Shades of Werewolf

by T. S. Ryder

  His hand squeezed hers one moment and then it was gone. Before Cheryl even realized what was happening, the clash of swords rang through the kitchen. Maskin stood against a dozen warriors, muscles straining as he parried their blows and drove his own blade through their bodies.

  The enemies made no sound as they attacked, their eyes glowing, expressions blank. One darted in at Maskin's side, but Bjorn was there in an instant, stabbing him in the gut. The prince flanked the warrior-slave, helping him to drive back their attackers step by step.

  Cheryl found herself useless once more. Her hands clenched, but there was nothing she could do but watch. Her men were fierce, fighting with every ounce of strength they had. Bit by bit they drove the attackers back, out of the kitchen. Cheryl was drawn forward to the jagged hole, unable to take her eyes from the battle.

  Once outside the building, the attackers regrouped. They pressed harder against the two men, those terrible blank expressions still on their faces. Bjorn was barely able to deflect a blade. It sunk deep into his arm. Maskin blocked a killing blow meant for his neck and pushed his way forward, his movements frenzied as he cleared the way for Bjorn to retreat.

  "Find their ship and return to Thoutle. Get her out of here!" the warrior-slave roared. He drove into the midst of the attackers, both arms swinging, driving them back. A look of terrible concentration was on his face, his teeth bared. "Protect her!"

  Cheryl cried out as Bjorn slung her over his uninjured shoulder. She held her arms out to Maskin and screamed his name as the prince carried her away.

  The last thing she saw was the ranks closing in on him.

  Chapter Ten: Maskin

  All he had to do was give Bjorn enough time to get Cheryl to safety.

  Maskin poured all his strength into the fight, driving back the attackers inch by inch, giving him the space to dodge from one end of the group to the other. His strength was failing him. Already, blood poured from various wounds, deep slices in his abdomen and shoulders. He knew he wasn't going to be able to hold them back much longer.

  But if Bjorn and Cheryl got away safely, his death would be worth it.

  He was slow to parry a blow on his right. His enemy's blade bit deep into his shoulder at the joint. His arm fell useless by his side. He grabbed his sword with his other hand, but it was too late. A second enemy had taken advantage of his distraction and drove his own sword through Maskin's gut.

  Pain blinded him. Sweat was beading his brow. His mouth opened and closed like a man gasping for breath in the vacuum of space. A blade was brought to his throat.

  "Leave him!" a voice commanded. It sounded vaguely familiar. "He's as good as dead now, but if you end his life, you'll be cursed for killing on hallowed ground."

  Maskin struggled to get to his feet. A fist to his face had him sprawling. His vision danced in splotches of white and red. When it finally cleared, he could hear that same voice ordering the warriors to find Cheryl. Struggling with his own approaching death, Maskin managed to look up and see the man who was giving the orders.

  It was the priest who sent them here. Quincy. Maskin's brow furrowed. What was he doing here, leading an attack against the queen and the two potential kings? A priest couldn't be king. They were sworn to be celibate on pain of death.

  "I don't want to see any of you back until you have brought the queen to me," the priest ordered. He grabbed one of the warriors. "You. Stay here to watch him. I won't have him coming to stab me in the back."

  Maskin tried to push himself up, but the warrior stepped on his shoulder, forcing him back down. The priest looked down at him with a blank expression for a moment before he turned and walked away. Maskin glared after him. Either he was determined to be king despite his priestly vows, or he had somebody else lined up for the throne.

  Would he or his champion treat Cheryl as the beauty deserved?

  No. She had told him and Bjorn both how often the priest discouraged her. If he forced Cheryl to be his queen, she would not have another choice for as long as she lived.

  Maskin was not going to let that happen.

  He roared, trying to gather the strength to fight off the remaining warrior, but the man's heel dug harder into his wound, grinding him into the dirt. Pain danced in bright lights before his eyes.

  "I would end your suffering, Hero, but I was given orders." His enemy's tone was emotionless. "I take no pleasure in this."

