I

Wren awoke to the howls of wolves. Laying unmoving in his bed, he focused on the noise, listening for the indication that he feared, that was hardwired into his brain from the earliest age. The silence of the night dragged on, no insects or night owls sounding off. He startled beneath his sheets as the howls came again, only much closer than before. The overlapping calls could easily be mistaken for ordinary wolves, but as the echoing cries died down, a deep gurgling snarl could be heard.

Werewolves.

As he contemplated leaping from his bed and running for his parents, he heard pounding footsteps within the house, and his father suddenly burst into his room. Age was beginning to show its strain upon his father, with his black hair shot through with streaks of grey, and many deep lines upon his face. Once a freelance scout in the kingdom to the south, his father used his earnings to purchase this land and settle down as a farmer and merchant. The years have been hard, but not unkind, working the land to produce food for the table, as well as enough to take to market. Wren loved going to the market. The day long journey to the city, exploring what each vendor was selling, and occasionally his father would give a few coppers to buy a sweet. It was a peaceful, idyllic life, until the werewolves became more courageous.

The Silverblood Knighthood had always protected the kingdom from the darker threats. keeping things like werewolves, undead, and other terrifying monstrosities at bay. But during the last few years, something has caused the werewolves to become much more ferocious. Suddenly, the outer farms and small hamlets were not as safe as they used to be. Entire households would be targeted, and if they were unlucky, completely wiped out. The roads throughout the kingdom, casually patrolled by the mounted Horsehead Knighthood, were often scenes of grizzly carnage, with merchants wagons torn asunder. Wrens father had taken to fortifying a bunker under the farmhouse and practicing drills should the worst case happen. It seemed tonight those drills would be put to the test.

His father stood in his doorway, a studded leather jerkin over his nightshirt, and his old short sword clutched in his hand. His eyes were wide, though he was clearly trying to control his fear. "Wren! We must go to the shelter, we are in danger!" The boy flung himself from his bed, thankful he decided to sleep in a light tunic and pants. He followed his father down the stairs to the front door, where his mother and younger sister stood, clinging to each other. The beasts could be heard, once again crying out into the night. His father opened the door slightly, looking into the darkened farmland. He then motioned to his family. His mother and sister went ahead of him, scurrying out the door. Around the back of the farmhouse, a cellar door lead to what one would think was a root cellar. His father yanked the door open, revealing stone stairs leading down into the darkness. Knowing his role, Wren grabbed a torch from the pile near the door, but his shaking hands made it difficult for him to strike the flint properly.

His father suddenly cried out, and wren whipped his head around in time to see what he feared most. A beast, twice the height of his father, had emerged from the darkness. Long muscular arms covered in thick brown fur ending in savagely clawed hands. A massive head with a vicious snout full of glistening fangs and glowing red eyes. The werewolves have arrived. His father swung his short sword, futilely trying to keep the monster at bay. From his left came a second beast, lunging forward. His mother shrieked, watching as the second beast clamped down its wicked fangs upon his fathers forearm. Wren tore his eyes away from the nightmare, trying desperately to light the torch. Finally after several attempts, a spark leapt from the flint, igniting the oil soaked torch. He held the flame up high, knowing the creatures disliked fire, but also lighting the way into the cellar. He turned to call to his family, to lead them into the safety of the shelter. What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life.

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He met his mothers eyes, a beautiful blue like a clear spring day. They were filled with both surprise and terror, for there, clamped on to her neck, was the maw of a third werewolf. Blood poured from her throat, soaking her night dress, her arms hanging limply at her sides. His father was a few feet way, on his knees. His left arm had been torn from his shoulder, and the claws of a beast clamped over the top of his head, like a man holding a small fruit. Wren darted forward, his heart pounding as he reached for his sister Lira. His head suddenly exploded in pain, and he was flung into the side of the farmhouse. He opened his eyes, trying to see through the daze and agony that split his skull. He saw his sister, running toward the cellar, suddenly tossed forward, down into the dark depths. He saw the torch that he was holding before he was tossed aside, now laying in a ball of fire, having landed amongst the other torches that were stacked by the door. His groggy mind was trying to spur him to flee, to scurry into the shelter after his sister. The flames from the torches, amplified from the oil, now hungrily ate at the side of the farmhouse. The light revealed several forms moving around the field.

It's a whole pack, Wren thought sleepily.

He knew he was going to lose consciousness soon, as blood ran into his eyes, and he knew if he didn't make it into the cellar, the pack would eventually get bold enough to get closer to the flames, and then he would be finished. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Wren crawled hand over hand towards the cellar doors. He could hear the werewolves yipping, growling, howling behind him. Using every ounce of willpower he had, Wren managed to pull himself over the lip of the entrance. He feebly reached up, grasping the cold iron rung on the inside of the door. As he did, he saw a hulking dark form rapidly moving towards him. With one final effort, he pulled himself forward with the rung. The weight of his body was enough to pull the door down closed, pulling him over the lip and dropping him down the stairs and into the darkness. He bounced and rolled down the stones, not feeling any of what he knew must be a painful descent.

Finally, he landed on the packed dirt floor. With the thin beam of moonlight coming through the cellar door from above, the only thing he could make out was his sisters form. She was laying next to him, her head turned away, her hair caked in blood. He reached out to her unmoving form in vain, desperate to know if she was alive. "Lira..." The words crossed his lips at barely a whisper. Before his mind floated away into slumber, he thought he heard a new sound. Through the snarls of the monsters and the crackling flames eating his home, the whinny of horses could be heard. Then, thankfully, his eyes closed, and he knew nothing else.