02 - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

The howling contest continued for some time. Blackmane stood his ground as the other pack’s cries came louder and closer. All then fell quiet, save for the sighing of the wind in the leaves and the trickle of the watercourse down the middle of the tree-filled dell. The pack spread out a little, more than half of them moving a little way downwind, the direction from which any attack would be most likely. Blackmane stood on a rock barking like a general ordering his regiments into position before a battle. Silver edged her way to the north and Alith followed for a few strides until Blackmane’s voice cut through the stillness.

  “Two-legs, come close,” the grizzled wolf snapped at Alith.

  Alith did as he was told without hesitation, crouching beside the boulder upon which the pack leader was standing.

  “Fight likely,” said Blackmane, turning his golden eyes on Alith. There was no sign of the pack leader’s earlier aggression; Alith fancied that he detected a kinder tone in the old wolfs voice. “Stay close. Sharp fang kill stag quick. Sharp fang not kill wolf quick. Two-legs tall, neck safe. Protect legs. Bite throat. Bite neck.”

  Alith nodded in understanding and then caught himself, realising that the gesture meant nothing to Blackmane.

  “Bite throat, bite neck,” said Alith.

  Blackmane turned his attention away and Alith settled back on his haunches, his eyes seeking any sign of movement in the rapidly darkening forest. A cool breeze eddied down the steep valley.

  A howl that Alith now recognised as Old Grey’s echoed from ahead. Alith drew his knife but stayed crouched behind the rock, his glance flicking between the trees and Blackmane. The pack leader was stood erect, tail trembling, lips drawn back as a deep growl reverberated from his throat. Alith quivered from the vibrations of Blackmane’s warning and from the rush of blood surging through his body. Leaves rustled close at hand as the other pack members drew closer to Blackmane, taking up guard in a circle around their leader.

  Some of the younger wolves began to whimper, sensing the agitation exuded by the adults. They laid down in the ferns, ears flattened, shoulders hunched tight, while the older pack members stood protectively over them.

  The first of the rival pack appeared a short distance away to the right, bounding lightly over a fallen tree trunk, hairs bristling along her back. She stopped as she saw Blackmane and the others and was quickly joined by five more wolves, all of them nearly as large as Blackmane, all considerably older.

  Blackmane turned towards the newcomers and snarled, his teeth glinting in the setting sun.

  “Go!” he snapped. “Our hunt!”

  Now that he was becoming more familiar with the wolves’ behaviour, Alith thought he detected a hint of uncertainty in the interlopers. They all stood with fangs bared and eyes narrowed, but the occasional nervous flick of their ears betrayed a lack of confidence.

  “No hunt,” said the female. Alith saw that her jaws were bloodstained and she held herself awkwardly, favouring her left hind leg.

  “She is wounded,” Alith whispered to Blackmane.

  “Our hunt,” Blackmane repeated, ignoring Alith. “Go back!”

  A shiver of fright rippled through the rival wolves, and they sank lower to their bellies, giving up their pretence of aggression. Only the female stood her ground, her gaze constantly moving between Blackmane and the other members of his pack. Her eyes finally settled on Alith and she gave a startled yelp and flinched.

  “Two-legs!” she yowled. Edging backwards, she started a constant whining that was taken up by the others of her pack.

  Their reaction spread to several of Blackmane’s wolves, who began to make inquiring barks, seeking reassurance from their leader. A few looked with suspicion at Alith and bared their teeth.

  Blackmane glanced at Alith and then returned his attention to the strangers.

  “Two-legs hunt with us,” he said. “One of pack.”

  “Many two-legs come,” said the female. “Hunt with long fangs. Kill many. Not eat.”

  “Two-legs not hunt wolf,” said Blackmane. “Go now!”

  “Two-legs kill wolf,” the female insisted, stepping forwards again. “Long fangs and sharp fangs. Mate dead. Many pack’s killed.”

  “How close?” Alith asked, standing up. This earned him a growl from Blackmane and more whimpering from the strangers, but he ignored both and walked forwards, slipping his knife back into its sheath. “How close two-legs?”

  “We run for two suns,” said the female hesitantly. “Try to fight. Many killed. Two-legs not chase. Two-legs come from high ground. Come this way.”

