“No bow, eh?” said Old Mats.
Cathal smiled and held up his knife. “No, I like to do my hunting the old fashioned way,” he said, with more than a little sarcasm. As he looked around, he could see that most of the Norsemen were well equipped with bows, knives, and axes.
“You Irishmen are a strange lot,” laughed Old Mats. “If things get precarious, just stand close to me. I've killed more than a few wolves in my time.”
“I appreciate that,” agreed Cathal.
The hunting party made their way to the western edge of the island and worked their way northward. As they walked, the Norsemen joked amongst themselves, confident in their strength of number. However, the farther north they trekked, the quieter they became.
Cathal turned to Old Mats and asked, “How large is this island?”
Old Mats scratched at his neck and pondered for a moment, then said, “Oh, it's about four miles east to west, and seven miles north to south, by my estimation.”
“And how many wolves do you think are on the island?”
Shaking his head, the old Norseman said, “That's anyone's guess. Most of these islands along the coast have wolves and bears on them, though how they get there is anyone's guess. Though if you're twisting my arm for an answer, I suppose there's at least fifty to a hundred wolves up north.”
Cathal furrowed his brow. That was a lot of wolves for such a small island, but then again, it wasn't the wolves that worried him the most. He shuddered as the image of that monstrous beast flashed across his mind, its amber eyes reflecting pure hatred and rage. That blasphemous creature that only wanted to bring death to those who would encroach upon its territory. He also remembered the words of the Turkish foreman, who stated there were three such demons on the island. Cathal shook his head. Could that be right?
They were at the midpoint of the island now, working their way to the north. The herding and lumber camps were to the east, and the ocean was to their west. They saw a few dozen reindeer grazing in the open fields, and even a couple of herdsmen, who nervously watched them as they ambled past.
A few minutes later, Cathal heard one of the Norsemen shout a warning. “There's one!” he yelled. The hunter ran forward, with a few of his companions running nervously behind him. They quickly fell behind, as they eyed the dark woodline with apprehension. The wolf deftly ran towards a cluster of trees, far in the distance.
“Stay with the group!” the chieftain yelled, admonishing the overzealous hunter.
The hunter grabbed an arrow and notched it in his bow, he then carefully pulled back on the drawstring and let loose. The arrow whistled through the air, only to thunk in the ground, far short of the retreating wolf.
“Good shot, Olaf!” laughed one of the men. This was followed by many jeers and catcalls from the Norsemen.
Olaf scowled and offered his companions a crude gesture. He then walked to retrieve his arrow.
“I said stay with the group!” yelled the chieftain, once again.
Shaking his head in agitation, Olaf turned around and stomped back towards the hunting party. Suddenly, a half-dozen wolves sprinted from the woodline, towards the lone Norseman.
Shouts of warning rang out from the hunting party as Olaf turned and looked over his shoulder. Once he saw the wolves, he froze in terror for a moment, then started running towards safety. Several arrows flew past him as he ran, as several hunters were trying to cover his escape.
“Stop shooting, or you'll hit him!” yelled the chieftain.
The wolves were clever – they attacked from behind, using Olaf as a shield to cover their approach from the rain of arrows. They happily yipped and growled as they closed in, only seconds from their prey.
“Dammit!” cursed the chieftain. There was no way Olaf would make it to safety in time. Torsten drew his own bow and let an arrow fly, which arced past Olaf's head and slammed into the lead wolf. With a yelp, the wolf tumbled to the ground, dead.
Before the chieftain could get off a second shot, another wolf lunged and bit Olaf in the left leg, causing him to spin and crash to the ground. The five wolves swarmed on the unfortunate Norseman, attacking him from all sides.
“He's as good as dead. Don't just stand there. Fire!” yelled the chieftain, as nearly every Norseman in the hunting party let loose their arrows.
A cloud of arrows descended upon Olaf and the five remaining wolves. The small area around Olaf looked like a bloody pincushion. One of the wolves was hit with only two arrows. It quickly scampered away into the forest. Olaf and the four remaining wolves weren't as fortunate.
