“You cause us unnecessary delay,” Pheus argued.
“A delay, perhaps,” said Jerico.
The wolf-man’s hands were already bound together at the wrist, but its mouth still posed a threat. Darius wrapped a rope around it thrice, then knotted it behind Yellowscar’s head. He gestured to Daniel, letting him know he was all his.
“No,” Jerico said, stepping forward. “I will carry him.”
The wolf-man was heavy, and though he braced his weight on his shoulder, it was still agony standing. Despite his protest, Gregory stepped forward and took half the burden. Each holding an arm, Yellowscar’s legs trailing uselessly against the floor, they carried him up the stairs and into the night. The rest followed.
“He cannot stand,” Gregory said when they let go.
“Untie him anyway. We shall see.”
Watching him closely, Jerico cut the bonds around the wrists. Ashhur cried no soft warning in his head, so he did not flinch at their freedom. He removed the muzzle next. Done, he stepped back and pulled his shield off his back, the glow lighting up the darkness. He would not need it, but neither would he shame Yellowscar by handicapping himself.
“Stand, Yellowscar,” he said, drawing his mace.
The rest watched, keeping silent. The creature groaned, then rolled onto its stomach. Its heavy arms pushed itself to a sit. Its tongue hung from the side of its mouth, and every muscle in its body quivered.
“I said stand.”
One leg propped underneath, followed by the other. The joints snapped, the bones shifting back the way they belonged. Yellowscar howled, but did not fall. Inch by inch he rose, great shuddering breaths thundering out of his mouth.
“Redclaw attacks come the full moon,” he said, each word a labor. “And they will feast, and sing, and never return to the Wedge.”
Jerico felt the words in his head, and with an innate power of Ashhur, he tested to see if they were true. They were. He glanced at Daniel, nodded, and then took a step forward.
“Strike me, creature of the Wedge.”
Yellowscar cried out, for one brief moment sounding like the furious creature he was. His claws lashed out, slapping across Jerico’s shield. The paladin stepped in, swung his mace, and then closed his eyes as the metal struck bone. Yellowscar dropped to the ground, blood oozing from his jaw and empty eye socket.
“About damn time,” Darius muttered.
Jerico glared.
“We have two days,” Daniel said. He breathed in deep and then sighed, as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. “Now we know. Now we prepare. This is your mess, Jerico. I trust you to bury it.”
Daniel took his men and left. Pheus frowned at the corpse.
“Yellowscar was a heartless, brutal killer,” the priest said. “You give honor to what has none. You bow to the wishes of a beaten foe. Your kind is weak, Jerico, and full of fools. A shame the world may never learn this, for when the last paladin of Ashhur fades away, how will they ever see for themselves?”
He left, leaving only Darius and Jerico standing beside the body.
“I expected better from you,” Jerico said.
“You know nothing of me. Your own damn fault.”
He turned to leave, but Jerico stopped him.
“What did he mean, when we fade away?”
Darius opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked away, clearly troubled.
“Darius?”
“What?”
Jerico put a hand on his shoulder. “Will you help me bury him?”
The dark paladin sighed.
“Yes. I will, though I doubt even Karak knows why.”
* * * * *
Redclaw had discussed battle with his elders while growing up as a pup, and in turn, spoken with those now sworn to his name. Nearly all talked of eagerness, the swelling of fury and triumph as they raced for a kill. It was almost a madness, a desire unparalleled to taste the blood of their foe. In this, Redclaw had learned from an early age how different he was, how weak. When he howled to the night sky, it was because he tried to hide his fear. When he raced ahead of his pack to be the first into bloodshed, it was because he knew the moment he felt his claws sink into the flesh of his opponent, his instincts would take over. It was only then, when he lost himself amid the chaos, that he felt his nerves calm.
That same nervous fear swelled in him as he waited for Bloodfang and Murdertongue to arrive at the Gathering. Outwardly he exuded nothing but confidence. He wondered if his pack could smell the scent of shame upon him, betraying him. So far none had dared ask, and he himself had never detected it. Every time he thought of being the moon made flesh, of being the Wolf King, he remembered his fear, and he wondered how worthy he was of the title. A glance at his pups, watching him from the first row with Bonebite lurking protectively over them, gave him the strength to continue. They would not remain in the Wedge, trapped with other animals in a crowded cage. They would not be raised on tough meat and foul water.
