”The tavern’s closin’”, grumbled the barmaster as he placed a heavy hand onto my table. “Best be on your way, stranger.”

“What?” I looked up, raising my eyebrows in puzzlement. “Not even one last mug of ale for a weary wanderer? I assure you, I can pay you well.”

I spoke the words of truth when I said this, and the tavern keeper knew it as well. He had, after all, been quick enough to snatch the silver coin I had offered as a payment for my first drink. According to the common road lore that every sensible traveller is familiar with, the taverns of this region were supposed to charge only a penny or two for a mug of good ale. The establishment I was currently patronaging, however, seemed to be one of those places where the price of ale was determined by what the customer was offering. Had I paid my drink with a gleaming ruby, I would no doubt have now been enjoying the privilege of sipping the most expensive ale in all the realms. As tempting as the image of a ruby-paid ale was, I was nonetheless more than content with my one-silver worth of drink, and thus I had been nursing the same mug for the entire night. And this thoughtless behaviour of mine, no doubt, had now prompted the barmaster to drive me out of his establishment into the darkness of night, cold of heart and empty of stomach.

I wonder why tavern keepers always find me such an irksome customer.

The barmaster growled something about wolves as he snatched the mug directly from my hands. Not the most tactful of ways to show that I had reached my time limit, but I decided not to complain about that nor question his logic about throwing me out of the house because there were wolves out in the night. Judging by the tiny scars covering the barmaster’s knuckles, he knew an excellent argument that could bring any debate into a quick, blunt and very efficient end. In the light of this very unpleasant alternative I realized that I truly had very little choice on the matter, and so I rose from the table and donned my long travelling cloak. Picking my bag to one hand and my hat and walking stick to the other, I made my way through the quiet taproom and stepped underneath the heavy bundles of wolfsbane that had been hung above the front door.

The moment I stepped out of the tavern, the barmaster pulled the door shut and I heard the bolt falling firmly in place behind me. The embrace of night was dark and cool, but at least its even-handed neutrality was more welcoming than the hostile glare I had received from the barkeep. But then again, I can hardly blame him for being suspicious of strangers, considering how many villagers have already died in the recent days.

I am Adrian Nikolae van Tepes, a doctor and a scholar of herbalism by profession. However, there is not much demand for such peaceful knowledge in these dark times, and need has driven even a non-adventurous man such as myself to find additional means to make a living for myself.

You see, my dear reader, I am a hunter. A hunter of a very special kind of prey.

The village of Gannelheim is one of those numerous hamlets that litter our land. Hidden away behind the evergreen veil of a pine forest and cradled in a valley formed by two great hills, it is a secluded place of old, warm houses and brooding, glowering inhabitants. While not necessarily the place where I would like to spend the twilight years of my life, it is, nonetheless, a fairly interesting site to visit. Other than the tavern with its exceptional pricing system, the town also boasts with a most magnificently equipped apotechary.

The reader might imagine my delighted surprise when I learned that there was such a shop in the village. Visiting like-minded scholars is always an excellent pleasure and the shopkeeper, one Helmut Katz, was a very amiable man. We spent the better part of the earlier day discussing about various topics related to our shared profession and during this time Helmut not only convinced me with his knowledge, but downright impressed me as well. If there only were more doctors as devoted to their art as he was, our society would be a better and much, much healthier place to live in.

But enough musings for now. The darkness had already fallen, and there was work to be done. Rehearsing the details of my plan in my mind, I opened my bag and retrieved the tools of my second trade. Ascertaining that everything was working properly, I tucked the two items into my belt and headed down the quiet street.

Helmut was an honest professional. There were many details that pointed out this pleasant fact, ranging from the fairness of his prices to the accuracy of his knowledge. And he did not even claim to be able to prepare a cure for a hangover. This, no doubt, was the reason why he was not in very good terms with the tavern keeper. As a result, the tavern and the apotechary were sited almost on the other ends of the hamlet and I was forced to walk the entire length of Gannelheim to reach my destination.

The village was dark and silent, as villages usually are when the night falls. The darkness of Gannelheim, however, was of the sort that made candle flame seem like a tiny beacon of hope about to be swallowed by a vast sea of shadows. The silence, too, was of a fearful sort, the kind that is produced when people huddle in the corner of a room, listening to the faintest sounds in the night and the thunderous beating of their own hearts.

