Cold raindrops roused Vidar from his slumber. He arose from the leaf litter which had been his bed the night before. He was hungry; famished, even. His wounds hurt. How had he gotten such wounds? His memories from when he had taken the wolf shape were vague and hazy, as one recalls a dream. It came flooding back; the priest, the battle with Torbjorn, his escape into the wild.
He looked about him; where was he? Where was the village? He needed to get his bearings right in order to discover the fate of Torbjorn.
Hearing a slight rustle in the bushes behind him, Vidar whirled around. Agnar, the werewolf, servant of the Witch, stood before him, eyeing him with a blank expression.
“You!” said Vidar.
“Well done, Vidar,” said Agnar. “The Black God of the Mountain is pleased.”
“Why?” asked Vidar. “I did not slay the priest as I was bade.”
“Nay, but you spared not your own kinsman when the need arose,” replied Agnar.
“Then Torbjorn is…”
“Dead, my Lord.”
Vidar nearly collapsed. So filled was he with rage and grief that he could contain it no longer. His wails of anguish echoed through the forest.
When Vidar had finally exhausted himself, he looked up into the face of Agnar, rage still burning in his heart.
“What was it all for?” he said, hoarsely.
“The gods required a sacrifice,” replied Agnar. “The priest was a threat to the old ways; he had to die to keep our ways alive. He will still die, but not by your hand.”
“Then whose hand?” asked Vidar.
“That is not your concern,” replied Agnar. “We must return to the village before suspicion is aroused.”
“Would it be too much to ask for a garment of some sort?” he inquired. “It would be unfitting for me to return to the village thus unclothed.”
Agnar undid the brooch of his cloak and tossed the garment to Vidar.
“Thank you,” he said, wrapping the cloak about his muscular body.
The two men then made their way back to Vidar’s hut at the edge of the village.
“Wait out here, by this stand of trees,” said Agnar. “I shall fetch you some clothes.”
Agnar entered the dwelling and returned with a tunic and breeches, which Vidar put on quickly. He burst into the hut, where he found the lifeless body of Torbjorn lying on a couch. His wife, Astrith, sat on the floor, weeping. Gunhild, the wolf woman, holding her slender, white hand.
“Vidar!” said Astrith, rising from the floor with difficulty. She threw her arms about her husband as the two wept together.
“I feared you had died, too!” she said.
“I am here, my love,” said Vidar. “Now, quickly, we must prepare to flee.”
Astrith nodded solemnly, and set about packing, while Vidar went outside to begin building the wooden pyre to burn the body of his kinsman, with Agnar following behind.
As they labored, a familiar voice greeted Vidar’s ears; a voice which he had no desire to hear. He turned to see Quirinius approaching from the gravel road.
“You have my deepest sympathies,” said the Roman.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Vidar.
“You look as though you’ve seen better days yourself,” remarked Quirinius.
“Aye,” replied Vidar. “The wolf fell upon me while I was hunting for game early this morning.”
Vidar, like all men of his race, despised falsehood, but since becoming a werewolf, he was forced to become rather good at it.
“You’re lucky you survived,” said the centurion. “Were you able to kill it?”
“Nay,” replied Vidar. “I wounded him severely, but he managed to get away. I would have given chase, but my wounds were severe and I needed to treat them before infection set in.”
“That’s understandable,” replied Quirinius.
“I shall track it down later and bring its hide back,” said the Goth.
“I should expect so. I will leave you to your funeral arrangements. I suspect you will want a bit of privacy. Farewell.”
With that final salutation the centurion walked off to attend to other matters, while Vidar and Agnar bore the body of Torbjorn out of the hut and laid it on the pyre. Agnar and Astrith joined them bearing jars of oil and mead. After the women had anointed the body with the liquids, Vidar set the pyre alight. The four then watched the fire burn down to ashes, chanting a funeral song for the slain.
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