Night of Wolves p-1

by David Dalglish

  “Gregory!” Jeremy shouted. A wolf-man grabbed hold of Gregory’s arm, and he screamed as he felt muscle tear. He stabbed his sword up to the hilt in the wolf-man’s chest, and then spared a glance behind. Something was crashing through the broken boards on the window. Jeremy fell back. It was no wolf-man. Darius hit the floor, spun, and swung his sword in an upward arc. A chasing wolf-man howled, its body cut in two. Gore splattered the floor, and the two families screamed.

  “Take the window!” Darius ordered, physically grabbing him and flinging him behind. His burning blade made quick work of one wolf-man, and it kept a second at bay. Gregory joined Jeremy at the window, and when the first tried to climb through, they stabbed it with their swords, knocking it back. It seemed few were there to take advantage of the opening, not with the front doors unguarded.

  “There’s too many!” Gregory shouted, leaving the window to join Darius’s side.

  “Really? I never noticed!”

  Darius braced with his back foot as the wolf-man lost patience and charged, impaling itself on the burning blade. The dark paladin kicked the body off in time to battle a second, this one smaller, faster. Claws ripped off the armor from his shoulder, tearing the leather strap in two. Blood ran, but Darius fought on, his scream drowned out by that of the wolf as he hacked through its collarbone and into its chest.

  They heard cries from the other rooms, and Gregory could only imagine how the rest of their men fared. Where was Daniel? Jon? Letts? Was the priest dead, or had he simply exhausted his repertoire of spells? And what of Jerico? Still the wolves rushed through the hallways, seeming endless in number. Would they fight all night, never to know victory?

  “Gregory?” Darius asked, standing before the door with his shoulders slumped, gasping in air during a momentary reprieve.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is it me, or am I hearing trumpets?”

  Gregory paused, and sure enough, he heard the same brass sound.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Good,” Darius said, taking up his sword as another wolf-man turned the corner and rushed for him. “I was worried I’d lost so much blood I’d begun hearing things.”

  15

  Jerico didn’t want to imagine the carnage within. He didn’t want to face the failure of his poor positioning, of letting the self-proclaimed Wolf King through. But he went inside anyway.

  “Ashhur damn you to the Abyss,” he whispered. Redclaw had had only a moment’s time, but he’d used it well to suit his desire. Blood splattered the walls. People screamed, and men and women lay dying on the floor. The wolf-man tore through those that fled, trying to hurry up the stairs or to the exit. Jerico rushed in, ashamed of his pause. There was no time to take in his surroundings, no time to dwell on his failure. Only one thing mattered: Redclaw’s death.

  “Do you hear their wails?” Redclaw asked, whirling to face him, a torn arm hanging limp in his grip.

  “I do.” He flung his mace, the flanged edges striking the Wolf King across the side of his face. “And I hear yours, too.”

  He charged, shield leading. Only a fool would consider him unarmed without his mace. The glowing surface slammed into the wolf-man, its holy light burning. Redclaw howled, and despite his training, Jerico felt joy in the sound. At least ten lay dead or dying because of the creature. Hopefully Ashhur would forgive him for taking delight in Redclaw’s death. He punched with his gauntlet, braced his knees, and then lunged again. His shield struck the Wolf King’s chest, accompanied by a flash of light.

  “I am no pup!” Redclaw roared. Despite the pain from its contact, he slashed the shield anyway, shoving it back and denting its surface. “I am no fool! You will die, human. We will be free, free to roam, free to feast! The western lands belong to your kind no longer!”

  “The blood on your face says otherwise.”

  Redclaw snarled, and Jerico ducked underneath the desperate strike. Bending down, he grabbed his mace, spun, and struck the wolf-man on the underside of his chin. The blow rocked him to his heels, and Jerico followed it up with a shield to the face. Blood splattered across the metal of his armor. The paladin couldn’t deny the immense satisfaction. So many dead. So many dying.

  “We are too many,” Redclaw said, but his voice was nearly a whimper. He staggered away, his weight leaning against a wall. One eye had swollen shut from the thrown mace, and blood dripped from his nose and teeth.

