With the Blizzard Global Writing Contest deadline passed, I now present the Hokage's submission! This is the first part of a story too epic to be contained within the 7500 word requirement. Therefore, what follows is merely the first chapter of the tale!
Summary:
"In his short time with the Nightwatch of Darkshire, Samuel has faced many horrors in the years since the 3rd war. Now, with Worgen packs ravaging the town's supply lines, Samuel must bring all his skill and strength to bear against this new and terrifying enemy. But there is something else in the woods, something even the Worgen fear..."
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"Dusk"
It's going to be dark soon, he thought to himself as he strained to see to the end of the road. It was always dark here, of course, but the nights here had a blackness only found in the deep places of the world. They were also as sinister as the forgotten things that lived there. He pushed the creeping despair aside. He had a job to do.
It had been only a few months since Samuel joined the Nightwatch, though it felt like far longer. That was the way of things in Duskwood. The people who lived here had learned to tolerate it, the agonizing passage of time in a land that no longer saw the sun. People aged faster here. Deep lines and dark circles carved their way into every face, even those of the young. But there was fire here as well, and it glowed brightly in eyes that refused to turn downward. Indeed, that was the only real light in this realm, an iron will of people too brave, too stubborn, and perhaps too foolish to leave. Long after the last soldier of Stormwind abandoned this land, those who would call it home would remain and survive.
And survive they did, thanks to the Nightwatch. Founded by one of the oldest families of Darkshire, the Nightwatchmen managed to keep the forces of evil at bay. For generations since the War, the Ebonlocke family turned the once ragged band of militiamen into a disciplined, highly efficient fighting force. The fact that the town had endured this long was a testament to the will and precision of its people. But that survival was always in question. Despite their best efforts, the land of Duskwood continued to be overtaken by Shadow. Without the sun in the sky, crops did not grow. Food was always in short supply, and while the environmentally imposed diet kept the citizenry lean, it seemed they were always a mere meal or two away from starvation.
It was for this reason that regular supply runs were sent out once a month. Escorted by Nightwatchmen, supply carts loaded with crafts, skins, and whatever other wares they could scrape up would travel north to the shires of Elwynn Forest. There, they would trade and barter with their...better protected neighbors for the provisions they needed, which were most often food and medicines.
Samuel often thought about life on the outside. When he regarded his northern countrymen, it was not without some bitterness. He could only imagine the abundance of Westfall, and the tranquility of Goldshire. Stormwind had certainly not abandoned them, and they knew nothing of hardship or terror.
He pushed those thoughts aside. They couldn't know, he told himself, for if they did, then the war against the Horde could most certainly be lost. The rumors were that the orcs had become strong again, and that the armies of Stormwind were needed across the ocean, in some northern continent, in order to confront the great evil. He understood very well the threat a reformed Horde would pose, but that did not change the fact that there were people here, in this land, who needed help now.
He pushed the bitterness away. The matters of the outside world were not his concern, nor his expertise. News of the lands beyond Duskwood came as spoken word, merely hearsay and rumor, questionable at best. No, he had a job to do, and right now that was all that mattered. The supplies from Goldshire that would sustain his people for another month should be arriving soon. A cold tightness swelled in his gut. It was a full day's ride to Elwynn Forest, and another to return. The teamsters were trained not to travel at night, and that if it looked as though they would not make it safely home before the moonrise, then they should postpone their return until the following morning. A day or two delay was fairly common. As Samuel looked up at the full moon, glaring high in the blackness of the night sky, he realized that the caravan was three days late. He shouldered his rifle and turned to report to his commander. It was time to act.
"The tracks are fresh," the watchman reported, "No more than a few hours."
"Then they are still close," Captain Grange replied, "Stay sharp."
Samuel took up a position on the group's perimeter. He'd been in this situation many times before, but this time was different. He'd faced every horror inhabiting these lands, but for the first time in recent memory, he felt a twinge of fear. There was something new out there, something different.