Rushing to the fallen Norseman's side, the chieftain and the rest of the hunting party slowed to a walk as they approached the grizzly scene. Olaf was splayed on the ground with over a half-dozen arrows sticking out of him. He looked blankly at the sky with dead eyes.
“What a goddamn catastrophe,” muttered Torsten. With a heavy sigh, he then said, “I need two volunteers to drag him back to town. Better yet, drag him to the herding camp and see if the Turks have a cart.”
More than a few Norsemen volunteered. Torsten absently picked the two men who were closest to him. He then turned and addressed the crowd. “We aren't hunting rabbits here. Some of you idiots are acting as if this is your first hunt. Stay quiet and stay alert.” He then shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Odin's hairy balls, what a mess.”
The rest of the hunting party watched in silence as the two men dragged Olaf's bloody carcass to the reindeer camp. Amid the blood and perforated bodies of the five dead wolves, Cathal could see Olaf's discarded bow lying on the ground. It was snapped in two, useless. Of all the damned luck, he lamented.
“Alright, let's head out,” spat the chieftain. The group cautiously trudged northward, with their bows half drawn. They were furtively looking into the woodline and snapping their heads at the slightest sound. They were agitated and nervous; a far cry from the jovial mood they were in just a few minutes ago.
One tense hour later, they found themselves at the far northwestern edge of the island. Torsten turned to the hunting party and said, “As we move eastward, keep your eyes peeled. Make no mistake – this is wolf country. There's no telling how many of those damn creatures are out there, so keep an arrow cocked at all times. And I don't need to tell you to stick together. In a few hours from now, if all goes well, we'll be back at the tavern telling tall tales and spending our hard-earned silver on watered-down mead.”
This caused a few smiles and nods of agreement. What happened to Olaf was an unfortunate blunder, but they were alert now – a force of forty-five hardened Norsemen armed with bows and axes.
As they moved eastward, the chieftain instructed the men to fan out in a staggered formation. They slowly crept forward, their eyes darting left and right.
Keeping his eyes trained on the trees ahead of him, Cathal thought he saw movement. He turned to Faolan and asked, “Did you see that?”
“I saw something,” choked Faolan. He then nervously cleared his throat.
“There, up ahead!” yelled one of the Norsemen, as he fired an arrow.
This caused at least a dozen agitated Norsemen to release their arrows into the forest, hitting nothing.
“Hold your fire. Don't waste your arrows,” growled Torsten.
At that moment, nearly a dozen wolves raced out of the woodline from the south, flanking them.
“To your right! Fire!” yelled Torsten, as another volley of arrows showered upon the wolves. The wolves stopped and raced back into the forest, with three of their number slain.
Several of the hunters let out a whoop, confident that they were finally getting better of the fight. “That's a total of eight wolves dead!” boasted one of the Norsemen.
Cathal had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was as if something other than the wolves was out there, watching him. He then looked upwards, through the branches, at the noonday sky. The moon shown directly overhead, dimly reflecting the light of the sun.
While the hunters adjusted their formation to face the south, Cathal squinted his eyes and looked to the east. He witnessed several wolves darting between the trees, then his eyes widened in horror as nearly three-dozen wolves raced between the trees, towards the unsuspecting Norsemen. He pointed his finger and shouted, “To the east!”
As the hunting party collectively turned to the left, drawing their bows, Torsten noticed another line of wolves creeping out of the shadows, to the south. An astonished looked washed over his face as he realized what was happening. They weren't the hunters – they were being hunted! He let out a stuttering curse, then shouted, “They're boxing us in. Retreat!”
With the shoreline to the north, and wolves to the south and east, they had only one direction to retreat, back to the west. In a disorganized clatter, the Norsemen stumbled and sprinted westward, with the chieftain bellowing after them to maintain formation.
