Night of Wolves p-1

by David Dalglish

  “Two at right!” Letts cried, firing an arrow off in that direction. Two wolf-men, hoping to surprise him, curled about the inn and leapt. Darius stepped into the attack, ducking under the first’s claws and swinging. His greatsword cut the damned creature in half, spilling its gore across the dirt. The second slammed into him and they rolled. Claws scraped his armor, and teeth sank into the gorget protecting his throat.

  “Get off me, you bastard!” Darius cried. He pressed his blackened hand against its breast. All his anger poured through, a powerful blow made stronger by his faith in Karak. The wolf-man flew back, smoke billowing from a hole in its chest. Darius stood, having little time to prepare before three more assaulted him. Letts took down one, then swore.

  “Bad dog, down!”

  Wolf-men were climbing the sides of the building, but there was nothing Darius could do but hope Letts handled it himself. The first rammed into him, but Darius held firm, piercing its heart with his blade. He tore it out the side, cutting off the head of a second. Bone and muscle were like wheat to Darius’s mighty scythe, and he felt himself the reaper. The third wolf scored a hit against his side, his claws sinking in through a gap in his armor. He sliced off its hand at the wrist for such insolence, then opened its throat.

  Above him, Letts screamed.

  “Letts?” Darius asked as he caught his breath. “Letts!”

  The archer’s body sailed over his head and landed in a heap. He spun, saw wolves crawling across the roof, tearing at the shingles. Already he saw gaps opening up. Darius thought of Dolores inside, of the many wounded. He turned back, and already a group of five were preparing to charge. He couldn’t save them. Guilt clawed at his throat, but what could he do? In the distance, he saw the soldiers handling the wolves at Hangfield’s, but only because the priest continually cursed and disrupted the assaults. But Jerico…

  The paladin of Ashhur was surrounded by foes, and the best he could do was stand firm with his shield and hope to endure. In minutes, he’d be buried.

  “I’m sorry,” Darius whispered to the inn. To Karak or Ashhur they’d go. There was no hope left for them. Abandoning his post, he slashed through the wolf-men, ran across open ground, and lunged into the group gathering around Jerico. He kept his back to the inn, not wanting to see the wolf-men enter, not wanting to hear the screams of the dying, imagine Dolores torn to pieces…

  “At my side!” Jerico ordered, and Darius obeyed. They linked up, two paladins side by side, and faced the wolf horde.

  “Your charges,” Jerico asked.

  “I could not save them.”

  There was no judgment in Jerico’s eyes, only sadness mixed with determination.

  “You did all you could. Stand with me.”

  The wolves leapt, driven mad by the stench of blood and carnage. Bodies lay in great stacks, the wolf-men needing to climb over many just to make an attack. Like ancient heroes of old, the two paladins held firm. Those who attacked found only Jerico’s glowing shield awaiting them. Those who fled felt the black blade of Darius pierce their backs.

  Jerico took up song as he fought, a jaunty tune Darius had heard in many taverns. He laughed aloud as he realized its title: The Wolf and the Maiden. One line amused him to no end, and he sang along as his sword whirled.

  “And down, down, down came the woodsman’s axe, down, down, down!”

  How well the wolves understood their song, Darius didn’t know, but it seemed to infuriate them to no end. On and on they came, leaping over ditches filled with their dead, crawling over the walls of their bodies. He couldn’t think of how many he killed. The number was lost to him. Twenty? Thirty? His arms ached. Scratches lined his face and neck. The taste of blood remained permanent on his tongue. But he sang along with Jerico all the same, until a great cry pierced the noise. Appearing none too pleased, the wolf-men backed away, growling amongst themselves.

  “What’s going on?” Darius asked.

  “I don’t know. Jon, you still alive?”

  The archer waved an arm over the top of the roof.

  “You guys are scaring the shit out of me,” said Jon. “Dear gods, how many did you kill?”

  Darius glanced at the dead and shrugged.

  “A lot.”

