The Night Bleeds

I.

The old man rested his weary head on the backrest of his recliner. His entire morning had been spent caring after the gravely ill. He had not yet eaten either breakfast or lunch, as he had been steadily losing his appetite for days. The spread of the disease was like wildfire in a parched forest and now almost everybody was infected.

It started half a year ago, he recalled, when a group of teenagers returned home from an excursion up a mountain. One of them had immediately come down with a fever. The coughing started a few days later. By then, all seven of them were flaring up, but since everyone in their little town didn't think of it as anything more than a rough case of the coughs they paid it no mind until the weakest of them started growing angry, red pustules on her skin. Even then not a single one of them thought to have the young lady isolated. Two days later, their neighbor started running a fever, and when that neighbor's kid went to the market to buy the herbal cough remedy, he had unknowingly spread it to fifteen other people.

It did not take long for the entire town to be stricken with a sickness none of them has ever seen before. The panic set in when about three in every household was coughing, but the real horror began when the first teenager to come down with it suddenly had worms crawling out of her pustules. The healers of the small town converged around her, holding her down as she convulsed to death while small, white maggot-like worms emerged from small holes all over her body. The old man saw everything with his own eyes. He was there when the young lady finally and mercifully expired, and when she breathed her last her mother screamed so loud that the birds resting in the trees overhead took off in fright. The old man at first thought it was simply a mother's grief, but now, now that they've had to bury seventy-eight people riddled with infested holes on their skin, he understood that it was purely out of fear of what was to come since she had started coughing just the night before.

The old man forced himself to get up. He reached for his cane and walked to the back of his small house, in the backyard, where there was a shed. He's been the town healer for more than half his life and would have gladly trained any child of his to follow his footsteps but the gods didn't bless him with even one. He taught instead those who came to him voluntarily, and because of his patience and sacrifice there were at least a hundred healers working tirelessly to combat this plague. Still, they were young and there was simply too much ground to cover when it came to healing. There was the matter of the herbs and how to grow them, what to use them for, how to realign bones that have popped out of their sockets, how to dress wounds and check for any inflammation, how to stop the spread of diseases and so on.

However, there was one facet of this whole body of knowledge that the old man had carefully kept in a dark corner of his mind. It was a place where every horror he had ever had to face was locked tight. His father, a healer like himself, told him that there were afflictions carried over from a realm outside of our own. Sometimes, when gods and goddesses come down from where they dwelled, a portal remains open for far longer than intended, and sometimes, a monster would crawl out of there and decimate half a town before it would be killed. Most of the time, the monster would not be as obviously destructive because they would be about the same size as a mosquito. They would not be any less dangerous though, for these tiny creatures carried diseases no mortal body on earth could withstand.

The old man carefully opened the door to his shed and walked slowly inside. What daylight left was passing through the wooden slats on the walls allowed him to look at the jars that he kept on his shelf. There were at least twenty of them, and each one had a single worm he pulled out from the hapless patients under his care. They were yellowish-white and stringy, with six tiny stubs of a leg at the first segment of their bodies. Those jars at the top shelf had water, and the worms there wriggled sluggishly. On the shelf below that, the jars only had the worms in them, and they all appeared dried out and dead. There was only one jar at the bottom and sitting in it was one he had extracted two days ago from a nine-year old girl before her eyes rolled to the back of her head for the last time. He covered it in dirt, wanting to see something. Do those things suffocate? Do they breathe like we do? How long did it take for them to die once they are buried with their poor hosts? He actually did not know how long he should wait, but now was a good time as any to check.

He lifted the jar close to his eyes and saw that nothing has changed, at least on the surface. The dirt was still packed and it did not appear to show any signs that the creature underneath it had moved.

Had it died? He asked.

Very carefully, he unscrewed the lid open and tipped the dirt over to a worktable. The old man was astounded.

"Where is it?"

He was about to put his finger in to check, but all common sense told him that would be stupid. With the end of his cane instead, he sifted through the dirt and felt a growing worry in the pit of his stomach. He knew the worm was there. He was positive that he saw it with his own eyes when he shoveled the dirt on top of it. But where was it?

And then he uncovered a long piece of discarded skin. It was white and chalky, and looked no different from the skin a snake sheds. However, instead of a larger snake what laid inside the folds of the skin were miniscule white dots no bigger than the tip of a human hair. The old man was confused until a soft gentle wind blew in from the window and scattered the dirt everywhere.

And in a flash, the old man suddenly understood what they were up against. They would probably never know what it was or where it came from, but he now knew that the worms disintegrated into viable eggs at the end of its life. When those poor teenagers had wandered up in the mountains, they had somehow wound up in a place where the eggs were dormant and waiting to be picked up. In their case, the hiking must have made them breathe quickly and harshly, inhaling the eggs that were all around them. It was vital information that could help save their lives.

But if they turned into eggs when they died, how come there are dried up ones on the second shelf that didn't?

And then it struck him.

"Oh my gods. Oh my gods, have mercy."