The folk of Gannelheim were afraid, preferring to spend the dark hours of night in the relative safety of their homes, relying on their locks and bolts to guard them from the terrors of the outside world. While some might deem such a choice of action cowardly, I, personally, would be more inclined to call it only a smart and sensible thing to do. For I, even at the risk of sounding boastful, can claim to possess first-hand knowledge of what kind of horrors can lie waiting in the shadows of night. Unless one possesses firm knowledge of how to combat the forces of darkness and is always prepared to pay a price that can be (and often is) worse than death, I can assure you that venturing out to face those forces in their own terms is not the wisest of things to do.

These thoughts finally brought me before the apotechary of Helmut Katz. It was a relatively small two-story house which, oddly enough, reminded me of shops found in cities, where the lack of space dictates that buildings are usually expanded either up towards the sky, or down into the embrace of earth. I found it somewhat unusual to see such a building here in the more spacious countryside, but then again, my architectural opinions are irrelevant to my story. Judging from what I had seen in my earlier visit to Helmut’s, his house seemed to follow a city-shop design by its interiors as well. The entire first floor had been reserved for his workshop, its rooms dominated by tables and shelves filled with urns and jars and bottles and boxes that contained the fruits of his labours. That would leave the second floor for his personal quarters.

The house was, like all the others in Gannelheim, dark and silent. I would not allow this to daunt me, however, and thus I began to circle around the building. Watching closely where I placed my feet in the dim illumination, I was careful not to be too loud in my movements and thus alert my presence to the listening ears. In my second profession, you see, the element of surprise is often the crucial factor required to tip the scales in your favor.

I made my way to the backyard and, quickly loping around and between the herbal plantations growing there, hid myself in the shadow a pine tree. From there I had a clear line of sight to yet another feature more typical to a city-built shop: the apotechary of Helmut Katz also boasted a back door. Placing my bag to lean against the tree’s trunk, I settled down to wait.

It was still relatively early hours of the night, so I should have reached my watch post well in time. However, no matter how unlikely, there still remained a possibility that it was too late already, and I was now keeping an eye on an empty house. I dreaded to think about what that would mean.

Thankfully, luck seemed to grace me with its favor. Like a beautiful phantom in the night did the pale eye of the full moon glide out from the veil of clouds, bathing the town of Gannelheim with its silent radiance and forcing me to slink deeper into the shadow of the pine. Somewhere far in the distance, I heard a long, mournful howl.

It was time to hunt, both for wolves and for myself.

It was not much later when I heard a quiet clank and the apotechary’s back door was slowly pulled ajar. Helmut Katz pushed his head through the crack and scanned the backyard with his gaze, much in a same manner as a rabbit does from the mouth of its nest hole. The man was nervous, afraid – he did not really want to leave the safety of his house, but there was a compulsion tugging at the back of his mind, alluring, beckoning, pulling him to the direction of the night-time forest. That urge was particularly powerful in the night of a full moon, and it was for this reason that I, too, had chosen to commence my hunt tonight.

Helmut made his decision and slid out from his house, moving into the light of the moon. His thin body was taut and tense, his neck craned attentively, his eyes peering left and right like those of a mouse that knew that there was an owl hunting near by.

“Herr Katz”, I spoke out, stepping away from the pine.

Helmut started at the sound of my voice, his narrow frame jerking itself up into the air in what could have been an almost comical sight under some other circumstances. For a moment I was fearing he would bolt right back into his house, but as I moved into the light myself, he seemed to recognize me and relaxed – only slightly, but I could not really blame him for remaining tense. Anyone would be suspicious of a relatively unknown person who makes an appearance on one’s backyard after sunset.

“I am terribly sorry for troubling you this late at the evening”, I began with a polite tone of voice, “but there is still something I need to discuss with you. I fear I completely forgot about it earlier today.”

“W-what would that be?” Helmut stammered his reply and fidgeted uncomfortably. He wanted to flee, wanted to run, that much was obvious, but he seemed to have troubles at deciding the direction he should take. Which suited me just fine.