While he and his comrades stood guard, others in the group began policing the bodies. What was left of the caravan was strewn about over the entire road. They salvaged whatever supplies they could, and it looked like a surprising amount was still intact and usable. The same could not be said of the human remains. The team's medics began gathering pieces, a hand here, a shred of clothing there, anything with which they could identify the corpses. It was clear that whatever did this was not interested in grain or tonics.
Off the embankment, huddled within a gnarled shrub, they had found a survivor. He was one of the drivers, but the thousand yard stare was something one would only expect from a war veteran. To the experienced Nightwatchmen, this massacre was clearly the work of Worgen, a savage and brutal race of half man, half worg creatures. They were a relatively new threat, only appearing in recent years, but sightings of Worgen packs had been steadily increasing. Incidents like this one were becoming painfully frequent.
But there was something amiss. The medics found strange wounds on some of the bodies. The more intact corpses were not identified as members of their village. It was common for worgen to revert to human form when killed. A tally of these bodies confirmed the survivor's jittered warnings. Something else had slain these foul beasts, something stronger...something worse.
The survivor's account described a horror that shook the ground with its walk. It breathed fire like a dragon, but also lightning, and ice. It ran on all fours, and gave off a terrible glow that rivaled the moon itself. He swore it resembled the Worgen somehow, but even they were scared of it, so it couldn't have been kin. The survivor's last vision of the incident was of a Worgen leaping straight at him, claws and fangs outstretched, only to be knocked aside by this giant, spectral monster. The man was knocked off the wagon and landed in the bushes where the team had found him.
Packs of Worgen ran anywhere from 4 to 12 or more individuals. The team's medics and trackers reported only half that number to Captain Grange, which meant they were very likely still in danger. The not too distant baying, a howl much like a wolf, but twisted and unnatural, confirmed this probability. They needed to move now.
They had packed all that they could salvage onto the horses they had ridden in on. They would have to return for the rest later. The medics had picked up clothing and jewelry, the only means by which their murdered friends and neighbors could be identified. There was nothing really left to bury. They prayed to the Light for the souls of the fallen townsfolk, which made perfect sense to Samuel. The medics were in fact the town's priests, after all.
With the group mounted, Captain Grange gave the order, and they rode hard for home. Still on the perimeter, Samuel held his weapon tightly. He and two others rode next to the main group, scanning the hills and surrounding treeline for what surely would be pursuing them. In the moonlight, Samuel could indeed make out dark shapes moving in the woods. They were not being followed, they were being hunted.
Samuel brought his rifle up to bear. Even on horseback, he was an excellent shot. This dwarven weapon was a pleasure to fire, and he practiced often. But the Ebonlockes had artisans in their family who made special modifications on all Nightwatch weaponry. Samuel took aim with his double barrel rifle, peering down the sight that rested in the groove between the shafts. The dark blur moving along side him between the trees peered back, its fiery emerald eyes glowing with rage and hate. He imagined the effect of the specially crafted grooved bullet rounds on flesh. The artisans had designed them to explode on impact, shredding everything in their path. It was as painful a way to die as it was lethal. With a grin, Samuel fired.
The explosion came from behind him. Dimly, he noticed he was no longer on his horse, but floating. That realization ended abruptly with a crash and sudden jolting pain that wracked his entire body. He heard a muffled snap come from somewhere, and then felt it a moment later. Gripping his arm, he managed an anguished scream. Through the haze, he opened his eyes and saw himself laying on the side of the road. Men were shouting, and the flash of steel and gunpowder dotted his vision. The large black shapes moved with demon speed. Horses were tossed and men were torn like paper.
He swore under his breath, he should have known. The beasts he tracked to one side of the team were just a diversion. These things are only seen when they want you to see them. So while his gun was trained on the targets in front of him, the real attackers pounced from behind. It was ingenious really, but for his part, it was a stupid and very likely fatal mistake.
