Untamed - Chapter two

Chapter two: A father’s secrets

Lyra stood on the church rooftop, outside of the bell tower. The bells of the three remaining towers no longer rang in joy, but in mourning. Not for the murder the world will never know, but for the loss of their brother bells. Of the bells that graced the Bell towers of the cathedral, eight remained standing, brave soldiers of the people of London. Lyra, herself had been shocked that the bell tower still stood, firm to its base. Rain fell down from heaven in thick torrents now, no longer was it the soft pitter-patter mist that hung in the air while the two opponents fought. Yet Lyra still hadn't noticed, instead she stood stock still, staring into the dark, winter horizon. Lightning and thunder brightened the world, as they tore the clouded sky apart. And even then it went unnoticed by the vampiress.

Inside her head swam the fresh images of how she had mauled the demon that destroyed her human life, of how she had killed the deranged werewolf that cursed her to walk the earth as the undead. The desolated vampiress could still see the way she had held Allistir by his throat, against the wall of the tower...could still see his broken arms and torn muscles. Lyra could even hear him ask for mercy, and then it was over as she stood with his heart in her hands and his piercing screams in her ears. And finally, Allistir turned into dust, gracefully born away by a silent breeze. Never to be seen again.

No emotion crossed Lyra's face, no remorse, no relief, not even anger. Slowly she made her way down to the ground and out of the church’s kissing gate. Soon she was gone, running faster than she had ever run before. Wind streaked her hair out behind her, and snagged at her clothing as it blew past her at immense speeds. Lights, shapes and colours, all blended into one amazing abstract piece of art.

Lyra ran to be alone, for isolation, for freedom. Slowly a simple sliver of a smile crossed her lips, and for the first time in a long time, it was a true smile... and soon she ran, because she was content, because inside something had risen from the ashes of her broken soul.

ὮὮὮ

Somewhere else in Britain, with a beer in his hands, sat a boy who had long ago stopped aging. On the outside he looked no older than twenty-two, had it not been for his cold, dull, coal-black eyes.... Yes, they showed his age. He had been there to see the end of the French revolution and had been around for even longer. Yet there he sat, no older than a child, in his little mansion. The library, in which he sat, was his pride and joy. Shelf after shelf filled with books older than the human race itself. And in the hearth burnt a quiet fire; gently crackling away at the firewood. For quite some time his life had been without chaos or purpose. But unknown to him, that was about to change really soon.

A gentle knock on the library’s oaken double doors woke the boy from his quiet relaxation.

“Come in Christoff, but be warned I'm in no mood for bad news.”

“Of course, Master Borlath, but the news is vital to your family business,” stepping through the double doors, strode a blonde-haired butler, his black suit impeccable. He was great in size, but he was no match for the boy in the chair, and with precision and grace that, would have shocked you had you seen his size, he rushed off towards his master

“What is it, Christoff,” Borlath asked, his voice finely laced with irritation, as his butler stopped a few inches short of him.

“It’s about your company of late, Blood Brothers, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what do they want now,” anger filled Borlath’s voice, making the scared butler inch backwards.

“Well, Sir, Ethan is here to see you.”

“What for? I'm trying to relax. Don’t they know who I am? I am Borlath, son of Allistir the Grey, and heir to Luna Manor, and-“

A cold breeze stopped Borlath in his tracks, chilling his spine. He glanced up at the portrait of his father and at once felt the pain, the loss, his father’s death.

“Christoff, did you feel that?”

Borlath stood up from his personal throne and stared at his butler with blank eyes. “Tell them I am indisposed and cannot tend to them right now…. Christoff, something as come up. I need to leave for a while. Hold the fort while I'm gone.” Borlath turned away from his butler and trudged up the stairs to his study.

He didn’t know how, but he could feel his father die as he walked into his study. He had never had a good relationship with his father. But it was the promise he had made to his mother that kept him aware of his dad. As a boy he had never known his father, but Elizabeth, his mother had made him swear not to think too much about it. And then on his eighteenth birthday, he had been bed ridden with many symptoms. His mother had called it the change, and had seemed extremely proud. That night, when the wolf attacked the village, he felt connected to it. The closer it got to him, the better he felt. And when the wolf stepped into their home, his mother had welcomed it with open arms, and told him to leave with it, for it was the only way for him to survive.

When he refused to go, the wolf gently took him between its teeth and was off again. Leaving the village far behind.

From then till now his life had been so different, thought Borlath, as he grabbed his fur coat from the cupboard. He tuned, grabbed the keys to his Mercedes and rushed back out, slipping on his coat as he went.