The old man rushed out of the shed, leaving his cane behind in a panic, limping towards the mass grave they had dug out in a clearing somewhere outside town. He had to hurry; he must hurry. The worms needed the ground to incubate into eggs. And they were all helping these creatures turn into the very thing that would kill them all.

II.

King Ymladd was an imposing figure. Towering over his men by at least a foot and a half. The throne that he sat on could seat two thin men side by side. Even through hunger and despair, he had not lost a fraction of this intimidation. He sat there that morning in his throne, with murder in his eyes, his hands gripping the carved figure of swans on the arm rests with such growing force that Halrykk could hear the wood splitting.

Kneeling in front of them was Fyngrik, bloodied and out of his mind. He had three layers of silver chains wrapped around him, all held down by guards in their werewolf form.

"The night bleeds! The night bleeds! I have seen the blood flow from the wounds of Gondwolin and they burn, Ymladd. They burn!"

"That is KING YMLADD to you!" Halrykk shouted.

Fyngrik responded by howling in pain, throwing his head back, and thrashing. The werewolf guards snarled in reply, pulling the chains taut to force him to the ground. Halrykk himself led the pack that hunted for the man, and while he was clearly out of his mind he had not forgotten to make sure that his scent would not be easily caught. Fyngrik was eventually found in a cave far from the tribe he was supposed to protect, specifically chosen because of the various kinds of flowers growing in abundance in the area. It masked his trail, but an angry Halrykk became twice the already formidable hunter that he already was. He caught the rogue werewolf through the very means that he used to hide himself: when Halrykk smelled the flowers down by the river that only grew near a cave up in the mountains. It meant that Fyngrik came down there to have a drink. When they finally caught him, it took Halrykk every bit of his restraint to not pull the man's head off his shoulders right then and there.

"I will not ask you again, yellowsnout. Why did you send your people to attack Auverine?" King Ymladd's low booming voice occupied the throne hall.

Fyngrik laughed. It was maniacal, like a hyena's. And then just as it started abruptly, Fyngrik stopped. He lifted his head from the floor to look at the king in his eyes. "The pale man knows. He lies to us all. The night bleeds. The night bleeds..."

King Ymladd closed his eyes in exasperation as Fyngrik continued to mumble. He ran his hand over his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose. There was a mighty headache there about to crack his skull open. According to Halrykk who received report from his kingsman friend, only three vampires had actually perished from the fight but seven werewolves did, which was not a surprise. What else did you expect was going to happen if you sent your troops to fight without a plan, without a reason?

Still, three vampires? It may as well be three thousand. It made no difference. Valadir may be a lot of things, but he was incredibly protective of his people.

King Ymladd nodded at his chief guard who understood the command. Like the vampires, werewolves were tethered to one another by an invisible psychic line but which they had full control over, meaning they had no need for an intermediary like a Weaver.

The chief guard gestured towards the four werewolves who then pulled the still mumbling Fyngrik out of the throne hall and down into the dungeons to be fitted into a silver-lined cell barely bigger than his body. This was to discourage transformation. If a werewolf tried, their doubled size would squeeze them in a tiny space that would burn their skin off.

When the commotion has died, Halrykk turned towards the throne. "Father, what are we to do?"

King Ymladd ordered his favorite tea to be delivered to him as he stretched out his legs and moved his shoulders. He looked at the damaged swan on the right arm rest and sighed. The swan was his mother's favorite animal. When she was queen of Ardyggmaen, the werewolves knew prosperity and most importantly, they knew peace. He felt in his heart he was somehow failing her.

His tea arrived in a large glass pitcher with two crystalline cups served on a tray. He told the server and everyone else to leave him and his son alone. When the door closed, King Ymladd let out a long, long sigh of exhaustion.

He filled the cups with the tea—an aromatic blend of herbs and a certain petal from a type of flower that they grew in their own garden. This was a blend his wife used to make to calm the raging wolf in Ymladd. It actually did more than that, if he was being honest. The drink was able to make him think clearly even when he was troubled. He grabbed one cup and gave the other to Halrykk who only took it in his hand and didn't drink it.

He downed the cup in a single gulp and set it back down. When he did, his eyes wandered over to Halrykk's limbs which were now covered in bandages. His left leg was still bleeding, somehow. And droplets of bright red blood were seeping through.

"You could have died there," Ymladd said.

Halrykk smiled. "You think me that weak?"

"I never thought you were. I am only saying that you dove right into a bloodbath armed only with your fists. You were surrounded by creatures who cared nothing about who they ripped apart, driven by hunger and anger as they were."

"If I had stopped to let myself think that, more than seven of ours would have died."

Ymladd smiled. "And this is why I sometimes think that if I should ever die sooner than later, I would have no regrets. I have raised a son who's already more than twice the man I could ever be. Although, if I may say so, you're probably just all your mother."

Halrykk understood what his father was truly saying, but he shook his head just the same. "Enough talk about you dying, father. We already have death knocking at our door." He said as he turned around to place the cup on a side table.

But Halrykk was fighting a boulder-sized lump in his throat. It wasn't that he wanted to talk about the more pressing matters, but it was because he couldn't even bear to think of his father passing. He had to change the subject before the tears fell from his eyes.

