Post by J.O.N ((Dragonwing)) on Jun 11, 2012 7:48:23 GMT -5
This my unfinished story for last years Nano, it's just prologue/ first chapter. I decided there was no point not putting it up, so be free to rip it to shreds.
1000 Pheasants and a Werewolf.
The jungles of Bangladesh, 1888.
The rifle shot could be heard for miles around sending exotic birds flying in loud squawking masses and any other animal fleeing in to the tangled undergrowth. Frantic shouting from the Indian porters and elephant drivers turned the once peaceful jungle in to a hive of activity. This was a common occurrence when the British hunting trips trekked in to the Bengali jungles, hunting for the famed tigers of India.
Large white elephants carried the hunting expedition and their supplies for days in to the jungle, the sweltering heat kept at bay by the Indian servants who shaded the British men. This was no ordinary British expedition though. It was made up of Prince George, the son of Edward the Prince of Wales; and Dr. Francis Drake Rothschild, Lord Seymour Grey and Sir James Durnwall.
It was two days in to the expedition and already they had found the tracks of a large tiger. Their guides had led them to the edge of a roaring white water river. On the other side a tiger was making its way along a rocky outcrop just above the torrent of water. Upon spotting the elephants emerging from the jungle growth it turned and attempted to sprint back in the dark trees and ferns. James had been ready though and his rifle caught it on its flank. Clearly wounded and quite badly the tiger still managed to disappear.
“Good shoot James; I do fancy a long walk in this heat.” Came the mocking applause from Lord Grey.
James looked back at the Lord and grinned. “It may do you some good, what with all the pastries you were eating back at the lodge.”
“How dare you address a superior in such a manner!” exclaimed Grey, an appearance of amazement clear on his youthful yet slightly chubby face.
“Seymour, I already made it clear; titles and ranks were not to be used on this expedition. We are all equal men this week.”
It was the rough yet gentle spoken voice of George, even in the heat of India he held himself high and broad shouldered, his face framed by a large trimmed beard and moustache. Like the others he wore a Khaki pith helmet and Khaki hunting uniform, designed for the intense humidity.
Lord Grey looked at George and a flash of anger could be seen in his small pig like eyes before quickly changing to that of submission. He bowed his head and was silent. The other two hunters watched silent for a few moments before the doctor coughed.
“There’s the matter of the river, how do we get across it?”
There was silence between the men for a few moments more before James shouted out to one of the Indian guides. They had a hurried conversation in Hindi and the Indian guide started giving orders to the Indian porters and elephant drivers. James sat back up from the side of his elephant and looked to George.
“Our guide knows a crossing further downstream, but its best we leave the elephants here with the porters so they can make camp, we will go with the guide and a few armed men.”
In half an hour the men had dismounted the elephants and were checking rifles and their gear, along with them were twenty armed porters and their guide. By now the sun had begun to set and a sunset of deep orange was descending across the jungle. It was going to take them an hour or two to get across the river and the Indian men were restless.
“James, why are they so apprehensive?” asked Francis as he watched some of the porters staring in to the jungle worryingly.
“Night in the jungle isn’t a pleasant thing to experience, I’m a bit cautious myself; we should hurry or risk having to find the tiger in the dark.”
George picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder before looking at the others. “Let’s go men; I’m sure James’s shot stopped the tiger long before it got too deep in to the undergrowth.”
With a shout in Hindi the porters got in line behind the Englishmen and the guide took to the front of the group. He led them down towards the river were a narrow game track led in downstream. In only few minutes the group had lost sight of the campsite and a cautious silence had descended them all. With their right flank to the river, the porters kept a wary eye on the jungle to their left, its tall trees and vines blocking from view anything mere yards away. The shadow of the canopy created a dark ominous feeling emitting from the jungle and the nerves of the men grew with each minute.
Eventually as the sun began to sink behind the tops of the trees they reached the shallow river crossing, here the water died to a near standstill and only reached the tops of their legs. One by one they filed down the track into the river, supporting each other as they crossed the river. It only took them several minutes to reach the far bank.
“I think I caught a fish.”
It was the first few words spoken for nearly an hour and an uneasy chuckle from the hunters followed it. The group stopped to drain out their boots and check their equipment, Lord Grey took the moments rest to sit down and catch his breath as James and George stared up at the growing dark sky.
“I really don’t fancy travelling back in the dark.” It was the doctor who spoke, he had removed his helmet and his gold curled hair had stuck to his head. Removing his half lens glasses he gave them a clean before putting them back on and looking at George. “Should we head back and try again tomorrow?”
“Nonsense,” replied the Prince, “We have plenty of time, and besides what animal of the night will mess with a group of armed men?” it was clear to the other men he was just trying to rouse their spirits, but they all agreed to push on anyways, it was no sense in letting the kill go to waste.
