vague annoyance at his never-ending equanimity. His pale, stringy, hair hung down past his wiry shoulders in a strange sort of halo as the moonlight creeping through the window behind him lit it with a silvery glow. His pinched mouth held his simple smile as he shook her again with his pale left hand. His right arm was twisted up and clutched tightly to his bare chest, the misshapen limb, as always, causing Bridget another twinge of unease as she glanced at it.
"I have earned the name Broken Claw," he offered softly. His rich and warm voice was not angry, simply insistent, as he tried to remind her of this fact.
"Screw that," she muttered, "it's a bleeding insult, cannae ye tell?"
"Perhaps, but it is also a sign of acceptance," he murmured as that obnoxious soft smile remained upon his narrow face. "Can you not remember your own joy at earning your true name? Our hunt was glorious and we all fought like heroes. It was a good battle."
"I have my true name ye bloody psychopath, and I'm damn sure not planning to go and switch out me birth certificate with fucking 'Fur-like-Flame' any time soon!" She sneered at him before rolling over and trying to find a comfortable spot in the lumpy sleeping bag. No such luck.
"You hold great honor to your homid name," he said carefully, his attractive voice pausing as though he realized that perhaps this could be insulting to her. Bridget frowned at that too, why couldn't he at least work himself up enough to get offended and annoyed by her even once? If he could at least insult her it'd make her feel that there was truly something living beneath that ever-present soft smile. "It is an important name," he allowed, "but it is not your true name, it is not a reflection of your immortal spirit as your true name is. It is not who you really are."
"Not who I really am?" She rolled back to face him, brushing some of her wild red curls out of her face as she spat in annoyance. "What the fuck makes ye think you know who I am? I had a life, y'know. I had a real to God honest life and a real family too." Her eyes narrowed in a mix of anger and pain at the thought. "But that changed, didnae it? All of a sudden that…that Change happens and everything gets fucked to hell!"
"You had a painful First Change," Broken Claw was quick to agree, his melodious voice soft and tinged with sympathy. "But many are the Garou who have pains in their past."
"The Garou?" Bridget finally sat up, her frustration shaking her into wakefulness better then Broken Claw ever could have. "Ye do realize this is all some sort of brain-fuck, donnae ye? All of a sudden I'm turning into something out of a nightmare, some bloody wolf monster-"
"We're not monsters," Broken Claw said softly.
"And then a whole bunch of other monsters show up," snapped Bridget, ignoring him. "They tell me how bloody lucky I am to be one of Gaia's Chosen or some such nonsense and try to convince me I'm better off without me folks. They basically kidnap me off to some fucking brainwashing camp in the mountains-"
"That would be the caern, it-"
"It is some bloody brain rape factory is what it is," she snapped. "They get you up there, show you what a psycho monster you really are, and then tell ye how you'll never be normal again! Then they tell me now I have to train to be some sort of warrior against some other giant pile of monsters!"
"The Wyrm is real," was his gentle reply as he politely turned around so she could get dressed. Bridget fought a sudden urge to kick him in the back of the head just to see if she could get a rise out of him, but she recognized the thought as being born from within the roiling red anger that seemed to swim through her ever since the first time she had transformed into the were-beast monster. The Garou called it Rage, and she couldn't help but agree with their choice of name. It was though all the anger in her life had become a liquid as vital to her as blood, and now coursed through her body constantly. She clenched her hands tightly, her nails biting into the flesh of her palms as she forced herself to calm down somewhat. Then, with a sigh, she stood up and stripped off her night shirt and began pulling on her jeans and flannel shirt.
"Ye have to admit it's all pretty insane, though," she grumbled as she zipped up her jeans. "These Garou basically kidnapped me. They said I had to be trained and they dragged me off. What if they are all the bad guys and they're just brainwashing us to fight against the good spirits…presuming you really buy into the spirit part."
"Once you look upon the works of The Wyrm there shall be little doubt as to which side of the conflict you should be on," offered Broken Claw with his usual quiet allegiance to the elder Garou and their party line.
"Ye realize ye sound like a ponce when ye talk like that."
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize." Once again Broken Claw was sincerely apologizing to her and Bridget felt a fresh snap of red anger lance through her. She bit back her frustration and pulled tightly at her boots as she forced them on over her feet.
