"Happy hunting, northerner!"

Oak barely heard Ur-Namma's parting words. The Corse of Bloodshed beat inside his soul like a second heart, drinking in his rising wrath and pumping strength to his limbs. His skin felt tight, like his muscles wanted to burst through it to greet the coming dawn.

The falchion in his hands was an extension of his murderous will, thirsting for an ocean of blood.

Huffing and puffing, the gray-furred werewolf circled him and Geezer, pawing at the dirt. The clouds had parted during their attack on the prison, and Okoro's yellow wolf eyes shone like a pair of oil lamps in the pale light afforded by the waning moon.

What a rare treat, the Butcher whispered, delighted. We get to play to our heart's content. For once, the Butcher was right. It was rare for Oak to face someone who could take what he could dish out and come back for seconds. Okoro Acheampong was a perfect adversary. They could beat each other to the edge of ruin and back.

A less worldly man, suffering from superstition, might have feared the werewolf's bite for reasons that had nothing to do with the gnarly wounds such massive fangs would surely leave in his flesh, but Oak knew better. Sharing Okoro's fate was the least of his worries. If all it took was a bite, there would be a lot more werewolves running around.

A graze of a fang or a touch of a claw would not suffice to bring about transformation. Such an existence required curse and ritual, preparation and intent. And there was none of that in the mad wolf's gaze.

Okoro came at Oak with fearless ferocity, claws digging deep furrows into the dirt. The werewolf had size and strength on its side. This close, it made river cows look small, and the dangerous gleam of cunning in its eyes revealed this was no mere animal.

Here was a man changed for the worse.

But Oak was the worst; he had faced the wolf-chimera in the gloom of Ma'aseh Merkavah and taken its soul for his engine. No inferior mutt would lay him low. He dodged away from the werewolf's snapping teeth and let his falchion taste cursed flesh.

Black blood sizzled in the dirt.

The roar that followed shook the world, and Okoro doubled his efforts, dashing madly after the annoying gnat that dared hurt him, so. Oak was a dragonfly weaving between raindrops, a leaf dancing on the treacherous spring wind. Engine roaring, he struck the beast's flanks with spell after spell, scouring its sides with fire and spikes of telekinetic might.

Geezer harried the werewolf from behind, shadow roiling, biting the backs of Okoro's legs, seeking to wound and maim. No matter the strength of the prey, nothing could hop around with ruptured tendons. Frustrated, the werewolf snapped at the hellhound, and Geezer retreated, giving the beast no opening to exploit.

Good boy. Oak made Okoro pay for ignoring him. When the wolf turned back, Oak bathed its snout in flame, and when the beast recoiled from the fire's hungry bite, he pressed forward, chopping off its front leg.

Howls of pain filled the prison yard as Okoro retreated on three legs, snarling and foaming at the mouth. Oak could see the end of it. Now it would be their turn to circle the werewolf, to drive it from weakness to weakness against the prison's wall and cut it down to size. But something changed in the beast's eyes.

Low cunning won over fruitless rage, and its breathing calmed.

Ah, interesting, the Butcher whispered. A devious idea, but doomed to fail.

"What the fuck is doomed to fail?" Oak asked, realized he was talking to himself, and promptly shut his trap. He had no time for madness. Okoro's wounds healed in front of his eyes and in the span of three heartbeats, the werewolf had four legs again.

"Why, that is some bullshit," Oak complained. He spat on the ground, and beckoned the werewolf. "Right. Come at me, furball."

And Okoro stalked forth, calm like a pond on a windless afternoon.

If Oak hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would have had a hard time believing it. The werewolf had changed his strategy. Adjusted. Taken the mad rage coursing through its veins by the scruff of the neck, and snatched the reins.

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What followed was a learning experience.

Okoro did not overextend himself, like he did before. He kept from committing, feinted and moved from side to side, harrying Oak backwards and denying him the opportunity to plant his feet for a hard swing. When Geezer tried to bite Okoro's haunches, the werewolf chased after the hellhound, faster than Oak could follow in the soft sand.

When brawn alone proved less than ideal, Oak answered with lances of flame, but it could not last. He had been casting a lot that night, and it had taken its toll. If he kept it up, his well would soon run dry. Fearing for his life, Geezer had to run to him to keep himself from the werewolf's jaws, and so Okoro succeeded in his first aim.

