Ritual

Onyx squinted, standing upright as he tried to discern the finer details of the spectacle. Lucas handed the round, white object to Darkheart, who received it with a bow. The king raised his hands to his mouth, stifling a cry of excitement. He was like a child on the night before his birthday. Onyx could see what the object was now: an upturned skull, a thick, dark liquid swilling about within.

‘A human skull?’ asked Costa.

‘A bowl of blood,’ said Gorgo. ‘But whose?’

Onyx’s eyes widened. That’s why they’d wanted Ferran’s hand.

‘Wolf blood,’ he whispered in grim fascination.

The severed limb was irrevocably linked to the lycanthrope, its dead flesh holding that cold, enchanted therian blood like a sponge.

‘But what can they possibly do with it?’ he said. ‘Summon a demon?’

Placing the skull bowl at the head of the table, the shaman raised the flint knife in one hand and stared up at the moon. He moved the blade back and forth, speaking ancient words to the sky. He placed his other hand on to the wolf, running his fingers through its wiry grey fur, the beast responding to his touch as it ceased its snarling. The hairs on the back of Onyx’s neck prickled as if a crackle of energy passed through the air. Trees further down the hill began to creak suddenly, the wind rushing through their branches and causing them to shake like rattlesnake tails. The bonfire began to splutter, sending showers of sparks into the night.

‘This is a grotesque pantomime,’ whispered Gorgo nervously, as Darkheart held the flint dagger high. ‘This isn’t magick. I’ve seen more magick in –’

The dagger fell, punching through the wolf’s torso to its heart. Instantly, the fire was quenched, plunging the hill briefly into darkness before it burst into life once more. But now the flames that danced were sickly green, casting a ghostly glow over the stone circle. Some of the war council cried out. Gorgo staggered back, seizing Costa by the forearm. All around the hilltop unnatural winds raced; invisible phantoms swept between the standing stones, parting the Werelords or forcing them towards each other. Only Onyx remained unmoved, his eyes never leaving Darkheart. Growls, hisses, snorts and snarls seemed to echo in the darkness, as if a horde of foul beasts were crawling and slithering up the hill towards the Bastian nobles.

‘The green fire,’ said Gorgo frantically, the Hippo’s tusks suddenly jutting from his wobbling jaw as he allowed his body to shift. ‘What’s causing it? Some kind of blasting powder?’

‘And the animal sounds?’ asked Costa, his crooked beak already breaking from his face. He turned towards the shadows as if something might pounce upon him at any moment, his wings erupting from his back in an unconfident show of strength.

Onyx watched as Darkheart left the flint blade quivering in the wolf’s corpse. He lifted the skull to his mouth and tipped its contents in. He poured it down his throat, some of the blood spilling over his mud-daubed skin and down his chest. His hands trembled as he removed the bowl from his lips and stretched his arms out wide. The skull dropped to the floor as Darkheart’s head tipped further back, his gaze fixed on the moon. The green flames blazed at his back, lighting the thick clouds from below as they billowed from the hellish bonfire.

The shaman fell suddenly to the floor, dropping to his knees as he bucked and writhed. Gorgo and Costa backed away from the stones, many of the war council now muttering that they should leave, that this was a mistake. Onyx spied Vanmorten retreating from the stone circle, putting distance between himself and the ritual’s terrible finale. Even a few of Darkheart’s fellow Wyldermen hesitantly stepped back from their juddering leader. Lucas remained motionless as Darkheart frothed and spat beside the unearthly green fire. The shaman shook and buckled, his movements blurring as if he might tear apart at any moment.

Then he was still.

The assembled onlookers held their breath, the only sound now that of the crackling fire, its emerald limbs stabbing skyward like a monstrous mantis. Darkheart rose, his movements slow and measured. The death tremors had been replaced by the calm, languid motions of the newly awakened. He lifted his chin and opened his eyes. They flashed yellow. The eyes of a wolf.

Darkheart beckoned the first of the Wyldermen forward, a warrior marked in blue woad stripes that banded his entire body, a stone-headed axe in his hand. The shaman took the weapon from the wild man’s hand and tossed it on to the grass. He whispered something, the fellow nodding as he turned his head to the side, offering his neck. Darkheart bit the man’s throat hard, his sharpened teeth worrying the flesh. As the warrior fell to the ground, the next Wylderman stepped forward. The shaman slowly worked his way through them, biting the necks, shoulders and chests of his brethren, leaving his mark on each.

B5 P4 C2