"Okay, let's say I accept that this Wyrm is the worst thing since Hitler."
"The Wyrm is far more then mere fear and bigotry, as the elders say, it is beyond such simple concepts."
"Ponce." Bridget began buttoning her shirt as she walked up to Broken Claw and motioned past him to the window that looked out upon the city of Detroit. The sprawling dock district lay before them, much of it still dark but with a growing bustle of activity as dawn approached. "But seriously, if this Wyrm is so bad, why the hell do we spend so much time hiding ourselves from the Garou who already live here? I thought we were all on the same side?"
"There has always been some…disagreement about the best way to battle The Wyrm," allowed Broken Claw with a small shrug. "We fight a spiritual war, Bridget. In a war where thought and ideas can transform the spiritual landscape is it really so surprising to find that there may be more then one road to victory, or for that matter, damnation. The tribes who make up The Jungle caern here in Detroit have many longstanding disagreements with our elders back in Raging Falls."
"Well, I can't fault them for that assessment," she noted dryly, though if Broken Claw caught her deeper meaning he showed no sign.
"I remember the last time the two tribes waged a war of more then words. Many of the city Garou died that night. Now, as their numbers swell again they not only feel the pain of the old wounds but once more have the power to perhaps seek to avenge them. In that light, I agree with our orders to remain hidden from them during this mission."
"But they're Garou, right? They're trying to fight for Gaia and the rest of that spiritual BS, aye?"
"Perhaps, and perhaps not. There are many different paths, and until they're walked how can one be sure where they go."
"Ponce."
There was a sudden loud knock at the door. "Bridget, Broken Claw, we're about to start." The deep, solid voice was that of Norman, one of the other 'pups' who'd been placed on the surveillance mission.
"Keep yuir pants on, we're coming soon enough!" She smiled a bit to herself when she heard the small grunt of annoyance from Norman before he plodded off. She pulled her wild red hair back and crammed her worn Stetson hat atop it. "Well, what say we go learn how to save the world by staring at a decaying hospital some more?"
"I doubt we'll save the world, but if we can perhaps save the city that would be quite nice." Broken Claw smiled at her softly and Bridget couldn't tell if he was messing with her or not. She turned and stomped towards the door, figuring this early in the morning it wasn't worth the effort to puzzle out.
The broken down old apartment they were currently squatting in had definitely seen better days, and the rickety wooden stairs creaked as they made their way up into the old office suite that served as their meeting room.
Norman and Tongue-tied were already waiting for them. Norman was a tall and well built African American with a surprisingly gentle and quiet way for one so strong. Tongue-tied was almost the opposite, a short and scrawny white kid with a mop of blonde hair and a mouth that rarely seemed to be at ease unless it was babbling away excitedly about some new bit of lore he'd learned about their Garou ancestors. In fact he seemed to be excitedly informing Norman about something along those lines as she and Broken Claw approached.
"…if you can believe that, and I think I can! Can you imagine that? Descending into The Pit? It's amazing he's alive at all, it's no wonder he's being sent to make sure everything is ship shape here. Do you think he'll maybe be assigned to us for a time? I hear there's actually already no less then three different epic poems and songs that commemorate the event. I think he even wrote one of them from his own perspective!" Tongue-tied cast a lopsided grin towards her and Broken Claw as they approached, "well, well, you two took an awful long time getting out here," he made a slightly lewd gesture, "anything we should know about?"
Broken Claw's pale features actually flushed slightly as he quickly glanced away, though Bridget couldn't tell if it was in annoyance or embarrassment. She settled for elbowing past Tongue-tied and flipping him off when he squawked in protest. Tongue-tied annoyed her for just seeming too damn pleased to be a freaky were-monster. The grinning dweeb had probably never had anything bad happen to him ever. Norman quietly placed himself between her and Tongue-tied before the kid did something stupid. She sighed in disappointment.
"I'm glad to see that you're so ready for action," noted Norman softly, "since today will be quite busy." Bridget had never liked Norman, since he clearly bought into the whole insane brainwashing of the elder Garou. It was little wonder they'd chosen him to lead the pack, rambling off such idiocy as his deserving honor and wisdom, which she suspected was just a fancy way of noting how much Kool-Aid he'd drunk.