  “Many two-legs?” asked Blackmane, leaping down from the rock and padding between Alith and the other pack. Old Grey, Scar and a few others moved forwards also, backing up their pack leader with growls and snarls.

  “Many, many two-legs,” the female answered. “Many long fangs. Many sharp fangs. Two-legs fight other two-legs.”

  Alith was taken aback by this revelation. He had suspected that the Chracians had come south over the mountains, fleeing the druchii. Now it seemed the druchii had come to Avelorn as well.

  “All two-legs kill wolves?” he asked.

  “Black two-legs kill wolves,” the female replied. “Black two-legs bring noise. Black two-legs bring fires. Black two-legs burn other two-legs.”

  Revulsion lurched in Alith’s stomach at the thought of the druchii coming here. It could only mean that Chrace had been overrun at last, and Avelorn was now under threat.

  “Two-legs come here?” Blackmane asked. In reply, the other wolf merely whimpered and flattened her ears. “Two-legs come, we fight.”

  “Not fight,” whined the female. “Two-legs come with long fangs. They kill, not fight.”

  “Our hunt!” snarled Blackmane. “Not run!”

  “Our two-legs has sharp fang,” added Old Grey.

  “Two-legs has no long fang,” said the other wolf. “Sharp fang not fight long fang.”

  It was now that Alith realised “long fang” was the wolves’ expression for a bow; most likely the dwarf-made repeater crossbows the druchii brought back from the colonies of Nagarythe in Elthin Arvan. The wolves would have no chance to fight against such hunters, and would be slaughtered by the vicious druchii out of a sheer pleasure for killing.

  “We run,” Alith said, turning to Blackmane. The pack leader snarled and snapped his jaws but Alith did not back down. “Cannot fight long fangs. Long fangs kill many wolves. Wolves kill no long fangs.”

  For a moment Alith thought Blackmane would attack. The wolf bunched his muscles, preparing to pounce, his tail as straight as a rod behind him.

  “We run,” said Old Grey. “Long fangs kill cubs. We ran. Find new hunt.”

  “No!” Blackmane rounded on his mate. “Two-legs come, two-legs keep coming. Pack runs, pack keeps running. Better fight not ran. Make two-legs go away!”

  “Not run, hide,” said Alith. “Black two-legs hunting other two-legs. Not hunting wolves. Wolves hide, two-legs go away.”

  Alith knew this to be a lie; given any opportunity the druchii would scour Avelorn with sword and flame. The only chance for survival for the pack would be to lie low until the forces of the Everqueen and her subjects could push back the druchii advance.

  The other wolves continued to argue, but Alith did not listen. He was confused by his own reaction. Why did he care whether the wolves lived or died? If they killed even a single druchii, would that not be a victory? He wondered what had happened to the hatred that had burned within him only two days before. Why did he not feel like striking out against the druchii?

  A glance back at the worried pack gave him his answer. He saw the cowering cubs, heard the whimpers of their guardians. This was a family, and though they were not elves, they no more deserved to be sacrificed to the druchii’s bloodlust than the people of Ellyrion, or any other creature of Ulthuan. The druchii despised all that they could not control, and they would come to Avelorn with their whips and their chains to tame the wilds. Morathi craved domination over al
l creatures, not just her fellow elves. Alith realised that Morathi must hate the Everqueen even more than she hated Caledor; an incarnation of purity and nobility that Morathi could never defeat save through force.

  “We hunt,” Alith said suddenly, cutting through the wolves’ argument. “Not fight, hunt! Kill in darkness. Hunt two-legs.”

  “Hunt two-legs?” said Old Grey. “Not good. We kill two-legs, more two-legs come to kill.”

  “I am two-legs, I know two-legs,” Alith told the wolves as they padded back and forth uncertainly. “Black two-legs bad. Black two-legs kill and kill and kill. Other two-legs fight black two-legs and wolves hunt black two-legs. Two-legs afraid.”

  Blackmane was staring intently at Alith, his posture more relaxed.

  “Two-legs hunt with long fang, sharper than fang, sharper than sharp fang,” said the pack leader.