  “I know,” Jerico said, not worried about the remaining few who heard him. “But we stood strong anyway, wolf. You know we beat you. You’ll die knowing it, as I’ll die knowing we crushed your pack. This land is ours. Go back to the Wedge.”

  Redclaw tensed, Jerico braced his shield, but then the wolf-man tore to the side, rushing past him and out the door. The paladin thought to call him a coward, but insulting a fleeing creature seemed both petty and pointless. It’d be like calling a dog a dog and thinking it’d care. His armor feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, he staggered back to the door. The last of his adrenaline was fading, Ashhur’s lent strength seeming to fade. He’d faced their best, and won. At least he knew that.

  Stepping out from the tavern, he looked to Hangfield’s. He expected it destroyed, to hear the cries of the dying, or even worse, the sound of feasting. Instead, the creatures appeared in disarray. Wolf-men were looking about, and many rushed from the main door. Before Jerico could begin to wonder why, he heard the heavy sound of a trumpet, shockingly close. Glancing the other way, he saw a squad of twenty soldiers on foot rushing toward the wolves, armor shining and swords raised high. An older man led them, his hair and beard gray, but his battle-cry sounded youthful enough. Jerico laughed and wondered if he’d somehow lost his mind.

  The soldiers crashed into the back ranks of the wolves, who clearly lacked any leadership. Keeping tight battle lines, the humans waded through them, pressing toward the house. Jerico took up his shield and joined in. The wolf-men had already suffered tremendous casualties, and against the reinforcements, however few, they were unprepared. Jerico heard the soldiers singing as they fought, and he sang along. His mace struck once, twice, bringing down a wolf-man, and then his shield led him on, smashing aside two more to link up with the soldiers.

  “What miracle brought you here?” he asked as the wolf-men surrounded them, forming a loose perimeter that was unable to punch through their shields.

  “If it is a miracle, it’s a damn poor one,” shouted the older man. “Because all you got was me, paladin.”

  “I’ll gladly take it,” Jerico laughed. With him in the lead, he broke the wolf’s line, using his shield to fend off two attackers hoping to bury him with their weight. The way to the house clear, they rushed in, cutting down a few stragglers trying to flee. Inside, he found Darius, who saluted with his gore-coated blade. It seemed even the dark fire was struggling to burn away all the blood.

  “Friends of yours?” Darius asked him, gesturing to the soldiers.

  “Friends of mine,” Gregory said, stepping past. “Robert, you old bastard!”

  The older man hugged him, then gestured about.

  “An interesting fortress.”

  “It did its job,” said Daniel, emerging from one of the rooms. He walked with a limp, and blood covered his left side, but he looked like he’d live another twenty years easy. “Why in blazes are you here?”

  Robert looked back to his men, who had formed a wedge and begun chasing after the wolf-men, who had taken flight outside.

  “Looks like we’ll miss the rest of the fun,” he said. “Good. Tired enough just making my way here. The young can go do the chasing.”

  Jerico leaned against the wall and, finally able to relax, he felt a massive weight leave his shoulders. They’d lived. Somehow, someway, they’d lived.

  “What brought you here?” Gregory asked.

  “Believe it or not, King Baedan sent us a few more recruits. I kept ’em for myself, but figured I’d escort some of my more veteran men down to Tower Violet. I planned to keep
going, pay respects to the paladins at the Citadel for aiding us, but then we ran across some traders two days back. Claimed wolf-men assaulted their boat when they tried sailing south past Durham. We rode the river all night and day to reach you, and by the looks of it, we weren’t that terribly needed. Goddamn, Daniel, I swear we walked through the town on the bodies of wolves!”

  “The King sent us men?” Daniel asked when the story was told. “Truly?”

  Sir Robert laughed, and he winked at Jerico.

  “Aye, he did. So maybe there is a miracle in all this, eh, paladin?”

  “Come,” Darius said, hefting his sword onto his shoulder. “Let’s take final count of all this mess.”