"What's so special about today," she asked curiously.
"It looks like our reports have finally borne some fruit. Marn and the elders decided it was time to finally head inside the hospital and get a real sense for what's in there. They're sending down a more experienced Garou to serve as field commander for the operation. If all goes well we may even answer enough questions where we don't need to do any more work on the stupid hospital. I, for one, have been pretty sick with eyeing the damn thing for the last month and I suspect the rest of you feel the same."
Bridget nodded. She and the others had been living in this shoddy warehouse for weeks now. Only scurrying out now and again to perform some more minor recon and surveillance of the hospital, all the while having to duck and avoid the city Garou whose caern was only a couple of miles away.
"There's also a pretty good chance that, if everything does go well, we'll be rewarded for our actions here and," even Norman couldn't prevent the hopeful smile from spreading across his broad face, "perhaps finally be shifted off this duty assignment and be allowed back up to the caern."
"A return to the mountain and Raging Falls?" Broken Claw's voice was hushed with a lyrically hopeful twang.
"Wow, so we could get a good night's sleep on the rough wooden floor of a cabin instead of the rough wooden floors here. Whoop-de-fucking-doo." Bridget snorted as she leaned against the doorframe furthest from the others. "So do we know when our savior is due to arrive with his magical fairy dust that will let us move back into Hicksville?" She couldn't help but feel a contented pleasure at watching the other's grins fade into glowers.
"I'll have you know that it's the nephew of Marn himself," announced Tongue-tied dramatically as he intoned the name of the leader of their caern. "Lord Charlie 'Blackmuzzle' is one of the Second Heroes of The Pit and is famed for his skills in battle and wisdom during peacetime." Tongue-tied motioned in the general direction of the city Garou's lair. "It was even him who negotiated the current peace with the Glass Walkers."
"Aye, the peace that's so wonderful we spend all our time hiding like scardy-cats from them," sighed Bridget as she shook her head. This was just great, soon she and the others would have to be falling over themselves to obey and impress the grinning twit of a nephew of the idiotic leader of their caern.
This Charlie was sure to be a ponce of the first order.
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Charlie's head ached in protest as he climbed out of the cramped cab of the van he'd been given for the drive into Detroit. He would swear the thing was more rust then metal and it had treated every dip and shift in the pavement as though it were crashing over boulders.
"Filthy metal death box," snarled the wolf that sprang out behind him. The sleek, tawny, wolf shook itself disdainfully as it moved away from the van, its rich golden fur glistening as it bristled. Charlie easily comprehended the growls of the wolf, the language as natural for him as English, even if it did come across as rougher and less flowing. "I hate the driving."
"I know, I know." He waved his hands placatingly to 'Leona' Throatripper. She was the only other surviving member of his pack, and they had worked together now for almost two years. But that just made him even more aware of her potentially violent and distrusting attitude towards all things manmade. "But really, would you have rather walked?"
"Yes."
Her quick answer didn't surprise him, after all, she'd been born and raised as a wolf before her First Change. As a result she tended to look for all solutions through a wolf's mindset. The idea of avoiding an hour long car ride for a few hours of running didn't phase her. Charlie glanced around carefully as he eyed the streets around the rundown apartment complex that the Raging Falls caern used as its forward spy lair to keep tabs on the Glass Walkers and their caern. There was relatively little activity despite how close they were to the hectic business of the warehouse and dock district nearby. Still, any one of the humans strolling by could potentially be kinfolk to the Glass Walkers and it wouldn't do for them to spot Marn's nephew and a wolf hanging around.
"Come on, let's get off the streets." He moved up to the apartment's front door quickly, Leona on his heels, and slipped inside. The darkness of the interior was unsettling after the bright day outside, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. His hand dropped to his hip, and the sheathed klaive there as he scanned the area. Though he was still not attuned to Bonespur something had made him want to keep the ancient weapon with him. Perhaps, he mused, he could find a chance to attempt to attune with it again during this scouting run. Also, a quiet voice in the back of his head whispered, if somehow he really was communicating with Dominic then he refused to give up his only connection to his former mentor.