He rushed through the mansion’s enormous main hall on his way to the garage. Christoff hurriedly shuffled after his master.

“Have they left?”

“Yes, Sir, and with many profanities too, Sir,” Christoff was Russian, but spoke with an impeccable British accent.

“Good, I don’t want them loitering on my property. Oh, and Christoff, don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back before tomorrow; hopefully.”

“Yes, master,” Christoff left Borlath in the garage and silently shuffled back up stairs.

ὮὮὮ

The Mercedes Blackbird’s v8 engine roared viciously as Borlath floored the monster of a machine down the tarmac. Its blood red pearlescent paint job glistened brightly, even in the shade of the gloomy, grey clouds. Slow was not an option for the giant of a man sitting in the driver seat. He had very little time to reach Luna Manor- if his father was there at all.

For a while he sat in total silence. Only the savage roar of the car’s engine filled his ears, and old memories flooded his mind. Memories he was dearly fond of….

ὮὮὮ

Borlath stood alongside his brother Lõki, on top of a high mountain ledge. Lõki was one of his two biological siblings, and they were both part of the werewolf brotherhood, a group of seven of the race’s most adept warriors. An elite group controlled by only the council of elders.

“Over there,” Lõki’s was barely audible through the violent winter wind. Borlath looked over at his brother and nodded his head. He bit his teeth and clenched his jaw as the ruthless wind whipped around them like a thousand razor sharp blades trying to draw blood. The two brothers watched as their targets- two stupid, rogue vampires came sprinting towards them. Casually they shrugged out of their thick fur coats and stood poised to pounce. Even though neither had transformed, they both seemed like beasts. Their taught muscles were filled with animalistic power and their eyes gleamed with blood lust.

On the ground below them their prey had unknowingly stopped exactly where they were planned to. The two werewolves leapt down and attacked the vampires.

The two vampires were killed within a few seconds, and not much longer after that they were surrounded by a coven of vampire rogues.

Both werewolves walked away with little more than a scratch each. Halfway through the fight the remaining werewolves of their brotherhood appeared- Glorïndel, Dæmon, Zhaine, Cuerran and Trystal, Borlath’s other sibling, his sister.

They had fought like gods, blood and scars everywhere. And at the end of the night they had walked away successful, reveling in the power of their birth right.

ὮὮὮ

Borlath drove on for almost thirty minutes before the tall metal gates of Luna Manor appeared on the horizon at the edge of his vision. They used to be heavy, sinister forms once, a long time ago. But time had aged them. Now they looked more evil than ever, even though they were fragile and stood without cause. He slowed the car down till he came to a subtle stop right in front of the ominous gates. They loomed above him with their intricate designs less visible. His father had rarely used the gate, he had always gone somewhere on all fours.

The werewolf held up his right hand towards the gates and immediately the metal started moving. The designs twisted and turned, portraying two humanoids standing back to back, changing into their beasts and walking away from each other. The gates parted in the middle as the wolves walked in opposite directions, the metal melting into two solid poles on either side.

Shifting into first gear, Borlath cruised down the infinite driveway to his father estate. It all looked so much the same since he had last been here. The vast expansion of land stretched out in all directions, and after a small cleared range, the soft grass became pure forest. Tall dense ever green trees, with an air of eerie belonging.... It was where the rituals took place. The forest was sacred to the werewolves, religious. It was Darkwood.

He parked the car outside the mansion’s main doors, and restlessly stepped out into the soft cloudy glow of the sky. Everything felt off to him. It felt as though there was no longer any life left inside the giant of a house. No lights burned inside it and no movements came from the windows. Lifeless; Empty- deserted. He ran up the stairs in pure angst and barged through the massive doors, almost running something over.

“Young master Borlath, sir,” Squealed a frail old man

“Hugo,” replied Borlath, steadying the poor old man.

“What a surprise to see you sir, yet not unexpected,” Hugo backed away from him and straightened his own suit. “Do please come in sir.”

Borlath shut the door behind him and turned to find that the old butler had already disappeared around a sharp bend at the end of the dimly lit passage. The werewolf decided to follow his father’s butler and slowly took the same turn. He found himself in another even longer passage; and all along the sides every so often there were simple, wooden doors. And above each door there were silver plates. And on those silver plates, inscribed in Sἓiyloh, the ancient tongue, were the names of the rooms behind their respective doors. The walls of the passage resembled those of an early 9th century medieval castle dungeon, but then again the manor had been around for a very long time. The original structure had been and 8th century wreck when his father claimed it. And with the help of his werewolf brethren he had rebuilt the whole place, right under King Arthur’s nose, into an elaborately designed maze of doors and passageways. It comprised of three floors above ground and two below. The only thing it didn’t have was its own moat. Allistir was a hard man who knew exactly what he wanted and always ruthless till the end of it.

