The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 6: A Crimson Tradition

Vidarr awoke at dawn while the rest of the dormitories remained silent, undisturbed in the quiet hours just before dawn. The rest of the cultists had turned in while the sun rose, but he was restless.

Fully dressed in black wool and dyed leather, he descended three sets of staircases that cascaded to the main floor. His boots made a light creaking noise on the steps. The larger windows of the house were shaded with long, draping curtains of fading sanguine hues to block out the early, dawn light.

As he descended further, snores and rhythmic breaths fell away behind him, and he wondered if anyone else had found themselves sleepless. It was not the werewolf that kept him from sleep. He had become inured to haunting memories like that. Lately it seemed as if Ashara’s emotions were leaking onto his own. He could hardly handle the stress of pretending to be one of them anymore. The grief only made his mood more sour around his brothers.

Down at the main floor, muffled sobs echoed in the dining hall. Vidarr peeked around the corner into the massive chamber to see Ashara at the end of the dining table, in the chair that the High Priest usually sat at when he rarely joined them to dine.

The dining quarters were lavish, dressed up in burnished wood for the furniture, gold for the candleholders, and silver for nearly everything else. A massive, red hand was painted at the center of the table fit enough for hundreds of patrons, though there were only a few dozen living in this village. Black iron sconces decorated the walls with unlit torches.

Vidarr stepped into the hall with a purposefully heavy toe.

Ashara looked up and wiped at her eyes until her hands, too, were wet. From crying, sleeplessness, incessant rubbing, her eyes were bloodshot and the skin around them just as irritated and red.

“I’m sorry, Ashara,” Vidarr repeated. It seemed to him it was the only thing he could say to her as of late. He pulled out a chair and sat himself beside her, sighing as he sank into the cushion. When he looked at her, he wanted to tell her that Sinara’s death was noble, but it simply wasn’t. “You should rest,” was all he could think to say.

Ashara looked from her fingertips that she was fidgeting with and met his gaze. There was such confusion and hatred in those grey eyes. “I don’t understand the gods,” she said.

“Few of us do,” he said. Maybe no one does.

“And what about the High Priest, do you think he understands? Is that why he did what he did?”

Vidarr chewed on his lip for a moment, then looked out of an undraped window. Vines with violet blossoms were growing alongside the walls and falling over the glass panes. “I don’t think many people grasp the true intentions of the gods and their ways, and if they did, why would they want to share their secrets? I think the High Priest is just as misguided as anyone else.”

“And what of you?” she asked. Her hatred was so alive in that moment Vidarr nearly felt it was directed at him, though he knew better than to think that.

“I’m not a priest, Ashara. I don’t make claims to understand the divine—”

“I’m not talking about that.” Vidarr was taken aback, he furrowed his brow. “I’m talking about you and the High Priest. You’re just as loyal to him as the rest are.”

That made Vidarr want to spit on the table and storm away, but he kept himself back. “You’re talking madness, Ashara,” he said, not unkindly. His voice was soft, and his hand was reaching out to her wrist, though she pulled it away to smear a tear across her cheek. “Did you see me at the meeting two nights before, at the executions? No, certainly not. I watched, but I did not make my presence known because I do not support it. I show loyalty when I have to so I am not caught under his heel when he is enraged, or caught in something worse, like the end of a sword …” he said fast enough so she would not interrupt him.

Ashara tucked a lock of silver hair behind her ear that had fallen over her eyes. “No,” she admitted, “you’re right. I apologize.”

“I want to leave this band of madmen just like you do. Join the rest of Netherway, and see what’s beyond werewolves and hunts in the Duskenwood Forest.” His voice was sad, a repeated dream he mused about so often it felt hollow, now.

Ashara shook her head, then laughed bitterly. “You were born into the Red Hand just like the rest of us. Don’t speak nonsense like that aloud, or it’ll be your head they have. Isn’t that what you were telling me the other night?”

He grunted a little, then chuckled. “Precisely why I want to leave. But, you misunderstood me,” he said, and this time when he reached out to her and, she let him rest her palm in his. “You can speak to me about your thoughts, what you feel, whenever … just wait for moments like this, when it is safe.”

Above the mansion, carrion crows cawed as they circled the village that so smelled of death, but had only ashes to offer.

“They’ll torture you, Vidarr. We’ve seen it before. You saw it when you were of age enough to understand, but for me it is only a distant memory, something I could hardly understand when it happened. Remember how they left that body hanging for months? Eventually only a skeleton remained until they took him … or, it, down. Traitors: they’re as good as corpses, to them … Don’t leave, Vidarr,” she pleaded lowly. Ashara’s eyes were bereft of tears; all that remained was dryness and fear. The rage she had felt the night of her sister’s execution, the courage, it had all faded so quickly.

He wanted to tell her how wrong she was, that leaving was all he, or she, could do. That is was their only option. And he nearly did, before the sound of the High Priest’s footsteps interrupted him.

He came through a door that led to the kitchen at the opposite end of the dining hall, the heels of his boots echoing in the chamber. “Praise Afimer, you two are up early,” he said. His long, black hair was untied and flowed over his black robes. A red stole draped his shoulders while an enflamed hand burned at the center of his robes. His cheerful mood turned Vidarr’s expression to ice, his clenched jaw frozen in place.

Vidarr was glad they were interrupted. Now was not the time to convince her to flee.

The longsword was in his hand, sheathed and wrapped in the harness that he usually wore on his back.

“Praise Afimer, morning is upon us,” Vidarr responded with a yawn. Ashara was silent.

“Are you fairing well, my child?” he asked of Ashara. He reached out a pale hand to stroke her hair.

She stood up noisily, knocking the chair on its back before rushing from the room hurriedly without a response. Her footsteps echoed throughout the large, wooden house until the door to her room slammed.

