July 10, 2008
By Spencer Durrant, Santaquin, UT

The man lay in the shadows, avoiding the stare of anyone who trundled past on the busy road. All the man wanted was to be left alone. The man had lost everything, and he wanted to die, rather than suffer the torment he had endured.

The man had been a wealthy lord; he had lots of land, and many servants. That is, until the werewolves came.

The werewolves had torn away all of his land, his home, and everything he owned in one harsh night. They had raided his small castle, pillaging and setting things on fire. By dawn, there was no trace of the once magnificent castle.

It wouldn’t have mattered if the werewolves hadn’t burned the man’s fields. All his corn, wheat, and barley were gone. Nothing remained.

And as the man sat in the shadows, anger gripped his heart. It was like nothing he had ever felt. It was the feeling of revenge.

The man decided to do the only thing he could. He would go and find the werewolves, and kill them all.

And so it was the revenge started.

Meanwhile, far away from the man who lost everything, a werewolf killer, commonly known as Wolfblood, was sitting in a lonely pub, wishing the werewolves had been more active lately.

Just as he thought that, three werewolves burst in through the door. With a curse, Wolfblood the werewolf killer drew his throwing knives and hit each werewolf square between the eyes, killing them instantly.

The pub owner had fainted, and all the other men just stared, gratitude in their eyes. But Wolfblood didn’t feel good at all. These werewolves were one he had not seen in a long time. They were of the most powerful race of werewolves, and had not been seen for thirty years. This meant that evil was in the land.

Wolfblood left the pub, and started walking home through the small village. The village was nothing more than a few homes, a bakery, and a pub. But it was situated in the middle of the kingdom, which made it easy for Wolfblood to travel wherever there were attacks.

As Wolfblood entered his home, he saw two bodies lying on the floor. They were the bodies of his son and wife. Rage welled within him, and Wolfblood wanted nothing but revenge.

And so it was, more revenge began.

The man, who was named Jarchund, walked along the road, with his cloak billowing in the wind. He didn’t know where he was going, but all he knew was his revenge had started. He heard tales that the legendary werewolf killer Wolfblood lived some miles to the north, but he didn’t think that was true.

Jarchund saw another man coming along the road. He was tall, with black hair and green eyes. He had a sword at his waist, a bow across his back, and throwing knives all along his belt.

Jarchund looked for somewhere to hide, for he wished not to be seen, but the other man had already noticed him.

“You there,” called the man in a strong voice.

“What do you want?” asked Jarchund.

“To know what you are doing so far north,” replied the man.

“Hunting werewolves, to kill them. The took away everything that was mine, and now I have nothing but enough money to buy a sword,” said Jarchund.

The man studied Jarchund. Although his face was contorted with grief and fear, he had strong features, and curly brown hair that flowed past his green eyes.

“I am Wolfblood,” said the man.

“And I am Jarchund,” replied Jarchund.

The two men lapsed into a silence, broken only by the wind.

“I am hunting wolves as well, for they killed my loved ones,” said Wolfblood quietly.

“Well, then, we should have our revenge together, if you want,” said Jarchund
“Yes, I will take you, we will find the wolves, and we will kill them,” said Wolfblood.

And so the two men set off, turning towards the forest on their right. And they didn’t notice the man dressed in rags in the shadows of a large tree. He was a werewolf, but the full moon was far off.

Wolfblood and Jarchund traveled through the thick forest until it was too dark to see. They then made camp in a small clearing.

Jarchund hadn’t thought about food, only about finding and killing the werewolves. But Wolfblood never went anywhere without a pack.

After the fire was lit and the two men had drunk some tea, they sat in a comfortable silence, staring into the flames.

And just outside their camp, the werewolf spied on them, his evil eyes glinting in the harsh firelight.

Wolfblood scanned the perimeter of the camp, making sure they were alone. And then he saw the golden glow of a werewolf’s eyes, and he yelled, “Jarchund, there is a werewolf behind you!”

Jarchund jumped up and twisted around, holding a short sword Wolfblood had given him.

The werewolf scampered off, and the two men ran after it, hoping to kill it.

Meanwhile, the wind picked up, and the unattended fire roared to life, lighting all the trees on fire.

“There’s a fire!” yelled Wolfblood.

“I know!” screamed Jarchund.

The two men chased the werewolf endlessly, as the air filled with hazy smoke.
Finally, they came to a valley in the middle of the forest. It was a mile long, and twice as wide. And in it were huts, full of werewolves.

“We found them,” yelled Jarchund.

The two men charged, cutting down every single werewolf that opposed them. The fire had reached the edge of the valley, and was burning some of the huts along the perimeter.

As the fire burned, screams and howls could be heard, and within minutes, the werewolves were either dead or burning.

But the smoke in the air was too much for Jarchund and Wolfblood. The two men collapsed, gagging, and howled as the fire consumed their bodies.

And so it was, the god Foson, maker of werewolves, got his revenge on those who killed his children. For it was Foson who had made the wind carry the fire.

And so ends the tale of revenge.

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