Cwn Annwfn: The Gabriel Hounds Read online

Cwn Annwfn:

  The Gabriel Hounds

  Amanda R. Leonard

  Copyright 2011 by Amanda R. Leonard

  Few remember now how it all began, and fewer still are those that know why it started. I, however, am the only one that can recall everything. It began mid-October, in a year when both the night and the frost came unseasonably early to the land. And it was with the cold that they came. At first their existence was little more than a rumor, a whispered word on a dark night, a story told to keep children from misbehaving. The only evidence was the haunting howls and the remains of the creatures that had fallen prey in the night. But soon their existence could not be blamed on the wild animals that skulked in darkness, coming in to maim and kill livestock. And it became apparent far too quickly that these "animals" as many called them were far more cunning than anyone had given them credit for. Traps would be set each night in hopes of capturing one of the beasts, yet each morning we found the traps sprung and whatever bait we'd used stolen. Looking back, perhaps the villagers provoked them, but either way, as the days passed, the Shadow Hounds became bolder. The people knew it wouldn't be long, with how quickly things escalated, that the beasts wouldn't fear humans for much longer. I doubt very much that they ever feared us; we were after all the ones being preyed upon, though in the early days we made ourselves believe that it was them that were being hunted.

  The first death that anyone truly knew of happened on October 30th, the night before All-Hallows Eve, though, to be truthful there had already been hundreds killed, all over the continent, in fact packs were hunting on each shore that was big enough to hold anything living. But the sleepy little village in the far reaches of the world hadn't yet heard any of the whispers. They had no idea that the beasts that were haunting them were known by many as the Cwn Annwfn. The Gabriel Hounds. Beasts that were said to seek out the damned. No, to the forgotten little village, the first death was a cold shock, unforeseen and terrifying.

  The miller, a widower, and father of a single daughter, was headed back from town with a wagon load of wheat to be ground. For most he was a jovial sort, a very kind man, and good neighbor to all. He was always willing to help out a friend. But, few know the dark secrets of others, and some sins are easily hidden. However, to those that looked closely, they would have noticed the lecherous eye, the way he tended to look too long at the young girls, but only his daughter knew the true darkness that lurked within his breast. Or of the sins he committed against her each night, of the thousands of nights she'd endured, from the time she was little more than a toddler. She had become a recluse, spoke to no one save for myself, and vowed to take her secrets, and his sins, with her to the grave.

  The morning of All Hallows Eve Muriel found the horse and wagon outside of the mill. The horse was lathered in sweat with wild eyes and flared nostrils. His flanks quivered from both exhaustion and terror. The miller however was not found until two days later; his bloated corpse was floating face down in the stream less than a mile from the mill. His innards, had been pulled from his body, and large chunks of flesh were missing from his bones. His death was at first considered a terrible accident, and as usually happens, wolves were blamed. But many of the villagers knew in their hearts that it hadn't been normal beasts that had killed him. And as always happens, the whispers began to grow louder.

  Soon after the miller's death, others began to fall victim to the Shadow Beasts, the first of such was Annabella, the blacksmith's wife. Brom had traveled to a neighboring village to collect more iron for his forge. Everyone in the village knew that while he was away she spent her nights in the arms of the farrier, and it was on her return home from one of their more lascivious trysts in the stables that the beasts took her.

  Her body was found the following morning, the pieces strewn over a quarter of a mile. The following night, her lover followed her to the grave. Brom returned home to find that he was both a widower and that he had lost his closest childhood friend. They say that the howl of anguish he unleashed when he learned of their deaths rivaled that of the hounds. He gathered together a force of men, with the intent of hunting down the murderous beasts; he intended to kill all that he found. Though, I doubt he would have been seeking vengeance on the hounds had he known the secrets of the departed. The night was spent chasing ghosts. Not a single beast fell to the hunters, nor a single baleful howl that had echoed across the land heard.

  The Shadow Hounds, it was believed hopefully, had decided to move on. They remained silent for almost a week, lulling the villagers into a false security. And it was on that sixth night of silence that the beasts returned. The world laid in a deathly quiet, no sounds were heard, yet at the first light of dawn, we found the carnage.

  The bodies of more than a half dozen people were found drug into the town square, their remains mauled and gorged upon by the hounds. Lifeless eyes, beginning to cloud over, even in death shone with fear. One mangled face stared up at the sky, half his jaw was gone, and the other half was agape, locked in a silent scream. Another was missing most of an arm, his belly split open and innards trailing from the forest. But of all the bodies, not even the mangled remains of the woman could wipe away the image of what they had done to the children. The littlelings had suffered before they met their fate, that much was certain. But more than that I cannot bring myself to say, few things haunt me, but the image of what they did to the children will follow me for eternity.