  “Yes,” said Alith. “Not fight long fang. Hunt two-legs. Hunt at night. Hunt quiet. Kill two-legs and hide. Come back and hunt two-legs again. Not fight.”

  “Two-legs need long fang to hunt,” said Blackmane. “Long fang sharper than sharp fang.”

  “I have no long fang,” Alith replied. Save for his knife, his possessions had been abandoned.

  “Water has long fang,” said Blackmane. “Two-legs take long fang and hunt.”

  Alith was confused, unsure what Blackmane was telling him. Frustration welled up within the elf, unable to speak properly with the rest of the pack.

  “Water has long fang?” Alith said.

  “Old long fang,” said Scar, a grizzled-looking wolf with a greying muzzle and the jagged remains of a wound across his right shoulder. “Long fang in water old as forest, older. Wolves not need long fang. Two-legs need long fang. Long fang hide from two-legs. Only bright face of night show long fang.”

  Scar’s words bordered on the meaningless, but his tone was low, almost reverential. Alith sifted through the jumbled phrases trying to discern any sense, but the wolfs references were entirely lost on him.

  “Yes,” agreed Blackmane. “Water hide long fang. Bright face of night come soon. Two-legs take long fang. Hunt black two-legs. Pack hunt.”

  “Show me long fang,” said Alith, realising that the wolves were speaking of a real place.

  “Bright face of night show long fang,” said Scar. “Six more suns before bright face of night come.”

  Slowly understanding dawned on Alith as he pieced together the strands of the wolves’ story. “Suns” were days, and in six days’ time the moon Sariour would be full: the bright face of the night. Whatever it was the wolves were talking about, it could only be seen by the light of the full moon.

  “Good,” said Alith and Scar wagged his tail appreciatively. “Hide six suns. Bright face of night show long fang.”

  “Hide six suns,” said Blackmane, his words punctuated with snarls. “Watch black two-legs. Two-legs take long fang. Hunt black two-legs.”

  The stragglers that had been fleeing the druchii were welcomed into the pack by Blackmane, and the wolves headed east to seek a lair. As they travelled, the howls of other packs could be heard, all of them moving southwards and eastwards away from the mountains.

  They encountered other animals retreating from the druchii invasion. Herds of deer threw aside their usual caution, risking the attention of the wolves rather than be caught by the invaders. The pack still needed to eat and the terrified deer proved to be easy prey. That dusk, Alith again gorged himself on fresh flesh, filled with the thrill of the hunt and the energy of the kill.

  Over the following days the pack moved into the territories of rival wolves. Each sunrise was heralded by a cacophony of howls as the two packs strove to assert their dominance. Each time neither side was willing to retreat and the two packs came together. Clearly outnumbered, the rival wolves nevertheless stood their ground, daring Blackmane to attack. On the first occasion, Alith feared that there would be bloodshed, but Blackmane surprised him, and the rest of his pack. He told the other wolves of what was happening and warned them to head east. The other pack became fearful and begged Blackmane to help them. The old leader was reluctant, but Alith persuaded him to allow the pack to grow even larger.

  Three more encounters ended the same way, and the pack grew to over fifty in number. Alith was reminded of the mustering of regiments at Elanardris. The growth of the pack came with the same problems the Anars had faced. There were more mouths to feed and the huge pack was forced to range far and wide to seek food, their prey having also been driven away by the presence of the druchii. This slowed down the pack and one night Alith could smell the fires of the druchii camp and hear their raucous celebrations on the wind.

  That night Blackmane told the pack they could not hunt but had to run as swiftly as they could, to keep the druchii from catching them. Always the wolves headed east, but the druchii were never more than a day’s travel behind as they drove into the heart of Avelorn.

  As the pack continued to move, some of their number would break off, alone or in pairs, and head northwards to spy upon the druchii. They returned with news that the druchii were burning many trees and had slain hundreds of creatures from the forest. Alith tried to find out the druchii numbers, but the best the wolves could tell him was “a flock” and “many packs”. On the eighth night since coming to Avelorn, Alith convinced Blackmane to allow the elf to see for himself the strength of the enemy.