It was dark by the time the group reached the tiger kill, some of the porters held torches for the men to see. To the surprise of the guide and the Englishmen the tiger appeared to have made its way further in to the jungle then they had suspected. More concerning was the realisation that it had been dragged part of the way. Circling the kill George, James, Francis and Seymour stared down at the huge gash that raked the side of the large tiger. It’s once beautiful orange and black fur was marred by blood and its intestines and been ripped out and left piled beside it. The stench of its guts left the air putrid.
“Bloody hell” was all James could choke as he held his sleeve to his face. Besides him Lord Grey turned, stumbled and began to wretch. George stared down at the mutilated corpse, behind them frantic whisperings of the Indians made it clear that they were in a state of panic.
“Francis, what in God’s name could of done this?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper.
Francis, the only one not immediately put off by the corpse, crouched beside it, a curious gleam to his eyes. He pulled a pair of leather gloves from a pouch on his belt and slipped them on then, to the disgust of everyone present; he picked up a length of the intestine and began to examine it.
“My God, man, have you no sense of smell?” Was all James could gasp.
“How strange, purification has already set in, yet it has only been an hour and,” he stopped, pulled out a pocket watch with his clean hand “and a half”.
Lord Grey finally managed to pull himself together, though like James he held his sleeve to his face. Looking at the gash he shuddered.
“Could it of been another tiger?” he asked, his eyes fearfully darting between the trees.
“With a wound like that?! I bloody well hope we never meet it!” James exclaimed.
“No, no this was no tiger.” Francis said with an air of finality, looking up at James he said, “Ask our guide, maybe one of our Bengali porters know anything about this”.
James nodded and hurried his way to the guide, the two quickly fell in to a frantic discussion. George by then had slipped his rifle from his shoulder and checked that it was loaded.
“Do you think whatever it was would come back?” he asked the doctor while keeping his eyes on the shadows that danced in the jungle, cast by the torches.
“I have no idea, the fact this thing has not only preyed on a tiger, but also created such a laceration…” Francis went quite for a few minutes, “We are dealing with a predator, no predators likes getting its kill taken from under its nose”.
“Wait! You’re saying this thing could come back?!” coughed Lord Grey, his fear turning to sheer panic.
“I don’t think its left” stated George.
Shouting suddenly erupted behind the men causing the three of them to turn in surprise. Several of the porters were shouting at the guide brandishing their weapons. James had stepped back in surprised as an argument erupted between the guide and the angry Indians.
“What’s going on?” George asked James.
“I don’t know, it’s hard to keep up, but from what the guide told me, some of the local men fear a creature that they say hunts the tigers. I believe those men are now saying we should flee this area.”
As James tried to explain the conversation George felt a prickling sensation along the back of his neck. Turning he found himself staring in to an incredibly dark patch of the jungle. The light of torches did not cast close to the spot and the sun had truly set by now. Gripping his rifle tightly he faced the darkness full on and began to raise the gun. Before he could even sight it a piercing howl filled the night air. It was like that of wolfs yet it lacked any of the majesty or normality. It was a wail, a screech, a horrible moan of dread; it’s very sound froze everyone in place, their blood freezing and their skin crawling. It turned seconds in to minutes and drew out a long unmistakable fear, the fear of prey. In a single moment every sound in the jungle, human or otherwise, stopped except for that howl.
As suddenly as it began, it stopped. Silence rang as everyone stared off in to the jungle.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” Moaned Lord Grey, he had fallen backwards during the howl and was scrambling along the ground away from the dark part of the jungle.
The Indian porters began to yell and cry out, some grabbing their guns others waving their torches wildly around sending even more shadows dancing. The guide was yelling for order but even he was in a state of panic. It was what the creature was waiting for.
Before anyone had time to prepare themselves, it leapt from the jungle, branches, vines and ferns ripped out of its way by its huge bulking form. George barely had time to fire a shot before it hit him, sending him sprawling to the side. James gave a shout as it sailed past him, one of its limbs catching his leg and ripping gash though it. Besides James the guide never stood a chance, with a snap of bone and flesh the creature hit the guide and both of them disappeared into the jungle. A flurry of gunshots followed them as several of the porters fired their guns in a panic.
Before George could get back up several of the Indians fled in to the jungle their shouts and yells fading into the night. Stumbling to his feet, still clutching his gun, George limped to James’s side; Francis already was ripping cloth from his Khaki shorts. The gash on James’s leg was deep and blood was pooling on the ground beneath it.
“Damnation, is he going to be okay?” George whispered fiercely to the doctor.
“I have no clue, I think it missed his artery.” Was all Francis said as he quickly began to dress the wound as best he could.
George quickly began to survey the situation, already they had wounded and probably dead, not to mention many of their porters had ran off, most of them with the torches.
That was when he realised they were missing someone.