  They heard shouts, and a large commotion spread to the center. It was then they saw Redclaw lording over the pack, giving orders, commanding with his howls. Their eyes locked, and Darius felt chills flow through his blood. The wolf was unafraid, unimpressed with their stand.

  “Their leader,” Jerico whispered.

  “If he dies, we might break their spirit.”

  The wolves about them seemed small by comparison to that center group, and Darius realized they had fought the weakest, the scouts and runners. In a group of near a hundred were the true elites, the muscle of the wolf pack. Above them Redclaw towered, and Darius had no desire to face him.

  “We did well,” he said. “Let us die knowing that.”

  Jerico laughed.

  “You can die, if you like. We’re not done yet, Darius. We’ll pat our backs in the morning, with breath still in our lungs.”

  “Amen,” said Jon from the roof.

  Redclaw stepped forward, and the three fell silent, for the leader began to speak.

  14

  If all humans were this strong, Redclaw knew the wolves of the Wedge could never claim a land of their own. He surveyed the damage, strangely unafraid. The loss of life felt distant to him, for many were not of his own pack. Even being in human lands felt unreal, but at the same time, a fulfilled destiny. No matter how many died, he would take this village, and the next, until his entire race had itself a proud nation. But these villagers were strong, and though they had killed many breaking into one of their buildings, still the two defended structures remained.

  Redclaw had watched the fight for a time, seeing both defenders. The larger building, the one with many boarded windows, was guarded by human men that he had seen and fought before. They wore metal for skin, and gathered together for strength. Their long blades kept his wolves at bay, for they could not swarm them like they could on open ground. But they were still weak, and he could see their movements slowing. In time they would fall, and all within would die. Only the strange man on their roof appeared truly dangerous, wielding magics that confounded reason. The attacks had slowed, though, the man garbed in black possibly lacking the strength to continue.

  But these two…

  “What are they?” he asked Murdertongue, hoping the intelligent wolf might know.

  “I do not know,” Murdertongue replied. “Surely they are men, like any other.”

  Redclaw shook his head. The shield of one glowed with a blue light painful to look upon, while the other swung a massive sword that burned with black fire. They held their ground against his pack, unafraid. They even sung to them in mockery! Side by side, they seemed unbreakable. They were champions of the human race, he realized, the ones Yellowscar had spoken of. No wonder he had lost so many! They were the best, the strongest, the bravest. Calling his pack together, he ordered a stop to the attack. Reluctantly they returned to him.

  “Moonclaw, take twenty to the back of the house,” he said, pointing to the place guarded by the soldiers. “Murdertongue, keep them busy at the front.”

  “What of them?” Moonclaw asked, gesturing to the human champions.

  “Five of you, stay with me,” he ordered. “I will remain here. Against all our numbers, the others cannot hope to live. Let the champions brave the open ground if they wish to save them. Let them face me in combat! We will not play their game. We will not crouch under tiny roofs.”

  Orders given, he let out a cry, sending them into motion. Patience, he told himself. He had been a fool in giving the humans warning. He’d wanted greater numbers, and a chance for them all to feast. He’d expected the humans to be hungry, tired, but instead they’d built trenches and placed sharpened poles in all directions. For the next attack, he would need to use speed and surprise.
If they had not been gathered in those buildings, if they had not prepared their defenses, already his packs would be feasting on their flesh.

  With the five at his back, he approached the two humans.

  “Champions, I am Redclaw, Wolf King of the Wedge. Who are you to defy me?”

  “Darius Wolf Slayer,” said the man with the black blade.

  “And you can call me Jerico Wolf Smacker.”

  “You do not amuse me. Do you think we will not suck the marrow from your bones before the moon sets?”

  They both shrugged.

  “I see far more of your dead than mine,” Darius said.

  Redclaw snarled. They were certainly right about that.

  “You are tired,” he said. “And your games are nothing. My wolves descend upon this village, and a scattered few will not stop us. Then we will come for you. We will tear the wood from these walls. We will rip the roof from its base. There is no stopping us.”

  “Sure there is.”

