A Broken Blade: Packless, #5

By T.J. Spicer

We rejoin the Ashley Family in the wake of Lord Gabe's disappearance. Will the winds blow him home or is he truly lost forever? Part Five of the Packless Penndydreaful series is set within the World of Vici, a land filled with magic, monsters and intrigue through the eyes of the youngest of the Lordly Ashleys.

 

Warning!
There is violence and explicit language in this short work of fantasy and horror. This story has werewolves, people get ate. You have been warned!

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.J. Spicer
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201739294

T.J. Spicer

T.J. Spicer currently lives in San Diego, California, with his beautiful wife and daughter. It has been a long time homecoming for him to return to the Golden State after leaving to serve in the United States Army. Tim was a sergeant in C Co., 1st BSTB, 82nd Air Borne division. Don’t get too excited. He was no war hero, just a simple signal sergeant. Today he spends his time writing jabbering tales of fiction and enjoys roleplaying games, all books he can devour, and tabletop miniatures games. A mid all these silly nerdisms, he somehow finds time to work his day job as a test engineer. I hate writing about myself, so maybe someone else would have done a better job.

Book preview

Interlude Eight

THE EARLY EVENING brought a biting wind as the soft rays of Gianna’s light sank behind the ragged mountains of the high northern ice shelf. The slinking shade drifting through the copse of trees felt in her bones there would be snow tonight. Instinct drove her to seek shelter from the coming storm. Her mind drifted, seeking large groves, or maybe a dense thicket that could shelter the pack. The sudden jolt of thought of the family, the pack she had lost, caused the ebony beast to stumble. She resumed her padding and skittered through the light dusting of snow on the forest floor.

The frosty winds whistled, now carrying with them the terrified screams of men and the dying brays of their steeds. Lowering her belly to the icy ground, she slunk into the shadow of a large ash. The acrid, choking miasma of smoke and metallic taste of man-blood pulled her focus to the northwest. Beyond the treeline, the sound of clashing steel rang above the mourning cries of those who would be dead by sunrise.

Men and their clumsy weapons: poor imitations of fang and claw. Their presence demanded that she run. But it had been five long days since she had fresh meat. The pain in her belly drove her instinct to hunt, to kill, to feed. A packless wolf can ill afford to ignore a meal so close. Baring her fangs, she slunk towards the calamity. Snow dotted her black fur as she cautiously stalked towards the battle.

Clearing a small rut in the snowy loam, she approached the tree line. The cloying blood aroma grew as she approached, the sweet visage of hot heart’s blood steaming off the corpses that littered the road drove her mouth to water. She slowed as realization dawned on her.  Where there were roads, men would be close by. Instinct warned her to move on, to flee back into the safety of the thick forests and high places. The very thought of high places brought back a foreign memory, something she had hidden deep inside. The memory of the one promised to her brought a boiling rage, drowning out the guttural voice of her instincts. Froths of spittle ran off her jaw as her vision narrowed.

Lastrinn warrior haffallenr, a harsh and stoney voice called from behind a wagon barely visible further to the north.

The wolfess had heard this language spoken before. It was the north-tongue. Bone-Breaker and Sweet-Grass spoke the north-tongue well when they had been alive. The beast felt she had known this tongue some time ago.

Oh great Pull, let me see past the veil of man’s words, the stalking beast whispered in Packspeech, calling upon her goddess for aid.

Góð save hvat þú mega.  Þeir munu sell vel á jarl’s market, the first voice instructed.

The wolfess concentrated upon the words hoping to find their meaning, attempting to see past mankind’s made-up speech. All of the Pack knew that man’s tongue was a falsehood created to hide their souls from one another. Only the pureness of Packspeech bore another’s spirit.

Einnhverr víf worth takinginn eðkeepingr? The first voice inquired, kicking one of the corpses littering the ground.

With silent grace, the Stray circled around and slipped across the dirt road, only a dark blur. Vanishing into the lengthening shadows as the moon slowly rose to its place in the heavens. Her black fur heavy with snow was perfect camouflage against the weak eyes of man.

Þar er fárr.  Sumr riper þá fleiri fólk, en allr ready til munu pluckeð, the second voice answered with a lecherous tone.

With care and trepidation, the wolfess crept behind the two at the tree line. These were not the soft men of the south, but thick-limbed warriors, hard men of the north. Both were draped in thick, gnarled manes of lanky hair and dense, coarse tufts of fur hid their faces. The wolfess snorted and corrected herself: beards. Those are beards. For men, these were truly immense figures, though not as large as Bone-Breaker was or even her war form. Man-flesh protected their thin, weak hides with the cursed metal skin, with stolen hides and fur of the beast. The huntress bemoaned the metal-linked false skin. It always caught in her teeth and chipped her claws. Even worse, they each carried with them the cursed ersatz metal claw. No, not a claw, a sword. The starved Stray could smell the fresh blood on these men. The blood of their man-kin matted their beards and streaked their bodies in crimson ribbons.

To hunt your own, the Stray spoke to herself in Packspeak and coiled, readying to strike. Will humans’ depravity never end?

The Wolfess froze in place, memories of her mother’s life blood dripping from her maw splattering across her mind. The flavor, the smell of Sweet-Grass’s flesh fouled her tongue. Growing dizzy, her mind spun with nightmares of half forgotten guilt.

Ek never tökumk þú fyrir poetr! þú betri save nicer ripe einn fyrir mik. The first man clapped the second upon the shoulder with a laugh. He had a thick skeggøx axe in his right hand to match the sword at his hip. It was a cruel thing with a notched and worn blade. It dripped heavy with crimson, large chunks of flesh and hair clung to the edge.

Hvat megekr segðekr hafpoetryr inn minn soul, the second man laughed and gripped his friend’s shoulder.

Mother Pull let me know these men, Gea whispered again in Packspeech. Let their words bare truth.

The wind stalled.  A soft hush suffocated the forest. A heaviness pulled hard at the Stray’s center. Pressure built behind her eyes, then a loud pop was more felt than heard in her head.

Gregor, don’t doubt my words. You best save a ripe fairie for me. Best that I see to the horses and one of us motivate the caravan master about our silver, the first man said.

Dorg, I can make no promises of the virtue of a fairie for you. You know how Pilma can get after a good slaughter, Gregor answered and laughed. The caravan master may not be motivated to do more than die.  You might have to dig our silver out his death grip.

"Heh, I hope he proves to be as strong in death as he was in life, and you tell Pilma if he slaughters any of our prisoners before I get my choice of fairie, I will feed him his balls!" Dorg’s face darkened to his words.

If you say it, Dorg. I will pick out a nice sow for you to ride.

Make sure her teats are as plump as her arse, Dorg snarled. Last time you had been left to pick one, I received the dregs. I best not find a bony stork awaiting me again.

Oh, do you want her to smile and praise you as you mount her too?

Even your wife doesn’t do that for you, Gregor, Dorg snorted.

"The fun is in the fight, Dorg! Besides, not like any of these soft southern faeries have the correct padding