“Where’s Seymour? Seymour! Lord Grey?!”
Francis looked up from his administrations and stared at George. A dreadful thought began to dawn on them.
“You don’t think he would run? Not with that thing out in the night?” Francis whispered his eyes wide.
“The fool is a coward but I never thought for him to be stupid.” George growled in reply.
The remaining porters had by then stepped as far back from the trees as they could, their guns pointed every direction they could. Once again silence was descending the jungle and the hurried whispers of the porters caught George’s ear.
“James, can you talk?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to but I can.” His reply was strained, the pain clear in his voice.
“I need you to get those porters to stay here, I need them guarding you two” George said with an authoritative tone entering his voice.
“You surely don’t mean to go after Seymour alone do you?!” exclaimed Francis. The scream of a man suddenly pierced the air and all eyes glanced once more at the dark jungle around them.
“I won’t leave any man to that thing, fool or not.” George said with a quiet voice. Already he had reloaded his gun and was making his way to the trail the creature had left. As he began to head in to the jungle Francis called out to him from behind.
“Before you go, think about this, that creature could have easily dragged that tiger off further in to the jungle away from us. But it didn’t, it left it here for us to find, it set a trap.”
George stared at the doctor for a moment before replying.
“I figured that.”
…
Almost as soon as he entered the thick undergrowth George was clawed and tangled by the vines and branches of the jungle around him. Choosing to forsake a torch for the benefit of secrecy made it almost impossible to tell which direction the creature had gone; a remarkable problem for the beast to be so agile in the web of vines and thick trees. All he had to go on was the broken ferns and branches of its passing.
By now the moon had rose high above the canopy and its silvery light filtered down through the leaves leaving eerie rays of light. Fortunately it was enough light to help navigate his way down a slope and though a bracket of thorned bushes. Ahead he could make out a slender shadow of what appeared to be human being. Slowing his pace, George gripped his rifle and stealthily made his way towards it.
Just a few yards away the shadow sharply turned to face him, bringing its gun up at him. The face-off only lasted a second before both men recognised each other. The shadow was an Indian man, dressed in dark robes and holding a shotgun, at his side was a sword made of what seemed to be silver. He slowly raised a finger to his lips before pointing towards a clearing George could make out through a gap in the bracket. George cocked his head towards the clearing and pointed towards the man himself. The man nodded understanding gesture and both of them stalked up towards the gap.
“Names George” whispered the prince, his voice barely heard over the rustling of leaves.
“Blessing’s to you my prince, my name is Harpreet” even whispered his English was impeccable.
Surprised, George blinked at Harpreet.
“How did you-“
“Know who you were? It is my duty to know whoever crosses paths with me on my hunt.”
George blinked a second time, his mind racing, the man’s hunt? Surely he did not mean to say he hunted this beast? His thoughts were laced with confusion and doubt all the while the man before smiled his eyes shining in the moonlight with a since of amusement.
“Yes, I think you will do, now shall we do the god’s will and end this tyrant of the night?”
“How do you kill it? It went straight through our group, merely shrugging off our bullets.” George stared at the man’s gun. It was a simple breech loaded rifle, no less than a few decades old, nothing like his more modern weapon. Harpreet caught him staring and grinned.
“No my prince, not with this, with silver, with my sword. The beast of the night cannot stand the purity of silver,” as he spoke he nodded towards the clearing “watch now, the beast will have its fun, then we shall strike.”
From the clearing came a moan followed by the sound of something heavy being thrown on to the dirt ground. A shape in the moonlight began to crawl backwards towards the tree line only to be dragged back by a huge clawed hand. The figure broke down and began to sob before going back to crawling towards the trees. In the light of the full moon George could see that the figure was Seymour, his Khaki clothing ripped to shreds and a massive wound on his left shoulder. Once again as Seymour began to crawl towards the trees the creature reached out with its claw.
“Now my prince, attack now!”
On pure reflex George bounded from the jungle raising his rifle and sighting at the creatures huge body. His gun roared and the beast jerked back away from Seymour, a vicious growl filling the clearing. It’s dreaded cold eyes snapped to George, full of bloodlust they stared him down and it leapt, covering several yards in scant a second. But before it could strike George, Harpreet gave a bloodcurdling war cry and dashed at the beast’s side, his silver sword slicing through its fur and flesh.
By now, with it mere inches away from him, George could see the beast in its full form. Covered in black mangy hair, its appearance was like that of a wolf, but far more grotesque and revolting. Its head was scarred and large; though its muzzle was far shorter than a canine it still held the basic shape of one. The beast’s body was top heavy with a huge bulking chest and shoulders supporting almost ape like arms of tremendous size and muscle. They ended in monstrous human like hands except for the massive claws, gleaming as if sharp as iron blades. The beast’s hindquarters in comparison were almost amusingly small. Its legs were the same pawed feet and structure of a dog or wolf, but its knees were inverted and still the size of George’s arms. The smell of the beast was rancid with blood and gore and a sense of wrongness that George could not place.