He had been closer then he had ever been before to communicating with the klaive and he had gone and blown it by getting excited and confused when the spirit had used a familiar voice. It had been so stupid of him. He had to be smarter then that if he was ever going to earn the right to carry Bonespur.
"Smell the pups." Leona sniffed the air a few times as she peered around the mold encrusted entry hall. "All upstairs." She nodded her head towards the nearby stairs. Charlie took the lead, confident that Leona would fall in behind him, all of her keen senses on high alert. He was happy that her wolfish nature kept her on edge in the city, since he was feeling particularly out of his depth. His uncle had assigned him this mission and the control of the pack as a way of providing his nephew with an easy chance at some renown. But Charlie felt incredibly uneasy about the leadership role he was being thrust into, and he was unsure how the pups would react to him.
Leona let out a slight growl that pulled him out of his thoughts. Charlie glanced down the hallway he had just entered to spot a thin slip of a girl leaned up against an open doorway from which a thin rectangle of meager orange light spilled. Her ragged brown duster was belted tightly around her waist, a frayed Stetson hat was pulled low over her face. She seemed to sneer slightly as she spotted him before glancing into the room behind her.
"He's here."
Three more figures stepped through the doorway. One was a young boy dressed in a baggy T-shirt and shorts, his hands jammed nervously into his pockets as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His eyes shone eagerly from under his concealing mop of blonde hair. Next to him stood a tall, powerfully built, and handsome, African American. Though he was as young as the others he seemed to have a sense of maturity about him. His posture was easy and relaxed, a calming smile on his gentle face. Lurking slightly behind them in the shadows was a narrow shouldered young man with stringy, pale, blonde hair hanging down across his hawk-like features. Though he tried to hide it Charlie couldn't help but notice that the boy's right arm was twisted up and held at an awkward angle to his chest as though it had been severely broken and healed poorly.
"Uh, hello there. I'm-"
"Lord Charlie 'Blackmuzzle' Snyder. Galliard of the Get of Fenris. Servant of Bull, protector of the Raging Falls and nephew of Marn the One Eyed. You are one of the heroes of The Pit. You are crusher of the Beast of the Quarry, speaker of your tribe, and the teller of tales thought forgotten." Charlie glanced down at the bright faced lad who had run off the list of titles with more speed and accuracy then he himself had ever managed. The young boy beamed with pride as he smiled enthusiastically back. "My name is Frank Tate, though I am also known as Tongue-tied. I have studied your tales with great eagerness, lord. We were all pleased to learn that we would be serving with you!"
"Um…good?" Charlie tried to keep smiling. "Okay," he began slowly, "look, you can just call me Charlie."
"But you are one of the great heroes of The Pit," gasped Tongue-tied. His bright eyes widened in shock as he stammered for words. "It is imperative that all Garou show you the respect and honor that you have earned for your glorious deeds."
"Ah," sighed Charlie. He wondered if he had seemed so foolish to Dominic, the elder Shadow Lord who had been Charlie's mentor not so long ago. Charlie forced himself to nod, and tried to imitate some of the commanding scowl that Dominic had seemed to use so easily. "Very well, but just keep it to lord, then, no need to be too formal."
"Very well, lord."
"Well I cannae say I'm too impressed. I thought at the very least we'd be getting one of the wizened gray beards from Marn's inner circle, not just another kid." The words were spoken sharply and in a thick Scottish brogue. He was also rather surprised to hear the sense of anger and disrespect in the words. "Yuir hardly older then meself."
Charlie glanced over at the young woman. She stared back at him, her bright green eyes flashing from under the brim of her hat. Her small lips pursed together into an annoyed frown as she eyed him. Charlie met her gaze evenly, somewhat surprised that the young pup was rushing into a stare down contest with him. The locking of the eyes was an ancient method of wolves to establish dominance in the pack, the Garou took it no less seriously and Charlie knew many a time when such tests had erupted into legitimate conflict.
