Transmission

‘It’s my lad from the stables, the one the Wyld Wolf attacked last week,’ said Muller.

‘Stay,’ said Onyx to his black jaguars, and the two creatures instantly dropped on to their bellies outside the tent. One of the soldiers pulled a door flap to one side as the Pantherlord stooped and entered, Muller hurrying behind.

The first thing that struck Onyx was the absence of other beds; there was just one in the centre of the infirmary. Whoever else had previously shared the chamber with the unfortunate stable boy had been removed. The wailing, snarling patient was presently obscured from Onyx’s vision by a crowd of onlookers, the gurney he lay upon rattling and creaking as he thrashed about.

Onyx pushed through the crowd. A sorrowful-looking healer fingered his beard nervously, while a priestess of Brenn whispered anxious prayers at his shoulder. All the members of the war council were present too, their faces drawn and haggard.

‘Such a collection of noblemen and notaries,’ growled Onyx as he drew closer to the convulsive patient. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d suspect a coup was under way.’

‘Don’t speak too soon,’ warned Skean, and the Cranelord stood aside to reveal the stable boy.

The thrashing figure that lay strapped to the bed bore little resemblance to the fresh-faced lad who’d been bitten at the beginning of the week. His twisted limbs strained against the bonds, the leather sawing into the flesh. The youth’s torso was twice as big as it should have been, his chest distended to monstrous proportions. A layer of dark, bristling fur blanketed every inch of his malformed body, thickening around the throat.

‘I see now why she prays,’ said Onyx, glancing back at the mumbling priestess.

The boy’s head looked as if it had been crushed and rebuilt in mockery of the Wolf. The jaws were enlarged, harbouring a set of monstrous canines that were still too large for the space within. They were locked together, and the stable boy was snarling, foam frothing at his rabid lips. His nose was sharper but upturned, the skin at its tip darkened. The boy’s eyes rolled in their sockets, yellow and bloodshot.

‘How long has he been like this?’

‘The wound itself, incredibly, healed over within a day, while his fever worsened,’ said the healer. ‘My colleagues and I suspected he had blood poisoning, such was the speed with which his body was failing. He was given the last rites this afternoon,’ he added, nodding in the direction of the whispering holy woman.

‘And the change?’ said Onyx, reaching his hand out towards the transforming boy.

‘It commenced at dusk, my lord,’ said the medicine man. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you!’

The stable boy’s awful head strained up suddenly, his spittle-covered jaws snapping at the Pantherlord’s hand. Onyx kept his open palm there, a hair’s breadth from the poor lad’s rabid face.

‘Have any of you ever heard of anything like this before?’ asked the Beast of Bast, looking deep into the insane eyes of the former stable hand.

‘Well, there were the Wyldermen – ’ began General Gorgo.

‘Not the Wyldermen, you idiot Hippo,’ snapped Onyx. ‘It was Darkheart’s Wyrm Magicks that transformed the savages into Wolfmen. They willingly entered into that arrangement, with the help of the Wolf’s paw. I’m talking about this …’ he said, casting his hand over the deformed boy.

‘The passing on of therianthropy by bite is just a myth.’ The Hippolord snorted, clearly affronted.

Onyx glowered at him for a moment, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the thrashing stable hand.

‘Was a myth, you mean. I think it’s fair to say that this lad isn’t simply changing from a boy into a man. He is suffering … from lycanthropy.’

B5 P6 C2