Moonclaw stood behind him and to the side, showing his reverence and loyalty. Their combined packs waited in a half-circle, the two newcomers’ packs to fill the other half. The night dragged on, and he knew the other pack leaders desired to make him wait. They wanted to shame him, test his patience. It wouldn’t work. Before the night ended, they would have to come, and they would kneel before him. He was the Wolf King. They would pay their respects.
“They are here,” said Moonclaw. Redclaw nodded, having detected them as well. They came from upwind, and the scent of their pack rolled over the hill in great waves. His pack yipped and stirred, filled with restless energy. They wanted to see the strength of their leader. No doubt they hoped Murdertongue, Bloodfang, or both, would refuse his rule so they might have their bodies crushed at his feet. Deep down, Redclaw did too. He felt the eyes of everyone upon him, and it made his fur stand on end. Better to lose himself in combat. Better to end his fear than fight it with the tender words humans preferred.
“Murdertongue!” cried a hundred voices, and with that the pack came over the hill, loping on all fours. Redclaw stood tall, and despite the tremor in his chest, told himself to remain strong. He would show no fear in the light of the moon. The pack took their places in the circle, leaving only a small gap. Redclaw knew there’d be jostling and biting to make room for Bloodfang. It wouldn’t be a true Gathering without it. Instead of joining the circle, Murdertongue stood on the other side of the bone pile from him. He was short for a pack leader, but made up for it with enormous amounts of muscle. Redclaw had met him several times before, watching how he moved. He was slow, but could take a beating. Many scars covered his body, proof of that fact. He was smart, though, and that was where he was truly dangerous. He’d earned his name by talking his pack into slaughtering their previous leader, making way for his accession.
“I have come,” Murdertongue said, his voice deep and commanding. “Who is the pup?”
Moonclaw riled at the insult.
“He is Moonclaw. He feasted on Goldteeth’s flesh and drank his blood, and now commands his pack.”
“Goldteeth, eh? He was a stupid one. I bet he tasted foul.”
Moonclaw stepped forward, and he bared his teeth. Redclaw flung an arm in the way, and snarled his disapproval.
“At your place,” he said, and Moonclaw dipped his head in obedience. Murdertongue saw this, and sniffed, a reaction signifying either curiosity or contempt. Redclaw figured he had plenty of time to figure out which.
“Bloodfang!”
The pack swarmed into the Gathering. Redclaw chilled at the combined sight of the several packs. There were three hundred wolf-men in total, strong and deadly. What human force could be assembled against that might? And they were but the first drop of a downpour.
“I see I have missed no bloodshed,” Bloodfang said as he joined them at the pile. He stood near Murdertongue, but far enough away to ensure he showed no allegiance or submission to him. Unlike Murdertongue, he was tall, his spine hardly bearing a
shred of curve. His fur was a vibrant red, a rare color for their kind. He grinned at them all, clearly thinking himself funny. Also unlike Murdertongue, Bloodfang was stupid and slow. His pack was on the smaller side, and he ruled through his size alone.
“Plenty of moonlight left,” Murdertongue said, and he laughed.
They went through the ritual introductions, with Redclaw going last. His howl was deeper than the others, and he held it for nearly a full minute. The others glared at him, unhappy with being shown up. That earned him the right to speak first, though, and despite his aching lungs and pounding head, he needed his cry to carry across the hills. He stepped onto the pile, walked to its very top, and looked to the crowd.
“Wolves of Murdertongue, wolves of Bloodfang,” he cried. “I come not to challenge your leaders. They are strong, and they have earned their right to lead. No, I bring them here, I bring you all here, for I have been blessed. The moon shines upon me, and has since my birth. We are not destined for this vile land. We are not meant to eat hyena shit and drink orc piss. We must be free! We must rule a land worthy of ruling!”