Taking the opportunity given to him by Harpreets’s daring attack, George quickly dived away from the beast, cracking his rifles lever as he went. Kneeling he sighted the beasts massive head and fired a second shot before it had a chance to bite the Indian swordsman. The shot though ineffective still slammed its head aside. Taking the opening, Harpreet once again drove sword at its exposed side. This time however, the beast was ready and it managed to lash out with its left arm. The blade merely scratched the limb as the back of its claw slammed in to Harpreet’s chest.
The force of the blow sent Harpreet flying back over Georges head and on to the ground a few yards behind him. He had dropped his sword from the blow and it landed between George and the beast, its silver glinting in the dust.
“My prince! The sword, impale its chest with the sword!” Harpreet said his voice strained and frantic. Clutching at his side, George could tell the beasts blow had broken the man’s ribs.
A vicious growl brought Georges attention back to the creature; its attention was directed back him. The swords wound had seemingly slowed it down drastically, blood marred its side and it had difficulty turning to face him. Both watched each other warily, between them the sword continued to gleam.
Almost at the precise moment both man and beast leapt. Instead of going straight for the sword, like the beast thought he would do, he shoved his rifle in to its gaping maw. On pure reflex the beast snapped its jaw down on the wood and steel, the gun not standing a chance bent and snapped. Not bothering to hold on, George dove for the sword. As the beast cast the rifle remnants aside he pierced its chest with a perfect duellists thrust. To his surprise the blade cut through the beast’s hair, flesh, muscle and bones. Around the sword the beast’s body hissed and smoked as if the silver was burning it.
Throwing back its head, the creature gave out gut wrenching scream. Driving forward with all his strength, George managed to push the beast back as its scream made him grit his teeth. Then with a horrific groan the beast sagged back and fell off the sword. In amazement George stared at the stump that was left of the silver blade, barely a few inches were left of it.
Behind him there was crashing of plants and branches and from the jungle stumbled Francis and James with their remaining porters. Leaning on Francis James held a gun in his free hand and raised, his leg was wrapped in cloth and his skin was white and sweating.
“Your Highness! You’re… You’re okay?” blurted James, his face surprised and gasping for air.
George just stared at them and then back at the beast, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Finally he turned to look at Harpreet, the Indian man had managed to stand up and was clutching at his side and grinning like a madman.
“Francis, check on Seymour” was all George could say as he kept staring at the Indian man.
“It looks like the prince has won his duel” congratulated Harpreet, staggering to George’s side.
Hobbling over to them James took up George’s right and stared down at the dead beast.
“What in God’s name was that thing?” he croaked, fearful from getting too near it.
“We call it a Rakasha, I believe you Englishmen call it a Werewolf” Harpreet explained.
The two men looked at Harpreet, their eyebrows raised in amazement and surprise.
“A Werewolf!? You mean to tell me that, that thing is a Werewolf?” exclaimed James, looking back at the mass of fur and flesh. Even slumped one the ground it managed to nearly reach the men’s height.
There was a rustle of cloth and suddenly Francis was kneeling besides the Werewolf, a look of wonder and intense curiosity on his face. Behind him lay Lord Grey, his wound bandaged, he was evidently out cold. James and George watched in fascination as Francis began to pry apart he beast’s jaws and poke in to every possible juicy or squishy part. Fascination became horror as the doctor once again placed his left glove on and shoved his hand down its throat; he twisted it about a bit before withdrawing it and taking his glove off.
“Interesting, it shows signs of both human and wolf like physiology, oh we must bring this back to the Royal Society.”
There was a cough and both men turned to face Harpreet. Shaking his head Harpreet gestured a torch in his hand.
“No gentlemen, the beast must burn before day break, anything that feasts from its blood or flesh becomes cursed.”
All three men exchanged a glance of scepticism.
“Cursed?” question Francis, a slight amount of humour in his voice.
Harpreet nodded and made his way to stand beside the man, staring down at the beast. A chilling air blew through the air and the jungle began to fill once more with the sound of normal life.
“It will be best if this creature were to be disposed of now, its legend is so old my people cannot truly remember how its curse works, only that silver is all it fears. While I respect you and your prince, you English are rash and do not always think things through.”
Francis opened his mouth to argue when he caught the eye of George who gestured to drop it.
“I owe you my life and the life of my friend to you, we will burn the corpse, and you have my promise” he said holding out his hand. Harpreet smiled and took it, the handshake sealing the deal.
It did not take long and by midnight, the beast was placed upon a pile of dead sticks and leaves. Tossing the torch in to the tinder the corpse erupted in a blaze of heat, the fire quickly climbed in to the night’s sky and the beast began to burn swiftly. As the wind carried the black oily smoke away, George began to wonder, how many of these things were there? And more importantly, would there always be men like Harpreet ready to hunt them?