In the thirty years that Borlath had never been back, it had never changed. Perhaps a new light here or a new lamp in this or that room, but it was all the same. Even to the soft fluorescent lights that flooded from the ceiling. Time would run differently to you too, if you had been alive for just under nine hundred years. Werewolves could live for a long time, given they aren’t shot with silver or had their hearts ripped out. Then it would be over in a few seconds, give or take. Otherwise they had an amazing sense of longevity.

Hugo kept up a constant monologue of how he was delighted to see his young master again after thirty years, and what everybody had to say about him, the son who is to inherit a dead empire. Borlath himself didn’t much care what the people thought of him. So what if he was werewolf royalty, he couldn’t care less.

They took a few more corners and every passage was similar. A few windows brought light to the passage here and there. Finally they reached a narrow flight of dark stone stairs. These they climbed to the third story and follow another passage. This time the passageway was colored a pale blue-silver, and an elegant gold script of Sἓiyloh adorned the walls.

“Hugo, are the Sἓiyloh scripts on the walls what I think they are,” asked Borlath

“Young Master, I'm not too sure what you are thinking, but these are all the texts, in verse from the scrolls of truth. Your father had them magicked on to these walls years ago.”

“Why have I never seen this part of the manor before, what did my father want to hide from his precious children,” Borlath asked the old butler. He knew he wouldn’t get an answer, but it still bugged him that his father had kept all this hidden. As they walked the enchanted symbols shimmered brilliantly, like the subtle reflections of nature on the surface of the calmest pond. At the end of the passage stood the only door, it was a little wider and a little taller than your average one, but it was made of striking white ash. There was no handle and no keyhole, only solid ash, with blood red lines depicting their rather small family tree. Hugo stopped with his hand on the door, staring at the floor.

“My father, he’s not here is he,” Borlath question the butler, looking down at him.

“No, Young Master. Your father left four days ago. He knew you would come here first….”

“What do you mean, Hugo? Where is he?”

“Master Borlath, your father begged me tell you no more than you needed, and I am bound to his words. All I am to tell you, sir, is that he knew you would come to Luna Manor. And that as his favourite son, he left you something in his office, and only you’d be able to find and understand it.”

Borlath faltered and looked up at the door again. He knew in his heart that he was never his father’s favourite son. That was Lõki, always Lõki.

“Master Borlath, sir,” Borlath couldn’t even react to Hugo’s words. “I know what you’re thinking, and mind you I know your father too. If he left something for you alone, then it must be of importance. Your father never did anything without planning first. Everything he did had a good reason behind it. I urge you Master Borlath; go into your father’s study. Find what he left for you. If you won’t do it for him sir, do it for yourself.”

Hugo pushed the white ash door ajar.

“Alright Hugo, I will….” Borlath pushed the door open wider, and slowly, carefully stepped into his father’s private study. Hugo softly closed the door behind his master’s son.

Allistir's study was a vast room in the center of the mansion, an elegant and intricate epicenter of tranquility. Landscape artworks hung randomly on the walls of the study. Most of them reminded Borlath of Zenohdiem, the birthplace of the first werewolf. It used to be a few miles from his original home, just outside what is now known as Hungary. It was an ancient stone building of remarkable beauty, surrounded by green hills and blue skies. Little blood red flowers grew along the side of the stone structures and not too far away to the left of the building stood the great snowcapped mountains they had called the Pathway to Elithzhaan. The landscapes on the walls were similar, with soft green hills and brilliant blue skies. Somehow they calmed him inside, like he belonged there now and nowhere else. Borlath walked over to his father’s desk. It was clattered and organized at the same time. It simply resembled his father, being able to find order in even the most chaotic of situations. His name immediately jumped out at him in his father’s nimble and elegant script, on the back of a soft paisley embossed envelope. Tentatively he picked it up and slipped out the letter inside. Unfolding the light brown parchment inside, Borlath read his father’s letter.

Dear Borlath

You are my youngest son, and the middle child of three siblings. You are also an amazingly strong warrior, stronger than even I was at your age. But I beg you to read this through before you decide to turn away.

I know that over the past 590 years, I have treated you wrongly, but it wasn’t because I hated you. On the contrary, I loved you, and more so than Lõki or Trystal. You are my bloodline, and the only child of mine to ever make something of him or herself countless times. You proved that to me many times. Yet I don’t ask for forgiveness, not from you or anyone else that I have ever wronged. How I treated you was vital to your survival. I can’t tell exactly everything, as you have expected by now from what little Hugo has already told you. But I can tell you this; all that I have taught you so far is for the war to come. And you’re going to need all the skills you possess to fight in this war. It won’t be anything like the French revolution or the bloody crusades you’ve been on before.