“You see”, I continued, attempting to sound pleasant. Under the cover of my cloak, my hand slowly closed around the handle of one of the tools in my belt. “I am currently looking for a very rare specimen, and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to aid me in my search. Of course, this is very presumptuous of me to ask for such a favor, but…”

“Of course, of course”, Helmut interrupted me, nodding nervously. “Just come to visit me tomorrow and I’ll be delighted to see if I can find anything from my books!”

“I’m afraid you misunderstood me a little”, I responded. “The specimen I am looking for is not an herb.”

Thus saying I lifted my hand, thrusting the twin-barrelled flintlock gun from the folds of my cloak. Poor Helmut barely had time to gasp before I had already pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped forth, and the gunpowder ignited in a flash and a bang that was like a sudden clap of thunder in the silence of night. Helmut cried out as the bullet hit him into the chest, he lurched, staggered, and yet, as if by miracle, the thin man had enough strength to remain standing.

That reaction was the final piece I needed to complete the puzzle. Cocking the hammer of my gun’s second barrel, I watched how he reeled backwards, clutching the wound with one of his hands. “I am terribly sorry I have to do this, Helmut”, I said and truly meant it, “but the mayor has hired me to find the killer who has been at the rampage in the near-by villages. Now, I would recommend that you would show your true form.”

“How – how did you know?” he croaked, his voice broken and hoarse with pain. He coughed, a crimson rivulet of blood suddenly running down his chin – I had hit one of his internal organs.

It had actually taken quite a bit of piecing together to deduce the truth, but I had no time nor motivation to explain everything to him. The quicker this was over, the better for poor Helmut. “Simple”, I decided to answer and gestured towards the house with my pistol. “Your back door is the only entrance in all Gannelheim that does not have wolfsbane tied to the threshold. Now, please, you truly should change your shape now. It was only a lead bullet, but you will die soon if you won’t heal it quickly.”

Clenching his blood-stained teeth together, his brow furrowing ominously, Helmut stared at me with eyes that held fear… Fear that was slowly being consumed by burning, bottomless anger, the same sort of unyielding rage that the eyes of a trapped wolf hold as it snarls at its captors.

I knew what was moving in Helmut’s mind at that moment, I knew the decision he was struggling to make. He was bleeding to death, and only the astounding regenerative capabilities of his true form could heal the wound I had caused him. However, if he changed his shape before my very eyes, that would be the final proof I’d need to reveal his terrible secret for all to hear.

I also knew the choice he would take. He had already been caught and had nothing to lose. Survival took priority.

Ignoring the spasms of pain and summoning whatever dignity he had left, Helmut slowly straightened his back. All of a sudden he seemed somehow… larger, stronger and far more dangerous than what he had been just a moment ago. “You do realize that I will have to kill you”, he stated with a surprisingly calm voice.

And then, he began to change.

I gripped the handle of my pistol more tightly, feeling how the drops of sweat slid down my back. I have witnessed the metamorphosis numerous times, but it is one of those sights that never cease to invoke the feelings of horror and revulsion in the watcher.

Helmut’s frame twisted and bent, his neck growing shorter and thicker, his shoulders broadening and gaining bulk. Muscles swelled in his thin arms, gleaming claws sprouted in his fingertips. Soon his clothes became far too small to hold his growing mass, and the fabric was torn apart like wet parchment. His hair shrunk away, and light-grey strands of thick, shaggy fur burst out from every single pore of his skin. The bones of his face distorted, his nose and mouth stretching out and melting together, changing into a muzzle lined with jagged rows of razor-sharp teeth. His eyes lost the last glimmer of intelligence and all I could see in them was hatred and hunger to tear my body apart and taste my flesh and blood in his maw.

Werewolves are many times stronger and faster than humans. I was ready for the beast when it changed, I was expecting it to attack, yet still it caught me by surprise when it leapt forward like a great grey arrow shot from a bow of iron. I pulled the trigger of my gun, but even as the hammer snapped forth, I knew I was too late. The gun spat fire with an echoing bang, but the monster’s – I will no longer call it Helmut – speed had already ruined my aim. I was powerless to affect the bullet’s path, able only to watch as it sped towards the creature’s muscular shoulder. Unlike the previous shot that had been lead, this one was made of pure silver, the bane of werewolves. The beast’s shoulder jerked violently at the impact and my enemy howled as the bullet bit through the hide that could stop weapons made of any other metal.