The jungles of Bangladesh, 1888.
The rifle shot could be heard for miles around sending exotic birds flying in loud squawking masses and any other animal fleeing in to the tangled undergrowth. Frantic shouting from the Indian porters and elephant drivers turned the once peaceful jungle in to a hive of activity. This was a common occurrence when the British hunting trips trekked in to the Bengali jungles, hunting for the famed tigers of India.
Large white elephants carried the hunting expedition and their supplies for days in to the jungle, the sweltering heat kept at bay by the Indian servants who shaded the British men. This was no ordinary British expedition though. It was made up of Prince George, the son of Edward the Prince of Wales; and Dr. Francis Drake Rothschild, Lord Seymour Grey and Sir James Durnwall.
It was two days in to the expedition and already they had found the tracks of a large tiger. Their guides had led them to the edge of a roaring white water river. On the other side a tiger was making its way along a rocky outcrop just above the torrent of water. Upon spotting the elephants emerging from the jungle growth it turned and attempted to sprint back in the dark trees and ferns. James had been ready though and his rifle caught it on its flank. Clearly wounded and quite badly the tiger still managed to disappear.
“Good shoot James; I do fancy a long walk in this heat.” Came the mocking applause from Lord Grey.
James looked back at the Lord and grinned. “It may do you some good, what with all the pastries you were eating back at the lodge.”
“How dare you address a superior in such a manner!” exclaimed Grey, an appearance of amazement clear on his youthful yet slightly chubby face.
“Seymour, I already made it clear; titles and ranks were not to be used on this expedition. We are all equal men this week.”
It was the rough yet gentle spoken voice of George, even in the heat of India he held himself high and broad shouldered, his face framed by a large trimmed beard and moustache. Like the others he wore a Khaki pith helmet and Khaki hunting uniform, designed for the intense humidity.
Lord Grey looked at George and a flash of anger could be seen in his small pig like eyes before quickly changing to that of submission. He bowed his head and was silent. The other two hunters watched silent for a few moments before the doctor coughed.
“There’s the matter of the river, how do we get across it?”
There was silence between the men for a few moments more before James shouted out to one of the Indian guides. They had a hurried conversation in Hindi and the Indian guide started giving orders to the Indian porters and elephant drivers. James sat back up from the side of his elephant and looked to George.
“Our guide knows a crossing further downstream, but its best we leave the elephants here with the porters so they can make camp, we will go with the guide and a few armed men.”
In half an hour the men had dismounted the elephants and were checking rifles and their gear, along with them were twenty armed porters and their guide. By now the sun had begun to set and a sunset of deep orange was descending across the jungle. It was going to take them an hour or two to get across the river and the Indian men were restless.
“James, why are they so apprehensive?” asked Francis as he watched some of the porters staring in to the jungle worryingly.
“Night in the jungle isn’t a pleasant thing to experience, I’m a bit cautious myself; we should hurry or risk having to find the tiger in the dark.”
George picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder before looking at the others. “Let’s go men; I’m sure James’s shot stopped the tiger long before it got too deep in to the undergrowth.”
With a shout in Hindi the porters got in line behind the Englishmen and the guide took to the front of the group. He led them down towards the river were a narrow game track led in downstream. In only few minutes the group had lost sight of the campsite and a cautious silence had descended them all. With their right flank to the river, the porters kept a wary eye on the jungle to their left, its tall trees and vines blocking from view anything mere yards away. The shadow of the canopy created a dark ominous feeling emitting from the jungle and the nerves of the men grew with each minute.
Eventually as the sun began to sink behind the tops of the trees they reached the shallow river crossing, here the water died to a near standstill and only reached the tops of their legs. One by one they filed down the track into the river, supporting each other as they crossed the river. It only took them several minutes to reach the far bank.
“I think I caught a fish.”
It was the first few words spoken for nearly an hour and an uneasy chuckle from the hunters followed it. The group stopped to drain out their boots and check their equipment, Lord Grey took the moments rest to sit down and catch his breath as James and George stared up at the growing dark sky.
“I really don’t fancy travelling back in the dark.” It was the doctor who spoke, he had removed his helmet and his gold curled hair had stuck to his head. Removing his half lens glasses he gave them a clean before putting them back on and looking at George. “Should we head back and try again tomorrow?”
“Nonsense,” replied the Prince, “We have plenty of time, and besides what animal of the night will mess with a group of armed men?” it was clear to the other men he was just trying to rouse their spirits, but they all agreed to push on anyways, it was no sense in letting the kill go to waste.