Vidarr looked up awkwardly at his High Priest. “She’s quite moody.”

The High Priest chuckled, “Never could tame that one, you know. Her sister was just the same.” He took the longsword out of his sheath and rested it on the table. Vidarr’s heart started beating faster, though his leader only took it out to wash it. The blood from the executions had turned brown. “You know, I could never replace a surface large enough besides this table to clean this blade. I tried the anvil in forge room, but it simply wouldn’t do. I hope I wasn’t interrupting.” Vidarr wondered how much the Priest had heard.

Vidarr shook his head, sighed, and sat back in the chair. A velvet cushion greeted his head.

“You have to appreciate the furnishings of the house, you know,” the High Priest said idly. “Netherway appreciates our services, I suppose. We wouldn’t have all of this if the royals in the cities weren’t thankful.” The Priest waved one of his hands at all the neat and polished decorations.

“They may like our services, but not our methods,” Vidarr added, suddenly wishing there was some wine in his hand.

“Excuse me?”

“The people replace us to be gruesome and murderous folk. They call us ‘corpses’ in the inns, I’ve heard it myself.”

The High Priest gave him a look so deprived of empathy and understanding that Vidarr only saw cold, objective observation in those red eyes. They glittered from the morning light, but there was nothing kind in them.

“Is that so?” he asked after a long pause.

“Yes,” he said, “and the pyres we burn that drift the scent of death across villages does not help our appearances, Priest. Not a criticism, perhaps, but just a note of interest.”

The Priest’s mouth twitched a single time. “You know, that’s not for the people. That’s for us. For you.” He smiled a sharp-toothed grin.

“Oh, I’m well aware.”

“Vidarr, I’m going to be honest with you. I’m sensing that your memory of the Crimson Hand’s tradition is fading.” He eyed Vidarr icily. Both of their words danced around each other’s like swords, if an implication was too blatant, someone might get pricked.

“I know the histories,” Vidarr said, standing up from his chair and tucking it into place. He picked up the chair that Ashara had overturned and tucked that in, too.

As Vidarr walked away, the High Priest continued as if he was still standing there. “Vorus Scarlet of Westrun founded the Crimson Hand before even the Sun and Moon-elves started their bickering. The Hand saw through the War of the Eclipse, though he had to move from the Runelands, of course, to here, the Moonlands.” The High Priest sighed as if it was all just one, long tragedy, and he carried some great burden on his shoulders to continue the cause.

“Why are you telling me this? You know better than anyone that I have read this, in painstaking detail, hundreds of times. That I could recite pages by memory from that book if you asked.”

“Because there used to be a time, my child, when the Red Hand was scorned just as the werewolves were. Scorned because of what you call ‘methods.’ We were rejected just the same. That was not in the histories.”

Yet, none of this was news to Vidarr. His knowledge of the Crimson Hand’s history was all encompassing, comprised of a myriad of perspectives, often scavenged from conversations with tipsy patrons at taverns, or tradesmen that traveled across the lands, and had seen far more than most.

As a young elf he had to read The Crimson Hand: A History, by Tamara Scarlet, Vorus’ daughter. Vidarr was forced to study such that he could recite the book by heart. But since he’d received his dagger, he’d lay awake during the mornings trying to eradicate some of those passages from his memory, no longer threatened by a punishment for forgetting a sentence.

“And now look at us,” the High Priest finally said with his arms outstretched towards the high ceilings. “The Runelands, Moonlands, gods, all of Netherway, smile on us and reward us for all we’ve done. Our encampments are spread far and wide across the lands!”

After he’d said all that, Vidarr just sighed and said under his breath, “Still, they call us corpses.” He tried once again to walk away, but was caught by more words like a firm grasp on his arm.

“The same people that mocked us never believed, either,” Priest said as he ran the cloth over the blade.

“Believe what?”

“They didn’t believe we could subdue the Curse. They thought our calling hopeless. They thought the plague would run across the lands and haunt them all until it faded away—miraculously—by itself, or simply consumed everything. But by the gods, we proved them all wrong. The numbers dwindled by the hundreds. And we’ve nearly ran the Curse’s blood cold … but it is still very much alive, yes, very alive. And there is still a need for us here in Netherway, there always will be.”

But at what cost? Vidarr thought. “We stopped them by burning whole cities to the ground,” Vidarr replied. “Yes, I know our traditions, Priest, I know them well. I know how we killed those untouched, those spared, by the Curse. That wasn’t the gods; not Afimer, Bafimer, or even Siflos. That was us!” Vidarr shouted as he jabbed a finger into his chest as if he himself was responsible. His legs were shaking. He’d never raised his voice to the High Priest.

And here it was, echoing in the dormitories.

The Priest stopped his burnishing and looked up with the same, dead stare. “We’ve killed uncorrupted citizens for ages to prevent it from spreading any further. These were costs the people had to pay,” he said.

“Hundreds of people for just one of the Cursed creatures?” Vidarr asked. His voice came out hoarse.

“And we’ll do it again if it comes to it,” the Priest responded. He tucked his longsword into its scabbard and strode away. “Sleep well, Vidarr, he said. “We wouldn’t want you wearied for the hunt tonight. And it’s almost noon. It’d be best if you rested soon. You are not well.”

“Hunt?” he asked.

“Of course. The werewolf escaped, if you did not recall.” He chuckled. “We’re going to replace anyone that was afflicted, and do what we have to.” With that, the High Priest strode out of the backdoor of the kitchen, shutting it behind him and whistling as he went to his cottage beside the house.

Vidarr felt eyes on his back. He turned and looked up, seeing Ashara perched at the top of one of the stairs, staring down.