Chapter from my Fiction Novel, Wounded World

Chapter 4
Werewolves
Juno 21st, 732
Samson held his son's hand as the little calf toddled through the upturned dirt. His firstborn son was always at his side, following him through the dirt on his unsteady legs. His son had been born with a white star on his forehead, a rare gift because it was a sign of great promise for his life. His wife Nada was carrying their second child and was at home resting as she was due any day now.
The morning had started off with rain, leaving the ground and grass wet when he first started, but the rising sun and the heat of the day was quickly drying everything out. A small cloud of purple and black butterflies had dried off in the rising summer heat and flowed around him and Milos as they flew off towards their goal. He had pushed his plow through the dirt after having harnessed it to his two droughs. His droughs were muscular and strong, with brown feathers and broad heads. They weren't as pretty as the droughs used by Sphinx's which had multi-colored feathers, but they were stout and bred for farm work. He had a hundred acres to plow over the next two days, as he worked alongside his brothers and his father. Minotaurs had large families and everyone worked. The cows would help around harvest time, but the bulls broke up the ground, plowed, and planted the seeds or seedlings. Cows were often responsible for maintaining the green houses, canning and storing food, and raising the children, as they were often pregnant and stayed near home.
Samson's nation of Crete fed the world. Even the nations that hated Minotaurs bought their grain, wool, and meat and Minotaur port cities were always full of Kraken ships transporting their produce around the world. His farm was only medium-sized among his people, but he hoped to watch it grow as his family grew. Keeping Milos close by, growing up in the dirt, was the best education he could provide his son.
He waved as Arry, his dad's best friend, walked by, carrying his priestly staff and wearing his robes. Arry was probably on his way to perform last rites for the Old Matron that had passed away two villages away. Good and bad news traveled fast among the Minotaur communities. Each village was set in the center of five main roads, like a star, the farms were planned around each village like a barrier. Irrigation canals interrupted the fields. Some irrigation canals were large enough for boats to travel upon. But no village was more than five miles away from another and many Harpies had commented to him over the years how Minotaur villages looked like fields of flowers in bloom in early fall before the harvesting. He supposed they did from the sky, with the farms like petals and the the village like the ovule.
But he preferred to keep his feet on the ground. The wings of a harpy had never really interested him. Milos had picked up a clump of clay in his hands and was grinding it in between his fingers, the glee on his face at his power over something was joy. The clay here in this part of Crete was a deep red. He picked up a clump of it and squished it between his hands too. It was soft and gritty. He then smeared some of the red clay on Milos's head. Milos looked shocked at first and then walked over to him and tried to squish more clay on his dad's rough overalls. The dirt stayed easily on his pants and Milos laughed and grabbed more clay to rub in so Samson pretended to run away and when Milos almost caught him, he fell down in the dirt allowing Milos to climb on top of his chest and rub clay on his head. Samson's muzzle hadn't yet started to show signs of age, so the red mixed in well with his own reddish coat. Milos grabbed his horns and started to rock, back and forth, his words still gibberish mostly at this age. He only had a few words, and one of them was Ma. He had yet to start saying Da.
He didn't have the time to spend in the dirt all morning though. He was bringing Milos on a short walk around their property to check on the corn and wheat that was growing up to his chest this time of year. The corn was already thick and green, ears just starting to bud with their yellow tassels sticking out. He ran his hands along the corn stalks closest to him. He could smell their hot leafs in the morning sun, already soaking up the light.
Suddenly, he stopped. Another smell was mixed in with the clay, earth, and corn. A smell of something malicious and dangerous. He grabbed Milos and ran. But the malice ran too, staying in the corn, staying hidden, but following close behind. Samson just needed to get to Nada, to grab a weapon, anything, so he could fight. Milos was laughing in his arms, thinking this was another game of Samson's.
He reached the end of the rows of corn first and kept going. His house was only eighty yards away and he was faster than whatever was chasing him in the corn. He heard it burst out and he looked behind him. It was a werewolf. It was a dozen werewolves. Their eyes were red, their fangs were covered in a lather, and their coats were ragged. They paused to howl, and then tore after him. He looked back ahead and saw his small home. There at the door was Nada, fighting off five werewolves while she was pregnant. She only had a long handled scythe, but she she was swinging it with deadly skill. Two of the Werewolves were already mortally wounded, but they continued to fight on as they bled and their organs fell to the ground. Chimera bred Werewolves to be a force of evil, not even surrendering to death. Best way to kill a Werewolf was to destroy their heart or their brain. Nada sliced again, and an arm fell off. The werewolf picked it up and used it to swing at Nada when she was focused on another. It hit her stomach and Nada collapsed on the ground, trying to hold onto her scythe.
Milos, by this time, had seen the werewolves behind him and the ones in front and was crying loudly. Samson put Milos under his arm to protect him, grabbed Nada's scythe with his free hand and started swinging wildly. His first cut removed a Werewolf's head and the next cut tore right though a Werewolf's chest, leaving his heart and lungs exposed. He turned to Nada, still shocked by the pain in her midsection, quickly handing Milos to her while swinging the scythe wildly at the fifteen still standing. He then lunged forward with his free hand and ripped out the Werewolf's heart, it's arteries ripping free with a sound like a ripped cloth.
With Nada behind him, and the fourteen left standing, he went to work. Low cuts to remove legs. High cuts to cut open skulls. Back and forth he worked the scythe, never letting the Werewolves have a moment to regroup. He pressed hard towards them, pushing them away from his wife and his children. Nada was moaning behind him and Milos was crying, but he stayed focus in the moment, ignoring them. He cut off arms and hands. He didn't notice that they had sliced open his ribs with their sharp claws as he kept fighting. He was roaring, his voice drowning out the growls and yelps from the Werewolves. It didn't take long, but it had felt like hours, before he had killed the last Werewolf.
He turned around to Nada who was holding her stomach, in great pain.
"The baby is coming, but something is wrong," Nada said through her clenched teeth.
He carried his wife into their home and laid her on their bed. He didn't have time to go grab a priest or a midwife to help him. Nada was bleeding, the lower half of her dress was already sticky wet and red. He barred the door because he could still hear distant howls from nearby farms and screaming.
It took fifteen minutes, but Nada finally was able to give birth to their second child, but the child didn't move or cry or make any sounds. When Samson felt the baby's chest, it felt squishy, like it had been crushed. He wanted to rage and go kill more Werewolves. He felt as feral and rabid as they were. But Nada and Milos needed him right now. Burying the rage, he worked to help his wife up.
"Please, let me see our daughter," Nada asked, her voice strained from her earlier exertion.
Samson complied, but it broke his heart to hand his wife their dead daughter.
Outside, he heard more Werewolves. They could smell the blood and they were trying to get in through the barred door. He ran up to it and tried to push heavy furniture against it. Milos wasn't crying anymore, but trying to see his baby sister. Nada was running her hands across the baby's face and laughing bitterly.
Samson looked around the small home, feeling completely lost. The werewolves were locked out and they just needed to survive long enough for help to arrive. But a loud crash against the door knocked loose a beam holding up their roof. The beam drove down onto Samson's head and he knew no more.