  Redclaw looked up to see a third man on the roof, a bow in hand. An arrow shot from the string, and it thudded into the eye of the wolf-man beside him. Redclaw snarled, and he caught the dying body of his fellow wolf-kin.

  “Last shot,” said the archer. “Figured I’d make it a good one. Shame I missed. Was hoping for your throat, Redclaw.”

  Redclaw felt his blood boil as he set the body down. He glanced at the archer, an unarmed man with a cowardly weapon. More than anything, he felt a desire to feel his bones crunch between his teeth, and he let it overwhelm his fear at realizing death had been so close, just the slightest correction in flight by the archer.

  “Keep them here,” he ordered the remaining four. “Do not let them escape.”

  He bolted to one side, running on all fours. The sudden exertion felt wonderful to his muscles. All night, he’d stayed back from the fight, behaving as he thought a king should. But that was the way of human kings, perhaps. He should have been in the fray long before. How many wolves might he have spared by slaughtering the defenders? He was the strongest, the fastest. He should have acted like it.

  Climbing the building was simple, the wood providing easy grip for his claws. In moments he was on top. The archer, instead of trying to flee, surprised him by lunging with his dagger. Redclaw bit at it, catching the blade in his teeth. A vicious jerk and the weapon went flying. This time the archer did run, heading toward where the two champions stood. A kick of his legs and he flew across the roof, his claws sinking into the man’s back. He twisted and slashed, relishing the warm flow that spilled across his hands. His teeth sank into the man’s neck, opening veins. Blood poured across his tongue, and he drank it eagerly. Fulfilling his desire, he tore free the man’s collarbone and crunched it in his teeth. The resulting ecstasy flooded his primal mind.

  Hurling the body to the ground, he stood above the champions, reared back, and let his roar ascend to the heavens, let the moon hear his exaltation of the most basic desires of his race.

  His sharp ears sensed a shift in the battle, and he glanced to where the combat had begun anew. The defenders at the front had retreated within, whether killed or falling back, he could not yet tell. The two men below him noticed as well, and he caught them staring at the great wave of wolf-men flowing into the building.

  “Is it not as I said?” he told them, hoping to break their spirit. “All within will die, and then we will come for you.”

  The men looked to one another, and it seemed as if they were somehow communicating. When they reacted, it was far from what Redclaw expected. The two broke for the building, leaving their own place unguarded. Baffled, Redclaw stood and watched. The four wolf-men met them in battle, and in open ground they stood a better chance, but only a little. The black blade looped about, and they had no defense against it. Severed claws struck the ground, followed by arms, followed by heads. The glowing shield shifted back and forth, protecting Darius as well as its wielder. Redclaw couldn’t believe the sight. These were his best, his finest, and mere humans were tearing them apart. Had they, too, been raised in a lifetime of battle? Was their training so great that even the wolf’s speed and strength could be overcome?

  Redclaw had terribly underestimated his opponents. There would be more like this, he realized. How many? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? His knowledge of humans was limited to the few he’d slain. Their flesh was soft. Their armor was a lie, metal twisted and shaped to protect their vulnerable bodies. They wielded heavy weapons that could only wish to be as fast as their claws. What was this? What magic gave their shield and sword power? What lunacy allowed the man in the black robe to command dark lightning, and to knock back his wolf-men as if they were playthings?

  Still, he could not hesitate further. He could not allow fear to hold him back. He leapt from the roof, for the way into the building was clear. If the champions wanted to leave the rest unprotected, so be it. But as the last of the four went down, the one with the shield, Jerico, rushed back. His mace struck at him before he had even landed from his jump. Redclaw pushed aside the blow, then rammed his head forward, striking the metal on the man’s chest. As he fell back, Redclaw looked to the other. Darius charged the rest of his pack, slicing through several before they realized a foe had come upon them from behind.

  “He will die, buried beneath my brethren,” Redclaw said.

  “Perhaps,” said Jerico. “But how many of your brethren will he take with him?”

  “You are tired. I see it. Your shoulders sag, and your breath is heavy.”

  Jerico grinned at him.

  “And you are afraid. I see the terror hidden in your yellow eyes. We’ll see who breaks first.”