  Maskin didn't waste his strength trying to reply. He lay still for a long time, trying to regroup. But blood was still pouring from his body, and each passing second, his strength waned a little more. His thoughts became fuzzy. Time seemed to stop. He drifted in and out of thoughts and images. Knowing he had to get up and stop Quincy. Remembering Cheryl's sparkling eyes as she took him by the hand and led him to bed. Watching Born's grin as he watched the two of them. Tasting happiness for the first time in his life.

  There was a grunt from somewhere above him. He didn't care about it, losing himself in the blissful memories he had created here with his queen. The grunting continued. There were sounds of crashing blades.

  "Don't you dare die now, Warrior!"

  Wait… was that Bjorn's voice?

  Maskin lifted his head in time to see Bjorn drive his sword through the enemy's neck. The prince let the body fall, running to the warrior's side. He turned him over, grimacing at the amount of blood. Maskin stared at him, slack-jawed. What was he doing here?

  "Why did you leave Cheryl?"

  "She's safe." Bjorn peeled his shirt over his head and pressed it to Maskin's abdomen.

  Maskin's back arched as he screamed in pain. The sharp jolt brought him back to his senses. He blindly grabbed for Bjorn's arm. "It's that priest, Quincy. He wants Cheryl. You have to stop him. Leave me, protect her!"

  "I'm not letting you win her love by taking all the glory, man," Bjorn grunted. He belted his shirt into Maskin's wound. "Come on, up you get."

  Maskin tried to stand, but he couldn't make his body work. Bjorn lifted him bodily, grunting with the effort.

  "You have to leave me here."

  "Shut up. I'm not one of your warriors you can order around." Bjorn slung the huge warrior-slave over his shoulders.

  Maskin felt the prince stagger and had to repress a grin. If their roles were reversed, he would have no problem lifting the prince. In the back of his mind he knew that this strange euphoria was dangerous, deadly even, but at the moment he didn't care. The white and red dancing lights were back, as well as a feeling of his body getting lighter and lighter. He heard singing somewhere.

  And then Cheryl's voice, calling him back to his body. "Maskin!"

  It came from all around him. She sounded worried, but he couldn't see her. He tried to reach for her, to tell her that he was fine, that it didn't hurt anymore.

  "Maskin, don't leave me."

  Something warm on his lips.

  Bjorn's voice. "He's lost a lot of blood. I picked up a regenerator, but I'm not sure it'll be enough."

  Cheryl's hands cupped his face. "Maskin, don't leave me. Don't leave me."

  He felt himself slipping away. He wanted to tell Cheryl that it was okay, that he wasn't going to be gone long… but she sounded so scared. A fire built in his chest. This wasn't how it was going to end. Cheryl needed him. He wasn't going to leave her. He had to stay and protect her. With a roar, he fought against the darkness clawing at him.

  He couldn't leave her.

  Chapter Eleven: Cheryl

  Cheryl held Maskin's hand tightly as Bjorn covered the entrance of the hollow tree they hid in. It was an ancient tree, the trunk so wide that a dozen men Maskin's size could stand with their arms outstretched and still be barely able to encircle it. It had been luck–or an act of the Gods–that Bjorn had seen the hollow in the trunk that was just big enough for them to slip through. The inside was cool and dry and smelled strongly of wood and earth.

  "Can you save him?" she asked.

  Bjorn activated the regenerator. "I'll do everything I c
an."

  He ran the regenerator over the deep, bloody gash in Maskin's side. The queen couldn't look at it without feeling like she was about to vomit, so she concentrated on Maskin's face, kissing his lips again and again. His already pale blue skin looked almost white.

  She had never seen a corpse before, but right now the warrior looked like one.

  "Don't leave me," she ordered in a whisper. "Don't you dare leave me. You are my king, and I am your queen."

  His facial muscles twitched and a low groan reverberated from his chest. It was like he was trying to roar a challenge, but couldn't quite make it. Cheryl cupped his face and kissed him again before laying her head on his chest.

  "Stay with me."

  His heartbeat was so slow that she almost thought it had stopped. She clung to him, whispering his name over and over.