The movement had stopped. Samuel rubbed the blurriness out of his eyes and surveyed the scene. He couldn't see Captain Grange anywhere, but he could see several of his comrades lying dead and scattered about the road. The black shapes were standing very still now, and looking straight at him. Two of them were eating, but stopped chewing long enough to regard the human. The dull throbbing of his left arm reminded Samuel it was him they were looking at. He was actually standing here, not merely witnessing this from some far off place. He dumbly regarded his arm. It was definitely broken, but why didn't it hurt more? He shook his head, it didn't matter. He doubted he'd be alive long enough to see it mended. With his good arm, he drew his sword. The beasts were eerily silent, their glowing orbs piercing him with their gaze. The large one in the center stepped forward. It's growl was gutteral and lusting. As it moved toward him, it crouched down as if ready to pounce.
"Dinner is served," Samuel whispered, and, unleashing a cry of his own, he charged the beast!
It was so fast. He remembered actually seeing its lunge only after he felt it slam into his chest. The flash of light was followed by a loud crunch. Warm wetness flowed over his shoulder and chest, and he couldn't breathe. He tried to turn his head, but he couldn't move that either. He vision was coming back, but remained unfocused. He turned his eyes toward the monster, and realized he was pinned under it. It's jaws were clamped firmly on the base of his neck and shoulder. Surprisingly, like his arm, he barely felt it.
Death was coming, he knew it. He thought of his sister, Alcina, the only family he had left. He saw her face looking up at him as she took her first steps. Then she was older, and played in the meadows, chasing the wild rabbits that loved to tease her. He dreamed of a happier time, when the family was whole, when the sun still shined in Duskwood.
She was 16 now, and their parents were gone. But that look on her face, the same joy and love he remembered when she was young, but joined with pride and admiration. He had just made the ranks of the Nightwatch, and was showing her his new uniform. She had hugged him then, and thanked him. As long as he was around, she told him, she knew she would be safe. As long as he was around...
The smooth leather of his sword handle kissed his finger tips. Somehow, his hand had refused to let it go, and only now did he realize how soft and fitting the handle was. He reminded himself to compliment the artisan who crafted it. He gripped the sword hard and thrust it with all his might. The blade plunged deep into the monster's flank, piercing its ribs and torso. The tip protruded from the other side of the creature's body. He inhaled sharply, the weight on his chest had lifted! The beast was still on top of him, but the pressure around his neck and shoulder ceased. The monster looked down dumbly at the puny human weapon that now impaled him.
Samuel chuckled weakly at its expression, and released the blade. That was the last of his strength, it was all he could give. He fell back to the ground. His breathing became short and rapid, and his vision was once again started to blur. He wondered if it had something to do with the stabbing pain in his shoulder and neck. The warm wetness he felt earlier was now a flood. He thought again of his sister.
"I'm sorry, Alcina," he whispered with what he believed to be his last breath, "I tried..."
The ground shuddered beneath him. A crack of thunder split the sky. Fire leaped out of the shadows. There was a howl, but not like the horrible cries these beasts were known for. This one was sharp and clear, melodic and otherworldly. If the moon had a voice, it would sound like this. It was joined by another, and then another.
Samuel marveled at his awareness of these things. Somehow, he was still alive, still breathing. But he was cold now, even despite the odd tongues of flame that danced past him. He heard the cries and whines of the worgen, the sounds of fear and death. These were joined by a low, ugly sounding chant. Whatever demon had come for these abominations, he thought, it was what they deserved. Samuel smiled when he saw what looked like two white, shimmering wolves bound over his body. Certainly this was a dream, some shock induced vision. The two wolves were followed by a third that stopped and stood over him. This one did not shine at all, in fact it looked just like every other wolf he'd ever seen, only enormous. It was easily the size of a horse, and it stared at Samuel with ice blue eyes that seemed to peer directly into his soul. In the thickening fog of his mind, he only dimly noticed it had something on its back, some kind of cloaked silhouette. It was the last thing he saw before the darkness took him.
-Check back for part II of "Dusk," coming soon. Also, if you have a piece of epic fiction or art set in the World of Warcraft, email them to the Hokage at: OgamiGoro@yahoo.com!
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