“What nonsense do you speak of?” asked Murdertongue. “Say what you mean, so we may all laugh!”
Redclaw narrowed his eyes. Murdertongue was not allowed to speak until he’d finished, and by breaking the rule, he could challenge him now to a contest of strength. But he needed true rule. He didn’t want to lead one giant pack. There would be too many, and he would be forced to meet a constant stream of challengers. No, better to let other pack leaders be the targets, to let them all squabble beneath him, with only a few pack leaders carrying the right to challenge his rule. He let the insult pass.
“I say that I know of a way across the river, where the water is shallow and the human boats do not patrol. There is land there, and forest, food and water. Already many of my pack surround it, weakening them, starving them. I ask that you join me! I ask that you come and take what we deserve by right of strength, by right of claw, by right of the moon!”
“And who are you to lead?” asked Murdertongue.
“I am Redclaw, and I will be Wolf King.”
The gathered wolf-men went crazy. They howled, nipped at one another, and stomped their feet upon the dirt. Murdertongue’s eyes sparkled, but Bloodfang looked ready to explode.
“You would have me kneel to you?” he asked.
“Moonclaw has already, and he is only the first.”
“There are a hundred packs,” said Murdertongue. “Who are you to claim yourself Wolf King with but a few kneeling to your strength? Not since our creation have we had a Wolf King. You are mighty, Redclaw, but not so mighty as that.”
“Not mighty at all!” roared Bloodfang. He stepped onto the pile of bone, his challenge begun. “I will not bow to you. You will bow to me! Tiny wolf, I will take your pack into mine, and they will be stronger for it!”
Murdertongue stayed back, though he could join in at any time. There had been Gatherings in times past where ten or twelve pack leaders descended upon each other at the same time, but the wolf-men had numbered greater then. The orcs had spread across the Wedge, and even the bird-men and the hyena-men had worn away at their numbers. Redclaw crouched, thinking of his law. Wolf may not kill wolf, but Bloodfang was not of his pack, and besides, atop the bone pile they stood upon a tradition greater than Redclaw could dismiss. His mind raced for an answer. Killing Bloodfang gained him little, but leaving him alive would accomplish even less. What chance was there Bloodfang would ever bow his head to him, no matter how many times beaten?
“I do not wish to kill you,” he said, carefully watching his opponent’s movements.
“But I do!”
Bloodfang launched himself, bones scattering down the pile from where he leapt. Redclaw shifted to the side, so that the bulk of Bloodfang’s weight missed. His left arm shot out, grabbing Bloodfang’s wrist. A tug, and they rolled atop one another, snarling and biting. Redclaw had timed it well, however, and he ended their roll with his hind legs tearing into Bloodfang’s thighs and his claws pinning him to the ground.
“Obey,” he cried, his roar thundering across the Gathering.
“No.”
Redclaw held him there, and he felt all eyes upon him. Wolf must not kill wolf, he thought. Be King, leader of all packs, not just one. He shoved away and walked to the edge of the bone pile. Behind him, Bloodfang stood, blood dripping down his arms and legs.
“You are weak,” Bloodfang snarled. “You are a fool. You are not worthy of any pack, and I will—”
He howled, and his back arced as gore spilled atop the bones from the gaping wound in his belly. Murdertongue held him in a mockery of an embrace, his arms flexed, his claws opening the wound further. Bloodfang struggled, but his strength quickly fled, and his head rolled to one side. Murdertongue dropped the body and kicked it, sending it tumbling off the pile.
“Will you challenge me now?” Redclaw asked, standing to his full height. His voice, however, was but a whisper, almost a plea in the raucous night.
“Bloodfang’s pack is mine,” said Murdertongue. “And I still think you are a fool, Redclaw. But perhaps, just perhaps, you may lead us to victory.”
He turned to the crowd, lifted his arms to the moon, and then knelt in submission.
“My pack swears obedience,” he said, and the entire Gathering erupted into chaos.
