Chapter 7 Threk
THREK
The smell of fire burns my throat. It is the wrong fire, not the clean, contained warmth of her hearth. This is the smell of chaos, of burning huts.
I hear screams. They are thin and high, the sounds of prey being hurt.
But my world narrows to one thing.
Her scent.
It is wrong. It is not the soft, clean smell of snow and berries that I know. It is a new, sharp, terrible scent. It is the sour, metallic tang of animal terror.
It is FEAR.
My eyes lock on her. She is a statue. A small, pale-skinned thing, frozen by her cold fire. Her blue eyes are empty. Her hand is a white-knuckled knot in her brown hair, pulling. She is broken.
Wrong.
A THREAT. Male. He is all greasy furs and the stench of blood, and he holds a bright axe. He lunges. His filthy hands are out. He is going to touch her. He is going to hurt her.
He is going to take what's mine.
The red haze does not rise. It detonates.
It is not the confused fog of pain I have lived in. It is not the weakness or the hunger.
This is purpose. This is joy.
This is Urog.
The elven magic awakens in my blood. It sings. It is a shrill, thin scream of glee that floods my body with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. It has one, perfect, beautiful demand.
KILL.
A sound rips from my chest. It is not a groan of pain. It is not a warning growl. It is a promise. It sounds like a mountain splitting open. The hovel shakes. The fire itself seems to flinch and pull back.
The threat-male is slow. He is a snail, frozen in time. The scent of his fear explodes from him, a hot, delicious wave that I breathe in.
I move.
I am not weak. I am not broken. I am power. I am a ten-foot storm of shadow and muscle. I cross the hovel in a single, silent thought.
He is still lunging for her.
His life is forfeit.
My hand—my claw—is faster than his lunge. I do not grab his axe. I do not grab him.
I grab his head.
My claws sink into his face. I feel soft skin and hard bone give way. I feel his scream begin in his throat.
He is small. He is a doll.
I pull him away from her. I slam him against the mud-wood wall. THUD. The hovel shakes. The wall cracks.
He grunts, dazed.
Not enough. The red haze demands pieces.
He tries to lift his axe.
I roar in his face. It is a fire-breath of rage and bloodlust. His eyes are white with terror.
My other hand. My claws are ready.
I find his chest. His furs are nothing. His leather is nothing. His ribs... they are nothing.
CRUNCH.
The sound is music. My claws sink deep. Into the hot, wet depths of him.
I pull.
I tear. I rip him open, from chest to throat.
Hot. Wet. Red.
His scream turns into a bubble of blood.
I throw him. He is a limp sack of meat. He hits the floor by her fire. His fur sizzles.
One.
The other one. The leader. is in the doorway.
His scent is pure terror. It is beautiful. He is fumbling, trying to pull his sword from its sheath. He spoke. He ordered the threat.
He turns. He tries to run.
NO.
I lunge. I am a shadow. I am a storm. I am out of the hovel before his foot hits the snow.
I grab his back. My claws sink into his shoulders, tearing through his helmet and fur. He shrieks. Good.
I pull him back into my hovel. My killing-ground.
I lift him. He is light.
I smash him. Down. On the floor. The earth shakes.
He is not dead. He is winded. He gasps.
I raise my foot. My clawed, heavy foot.
I stomp.
On his chest.
CRACK.
His scent of terror is gone.
Two.
I want more.
The red haze demands it.
Screams. Fire. Smoke. Threats. Everywhere.
I move through the doorway. The village is burning. Men. Raiders. They are killing. They are burning the huts.
They are threats to her.
A raider sees me. He is holding a torch. He is about to throw it on a roof.
His eyes go wide. Good.
He screams. Good.
I charge. He throws the torch. At me.
Foolish.
The fire kisses my hide. It is hot. It is nothing. I am rage. I burn from the inside.
I backhand him. A flick of my wrist. My claws take his face. He spins into the air. He is gone.
Three.
"BEAST! IT'S A FUCKING BEAST!"
A shout.
Two more. They have swords. They run at me. Together.
Prey. Running to the predator.
The red haze laughs in my skull.
The first one swings. He is fast. I let it hit.
A sharp, cold bite in my shoulder. The blade sticks in my muscle.
The pain is fuel. The pain makes the red haze brighter.
I roar. I grab the arm that holds the blade.
I twist.
SNAP.
His scream is music. His sword is stuck in me.
The second one. He is smart. He is afraid. He stabs while I am busy.
A new pain. Sharp. In my side. Between my ribs.
Close call.
ANGER.
The red haze explodes.
I release the first one's broken arm. I spin.
I grab the second one. By the throat.
He dangles. He is two feet off the ground. His feet kick. Pathetic. His sword clatters from his hand.
I squeeze.
Pop.
I throw him.
Four. Five.
I pull the blade from my shoulder. It hurts. Good. Hot blood runs down my arm. I throw the blade. It spins.
I pull the blade from my side. More hurt. GOOD. More blood. My blood. It mixes with their blood.
"TOGETHER! KILL THE BEAST! KILL IT!"
More? Good.
Three more. The last ones.
They circle me. They are afraid. Their scent is sour.
But they are slow.
I lunge. I am a whirlwind of claws and tusks.
I eviscerate the first. My claws open his stomach. His insides fall out. Steaming in the cold.
Six.
I gore the second with my tusks. I catch him. I lift him. He screams. I shake my head. His body rips in two.
Seven.
The last one. He drops his sword. He turns. He runs.
NO.
I catch him in two steps. I grab him by the back of his furs.
I break his back over my knee.
CRACK.
Done.
Eight.
A moan. The one with the broken arm. He is crawling.
I walk to him. I stomp.
Now, silence.
Only the crackle of fire. And the moan of the wind.
I stand in the middle of the burning village.
The blood is everywhere. It is on me. A hot, wet coat. It drips from my claws. It drips from my tusks.
The cuts on my shoulder and side burn. They feel good. I am alive.
The red haze is a storm. It is howling in my head. It is gleeful. It sings.
But... the song is fading.
No more threats.
The elven magic screams. It is hungry. It is not satisfied. It wants more. It wants all. It demands I tear down the huts. It demands I kill the hiding prey.
Kill.
I turn, my claws flexed. My muscles vibrate with the need to kill. More. I need...
Suddenly, a scent.
It cuts through the storm. It slices the smoke. It covers the stench of blood. It cuts through the red haze.
It is her.
Betty.
The red haze screams. It fights. No! Kill! MORE!
But her scent... it is a chain. It pulls. It is the anchor.
It’s the cool water on the fire.
I turn. My movements are stiff. Heavy.
She is there.
Standing in the doorway of my hovel.
Her pale skin is the color of the snow at her feet. Her wide eyes are blue. So blue. She is shaking. The scent of her fear is strong.
...Is she afraid?
Of me?
The red haze... it falters. It freezes. It recedes.
The screaming in my head stops.
There is only the crackle of the fire. The moan of the wind.
And her.
I stand over the leader's body. I am a monster. I am covered in their blood.
I look at my hands. My claws. They are red. So red.
I look at her. And think, does she think she's safe?