In less than a half minute, the chaotic retreat came to a faltering halt, as the men skidded to a dead stop, incredulous as to what they were seeing – a line of nearly a hundred wolves to the west, panting and pawing at the ground. Standing several paces in front of the wolves was the black-furred demon, hunched over on all fours, growling and gnashing its teeth. It briefly stood up on two legs and let out an ear-shattering roar, signaling the wolves to attack.
The panicked hunters let loose their arrows into the pack. Unfortunately, less than a dozen wolves fell under the hail of arrows, and the few arrows that struck the werewolf were grasped by the creature and ripped from its body contemptuously. The creature then sprinted towards them with blinding speed, easily dodging arrows with preternatural quickness. As the monster barreled into the hunter's front line, it gnashed and clawed at them, sending twisted bodies careening through the air.
The wolves from the south and east raced to join the fray. The hunting party was completely surrounded, with the werewolf in their midst, swiping and biting all those who were unfortunate enough to get within range. The men were in a complete state of panic; there was no hope of escape.
Dropping their bows and hefting their axes, the Norsemen tried to form a defensive circle, with their backs facing each other. They held their axes before them, ineffectually swinging and jabbing their weapons at the wolves, only to have the creatures faint and lunge at them with wild abandon. One by one, the hunters were dragged from the formation, screaming, as the wolves bit and yipped in a frenzy of chaotic glee.
Cathal could see Torsten race towards the werewolf with his ax held high. The chieftain let out a mighty bellow as he swung his weapon and buried it deep into the monster's side. The fiend casually backhanded the chieftain, sending him careening to the ground, unconscious. It then wretched the ax out of its side and cast it contemptuously to the ground, as a spray of blood erupted from the ghastly wound. The monster paid no heed to its injury, as it loped towards the still body of the chieftain, with a glint of malicious finality in its hateful eyes.
Just as the werewolf reared back to deliver the killing blow, Biter lunged forward and jumped on the monster, sinking her teeth into the creature's upper arm.
Momentarily distracted, the werewolf grabbed Biter by the scruff of her neck, and tore her away. The wolfhound ripped out a chunk of the demon's flesh as she was pulled away. She struggled and snapped as the monster held her body aloft by one hand. The werewolf then swiped at Biter with its free hand, causing a huge bloody gash across the dog's side. Blood sprayed into the wind as the wolfhound let out an anguished yelp. The werewolf then tossed Biter to the side and stepped towards the chieftain.
Once the wolfhound hit the ground, she rolled and crumpled to a stop, her chest rapidly rising and falling in a series of struggling, shallow breaths. Cathal could hear Faolan scream, as the Irishman ran to his dog's side. He fell to his knees and was crying in anguish, oblivious to the bloody chaos surrounding him.
Cathal held his knife defensively before him as he gazed at the carnage to his left and right; it was complete pandemonium. After only a few minutes, the wolves had decimated nearly half their number. He could see men being dragged into the forest. He could hear the hunters screaming as they were being feasted upon. Cathal could feel nothing but apathy and despair, certain that these were the last few moments of his life. He dropped to his knees and stared blankly before him; his body in shock from all he had witnessed. It was then that his hand brushed against the pouch that was cinched to his belt...the wolfsbane!
With fumbling hands, he wrenched the pouch from his belt and tore open the drawstring. His fingers were madly shaking as he poured the poison onto the blade of his knife. Then, discarding the pouch, he stood up and clutched his knife with white knuckles. Before him, not ten paces away, was the werewolf, closing in on the still-unconscious body of the chieftain.
Steeling his nerves, Cathal bolted towards the monster with his knife held high above his head. Just as the werewolf lunged towards Torsten, Cathal swung his knife downward, burying it deep into the creature's back.
The creature stiffened, then turned around, its eyes wild and drenched with malevolence. It stepped towards Cathal and roared, causing the Irishman to fall to his knees in abject terror. The creature then took another step, faltered, and crashed to the ground, only a few inches from where Cathal was kneeling.
Cathal was shaking and hyperventilating, overcome with dread emotion. He brought his hands up before him, incredulous as to what he had just accomplished. He then gazed at the beast, it's limbs were still twitching. The werewolf then turned its head and looked directly at Cathal. There was no recognition in its eyes, only hatred. A few moments later, it lie there, still.
