The Howl of War
an excerpt

Saturday 4:46 AM: December 14, 2603
Hirstog Valley, Yskan

All was silent in the snowy forested valley. Nothing could be heard, save for the paced breathing of the hunting party. The stench of death hung in the air, no doubt it came from the mangled bits of meat and gore that stuck to the beast’s mouth and fur.
One of the men started to say something, but he was stifled by a swift hand gesture given by the party's leader. There were four hunters in the party, and only one monster. They were devastatingly outmatched.
Bjorn had organized this little group the morning before. One of the women of the village had been out taking a nature call, when she'd found a mangled leg near some bushes. A long trail of blood and pieces of flesh led away from there. Her scream had awoken everyone.
It had been dawn when they'd set out. Now it had been almost a full day since then, and there'd been not a single sight of the beast. Although, the smell of rotting flesh from Kyne only knows how many victims was impossible to miss.
The men were all tired. The whole thing seemed pointless, but none of them would say so. Bjorn was the leader of this party, not to mention the chieftain of Stirsk, and if he expected his men to keep searching, then by the Meadlands they would. At least they didn't fear for their lives. If they'd not come across the monster by now, they never would, and none of them were too excited with the idea of going hammer-to-claw with that creature. They'd all heard the stories of Kael, the village that'd been emptied by only one howling banshee.
Bjorn himself was beginning to think it was a hopeless endeavor. Maybe it had gotten it's fill from the morning before, and had wandered on to the next encampment or village. If so, he certainly felt bad for those that it met with, but it was none of his or his people's affair. He had a duty. His people first, his land second, then his fellow man. It was the Stirsk way, and always had been.
Just then, in a nearby cropping of bushes, a rustle passed through, then again in some bushes farther beyond the first cropping. The party froze. Ice cold blood trickled through them ever so slowly...waiting for the surge of warm adrenaline to speed through the veins of the men. Pure instinct kicked in. The snowflakes stopped in place and the trees, and bushes around them all vanished, everything was as exposed as it possibly could be to these experienced warriors.
Bjorn could make out a low, distinct growl that he could not mistake for anything else. He'd never heard the sound before, it was unique, almost like an angry wolf, but with the ferocity and violent intonation of a man. He stood at attention, his blade aware of all of its surroundings.
Suddenly, a matted, brown blur pounced on the marksman who brought up the rear. Bjorn caught a glimpse of it in his peripheral vision. Even with their amazing, god-like reflexes, the beast was simply too fast for them. It was instinct versus instinct in this battle. One side had an advantage in instinct, and it wasn’t Bjorn’s side.
Hitveld was gone. It was as if he just vanished, by the work of some demonic force or magicians spell, but Bjorn knew too well that this was no magic. It was death. Death itself was here to take them and then, Stirsk. Bjorn's duty was to protect his people. He wasn't sure he could do that, but he'd die trying. It would be a fine death for a warrior.
The axe-man was bringing up the party with Vjornsen in the rear. Of the three men's lives, the chieftain's was the most important. It was village law. No matter how much he wanted to protect his party, he had to comply and be the last to die. The first to die would wait by the doors to Meadlands Great Hall, and if the chieftain made it there, then they'd know their death was in vain, and would drown their failure in barrels of mead. If the chieftain never arrived, however, they'd celebrate their sacrifice with a night of mead and women, the likes of which they'd never seen on the mortal plane.
"Surely the beast has a limit?" breathed the exhausted Vjornsen. Bjorn didn't reply. Most likely, it would keep the un-devoured bodies for the coming nights. He didn't like that idea. His corpse would just be lying in wait to be eaten.
The dawn was about to break, and with the cover of the night gone, the beast's elusiveness would be reduced, but far from nonexistent.
Bjorn almost went to the Meadlands from sheer shock alone. Several feet away, on two feet, hunched over behind a tree, stood the monster. Fresh blood dripped from its lips and claws. What could only be a bloody finger was stuck between its teeth. Entrails and dark blood mixed with the snow, painting a horrid scene.
The creature looked directly at Bjorn and opened its mouth. He could swear to Kyne that it was trying to mouth something, something...something merciful. Like an inner part of the demon's being was trying to reach out to tell him something. Its eyes pierced right through him, as though it could read his mind or feel his feelings. It was smart. It was very smart.
All of that went to Hell, when the beast broke the stare and tore through both Vjornsen and Faen, the axe-man. They were gone, and Bjorn was now alone. According to village law, he should try to attempt an escape, but fight the beast if necessary. The sacrifice of his warriors would allow him to escape, and they would celebrate for eternity with mead and wenches. Taking the monster alone, would only damn those who protected him to an eternity of sorrow and failure.
As he turned to run back to the village, he felt a warm sensation in his right arm. When he looked he found a deep gash in his arm, blood poured from the wound. "Damn" he muttered. The shaman would have to fix that back at the Stirsk Hall.
There was nothing he could do to stop the beast. He'd have to gather all the warriors and able-bodied men in the village for reinforcement. Offense was not an option. He'd have to stand his ground. The deaths of his hunting party had shown him that. Perhaps he could ask for some help from the Southern Men.
No one in Yskan cared for the men from the southern parts of the continent. They were way ahead of everyone else. They used an odd word for it, Teknolojee. The Yskans preferred mountains, snow, and nature. A simple life was a happy life, but the Caden's sting barrels would definitely even the odds with this creature, and how ever many more there were that Bjorn didn't know about. He'd have to bring it before the Yskan government before any decisions were made, though.
He began to feel very faint as he reached the village. Just as he'd made it as far as the tavern he collapsed, blood spilling from his wound. His mind reeled. He saw Vjornsen, Faen, and Hitveld all killed over and over again. The beast’s eyes bored through him, speaking to him. Almost forming the words...what did it say? He could see it. Kill me. Bjorn slipped into a dream and lost all memory of it.