  No one recognized any of the dead, but it was plain to see from what was left of their tattered clothing that they had been gypsies. Most gypsies, given horrid circumstances had taken to thievery among other dark talents as a way of life. And when their wagon was located outside of the town, the villagers realized that this lot had truly embraced that darkness. Bleached bones lay among the wreckage, along the walls jars filled with mummified creatures stared down at us. Eventually the gypsy band's corpses were returned to the wagon and the whole thing burnt. But it solidified one thing for us, we were being hunted, targeted, and there was nothing we could do about it.

  Belatedly, the elders decreed that no one was to venture outdoors after nightfall; however that didn't put an end to the killings. The days became shorter, and as they did the tension of the village rose to an almost fevered pitch. We were sheep, we were weak and terrified. The traps, each bigger and better than the last, still remained unsuccessful, and the body count continued to rise. However, the silence hung over us, like a smothering blanket.

  The silence was broken mid-December when the village awoke to the sound of a child screaming. Neighbors that hadn't ventured out for months came rushing to their doors and windows to see where the sound was coming from. She stood in the moonlight in her nightgown. The girl was no more than four, her white blonde hair tousled and matted. Tears streamed from pale blue eyes as she shook in terror. Her screams had turned to sobs, as she, along with the rest of the village watched in horror as four of the hounds tore at her mother. For a moment, everything seemed like the rest of the world. Frozen.

  They were savage beasts, resembling enormous mangy black wolf hounds, with glowing red eyes and long talon like claws. They tore at the woman lying on the ground, like a pack of ravenous wolves. She was barely recognizable, blood matted her strawberry blonde hair, gashes covered her face and limbs, and oh God! All the blood! Yet for as battered and broken as she was, somehow Lily the tavern wench was still alive.

  Some of the men sprang into action; those that had lain with her of course were the first to move. Looking back perhaps it was their undoing, for who could overcome such vociferous destruction? Some reached for torches, others, pitchforks or whatever weapon was close at ha
nd. We knew, and they knew, even as they moved out their doors, and away from the safety of their hovels, there would be no saving the woman. But it was almost a valiant effort for them to try. Things moved in slow motion then. I watched as one hound, larger than the others, picked Lily up by the throat and shook her like a rag doll. Everyone heard the bones snap, it was impossible not to hear. It was a blood chilling sound, and as she went completely limp we knew the small flickering spark of her life had fled. But through the whole event, it was her daughter that held my attention. She stood in the center of the frenzied scene a tiny porcelain version of her mother, and just watched everything around her, through giant, tear stained ice blue eyes.

  The men that had ventured out to fight off the beasts, beckoned yet she didn't hear them. I doubt very much that she saw them, so terrified, and fascinated was she by the hounds. But the beasts saw. And the beasts heard. And unlike the men had expected them to do, the hounds did not turn and flee to the forest. No, they seemed immune to the fear that most wild animals have for humans. But these were no ordinary animals, there was an intelligence burning in their eyes that could not be mistaken. The men began to fear then, and the beasts seemed to stand that much taller. It was then that he appeared. He was a great white monster, and yet he slunk from the shadows as though he was made of them. His eyes glowed; it was an unnatural shade, like living flame. He stopped and lowered his monstrous head to the child, he ruffled her hair with his breath, and she reached a tiny hand up, touching his face. Beauty and beast, angel and demon. Heaven and Hell. He turned his great amber eyes on the men standing before him.

  I could see the fear radiating from the humans then, in that tiny moment when they realized just how fragile their existence was. Their mortality was upon them. And all over the village, on the lips of every man, woman, and child, a single name was whispered. Gabriel, the right hand of God. Like wildfire, realization struck, the rapture had come for them, to make them pay for their sins, Gabriel's Hounds. Come to do their master's bidding. Men who had stood frozen only a moment before suddenly found their legs, their bodies reacting in the most primal of instincts, survive. But it wouldn't have mattered. There was no outrunning the Hounds.

  The great white monster howled, it was a deafening, and terrifying sound, it shook the earth itself from the power of it. But even more terrifying was the answering calls. Hundreds-- no, thousands of howls. From every imaginable direction, and like a flood they came pouring into the village. It was over in seconds, and there were few that remained. But the sight that struck me was the tiny porcelain statue, her hand still raised to where she had touched the face of a monster. I wept for those who were left, for the knowledge that there were so few. Such little innocence and the image of that tiny hand stretched out to the beast. That image will be with me for eternity. But even so, I watched the hounds vanish, like the ebbing tide, they disappeared back into the forest. I alone knew they wouldn't return. I alone knew the blood spilled had washed the village clean of its sins, its secrets. And in the silence, the mute void of sound that lay across the land after the symphony of rending flesh and crunching bone. I alone could smile. Why you ask? What joy could I find in such horrific sights, and terrible sounds? What pleasure could be found in such destruction? My answer lies in my name... You may call me Gabriel.