As soon as the werewolf expired, the wolves stopped yipping and howling. They backed away, seemingly confused as to where they were. The wolves then raced into the forest, leaving the broken and battered Norsemen behind.
Amid the cries of injured and dying hunters, Cathal heard Faolan's wretched sobs. He was kneeling over Biter, the wolfhound's giant head resting on his lap. As he gently petted her, he whispered repeatedly, “It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay...”
Cathal crawled over to him and rested his hand on Faolan's shoulder. “It's over. Biter saved the chieftain's life.”
“It doesn't matter,” cried Faolan, pushing Cathal's hand away. “She's dying. She's the greatest friend I've ever had and she's dying.”
Cathal studied the giant gash in the wolfhound's side. It was bleeding profusely, several bones in the dog's rib cage were broken, and the animal could barely manage shallow, halting breaths.
The wound looked grim, but no major organs appeared to be damaged. He exhaled loudly, trying to determine if the animal could be saved. Regardless, if he didn't act soon, Biter would bleed out.
He glanced at his friend. The pained expression etched on Faolan's face was all it took to make up his mind. “Did you forget?” said Cathal, with an encouraging smile. “I'm a doctor. I can fix this.”
Faolan looked up, almost disbelieving.
Cathal took out the hook and fishing line he kept in his pouch and started stitching the wound. His quick, practiced fingers nimbly stitched the wound closed. Cathal then cut the line with his teeth and tied off the end. The animal still needed further attention – it needed a cast and a litter needed to be constructed to drag Biter back to town, but the dog was stable; she was going to pull through. As Cathal finished, he turned to Faolan and said, “I think she's going to be just fine. You weren't bit, were you?”
In a daze, Faolan shook his head, no. He then broke down into a wretched series of weeps and wails, overcome with emotion. “Thank you,” he whispered, as he bent over and frantically stroked Biter's head. “Thank you.”
Lightly touching him on the arm, Cathal said, “I need to attend the others.” He then stood up and quickly walked to the nearest Norseman lying on the ground. He knelt down by the man and opened several other pouches that were tied to his belt, containing healing herbs and tinctures. He then looked up br
iefly, surveying the grizzly, blood-drenched battlefield. Over half their number were dead or wounded.
Chapter 13
Cathal was beside himself with anxiety. Most of the men he treated were bitten by wolves, and he knew that most of the wolves carried the infection that caused the frothing disease. As he stitched and mended wounds, his shaking hands were drenched with their blood – infected blood. Nevertheless, he continued on, diligently trying to save as many patients as possible.
After operating on a half-dozen men, he walked over to his next patient – a hunter whose leg was badly mangled and profusely bleeding. Cathal bent over and examined the wound. Blood was spurting out of his leg in rhythmic pulses. He shook his head and scowled. He would not be able to save the leg.
Cathal took the hunter's ax and raised it over his head. Then, gritting his teeth, he swung the ax down as forcefully as he could, right above the hunter's knee.
The hunter tensed and screamed, then passed out. He was breathing in hurried, shallow breaths. Cathal mumbled a curse as he ripped a strip of cloth from the man's discarded pant leg and tied a tourniquet around his bloody stump. He then bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. The adrenaline from battle, the horror of almost being killed, and the gruesome wounds he was working on, had an accumulative effect upon his mind. He forced himself to take deep breaths, trying to steady his rattled nerves.
Just when he thought he was getting a handle on the situation, Cathal heard an alarmed shout at the other end of the battlefield. He looked over his shoulder to find a gathering of Norsemen circling around the dead body of the werewolf. They were talking amongst themselves in an unnerved manner.
Cathal stood up and approached the gathering, wondering why they were in such an agitated state. As he walked closer, the Norsemen noticed his approach and let him through. What Cathal then witnessed didn't make any sense. There lie Mirko, dead on the ground, with a knife sticking out of his back. His eyes were still open, blankly staring forward.
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