“What do you want of me?” she asked, her voice a sibilant hiss.
“Terror among the clans.”
“You have brought terror to the clans. What do you want of me?”
“I want your sorcery.”
“And what will you offer the Grey God?”
“Whatever he asks.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Whatever?”
“Is your hearing going, woman? Whatever!”
“A hundred virgins slain by midsummer.”
“You shall have it.”
“And seven of your strongest men slain tonight.”
“My men?”
“Yours. And I’ll need your war dogs. Bring them to the woods in an hour.”
Asbidag’s carles roamed the camp until the seven men had been chosen, bound, and gagged. Together with the Aenir Lord’s Hunt Master Donic, and his seven hounds, they were taken to a circular clearing within the woods. Asbidag was waiting there with Drada, Morgase, and Tostig; the woman, Agnetha, sat close by on a round boulder.
The bound men were forced to kneel before the woman and she waved away Asbidag’s carles who returned, relieved, to the camp. Agnetha called Donic forward, ordering him to set each dog before a bound man. He did so, then ran back to his blankets and the guttering fire behind Asbidag’s tent.
In the clearing the kneeling men were sweating freely as they stared into the eyes of Asbidag’s hounds. Agnetha glanced at the Aenir lord and nodded.
“Kill!” he shouted.
The hounds lunged forward, ripping at the exposed throats before them.
Agnetha ran along the line of dying men, hurling a grey misty powder over them and chanting. One by one the dogs sank to the earth, their teeth embedded in the flesh of the slain men. The witch woman lifted her arms to the night sky, screaming the name of the Grey God over and over again.
“Vatan! Vatan! Vatan!”
By her feet the hounds began to writhe and swell, while the Aenir corpses twisted and shriveled. Morgase turned away. Drada swallowed hard, flicking a glance at his father. Asbidag was grinning. Tostig squeezed shut his eyes.
Within seconds the dead warriors were bone-filled husks, while the hounds had grown to triple their size. Their front paws had stretched into taloned fingers, and their dark fur-covered forms parodied men-long muscular legs, deep powerful chests, and round heads ending in elongated maws and sharp fangs.
Agnetha danced around them, bidding them rise. Releasing the empty husks, the beasts pushed themselves to their feet, red eyes scanning the clearing. Their gaze fell upon Asbidag and their howling rent the night. Tostig stepped backward in terror and fell. Morgase gripped Drada’s arm.
“Is this what you wanted, Asbidag?” said Agnetha.
“Yes.”
“Once unleashed they can never be brought back. They will follow no one. They are created out of hate and they will kill any man they find, be he Aenir or clan. Is this what you want?”
“Yes, curse you! Just send them north.”
“They will go where they will. But I will send them north. Have you done with me now?”
“I have.”
“Remember your promise, Asbidag. One hundred maidens by midsummer. Or the werehounds will hunt you. ”
“Don’t threaten me, hag,” thundered Asbidag.
The woman cackled and turned to the silent beasts. Lifting her arm, she pointed north and the ghastly pack loped away into the darkness.
Asbidag walked forward, pushing his boot against a shriveled corpse. A dried bone split the skin and fell to the grass. He shook his head and began to laugh.
Agnetha stopped him, placing her bony hand upon his arm. “What is so amusing?”
“This,” he answered, pushing the corpse once more. “This was Anias, son of my brother Casta. Only yesterday I told him he was empty-headed. Now his body matches his head.”
Drada approached Agnetha. “How can those things live?”
“In the same way as you, Lord Drada. They breathe and they eat. It is an old spell, and a fine one, taught to me by a Nadir shaman in another age.”
“But what are they now, hounds or men?”
“They are both-and neither.”
“Do they have souls?”
“Do you?”
“Not anymore,” said Drada, gazing down at the corpses.
The pack made their first kill that night, drifting silently through the pine forests in the northwest. The leader’s head came up, nostrils flaring in the breeze. His red eyes turned to the northeast and he led the group deeper into the trees.
A young Haesten clansman and his two daughters were hidden in a cave. Having escaped the assault on their valley, they had met a Farlain scout who told them to head for Vallon. The clansman traveled by night carrying his youngest child, a girl of six years. His other daughter was eleven and she walked beside them. On this night, exhausted and hungry, they had made an early camp in the pine woods after spotting the Aenir army to the south.
The man had fallen into a light sleep when the werebeasts struck and he died without a struggle, his eyes flaring open to see wide jaws lined with fangs flashing toward his face. He had no time to scream.
His elder daughter, Jarka, took hold of her little sister and sped from the cave-only for talons to lance into her back, dragging her to a stop. In the last moment of her young life, Jarka hurled her sister into the undergrowth. The child screamed as she crashed through the bushes; then she was up and running, the awful sound of howling echoing behind her.
For an hour or more the beasts fed, then they slept by the remains of their kill. At dawn they left the cave, their hunger not totally appeased.
The leader dropped to all fours, sniffing at the earth around the cave. His head came up as the breeze shifted. And they set off in pursuit of the child.
Maggrig was angry. An hour before he had been furious. Caswallon had calmly told him that the clans would fight as one, and the one would be led by Caswallon. Maggrig could not believe his ears. The two men had been alone in a tiny cell, the bedchamber of a druid. Caswallon sat beside Maggrig on the narrow cot outlining his plans.
“I have plans of my own,” said the Pallides’ chieftain. Caswallon had been dreading this moment and took a deep breath.
“I know it is hard for you, but think about it deeply. The death toll among the clans has been enormous. I have perhaps four thousand fighting men, you have eight hundred. Even together we are no match for one fighting wing of the Aenir army.”
“I accept that, Caswallon. But why should you lead? What experience do you offer? Great Gods, man, you’ve turned down responsibility all your life! Granted you’ve led us here, and our women and children are safe. But to lead in war calls for more than that.”
“It calls for a cool head,” said Caswallon.
Maggrig grunted. “You’ll not lead the Pallides.”
“Let me make this clear to you. You are on Farlain land, under the protection of the Farlain clan. If you do not accept me, then I will require you, and all your people, to leave tomorrow.”
“And where would we go?”