My dear son, you have become a true Luna, a warrior among the greatest. Use that skill, the secrets of your blood, like many before you; Fenrir, Taymin and even myself.

Though now I am afraid that I must ask you not to come looking for me. I know that after you read this letter, you’ll have many questions. But I impose on you not to go to the council with this letter or any questions you have.

I have one more thing to tell you, something that you probably thought would never happen. But I have known about it for a while. By the time you read this, I will no longer be with you, and that means that I have come to my journeys end. I will have died an honest man in the house of man, and a sinner in the house of a saint.

Borlath, my son, I have seen your future… and much struggle lies before you. Just never give up hope.

I must go now. In time all the secrets will have been confessed, and you will know everything.

Your Father

Allistir Luna, the Grey.

P.s I never killed your mother Borlath. She was the one I truly loved. She died to protect you.

Borlath’s eyes skimmed over the letter as he reread it. Something prickled his senses, emotion,-a torrent of emotion. He quickly pushed his emotions aside and read the letter again; searching for a clue he knew his father had left within it. As he read through it again and again, a single line jumped out at him. This he knew was the clue that he had been searching for, and he continued reading that one single line, trying to decipher it…. “I will have died an honest man in the house of humanity, and a sinner in the house of a saint.”

Borlath sat down in his father’s chair, and called for Hugo. Ever since his first change, his father had taught him the mysteries of the world. How werewolves had come into existence and could never age, how their natural enemy was the humans, who were afraid because they could not understand. And then when he was tame enough, he was taught about the vampires and the demons, and the deities and the angels. With his father he had learnt a lot, but now it was time to use all the knowledge he possessed.

Hugo softly stepped into the room and broke through Borlath’s silence. “Yes, Master, you called?”

“What oh, yes, Hugo,” Borlath looked up from his father’s letter. “Tell me something…. The house of humanity…. That was a church, right?”

“Ah, Master, you already know that. Your father taught you too well. The house of humanity is the church.”

“So if the house of humanity is the church, then the house of a saint…. Hugo, how many great churches in Britain were dedicated to saints?”

“Quite a few young Master, why?”

“Because that’s where he’ll be,” Borlath suddenly stood up from his father’s chair and walked to the frail butler. “Just out of curiosity, Hugo, of those few churches, how many of them have twelve bells?”

“I can think of only one, why?”

“So can I, my friend. Besides didn’t they always say that bells were used to cleanse ones soul and make them an honest person? And knowing my father the more bells, the merrier. And twelve bells is the most number of bells in a church in Britain.”

“The old cathedral in central London.”

“Correct, Hugo. By the way, does my father still keep those amulets, the old ones?”

“Yes, he does still have them. Shall I fetch them for you, master,” Hugo asked as he followed Borlath out through the door.

“Not all of them. Just bring me the black moon pendant. If you don’t mind Hugo, I’ll be in the car.”

Hugo gave him a very curt bow and shuffled off ahead of him. For his age, the old butler was quite fast. In no time at all he had disappeared through the stairway door at the end of the passage. Borlath started towards his car, his head reeling from everything that had happened in the last hour. His father had always been reckless, but what he was doing now was pure suicide. He was going to have himself murdered, and by none other than a vampire.

ὮὮὮ

Out in the car, Borlath didn’t have to wait too long. Very soon, Hugo stood alongside the car, next to his door. A soft gentle breeze blew in through the open window and lightly brushed his hair. The poor butler handed over the Black moon pendant to the young master. It was an ancient relic that was created for his father, by a black magick sorceress in the late 6th century, on a small island in Fiji. It hung and a strong, blood red chain, and was shaped like the full moon with two small stars that sat diagonally parallel across from each other. It was made from moon metal, and could shift like mercury. Light itself glinted off it in bright sparks. Small, blue diamonds sat randomly around the moon sphere, and in the center was a clear gold gem that turned blood red the minute Borlath accepted it from Hugo. He hung it around his neck and let it fall to his chest. Immediately he felt it grow hot against his skin, and when he checked it in his mirror, even the silver metal glowed red. So his father was right, thought Borlath. He did have the affinity inside him, and maybe it was time he used it.

He said good bye to the butler and slowly drove out of his father’s driveway. As soon as all four wheels of the Gullwing touched the tarmac, he floored the pedal. The Gullwing roared once more and before long was nothing but a small blur of blood red colour.