  He exited, and Jerico followed.

  “Good to see you survived,” Jerico said.

  “I’m glad I did, too. Had to crash in through a window. Thank Karak the wolves softened it up for me first.”

  Jerico laughed and elbowed the dark paladin. Darius grinned.

  “Fine. Glad to see you lived as well. You got that monster, I take it?”

  “He fled,” said Jerico, a bit of his smile fading. “And he made it inside the tavern. So many…”

  They stopped in the center of the town, which appeared to be the spot of a great slaughter given how many corpses lay strewn about, all of them wolf-men. Someone called out Darius’s name, and they both turned to see Pheus approaching. Jerico felt his stomach tighten, but he did his best to ignore it. They’d survived against terrible odds, and while many had died, many had also lived. He would bear no ill will against the troubling priest, given how much he had aided their struggle.

  “Darius,” said the priest. “The battle is done, and the wolf-men beaten.”

  “You state the obvious,” Darius said, but his mood soured. Jerico frowned, wondering what bothered his friend so.

  “With the threat over, your last excuse is gone. Will you do what must be done?”

  Darius approached the priest, and he leaned close as if to whisper an answer, but Pheus pushed him back.

  “No secrets,” he said. “No whispers, no silence. Do you have the courage, or do you not?”

  “Darius?” Jerico asked, wondering what was going on, and not liking the cold feeling traveling up his neck.

  “This is not what Karak wants,” Darius insisted.

  “You are to tell me what Karak wants?” the priest asked. He looked flabbergasted. “You, a child in armor, a weakling in our god’s eyes, would tell me his will? Step aside, paladin. You shame your name, and all your brethren, with such cowardice.”

  Eyes downcast, Darius stepped back. Pheus glared at Jerico, and shadows danced around his fingers, swelling with power. Reluctantly Jerico lifted his shield, his fingers wrapping about the mace clipped to his belt.

  “What nonsense is this?” he asked, wishing for any other explanation.

  “Your friends are dead, paladin of Ashhur. Your kind will soon be a fading memory from this world. Go to the Abyss with my blessing.”

  Darius’s sword slashed out, resting against the pale flesh of Pheus’s throat.

  “No,” said the dark paladin.

  The priest’s whole body trembled with rage.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Darius shook his head. He still looked troubled, but a change had come over him. He stood tall, and his words were firm, proud.

  “You are not the will of our god. Because of Jerico, these people survived. I refuse to believe Karak would honor such bravery with death and betrayal. The wolf-men represent the chaos of this world, not him. Speak another word of that spell, and I will silence you forever.”

  “You would threaten a priest of Karak? You would betray your own order?”

  “I betray no one, Pheus. Go on your way.”

  Pheus’s eyes flickered between them. Decision made, he relaxed his arms, and the shadows faded away from his hands.

  “The Stronghold will hear of this,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “They will not look kindly upon you.”

  Darius sighed.

  “I know.”

  The priest shook the dust from his sandals, turned, and walked west. Darius watched him go as Jerico stood there, confused beyond all measure on how to feel. His friend saw this and sighed, finally tearing his gaze away from the retreating priest.

  “We must talk,” he said.

  “After them,” Jerico said, pointing to where the many families were exiting Hangfield’s, seeking friends and loved ones from the other two places they’d defended. “There’s a lot of grief, a lot of death. Let us perform our role.”

  Darius stabbed his sword into the dirt.

  “So be it.”

  W hen the prayers were done, and every possible word of consolation had passed from Jerico’s lips, he retreated beyond the center of town and built a fire. He knew its light would guide Darius there, and sure enough, the paladin arrived not long after.

  “Two thirds dead,” Darius said, shaking his head as he sat. “Some victory.”

  “They’ll rebuild,” Jerico said. “Remarry. Have children, make friends. Those that survived have a whole life ahead of them.”

  “Don’t tell them that. Right now they dwell in the loss. Some may dwell forever.”

  Jerico nodded, knowing how right he was. An uncomfortable silence stretched over them. The dark paladin sat on the other side of the fire, and the two stared into the flickering flames.