"Don't worry, I'm still older then you in years and most assuredly in experience," he retorted with a touch of irritation at the disrespect. "I'm sure, though, if you doubt me overmuch we'll figure out a way to answer your doubts Miss…"
"You can call me Bridget." Her eyes didn't waver as she continued to stare, Charlie frowned at her continued stubbornness. He couldn't believe she was still competing. Her eyes seemed to flicker with an angry inner light, as though fires burned in the depths of her soul. Charlie felt a tenseness crawl across his back. He wasn't used to having to lock eyes with young pups anymore. He was even less prepared for a pup who appeared intent to stare at him till the world around them crumbled to dust.
"I'm known as Norman 'Wall-of-Gaia' Constantine, pack leader," offered the large black kid as he stepped between Charlie and Bridget and extended his hand in greeting. Charlie wasn't sure if the pup had intentionally interrupted the stare down, or if he just hadn't realized it was happening. In any case he reached out and clasped hands for a firm handshake. Norman grinned broadly as he motioned to the quiet figure with the deformed arm. "And that's Broken-Claw."
"Good to meet you all." Charlie motioned down to the she wolf standing next to him who was eyeing Bridget darkly. "This is 'Leona' Throatripper, my packmate and friend. We were sent down here to investigate the hospital."
"We're at your disposal," said Norman with a slight bow of his head, "what's the plan?"
"Simple," Charlie grinned, "we bust in tonight, search the place over, and clear out. It should be a piece of cake."
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The dark chamber echoed strangely with the sound of water dripping down upon the metal pipes that crisscrossed the floor and walls. Somewhere above her Gorefist could hear the gurgle of the sewage pipes as they flushed the morning waste from the dens of the humans. Closer yet could be heard the dull sound of heavy machinery as it pulsed and pounded away at stone and cement.
Gorefist curled up her fist into a tight ball, her claws digging into the rough flesh of her palm to create at least some release of the tension that kept her body tight with unease. She was a warrior of her people, the Black Spiral Dancers. They were the Garou who understood the true glory of The Wyrm. They had danced the mysteries of the Black Spiral and had been granted wisdom and power far superior to their cousins who still clung to their antiquated and foolish worship of that lame Earth spirit.
Let the other tribes refer to the Spirals as fallen. Let them call the Spirals degraded, insane, maddened, feral, ferocious, and betrayers of Gaia. None of the Garou ever called them weak or foolish though, and that was the true wisdom and power of The Wyrm made manifest.
In Detroit they had lived for many generations. Her tribe was mighty and strong and the weak Get had cowered on their mountain in fear whilst leaving the streets and the humans they claimed to protect to the Spirals. They had lived beneath the city in a massive set of caverns amidst the hauntingly beautiful and powerful caern of The Pit. Their numbers had been many and their leadership strong.
Well she could remember the names of fearsome Fer-guath, the wizened theurge who had controlled all spirits with but a thought, or deadly Endelon, the silent and deadly killer with emotionless eyes, and finally Kendar, mighty and invincible Kendar the Head Collector, mightiest of all the warriors and leader in times of war, greatest of their tribe in this city. She had been his once, his chief aide, lieutenant, and lover.
But now?
It seemed like an eerie nightmare. Somehow, somehow on the night that was to be the culmination of all of their hopes and dreams. The very night they would bring back their caern's most potent totem spirit – Tyranthaxus, the Corrupter of Souls. Somehow a tiny force of Garou had invaded the caern and beaten through its defenses. Somehow they had stood and outfought the assembled warriors and spirits of that place. Somehow they had disrupted the ritual, defeated Tyranthraxus, and then in a profane act beyond comprehension, they had even shattered The Pit and collapsed the great caverns that had been her tribe's home.
They had been scattered, frightened, left running and mewling in the darkness like pathetic meat rather then the true hunters they were. Now they were left to the sewage tunnels that had been their primary hunting grounds when assaulting the city, and even this meager haven was soon to be denied them. Gorefist tilted her head as she heard further sounds of construction drifting along the pipes, heralding the coming of the humans and their great earth ripping machines. Soon enough they would tear down the walls and pipes of this place as well.
"We should kill them, let me and my pack go forth and we shall feast on human flesh soon enough!" The voice belonged to Kills-them-All. The towering pack leader was on her feet and pacing about, as usual, her aggressive energy always keeping her moving. She lifted her taloned hands to her face, yellowed eyes gleaming out from behind her scarred muzzle as she snarled loudly. "We must defend the Hive!"