  "There," Bjorn said after what seemed like hours. He sat back and wiped sweat from his forehead. "That's stopped the bleeding at least. How well his internal organs patched up… It's up to him now, Cheryl. I wish…"

  Cheryl grasped his hand but didn't leave Maskin's side. "I wish we had stayed as well."

  A pained look crossed the prince's look. "No. Getting you away from those warriors was the right thing to do. But I wish I hadn't told him that he was sterile. Without a chance to have children with you… I'm afraid that he won't fight."

  Cheryl felt like she had been slapped. "Sterile?"

  "All warrior-slaves are made sterile. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I should never have agreed to come here when I knew that this—"

  She held up her hand and took a deep breath. As much as she wanted to be angry with Bjorn at the moment, her worry for Maskin was too great. She didn't have the strength for two such strong emotions.

  "When I lived at the temple, Priest Quincy would sometimes perform fertility rites for same-sex couples. If he could clone and combine DNA from two individuals, why can't we do the same for three?"

  Bjorn's eyes widened. "That's possible?"

  "Doesn't everybody know?"

  The prince shook his head. "Cloning is… well, it was declared unviable hundreds of years ago. But if the temples can do it… Do you hear that, Warrior?" He poked Maskin's arm. "You can have children. The three of us can be parents. So you have no excuse to give up, do you hear me? Unless you want to give up your claim and give Cheryl to me to enjoy all by myself."

  Cheryl opened her mouth angrily, about to scold him for saying such dreadful things, but Maskin stirred. He didn't open his eyes, but a smile twitched his lips. A grunt rose from his throat before he relaxed back into unconsciousness.

  "He can hear us!" Cheryl kissed him. "Maskin, I love you. Come back to me. Fight. We'll have dozens and dozens of beautiful babies."

  "Maybe not that many. But as many as you want." Bjorn rested his hand on her back. The bandages around his injured shoulder were soaked through with blood. With a grimace, he began to peel them back to use the regenerator on himself.

  "I want lots of babies," Cheryl said. "I have all their names picked out already."

  Bjorn smiled. It was a sad smile, but Cheryl wasn't going to think about that. Right now, she was just going to keep holding Maskin's hand and make sure he knew how much she loved him.

  ***

  Cheryl woke to Bjorn gently shaking her. She rubbed her eyes, her gaze immediately going to Maskin. He was the same as he ever was, eyes closed, skin pale, breathing deep. Cheryl reached to touch his hand. His skin was cool. Not fevered, not overly cold. A small smile crossed her lips. He was a fighter. There was a chance all three of them would make it out of this.

  "I have to go find food," Bjorn said gently. He put a dagger in her hand. "Remember, if someone enters without first giving the password—"

  "Stab between the neck and shoulder."

  "Good." He kissed her lightly. "Stay here. Do not leave for anything."

  Cheryl nodded, though her stomach twisted at the idea of being alone here again. It had been several days since they had hidden in the hollow tree. Since then, Bjorn had to leave to get water and food for them, and Maskin hadn't moved. She hated being left alone, but if they didn't eat and drink, they wouldn't be able to fight off the warriors Quincy had sent when they were discovered.

  The thought of the priest had her shuddering again as Bjorn slipped out of the tree and disappeared silently into the forest. When had Quincy decided to become king? Was it before he became the priest in charge of her training, or after? When he made her wear dresses that stopped her from looking like a woman, was that because a queen must be modest, or was it to control his lustful thoughts towards her? When he told her to lose weight, was it because she was meant to be regal, or because he wanted her curves flat for himself?

  Whatever it was, she would not live under his thumb. She would not live without her kings, and if Quincy thought he could replace them…

  She would kill him.

  Cheryl gripped Bjorn's knife tighter, imagining plunging it into Quincy's heart. When the image had first come to her mind it had surprised her so much she had felt sick. Now, though… Now all she felt was determination.

  A shout from inside the forest made her jump. It was Bjorn's voice. The sound was followed by a clash of swords. Her heart began racing and she clutched the dagger more tightly, retreating to the far end of the hollow tree next to Maskin's still form. They had been discovered. Again.