  “With the Citadel’s fall, my brethren and the priests have declared war on the paladins of Ashhur,” he said at last.

  “For what reason?” Jerico asked.

  “Is one needed? You know we oppose one another. Centuries ago, Karak and Ashhur warred. It appears it has begun anew.”

  Jerico felt a pang in his heart as he thought of his friends, and of that terrible image of the Citadel crumbling before an army of the dead. Were they Karak’s army? Was that the truth of it?

  “Pheus wanted you to kill me,” Jerico said.

  “I figured that was obvious.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Also obvious.”

  Jerico smiled despite his exhaustion.

  “I owe you my life, Darius. But I guess that, too, is obvious?”

  Darius muttered something, then tossed a twig onto the fire.

  “What now?” Jerico asked.

  “You have to leave. Pheus will return, and he won’t come back alone. He’s been spreading word all along the river of our newly begun war, and what news he has is not good. Jerico…you may very well be the last of your kind.”

  “No,” Jerico said, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t possible.

  “If not now, then soon. How many of your brethren were at the Citadel when it fell? The few scattered about are young, inexperienced. They’ll be hunted down with the full might of Karak. Who can survive that? Our presence is in every nation, felt in every kingdom hall. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.”

  Jerico felt panic racing through his veins, and he tried to stop it. It couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be the last. Others would survive, others would fight back…

  “Where should I go?” he asked.

  “I’d say find safety with your priests, probably the Sanctuary, but that is a long journey south. I don’t know if you will make it. Too many will be watching those roads.”

  “Then what?” Jerico asked. He kicked at the fire, scattering its flame. As it sputtered and died, Darius did his best to offer hope.

  “The land north of here is wild, full of bandits. Perhaps there you can hide.”

  He shook his head. A paladin, hiding? It didn’t seem right. It seemed opposite of everything he was.

  “Please,” Darius said, seeing the hesitation on his face. “I will bear the punishment of this action for the rest of my life. Do not waste it. Do not make me doubt my decision.”

  It was all too much. Defeated, Jerico nodded.

  “So be it,” he s
aid. “You are a good friend, and I will honor your wishes. Until I can assure myself of safety, I will find what succor I can in the north. When shall I go?”

  “Rest now, then leave in the morning,” Darius said, standing. “You must gain as much ground as you can before they come hunting for you. You’re strong, Jerico, but those who come after you will be stronger.”

  Jerico stood, hugged him, then suddenly had a thought.

  “A paladin named Pallos passed by here not long ago,” he said. “He might return.”

  “I will warn him if I can,” Darius said. “Consider it one last gift for you.”

  Jerico turned to leave, and as he did, he heard Darius call his name.

  “I am sorry for this,” he said. “For the Citadel. For my fellows. This is not Karak’s desire, and I will show them.”

  “Thank you,” Jerico said, glancing back. “But I fear it is, Darius. If so…what fate awaits you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the town, where he would sleep late until the morning, gather supplies, and begin his exile in the north.

  T he troops remained for a few days, making sure no more wolf-men lingered about hoping for a lapse in defenses. Sir Godley vowed to heighten patrols along the river, even if he had to box in the King’s ears to do so. Darius listened to it all and faked interest when the time called for it. Truthfully, his mind was elsewhere. He feared for Jerico, and wondered what fate awaited him. But more, he feared the arrival of his brethren, or of the priests. Worst, though, would be the Voice of the Lion, Karak’s Hand. Against that feared specter, he wondered if he would even have the courage to speak his defense.

  For a while, people asked him about the other paladin’s disappearance. Darius always told them Jerico headed south, for he knew they would be questioned when the dark paladins came looking. Whatever bit of disinformation he could sow, the better. Still, when he spoke the lie, he wondered what had happened to his faith. Lies were instruments of chaos, everything he was supposed to stand against. Yet he spoke them freely now to protect a man who should have been his enemy.

  Come the ninth night, while he lay in bed staring out the window, he saw the fires in the distance. There was no doubt as to what they were, and who was with them.