  Having acclimatised quickly to the sounds and rhythms of the forest, Alith was confident as he set out at dusk, following back along the path the wolves had taken. As the sun set and the forest was plunged into starlight, he turned northwards and kept a fast but steady pace. He ran for most of the night, stopping only to drink occasionally, the moons rising and falling before he first smelt the smoke of fires drifting through the trees.

  Slowing to a walk, Alith saw distant flickers of orange and red. The stench of the charnel fires drifted to him on the gentle wind, a choking mix of woodsmoke and burning flesh. Swathed in almost total darkness, Alith stalked towards the camp with dagger in hand.

  Amongst the long and wavering shadows cast by the pyres, Alith spied several sentries. He watched for a while, noting the routes of their patrols and the timing. For all of their depravity, these druchii were disciplined and organised and at first Alith could see no way past the cordon. It was only after further observation that Alith noticed the sentries kept their gaze groundwards; none of them looked up into the trees as they patrolled. And why would they? As far as the druchii knew, there was no threat from the leaves and branches above their heads.

  Smiling grimly, Alith slipped forwards silently and climbed the bole of a tree overlooking one of the patrol paths. He waited patiently in the branches, not a muscle moving, his breathing slow and shallow, eyes scanning the path below for the approach of an enemy.

  As Alith had predicted, one of the guards came marching between the trees with spear and shield ready. His eyes never once looked up as he passed below Alith.

  Alith soundlessly dropped down behind the druchii and plunged his knife into the side of his neck, killing him instantly. Quickly stripping the body, Alith took the clothes and armour before dragging the corpse into a nearby bush so that it would remain unseen.

  Clad in the uniform of the slain soldier, Alith headed towards the druchii camp.

  With a swagger Alith had often seen affected by the druchii, the lord of the Anars strolled into the enemy camp. He knew that his Naggarothi features would blend in with the druchii, and it was far easier to avoid detection in plain sight than to skulk in the shadows. As he expected, there were no challenges and the elves of the camp never gave him a second glance. To walk so boldly in front of his enemies sent a frisson through Alith’s body. It pleased him immensely to masquerade as one of them; an invisible foe ready to strike at their heart.

  The druchii force was not as large as Alith had first feared. He guessed by the size of the camp that there were three or four thousand in this army, almost half of them cult
ists of Khaine. He was surprised by this, noting that the worshippers of Khaine seemed to be gaining power over their rivals. He saw a few Salthite totems and heard chants to Ereth Khial, but it was the sacrificial pyres to the Lord of Murder that dominated the ceremonies.

  As he walked between the black and red pavilions and weaved his way between stupefied cultists, Alith detected an atmosphere of desperation. It was intangible, but Alith could feel an edge in the words of the priests as they raised their voices to the cytharai, imploring for their favour. The braziers sputtered not with the organs of elves, but with the hearts and livers of deer and bear and wolf. Alith saw not a single elven prisoner.

  As he walked, Alith noted the layout of the camp. The cultists were confined to the centre, surrounded by the tents that housed the soldiery. Morathi’s commanders were taking no chances with their unreliable allies, keeping a close watch on the cultists. Combining this observation with the lack of cultists in the army on the Ellyrion plain, Alith wondered if Morathi was finally tiring of her sectarian lackeys. They had been useful to her in claiming power, but now their presence created more chaos and problems for the druchii.

  Alith was also able to compare his experience in the camp with the time the Shadows had spent in Anlec. Many of the warriors were younger, less than three hundred years old. In times past, such youngsters would never have been allowed to march in a Naggarothi host. It gave Alith hope to see this, knowing that with every year that the druchii were held back, their numbers would dwindle. Morathi’s gambit had been to seize Ulthuan before the princes could organise themselves in the wake of Bel Shanaar’s death. It seemed that the actions of the Anars had perhaps helped in some way to prevent this. Alith doubted whether history would remember the brave deeds of his house, or the tragedy at Black Fen, but it gave him some momentary pride to recall them. For the first time since the massacre, he was able to look back on that day with a feeling other than hatred and misery.

  He had seen enough to convince him that the druchii were vulnerable. If they stayed together, they would eventually be found and destroyed by the Chracians or the warriors of the Everqueen. If they split… Alith would be waiting for them with his newly met friends.