  Redclaw feinted a slash with his left arm, then curled in with his right, charging at the same time. His claws raked against armor, but he felt the metal give, felt it crunch inward against the weak flesh. The champion’s mace swung, but he shifted his body enough so it only glanced off his shoulder. Two more slashes scraped against the chestplate, and then the shield was in the way. At its touch he felt pain spike up his arms, and he retreated. They faced one another, blood dripping down Redclaw’s shoulder, Jerico wincing and glancing at his chest.

  “Your armor does not hide your bleeding,” Redclaw said.

  “Neither does your fur.”

  Redclaw rushed again. He bit and slashed, using every shred of strength to break the champion down. Yet each blow upon the shield felt like he was trying to crush the very earth itself. His speed was enough that Jerico could scarcely hope to retaliate, but even so, his frustration mounted. The flanged edges cut him, shallow wounds that mounted and soaked his fur with his blood. The champion bled as well, from his wrist, his face, his neck. Nothing deep. Nothing fatal. Roaring, he tried to bury Jerico under his charge, but again the man stood firm and held him back.

  “You must fall!” Redclaw cried. “This is my fate. This is my kingdom! I have conquered the faceless dark! I am Wolf King!”

  “And I’m Jerico, and I don’t care.”

  Redclaw could no longer contain his fury. He wanted this man beaten, bloodied, and shown how pathetic he was. He fought to protect those within, so it was those he would eat while he watched. Their fight had them circling each other many times, and with the human’s exhaustion, he could not keep himself positioned perfectly. Redclaw feinted, then dove for the door.

  “No!” he heard Jerico scream. It was music to his ears.

  G regory had abandoned the polearm for the more practical sword in the cramped conditions. They’d seen the wolves assaulting every window, heard the wood groan as they climbed the walls. Whatever hope they had at a uniform defense was lost. Giving the order to fall back, he’d taken his sword, rushed into the home, and scattered his men. They went into individual rooms, where the many families hid behind locked doors. It was their last defense, and it was meager indeed.

  Slamming the door shut behind him, Gregory turned and surveyed his surroundings. He was with Jeremy, his daughter, and another family of fou
r. Jeremy held a shortsword, and he faced him with terror in his eyes.

  “The door,” he said, as if that should explain everything.

  “Overwhelmed,” Gregory said, pointing at the window. “You stand there and guard it with your life. Thrust through the cracks, but don’t let them grab hold.”

  Gregory faced the door, locked it, and pushed a dresser in the way. As the first wolf-man slammed into it from the other side, he wondered how in the world he had ended up in such a predicament. He’d been considered a promising recruit for the Mordan army, but then his father had slighted king Baedan. As a way of humiliating him, he’d sent Gregory to the wall of towers, where the greatest honor he could have expected was killing a few brave orcs who crossed the river. Or so he’d thought. Should he survive, they’d sing praises of the defense of this village. At least, he’d pay a damn bard to compose one and sing it a few times. Only seemed right.

  The lock broke, and he wasn’t surprised in the slightest. The wolves were strong, and he feared he would be a poor match against them in close quarters. Still, he wasn’t going down without a fight. The door pushed back as two more wolves joined in, knocking the dresser further with each wave. Gregory stabbed into the opening, scoring wounds each time. The wolf-men appeared oblivious to any danger. They might have gotten inside uninjured if they were careful, but that seemed counter to their nature. Everything was brutal, rushed, seeking to overwhelm an opponent with sheer strength and speed regardless of injuries. That tactic had failed in the tight spaces of the estate’s doorway, facing a coordinated defense, but one on one…

  He stabbed with renewed vigor. By the gods, he wasn’t going down without a pile of bodies at his feet! Two different yelps greeted his effort, and then the door blasted open. Desperately wishing he had a shield, Gregory met the advance. He cut one down, and he used its falling body to stall the other. His sword could cut and wound, but the wolf-men lunged with such energy that even killing one would not prevent it from crashing into him. The two families screamed, and Gregory tried to make his stand.