MicroHorror

Beneath mistletoe hanging off sacred oaks, Eskenga went with victorious song in his heart. The green canopy filtered sunlight, and yellowish rays tinted emerald, a lush green expanse along the dirt path leading to the sacred glen. His voice rang out, announcing his gift of song; a Druidic bard, one of the Three. Not a Seer or Priest, the Bard’s gift depicted the past and present through song. The Romans would be marching soon, and he had an important message to take to the Gaul Council, a meeting place in the hut of Vercingetorix, who exhorted his tribe Arverni to ally with other tribes to fight Caesar and his Centurions. A quick stop at the sacred glen to gather his energies and…

The howl rose, a baritone rising into soprano range. It sent shivers down Eskenga’s spine, and he knew it was no mere wolf. Wolves didn’t hunt in the afternoon. And it began so low and rose unnaturally high; it was one of them! Travelers and merchants had been attacked recently, even in broad daylight, their bodies ripped apart. Villagers whispered Garou, meaning werewolves.

Eskenga clutched the mistletoe pendant hanging from his neck and muttered an enchantment. He hurried down the seldom trod path, invoking gods for protection, the White Stag and Grannus, who presided over fires and the sun for the light of truth.

Before him landed a massive wolf. Its weight shook the path. Muscles rippled beneath thick silvertips of fur, and it locked eyes with Eskenga. He could not look away from the death-grip stare. Eskenga’s breath caught, the song dead in his throat, rotting into a whimper. Muscles tensed, throat constricted, and his hand tore the pendant from his neck, moving of its own volition; the Wolf controlled him with laughing eyes.

Do you think you are the only bard in these woods? the Wolf spoke into his mind. It cocked its head and twin ears perked at spiking howls, a cacophony of maddened glee. My pack consists of bards, too. Hear them singing of balance?

Eskenga found his voice with effort: “It… it is good to speak of balance. I am here to stop Vercingetorix from heeding the advice of spies. He plans to rally his armies at Alesia, but Caesar won’t be there; the intelligence is erroneous. I must warn Gaul’s leader… ”

Listen!

Something landed behind Eskenga. The earth bounced beneath his sandaled feet. Eskenga’s heart beat like a fleeing stag’s hooves. He knelt for mercy, bowed his head. Blood rushed into his face until veins throbbed at his temples.

“If I die, so will Gaul!”

Wolf snickered–a giggling whine escalating into a growl–and then it barked. Other Wolves matched its laughter, stepping from thick woods onto the path, six then a dozen; mocking Wolf-laughter ridiculing.

Caesar is prudent in battle tactics, Wolf said. Knowing you Druids enhanced Vercingetorix and Gaul, Caesar dispatched one of his own messengers to us.

“One of his messengers?” Eskenga risked a glance at Wolf. “For what purpose?”

To kill you, Bard. To silence your song.

Wolf’s words froze Eskenga. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Upon his death, all of Gaul would fall because of his failure.

“Why?” Eskenga cried, his singsong voice now strangled with emotion. “Why side with Rome?”

Do you Druids not teach that everything dies, Eskenga? Gaul is the weakest of the nations. And the Pack always brings down the weakest.

“But my Song!” Eskenga remembered. “My Song was one of victory and surprise!”

The victory is Rome’s, and this is the surprise… your death.

Fangs closed gently around Eskenga’s throat. Primal eyes locked with his own. Are you ready? Jaws clamped together in wet, squishing sounds as howls rose like a dirge, sad and melancholy. Red cloves trembled in the sacred oaks, and one fell next to Eskenga’s pale and bloodied face, as sharp pain gave way to numb cold.

There will always be bards, Eskenga.

Blood-red mistletoe faded to gray.