"Sadly, there is not much else we can do," Ymladd said, answering the question Halrykk asked earlier. "In every sense, we have already made a move. We now wait what the other side would do."

"But what are your plans?"

Ymladd filled another cup and drank it all in one swallow. "I doubt Valadir would listen, but just the same if he asks for an audience with me I would bring Fyngrik as a gift to his feet. I could care less what he does with that imbecile."

Halrykk sighed. "I see no end to this."

"That does not have to be the truth. The matter with the goddess is simply beyond any of us, but the problem with the humans I sent your uncle in disguise to investigate."

"Uncle Albbyd? He's with the humans right now?"

Ymladd nodded. "It was Albbyd's idea. He figured he may be able to help."

The werewolves smelled the disease spreading amongst the human from a mile away. They have ultimately stopped hunting them altogether on the very first night they had to bury their first person dead from the plague. Albbyd, curious to know what this was, suggested that he go see this for himself.

"Are we helping them because we care or because we're hungry?"

King Ymladd paused and looked at his son, feeling pride, shame, and annoyance simultaneously at how staunchly he held on to his principles. It was no secret to anyone who knew their history that werewolves descended from humans, but as the cruel fate dictated it, they were born into the world already hungry for the creatures they once were. It was simply just the natural order of things. And Ymladd knew that his son harbored a deep-seated shame about this, something that he hated himself for every time he had to feed.

"Both, son."

Halrykk nodded. "I will say no more."

"Halrykk..."

The prince did not want to look up. He was staring at the floor, overwhelmed by everything that is happening, made even worse by the relentless and cruel hunger broiling in his stomach.

"Halrykk, listen to me. Your blood is the blood of kings. There is gold in your veins more valuable than the riches on earth. But you will never see this until you accept who you are." Ymladd held his son by the arms and gently shook him. "There is nothing wrong with who you are."

And then Ymladd let go. He settled back in his throne and ordered for Halrykk to leave him be, saying he had to convene with the three other tribal leaders later to discuss the matter of the attack.

Halrykk bowed, "Father, I don't know how, but I will do everything I can to fix this."

"I know you will, son. I truly do."

III.

Rojus is not very large. To the gods, it was not so long ago when plants were the only things alive on this land until the first ancient human settlers found it sailing from distant shores. Legend has it that these people were led by twin brothers who then decided to split the land equally in half, employing the aid of a giant to dig a channel in the middle of the continent so a river could form and create a partition. It was a children's story but one that stuck because it was simple and magical. Nobody cared about the natural formation of bodies of water.

Today, the kingdom of Ardyggmaen sits on the eastern side of the Evigge River that divides the small continent of Rojus into two. Rounarde, or the domain of the vampires, is on the western side. There used to be three stone bridges over the raging river but the war with the Hag ruined the one at the center. What remained was the Auverine-Silvermane bridge and the one that led to the Lightpaws territory west of Ardyggmaen. Littered here and there were small pockets of human communities that were oblivious to the presence of the two races. Part of the magic that the moon goddess bestowed upon them was a veil to cover their form from any human eye. This allowed the werewolves and the vampires to coexist with the humans in plain sight.

The first vampire, a human who went by the name of Harran, lived approximately 30,000 years ago when the settlements were starting to evolve into a civilization. It used to be that when the hunger struck, only a few sips of blood from a willing donor was enough. As time passed, more and more people wished to be turned so they could get a taste of immortality or have the strength to hunt down animals thrice their size. Several hundred years later, a man named Salin would be turned. Because of his greed and lust for power, he abused his dark gifts, ultimately killing Harran and installing himself as the new leader, starting a new era where the vampires no longer lived in harmony with the humans, forcing them out of the main regions of Rounarde to form small colonies fearful of this new breed of monster.

With a race of vampires completely unchecked, pillaging and killing anything in their path, Gondwolin came down once more and punished them, and while she said it was because of their actions, the truth was simply because they were living like gods and had completely forgotten to worship her.

And so she cursed them.

A few drops of blood would no longer be enough. She gave them a hunger so fierce that they must drink a human dry to satiate it.

She also took away their immortality. In order to retain their youth, they must perform a ritual for Gondwolin—a worship of song and dance for one day so the blessed chalice in the temple never runs empty of the blood of the gods from Gondwolin's realm.

Salin was not so happy. His pride would never allow him to be subservient to anyone, even to a being as powerful as Gondwolin. And so he devised a plan and kept it secret. While the vampires danced and sang the song of the goddess, the vengeful vampire kept a watchful eye by the chalice. He was the first to understand how the magic of it worked: a tiny dot of a portal appeared at the bottom of the cup from which a well of blood flowed, refilling it constantly. Salin bade his time—he was nothing if not patient. The time to strike would come, but first he must portray the role of a follower. Salin swallowed his pride, begrudgingly, borrowing strength from the dream that one day it would be his turn to be worshipped. He thought he knew what to do. He just needed some more time.

I will be a god, he thought every day, as he clenched the fangs of Gondwolin in his fist.