Redclaw stood among it, grinning at the crowd. He’d done it. The first step of a hunt was always the hardest. Between Moonclaw and Murdertongue, he had the beginnings of an army. He approached his new comrade, knelt before him, and pressed his nose against his to show their friendship.
“I will reward us with a kingdom,” he whispered.
“Pray you do,” Murdertongue whispered back.
Standing, Redclaw addressed the crowd, knowing now was the time to solidify his position.
“I am your Wolf King!” he cried. More cheers and howls. “I am leader of packs, now few, but soon to be many. The humans are weak. Their skin is soft, and their minds dull from years of safety. We are the vicious. We are the destroyers. Come the full moon, when our goddess shines and watches our victory, we will cross the river. We will take their land. We will feast upon the flesh of men, women, and children. Imagine the taste of their blood! Imagine their screams in your ears! Few now, but when the Wedge hears, when all know Redclaw stood before the humans and made them tremble, the rest will come. Every pack will kneel. Let your cry reach the stars! All the west will be our prey!”
“You speak the words of the Wolf King,” Moonclaw said as he and Murdertongue joined him at the bottom of the bone pile. His fur stood on end, and he clearly felt the excitement of the others. “They cry for blood.”
“To the north is a small pack of bird-men,” Redclaw said. “They are few, and stay at the edges of my land. Send our wolves upon them. I want them sharp, ready. I want to remind them how poor our food is, tough meat and hollow bones. When we cross the river, I don’t want them angry. I want them hungry.”
“As you wish…Wolf King,” Murdertongue said, leaving to address his pack, now merged with those who had followed Bloodfang. Before he turned, Redclaw saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, though what its meaning was, he didn’t know, but he felt certain he wouldn’t like it if he did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jerico slept well into the morning, having already given Jeremy orders for the townsfolk to follow. His rest was not deep, nor fulfilling, and he rose red-eyed and groggy. His breakfast was meager, various vegetables fried in animal fat, with only water from the town’s well to wash it down. After that, he donned his armor, even though he expected no combat. It would do the people good to see him prepared, he knew. With his shining platemail and thick shield, they might think they had a chance to survive while protected by such a warrior.
Even though it was hopeless. Jerico had seen the pack gathered that night. But he dared not voice that belief, and he felt guilty enough thinking it in his heart. Nothing
was hopeless when Ashhur was at his side. But no matter how often he reminded himself that, he also remembered that terrible vision of the Citadel cracking and falling, and of the belief that its fall would mean the end of his order. The end of him. Was this where the last paladin of Ashhur would fall, some backwater village lost to the belly of beasts?
“Sorry,” Jerico muttered to his god as he stepped from Jeremy’s home. “I’m cranky and stupid. Ignore me.”
Darius was already up and about, but he stood in the center of town with Pheus at his side. Wishing nothing to do with the priest, Jerico instead found Daniel and his men guiding the rest of the townsfolk in preparing the defenses.
“You look like shit,” Daniel said at his arrival.
“Feel like it, too. How goes the defenses?”
The lieutenant gestured about him. Before three particular buildings the people were digging trenches, boarding up windows, and planting stakes.
“We decided cramming everyone into one single building wasn’t feasible, so we settled on three: the inn, the tavern, and Mr. Hangfield’s estate. They all have their unique quirks, but we think with enough time we can nail shut the doors and block every window. When they attack, we’ll funnel them to a single doorway. If we can negate their numbers advantage, we might stand a chance.”
“Where’s all the wood coming from?” Jerico asked.
“We’ve had volunteers. We’re tearing down other homes within the wolf-men’s circle. Nearly everyone figures they can rebuild if we survive.”
“A large if,” Jerico muttered.
“The trenches should slow them a little,” Daniel said, glaring. “And we’ll fill each one with stakes and traps. Figure to build as many as we can before each of the three entrances. All the buildings are within sight of one another, which’ll help too. I figure we’ll have an archer atop each one, and use ‘em to thin the wolves at the doors. Darius also says that priest of his should prove dangerous with open space to cast, so we’ll probably stick him atop of Hangfield’s.”
“As solid a plan as any,” Jerico said. “What if they try to starve us out?”
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