“Get him,” shouted one of the wolf-men. Jerico felt his blood run cold, but he could do nothing. Several charged him, while others climbed the walls. Praying for the best, Jerico braced his legs once more, smacked his shield with his mace, and met the yellow gaze of his foe. Shield raised, he could only hope to endure for a time, until the wolves finally broke him down, split his armor, and had their feast.
* * * * *
The first wave was the easiest. Daniel stood in the center, his sword at ready. To his side and his back, his trusted soldiers held polearms. They were a wall of thorns and spears, and the first wolf that leapt at them found out the hard way. Blades pierced its body in three places, it fell to the ground, shoved away by the soldiers. The next two met similar fates, and Daniel dared to hope. Then the entirety of the attacking pack arrived, and he realized how foolish he had been. They tripped into ditches, they impaled themselves on the spikes, and still they came.
“Brace!” he commanded, and the men did. Three wolf-men leapt at once, slamming onto the ends of their weapons as if they desired death. Daniel swung his sword, lopping the head off one and piercing another through the heart. They could not shove them aside, though, for the wolves were a river, and it flowed against them in a constant stream of muscle, claws, and howling. Daniel stood in the center of it all, trusting his men to keep him from being overwhelmed. For a moment he felt like the young man he had been, his sword a part of himself, a shining death that cut through defenses and showered the ground with gore.
And then the priest made his presence known. A sound like thunder rolled across them, and lightning struck the earth, its center a deep black. A crater sunk at its impact, and several wolves crumpled, their innards blackened. Daniel cheered at the raw display of power. The strange priest certainly had his uses. Renewed, he let out a cry and cut down his attackers.
But Daniel’s strength soon failed him, and despite the spears, wolf-men twisted and slashed undeterred. Claws raked across his forehead. Blood ran across his eyes, and blinded, he fell back. His men closed the gap instantly, the entryway of the house filled with the sound of battle. Collapsing against a wall, he sat there as someone wiped away the blood and pressed a heavy cloth against his wound.
“It is not lethal,” Jeremy said, apparently his nurse.
“Course not,” Daniel muttered. “Take more than a scratch to bring an old bull like me down.”
He was blustering, of course. His head throbbed in agony, and he felt like his breath would never come back to him. Still, he forced himself to a stand. Another soldier fell back, blood gushing from his torn throat. Daniel tried to take his place, but his men would not let him.
“Rest,” Gregory said, commanding the defense. “Take your place when you must.”
“Fine,” Daniel said, turning to Jeremy. “Tie this, will you?”
Jeremy knotted the cloth behind his head, pulling it so tight he thought his skull was going to explode. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain. As he picked up his sword, he heard screams from further in the house.
“The windows?” he asked.
“Men guard them,” Jeremy said. “But yes, I fear so.”
“Hold the door,” Daniel shouted to his men. “By the gods, we’ll make legends of ourselves tonight, if we must!”
He and Jeremy hurried down the hall, following the sound of screams. In the first bedroom, they found a single farmer thrusting a pitchfork into a gap in the window, half the boards covering it torn loose. The farmer’s wife and children huddled beside the door, sobbing. Two wolf-men batted at the pitchfork and dug at the boards like wild animals.
“Stand firm!” Daniel shouted, joining the farmer. His sword thrust into the gap, and he smiled with grim satisfaction at the resistance he felt, knowing his blade pierced chest or belly. He pulled back, thrust again, and now emboldened, the farmer stabbed with his pitchfork, giving no more ground. The first fell dead, but it was replaced by another. Arms reached into the room, seeking anything to grab hold of with their sharp claws. Daniel swung, the farmer stabbed, and they built their own pile of dead at the window.
All at once, the assault stopped.
“Brace your pitchfork,” Daniel said, gasping for breath. “Don’t you run on me, you hear? You stand here, stand tall, and keep that fucking thing pointed at the window.”
The man nodded. His eyes were wide, his skin pale. He was a hair’s width away from running. It didn’t matter that there was no safety anywhere in the village. All he wanted was away from the wolves, Daniel knew, to where he didn’t have to see their hungry eyes, their shining teeth, and their wicked claws. Daniel stood beside him, aimed his blood-soaked blade at the window, and again ordered him to stand firm.
“Here they come,” he said, seeing yellow glinting in the torchlight. The wolf-men, tired of trying to push through, had gained some distance so they could run. Leaping into the window, they crashed through the boards, the first one impaling itself on the farmer’s pitchfork. The man let out a cry, his bladder let go, but he did not run. Daniel felt proud, and he refused to let the wolves gain entry. He cut down the next, then stepped closer, calling for the farmer to join his side.
“Jeremy!” he cried. “Get men in here. Beds, boards, anything to block this damn window!”
Another thunderclap shook the house, and Daniel hoped the priest had killed twenty of the sons of bitches overrunning the village. Through the window, he saw the wolf-men gathering, preparing another leap. Three lay dead on the floor of the room, and he could do nothing to remove them. Seeing the pack, seeing their numbers, he could not blame the farmer’s desire to run. They were endless, and he was old, and tired. The night, however, was still young.
“You run, I cut you down,” he said to the farmer. “And I run, you better do the same damn thing to me.”
Blade and pitchfork lifted, they drank in the blood of wolves as the next charge came.
* * * * *
Darius’s sword cleaved through his foes, and in the chaos of combat, he felt like an exultant beacon of order. Above him his archer, Letts, was emptying his quiver while shouting warnings.
“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…
&nb
sp; 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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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 fi
ght, 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?
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