The werewolf had herded them together, and now it didn't need to worry about anyone biting its heels.

Like a shepherd dog on a mission, the werewolf drove Oak and Geezer backwards, one step at a time. Frustration ruled over Oak's rage like an upstart princeling, making his teeth clench. The sounds of their battle echoed from the gatehouse behind them, painting a fuzzy mental image of their surroundings to Oak's mind. As Okoro feinted once more and pressed them back another step, a hole emerged in the image inside Oak's mind.

Ah. Of course. Oak chuckled. The corpse-pit. The beast drove them towards it, intending to force them between the edge and its snapping teeth. Now, what to do about it? Absent-mindedly, Oak shooed Geezer away, and for once the hellhound took the hint, running off to the right along the pit's edge. If the beast chased after Geezer now, Oak could slip out of the trap it had so carefully laid, and he was willing to bet Okoro considered him the juicier prize.

He was right. Okoro's focus never wavered from him, which was no surprise. If it wanted a taste of his flesh, the beast had him right where it wanted him; cornered and out of options. He took another step back, closer to the edge. To the sweet drop into cadaver and gore. So close now, heels almost over open air.

Should I do anything about it?

Silent and eager, the madness crept in. Wrath tinted the world red, and molten rage pounded Oak's skull, seeking freedom from the constrictions of his mortal form. He felt floaty, unshackled from the earth. Why should he shy away from the place of his power? He took the final step back of his own volition and fell, laughing.

Cold, stiff arms wrapped Oak in their sweet embrace. Slimy fingertips caressed his body with feather-light touches, soothing his worries and inciting his lusts. "Oh, dear wolf. You drove me to the charnel pit," Oak whispered. He fell and fell and fell again, into the dark.

Okoro gazed down at him, doubt warring with pride in its yellow eyes, but in the end it followed its nature. Who could blame it? Its prey lay invitingly on his back, as if waiting for the brutal kiss of its slobbering jaws. Heedless of the danger, the werewolf jumped after Oak, white teeth glistening in the moonlight.

The chasm at the back of Oak's mind yawned wide, and the Butcher stepped into his boots.

***

A heavy weight pressed down upon his chest. The cleaver almost leapt from his hand, so eager it was to sink into warm flesh. Slicing, hacking, chopping. A handful of fur grasped tight and a hot breath against his neck. Sharp fangs grazed the skin of his throat. "You must feel quite the fool right now, loup-garou," the Butcher stated. The blunt claws of a canine rent his jacket, drawing red lines on his skin. "It was most unwise to drive us over the edge. You all but opened the way, and I did the rest."

Okoro roared in frustration, bearing its full weight upon his left arm, which held the beast's teeth at bay, but it was no use. Infernal might suffused the Butcher's muscles, lending him the strength to ward off the assault. The bones of his arm creaked, but weathered the storm.

"Quite the fool, indeed," the Butcher murmured. The cadavers forming the corpse pile they wrestled over grasped him tight and pushed him to his feet, forcing the werewolf aside. Dead meat lifted him in the air on wings of wrath, until he rose above the beast, towering over the wolf as the head of a great corpseworm.

A messiah of death, speaking with the voice of the grave.

"Within these bones is a whirlwind of hate. And no matter how much you gnash your teeth, struggle, whimper and squeal; hate does not break. Do you know why that is, loup-garou?"

The Butcher reached out and sliced a cut of meat from the scrambling beast's flank with his cleaver. He licked a taste of the cut as the corpses in the pit bowed in prayer, exalting his deeds. Rich, gamey and so deliciously foul.

"Do you know why? Do you?" he demanded, leaning towards the covering wolf, eager to share his words of wisdom.

Okoro twitched away, retreating against the wall of the pit. A high-pitched whine escaped from between its jaws.

"There is no end to my hate. It consumes me, and in turn I partake of it." The Butcher spread his arms wide and giggled. "How could a snake eating its own tail ever lack succor?"

It had been Oak who had fallen down into the corpse-pit and the wolf who had followed him, hungry and proud.

It was the wolf, who crawled out of the corpse-pit with its tail between its legs and a whimper in its throat, claws scraping for purchase in the soft sand. And it was the Butcher that followed, blood drunk and joyful, whistling a jaunty tune.

"Come on, doggy," the Butcher said, staring right at the hellhound hiding on top of the prison's wall. "The fleabag is escaping."

The hunt was on.

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