It was dark by the time the group reached the tiger kill, some of the porters held torches for the men to see. To the surprise of the guide and the Englishmen the tiger appeared to have made its way further in to the jungle then they had suspected. More concerning was the realisation that it had been dragged part of the way. Circling the kill George, James, Francis and Seymour stared down at the huge gash that raked the side of the large tiger. It’s once beautiful orange and black fur was marred by blood and its intestines and been ripped out and left piled beside it. The stench of its guts left the air putrid.
“Bloody hell” was all James could choke as he held his sleeve to his face. Besides him Lord Grey turned, stumbled and began to wretch. George stared down at the mutilated corpse, behind them frantic whisperings of the Indians made it clear that they were in a state of panic.
“Francis, what in God’s name could of done this?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper.
Francis, the only one not immediately put off by the corpse, crouched beside it, a curious gleam to his eyes. He pulled a pair of leather gloves from a pouch on his belt and slipped them on then, to the disgust of everyone present; he picked up a length of the intestine and began to examine it.
“My God, man, have you no sense of smell?” Was all James could gasp.
“How strange, purification has already set in, yet it has only been an hour and,” he stopped, pulled out a pocket watch with his clean hand “and a half”.
Lord Grey finally managed to pull himself together, though like James he held his sleeve to his face. Looking at the gash he shuddered.
“Could it of been another tiger?” he asked, his eyes fearfully darting between the trees.
“With a wound like that?! I bloody well hope we never meet it!” James exclaimed.
“No, no this was no tiger.” Francis said with an air of finality, looking up at James he said, “Ask our guide, maybe one of our Bengali porters know anything about this”.
James nodded and hurried his way to the guide, the two quickly fell in to a frantic discussion. George by then had slipped his rifle from his shoulder and checked that it was loaded.
“Do you think whatever it was would come back?” he asked the doctor while keeping his eyes on the shadows that danced in the jungle, cast by the torches.
“I have no idea, the fact this thing has not only preyed on a tiger, but also created such a laceration…” Francis went quite for a few minutes, “We are dealing with a predator, no predators likes getting its kill taken from under its nose”.
“Wait! You’re saying this thing could come back?!” coughed Lord Grey, his fear turning to sheer panic.
“I don’t think its left” stated George.
Shouting suddenly erupted behind the men causing the three of them to turn in surprise. Several of the porters were shouting at the guide brandishing their weapons. James had stepped back in surprised as an argument erupted between the guide and the angry Indians.
“What’s going on?” George asked James.
“I don’t know, it’s hard to keep up, but from what the guide told me, some of the local men fear a creature that they say hunts the tigers. I believe those men are now saying we should flee this area.”
As James tried to explain the conversation George felt a prickling sensation along the back of his neck. Turning he found himself staring in to an incredibly dark patch of the jungle. The light of torches did not cast close to the spot and the sun had truly set by now. Gripping his rifle tightly he faced the darkness full on and began to raise the gun. Before he could even sight it a piercing howl filled the night air. It was like that of wolfs yet it lacked any of the majesty or normality. It was a wail, a screech, a horrible moan of dread; it’s very sound froze everyone in place, their blood freezing and their skin crawling. It turned seconds in to minutes and drew out a long unmistakable fear, the fear of prey. In a single moment every sound in the jungle, human or otherwise, stopped except for that howl.
As suddenly as it began, it stopped. Silence rang as everyone stared off in to the jungle.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” Moaned Lord Grey, he had fallen backwards during the howl and was scrambling along the ground away from the dark part of the jungle.
The Indian porters began to yell and cry out, some grabbing their guns others waving their torches wildly around sending even more shadows dancing. The guide was yelling for order but even he was in a state of panic. It was what the creature was waiting for.
Before anyone had time to prepare themselves, it leapt from the jungle, branches, vines and ferns ripped out of its way by its huge bulking form. George barely had time to fire a shot before it hit him, sending him sprawling to the side. James gave a shout as it sailed past him, one of its limbs catching his leg and ripping gash though it. Besides James the guide never stood a chance, with a snap of bone and flesh the creature hit the guide and both of them disappeared into the jungle. A flurry of gunshots followed them as several of the porters fired their guns in a panic.
Before George could get back up several of the Indians fled in to the jungle their shouts and yells fading into the night. Stumbling to his feet, still clutching his gun, George limped to James’s side; Francis already was ripping cloth from his Khaki shorts. The gash on James’s leg was deep and blood was pooling on the ground beneath it.
“Damnation, is he going to be okay?” George whispered fiercely to the doctor.
“I have no clue, I think it missed his artery.” Was all Francis said as he quickly began to dress the wound as best he could.
George quickly began to survey the situation, already they had wounded and probably dead, not to mention many of their porters had ran off, most of them with the torches.
That was when he realised they were missing someone.
“Where’s Seymour? Seymour! Lord Grey?!”
Francis looked up from his administrations and stared at George. A dreadful thought began to dawn on them.