The other pack leaders who were attending the meeting grunted and growled in encouragement to these familiar words. Always before when the lair had been threatened Kendar would have led them out promising blood and the heads of their foes. Gorefist watched as the others happily agreed with Kills, perhaps expecting this potential slaughter to remind them of the better days.
"Defend what, exactly?" Stinkface spoke softly from where he sat near the head of the room. He was a young warrior and his list of accomplishments, though notable, was lesser then many of the other pack leaders here, Gorefist included. Yet when he spoke the others grew quieter. He had been the pack leader who had organized them during those desperate moments as The Pit had collapsed around them in Tyranthraxus' death throes. His had been the hand that had taken Kendar's sword from the lifeless grasp of the War Leader. He sat now with the massive sword placed casually in front of him, the blade carved and etched with hundreds of screaming faces, whose every raised edge was sharpened to a cutting point.
Still, there were whispers that haunted Stinkface's power, whispers that despite the many sacrifices and entreaties he'd made to the blade that he could still not master the potent weapon. If these rumors were true the upstart's power would erode as quickly and suddenly as it had appeared. But yet, despite the fact that no one had yet credibly claimed to have witnessed Stinkface wielding the blade, none dared challenge him.
It was probably due to the fear of fighting a warrior armed with one of the most potent weapons of the Hive. Though sometimes Gorefist wondered if no one challenged Stinkface out of fear, fear that they would prove he didn't have the right to rule. Prove that he didn't have possession of the War Leader's blade. He was the last symbol of the old glory their packs had once held, and she suspected they were uneasy to shatter this illusion.
"What do you go on about?" Kills-them-All's eyes flashed dangerously as she turned towards Stinkface. Her massive arms flexed in readiness as she bared her gleaming fangs.
"I was asking a simple question," Stinkface said quietly. He, unlike most of the others, was not even in his crinos form. Instead he sat there, a bulky young man with stringy brown hair. He fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket as he eyed Kills calmly. "The temple to the Wyrm in The Pit is no more. Here in the Hive, all we have left is sleeping space. What are we defending?"
"What is ours!" Kills-them-All's roar caused more then a few of the other pack leaders to jump in surprise. Kills stepped forward, dipping her head to allow her long warrior's braid to slip off her shoulder and swing in front of her. The oily braid of black hair collected in a knot on the end that was woven with gleaming black barbs. Gorefist had seen Kills rip the face off of a Gaian Garou with a sharp snap of her neck once, causing those brutal barbs to lash out with surprising speed and accuracy. She glanced at Stinkface who was simply lighting his cigarette.
"The city Garou, Syntax and her bastards, they pull the strings on the monkeys," he said softly as he took a slow drag, "They will not be stopped easily by us simply gutting some humans and smashing some machines. They know exactly what it is they have the humans digging for. It is not a sewer renovation so much as an attack on what remains of our power base."
"Then you agree with me?" Kills managed a leering grin even though she sounded slightly confused. "We have to stop them!"
"Stop them?" Stinkface scoffed. "For what? Rusting pipes and corroded training chambers? Are you so fond of the stink of shit about this place?"
Kills' eyes narrowed as she took a menacing step forward. A deep rumbling growl echoed in her broad chest as she eyed the young War Leader. He glanced up at her calmly taking another slow drag of his cigarette. His right hand, however, snaked out slowly to rest mere centimeters from the worn black alligator hide that tightly wrapped the hilt of Torment's Wail. His fingers tapped along the ground, a small little tempo of beats that could be heard quite clearly since, as Gorefist realized with a start, the rest of the room had gone deadly silent. Stinkface slowly blew a stream of smoke at Kills.
"Was there something else you wished to discuss, pack leader?"
Kills' shoulders slowly slumped forward as she snorted and shook her head slowly, her warrior braid bobbing around in front of her. "No, War Leader, I have spoken my peace. For now."
For now. Gorefist watched Kills turn and lumber back to where her pack sat in the corner. She slowly turned to look at the other pack leaders, all of them eyeing Stinkface warily. Yes, for now things would hold as they had held. For now.
But not for much longer.