  Her eyes closed briefly and she whispered a prayer to the Gods to protect her and her kings.

  A shadow darkened the exit to the tree. Cheryl's heart nearly stopped. She stared with wide eyes as a head emerged into the tree. In the darkness, she couldn't see his face.

  He did not give the password. It was not Bjorn.

  Cheryl yelled as she threw herself forward. In the darkness, she found the joint between neck and shoulder and stabbed her dagger in. It sunk, feeling like she was cutting through a melon. The man yelled in pain. The smell of blood filled the hollow tree.

  She would never eat meat again after this.

  The man tried to back out of the tree, but Cheryl grabbed a fistful of hair and stabbed again and again into the neck. A horror rose in her but so did desperation. She wasn't going to let Quincy take her. She wasn't going to let him kill her kings.

  When the man no longer moved, Cheryl released him. He slid out of the tree like a rock thrown from a cliff. The human rolled over and vomited. Her chest heaved and sweat coated her arms and face. Every muscle in her body trembled.

  But somewhere in killing that man, she had made a choice. There was only one way to end this before her kings were killed. She hid the dagger in her skirt and wormed out of the tree.

  Cheryl took a deep breath to brace herself. She ran from the tree, praying to the Gods that this would work.

  "Quincy!" she shouted. "Quincy! Do you want me? Come and get me!"

  Chapter Twelve: Bjorn

  His back was against a tree, his arms feeling like water as he swung his sword from side to side, parrying the blows that rained down on him. The warriors all stood just outside his reach, forming a semi-circle to block him from running. Two or three darted in closer every so often. He was able to withstand most of their strikes, but some slipped through, slicing his arms and torso.

  The priest stood a little away, a retinue of warriors around him, watching. An impatient sneer twisted his lips.

  "Just kill him! We are not on the shrine grounds. Kill him and be done with it."

  Bjorn tensed, tightening his grip on the sword. Two warriors came at him. He blocked one blow. The other struck his arm with the flat side of his sword and both retreated again.

  "Kill him!"

  Bjorn laughed, taking a moment to find his footing again. If the warriors wanted to kill him, he would be dead. If they were loyal to the priest, he would be dead. So he had an advantage here.

  "These warriors swore loyalty to the noble houses. You are a priest. You belong to no house. What you are doing, trying to kill Maskin and I and claim Che
ryl for yourself, naming yourself king, is nothing short of treason."

  "You are the traitor. The houses ordered him dead, Warriors! You swore loyalty to them, so complete the mission you were given."

  "The mission you gave them," Bjorn cried as looks of determination came over the warrior's faces. "The first loyalty is to the crown, and now that crown rests on the head of the queen alone. Will you give her to this man when she has no choice in the matter?"

  Quincy edged forward. "The queen does not choose her king."

  "Perhaps she should. Perhaps the reason the Gods brought both Maskin and me out of the last tournament alive was to signify a new age–an age were slaves are no more, where every man, woman and child can choose their own fate."

  The warriors looked shocked for a moment. Their swords dropped a few inches.

  "Kill him!" Quincy shouted. "Kill him or be traitors yourselves!"

  "Stop!"

  Even as the warriors lunged forward, their heads turned. Bjorn's heart spiked as the blades stopped within inches of his throat. But he didn't care about them, hardly even noticed how close he was to death. Cheryl ran between two trees and stopped. The red nanite armor protecting her was slick with blood, her blonde hair billowing like a storm cloud around her. Blue eyes glittered.

  What was she doing? Didn't she know that Quincy would just kill him and take her away now?

  Or was that what she meant to do? Did she hope that by giving herself up to Quincy, he would let the prince and Maskin live, that they would be allowed to leave the moon with their heads on their shoulders?

  "See what they've done?" Quincy recovered quickly, pointing at Cheryl. "They have forced the queen to spill blood—"

  "No." Cheryl's voice rang clear. "You did."

  Quincy's head jerked, as though taken aback by Cheryl interrupting him–and given the quiet, submissive woman that Bjorn had first met, it was no surprise that he wouldn't expect her to talk back to him.