“You don’t think he would run? Not with that thing out in the night?” Francis whispered his eyes wide.
“The fool is a coward but I never thought for him to be stupid.” George growled in reply.
The remaining porters had by then stepped as far back from the trees as they could, their guns pointed every direction they could. Once again silence was descending the jungle and the hurried whispers of the porters caught George’s ear.
“James, can you talk?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to but I can.” His reply was strained, the pain clear in his voice.
“I need you to get those porters to stay here, I need them guarding you two” George said with an authoritative tone entering his voice.
“You surely don’t mean to go after Seymour alone do you?!” exclaimed Francis. The scream of a man suddenly pierced the air and all eyes glanced once more at the dark jungle around them.
“I won’t leave any man to that thing, fool or not.” George said with a quiet voice. Already he had reloaded his gun and was making his way to the trail the creature had left. As he began to head in to the jungle Francis called out to him from behind.
“Before you go, think about this, that creature could have easily dragged that tiger off further in to the jungle away from us. But it didn’t, it left it here for us to find, it set a trap.”
George stared at the doctor for a moment before replying.
“I figured that.”
…
Almost as soon as he entered the thick undergrowth George was clawed and tangled by the vines and branches of the jungle around him. Choosing to forsake a torch for the benefit of secrecy made it almost impossible to tell which direction the creature had gone; a remarkable problem for the beast to be so agile in the web of vines and thick trees. All he had to go on was the broken ferns and branches of its passing.
By now the moon had rose high above the canopy and its silvery light filtered down through the leaves leaving eerie rays of light. Fortunately it was enough light to help navigate his way down a slope and though a bracket of thorned bushes. Ahead he could make out a slender shadow of what appeared to be human being. Slowing his pace, George gripped his rifle and stealthily made his way towards it.
Just a few yards away the shadow sharply turned to face him, bringing its gun up at him. The face-off only lasted a second before both men recognised each other. The shadow was an Indian man, dressed in dark robes and holding a shotgun, at his side was a sword made of what seemed to be silver. He slowly raised a finger to his lips before pointing towards a clearing George could make out through a gap in the bracket. George cocked his head towards the clearing and pointed towards the man himself. The man nodded understanding gesture and both of them stalked up towards the gap.
“Names George” whispered the prince, his voice barely heard over the rustling of leaves.
“Blessing’s to you my prince, my name is Harpreet” even whispered his English was impeccable.
Surprised, George blinked at Harpreet.
“How did you-“
“Know who you were? It is my duty to know whoever crosses paths with me on my hunt.”
George blinked a second time, his mind racing, the man’s hunt? Surely he did not mean to say he hunted this beast? His thoughts were laced with confusion and doubt all the while the man before smiled his eyes shining in the moonlight with a since of amusement.
“Yes, I think you will do, now shall we do the god’s will and end this tyrant of the night?”
“How do you kill it? It went straight through our group, merely shrugging off our bullets.” George stared at the man’s gun. It was a simple breech loaded rifle, no less than a few decades old, nothing like his more modern weapon. Harpreet caught him staring and grinned.
“No my prince, not with this, with silver, with my sword. The beast of the night cannot stand the purity of silver,” as he spoke he nodded towards the clearing “watch now, the beast will have its fun, then we shall strike.”
From the clearing came a moan followed by the sound of something heavy being thrown on to the dirt ground. A shape in the moonlight began to crawl backwards towards the tree line only to be dragged back by a huge clawed hand. The figure broke down and began to sob before going back to crawling towards the trees. In the light of the full moon George could see that the figure was Seymour, his Khaki clothing ripped to shreds and a massive wound on his left shoulder. Once again as Seymour began to crawl towards the trees the creature reached out with its claw.
“Now my prince, attack now!”
On pure reflex George bounded from the jungle raising his rifle and sighting at the creatures huge body. His gun roared and the beast jerked back away from Seymour, a vicious growl filling the clearing. It’s dreaded cold eyes snapped to George, full of bloodlust they stared him down and it leapt, covering several yards in scant a second. But before it could strike George, Harpreet gave a bloodcurdling war cry and dashed at the beast’s side, his silver sword slicing through its fur and flesh.
By now, with it mere inches away from him, George could see the beast in its full form. Covered in black mangy hair, its appearance was like that of a wolf, but far more grotesque and revolting. Its head was scarred and large; though its muzzle was far shorter than a canine it still held the basic shape of one. The beast’s body was top heavy with a huge bulking chest and shoulders supporting almost ape like arms of tremendous size and muscle. They ended in monstrous human like hands except for the massive claws, gleaming as if sharp as iron blades. The beast’s hindquarters in comparison were almost amusingly small. Its legs were the same pawed feet and structure of a dog or wolf, but its knees were inverted and still the size of George’s arms. The smell of the beast was rancid with blood and gore and a sense of wrongness that George could not place.