But a mere flesh wound could not stop this monster. Its eyes burning, its claws rising to strike, the werewolf closed in with blinding speed. I only had time to lift my walking cane to meet the onslaught and then the beast was upon me.

It rammed into me with all the force of a charging bull, and air fled from my lungs in a single painful gasp as my back was slammed against the trunk of the pine tree. A single swipe of its claws struck the smoking pistol from my grasp. The only thing that kept it from sinking its teeth into my throat was the cane that I had managed to lodge between its powerful jaws. Its muzzle inches away from my nose, its breath hot and foul against my face, the beast was larger, stronger, superior to me in every way. Wood crunched and splintered as its jaws slowly began to crush my walking cane…

Then, the monster let out a sudden yowl of pain and leapt instinctively backwards, blood dripping down its jaws. Angered and bewildered, it growled as I hastily unsheathed the weapon that had hurt it so. For hidden under the wooden shell of my cane was a thin sword forged of nothing but pure silver. This blade had saved my life many times, and now it had come to my aid once again.

Not wasting another moment I swung my sword, the gleaming blade drawing first a horizontal arch, then an abrupt thrust. The werewolf dodged both blows easily, its agility by far outmatching mine. I succeeded at making the beast to retreat, however, and that bought me those precious few seconds I needed to bring my left hand to my belt and yank free the second tool I had tucked there.

It did not take long for the werewolf to recover from the surprise. Ducking deftly under my sword swing, the beast tackled me again, and together we stumbled to the ground. Pinning me under its enormous weight, the monster once again reached for me with its snapping jaws. And this time I had no cane to lift to my defence.

Instead of a cane, I held a small flintlock pistol in my left hand, and it was this weapon that I thrust past the twin rows of blood-stained teeth and deep into the werewolf’s maw. It was a risky move, one that could have cost me my hand, but it delayed the monster long enough.

“Vae victus!” I gasped, and pulled the trigger.

I swear there was a moment of silence, a heartbeat of absolute stillness between the spark struck by the flint and the ignition of gunpowder. But then time and sound and motion returned, and gunfire flashed in the werewolf’s throat, briefly illuminating the depths of its maw. The silver bullet burrowed through the lower part of the monster’s primal brain and broke out from the back of the wolf’s head. The beast died in the blink of an eye, its great body fell silent and still, the powerful muscles slackened and the throat that had echoed with the growls of hatred let out its last sigh.

Bards and minstrels tell us that when a werewolf is slain, it regains its intelligence for the last few seconds, remembering who and what it was before it became a monster. It is said that the beast’s gaze is filled with sadness and grief as it realizes the sins it has committed and the dark fate that is awaiting it in the worlds beyond.

There is no truth in this claim. I have witnessed the death of many a werewolf and the only things that I have seen in their fading gazes are pain and puzzlement. Like a dying dog, it cannot understand what is happening to it. Why does it hurt so much? Why is my sight darkening? Why won’t my body move anymore? A beast cannot understand such things.

I did not kill Helmut Katz that night. I slew a werewolf, a monster whose hunger and bloodlust had taken the lives of many a man and woman and child. Yet as the beast died, so also died Helmut Katz – an honest, learned man I would have been honored to call a friend.

Vae victus.

Woe to the conquered.

Sometimes I wonder who would be more entitled to that woe – the evil that takes root in the hearts and bodies of men, or the ones who are driven to slay their fellow man in an attempt to battle that evil?

Author’s Notes:

The opening scene of this story, the part where Adrian van Tepes attempts to enjoy a mug of ale in a tavern late at night, was heavily inspired by the beginning of Blood Omen: Legacy of Kain by Crystal Dynamics. As a kind of tiny homage to the game series, I decided to also name this story with a quote taken directly from Blood Omen.

Vae victus, or ‘Woe to the conquered’, as it is most commonly translated from latin, is the battle-cry used by the legendary vampire Kain in Blood Omen. (As a matter of fact, sources say that this phrase is actually misspelled and that ‘Vae’ should be pronounced as ‘Ve’. However I decided to honor Kain by preserving its original form.)

Vae victus has some very interesting historical meanings, and if you are interested in learning more about this phrase, I would recommend you to pay a visit to Legacy of Kain site known as Dark Chronicle, which contains plenty of information about the world of the game series – you can reach the site easily through the my Lair’s links section…

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