Taking the opportunity given to him by Harpreets’s daring attack, George quickly dived away from the beast, cracking his rifles lever as he went. Kneeling he sighted the beasts massive head and fired a second shot before it had a chance to bite the Indian swordsman. The shot though ineffective still slammed its head aside. Taking the opening, Harpreet once again drove sword at its exposed side. This time however, the beast was ready and it managed to lash out with its left arm. The blade merely scratched the limb as the back of its claw slammed in to Harpreet’s chest.
The force of the blow sent Harpreet flying back over Georges head and on to the ground a few yards behind him. He had dropped his sword from the blow and it landed between George and the beast, its silver glinting in the dust.
“My prince! The sword, impale its chest with the sword!” Harpreet said his voice strained and frantic. Clutching at his side, George could tell the beasts blow had broken the man’s ribs.
A vicious growl brought Georges attention back to the creature; its attention was directed back him. The swords wound had seemingly slowed it down drastically, blood marred its side and it had difficulty turning to face him. Both watched each other warily, between them the sword continued to gleam.
Almost at the precise moment both man and beast leapt. Instead of going straight for the sword, like the beast thought he would do, he shoved his rifle in to its gaping maw. On pure reflex the beast snapped its jaw down on the wood and steel, the gun not standing a chance bent and snapped. Not bothering to hold on, George dove for the sword. As the beast cast the rifle remnants aside he pierced its chest with a perfect duellists thrust. To his surprise the blade cut through the beast’s hair, flesh, muscle and bones. Around the sword the beast’s body hissed and smoked as if the silver was burning it.
Throwing back its head, the creature gave out gut wrenching scream. Driving forward with all his strength, George managed to push the beast back as its scream made him grit his teeth. Then with a horrific groan the beast sagged back and fell off the sword. In amazement George stared at the stump that was left of the silver blade, barely a few inches were left of it.
Behind him there was crashing of plants and branches and from the jungle stumbled Francis and James with their remaining porters. Leaning on Francis James held a gun in his free hand and raised, his leg was wrapped in cloth and his skin was white and sweating.
“Your Highness! You’re… You’re okay?” blurted James, his face surprised and gasping for air.
George just stared at them and then back at the beast, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Finally he turned to look at Harpreet, the Indian man had managed to stand up and was clutching at his side and grinning like a madman.
“Francis, check on Seymour” was all George could say as he kept staring at the Indian man.
“It looks like the prince has won his duel” congratulated Harpreet, staggering to George’s side.
Hobbling over to them James took up George’s right and stared down at the dead beast.
“What in God’s name was that thing?” he croaked, fearful from getting too near it.
“We call it a Rakasha, I believe you Englishmen call it a Werewolf” Harpreet explained.
The two men looked at Harpreet, their eyebrows raised in amazement and surprise.
“A Werewolf!? You mean to tell me that, that thing is a Werewolf?” exclaimed James, looking back at the mass of fur and flesh. Even slumped one the ground it managed to nearly reach the men’s height.
There was a rustle of cloth and suddenly Francis was kneeling besides the Werewolf, a look of wonder and intense curiosity on his face. Behind him lay Lord Grey, his wound bandaged, he was evidently out cold. James and George watched in fascination as Francis began to pry apart he beast’s jaws and poke in to every possible juicy or squishy part. Fascination became horror as the doctor once again placed his left glove on and shoved his hand down its throat; he twisted it about a bit before withdrawing it and taking his glove off.
“Interesting, it shows signs of both human and wolf like physiology, oh we must bring this back to the Royal Society.”
There was a cough and both men turned to face Harpreet. Shaking his head Harpreet gestured a torch in his hand.
“No gentlemen, the beast must burn before day break, anything that feasts from its blood or flesh becomes cursed.”
All three men exchanged a glance of scepticism.
“Cursed?” question Francis, a slight amount of humour in his voice.
Harpreet nodded and made his way to stand beside the man, staring down at the beast. A chilling air blew through the air and the jungle began to fill once more with the sound of normal life.
“It will be best if this creature were to be disposed of now, its legend is so old my people cannot truly remember how its curse works, only that silver is all it fears. While I respect you and your prince, you English are rash and do not always think things through.”
Francis opened his mouth to argue when he caught the eye of George who gestured to drop it.
“I owe you my life and the life of my friend to you, we will burn the corpse, and you have my promise” he said holding out his hand. Harpreet smiled and took it, the handshake sealing the deal.
It did not take long and by midnight, the beast was placed upon a pile of dead sticks and leaves. Tossing the torch in to the tinder the corpse erupted in a blaze of heat, the fire quickly climbed in to the night’s sky and the beast began to burn swiftly. As the wind carried the black oily smoke away, George began to wonder, how many of these things were there? And more importantly, would there always be men like Harpreet ready to hunt them?
