Redclaw dove into where they were thickest, unafraid of their thin spears and cruel swords. His claws were sharper, his muscles greater. Even the orcs, tall and strong compared to most races of Dezrel, were puny compared to him. He descended upon one, tore out its throat with a quick snap of his jaw, and then spun to his right. He slashed at the wrist holding the blade swinging at him, and the blow lost all strength when it hit, the blade unable to pierce the thick hide beneath his black coat of fur. A quick swipe, and the orc fell back, blood gushing from its torn throat.
All around he heard the sound of fighting, and at his side were his trusted pack, tearing into the orcs as if their armor were butter, their weapons toys. Still, the orcs were stubborn, and their spears were the worst. Redclaw caught sight of one of his best warriors howling, a spear embedded deep in his breast.
“Back!” he cried. “Circle!”
They began running, both his group and Bonebite’s merging together in a river of fur and muscle. The entirety of the orc camp huddled in a circle, everyone else having been massacred. Redclaw guessed at least sixty within, maybe more. They kept their shields high, and their spears poking past the front lines. Deep within, he heard the angry cries of an orc chieftain.
Redclaw led the circle, the rest following his lead. He dipped them closer, then pulled away, never letting the orcs know for certain where the ring would stretch or shrink. The nervous orcs at the front lashed out several times, always missing, always finding their arms grabbed or their weapons snatched from their hands. Once they fell into the circle, they never stood again. Trampled under the pounding feet, they could only cry out until dead.
Redclaw howled, and his pack took up the call. The orcs looked ready to break. He could smell the fear on them, and it was strong. His next howl was an order, and his pack obeyed with perfection he was immensely proud of. Leading the way, he lunged into a gap of orc shields, batting aside a wild thrust of a blade. He didn’t fight the outer wall, instead shoving through, trying to crack their ring. The rest of the wolves did not attack as the orcs expected. Instead they continued to circle, pouring into the gap opened up by Redclaw. They cracked the orcs like an egg, pushing deeper and deeper into their center. He had almost reached their chieftain when the orcs on the opposite side, realizing they were no longer surrounded, turned to flee.
The battle belonged to the wolves.
Redclaw drank the blood of their chieftain as the rest of his pack hunted down the fleeing orcs. Only the hyena-men could run faster than his kind, he knew. The slaughter would be complete. He stood atop the dead body and roared his victory. Bonebite joined him moments later, sporting a fresh new scar across his chest.
“Lucky bastard,” said Bonebite, seeing Redclaw’s eyes analyzing the wound. “I tore his head off for it.”
“Gather our dead,” Redclaw told him. “It is time we honor them.”
Twelve wolf-men had died in the attack, a far cry from the two-hundred dead orcs. Many others were wounded, but his people were strong, and he knew they would endure without complaint. They gathered the twelve together, laying them in a line side by side. Redclaw scanned them, searching for the strongest. Recognizing the corpse of a young, hot-tempered wolf-man that had gone by the name of Bloodgut, Redclaw walked over to it and then knelt on all fours. He was the one he’d seen struck by a spear.
“To our glorious dead!” Redclaw cried out, plunging his claws into Bloodgut’s chest and tearing out his heart. He shredded it in his teeth, the blood sweet across his tongue. With that, the rest descended upon the bodies, all strength of the pack preserved and redistributed throughout. The twelve were not enough to sate their hunger, though. Each wolf took the body of an orc, some still alive, and flung them over their shoulders.
“Let us return,” Bonebite said, two orcs across his back. “My pups will be hungry.”
They walked back on just their two hind legs, the journey much longer. They walked in victory, though, so they bore their aches and the light of the sun in good humor. At last they reached their camp. Only the pups remained, those not strong enough to fight. The women had come with them on the attack, and they had performed well during the slaughter. Redclaw dropped the orc he carried. His two pups approached, their arms lightly touching the ground for they were still learning to walk upright.
“Eat well,” he told them, proud of their size. Already he knew they would outgrow him. Come the day they feasted on his remains, they would fight amongst each other, the winner sure to be a great and powerful pack leader. Maybe they would surpass his accomplishments. He hoped they would.
As the rest arrived, Redclaw saw that it was not just children at the camp. A smaller wolf-man waited in the camp’s center, kneeling on his haunches in a display of humility. Redclaw recognized him as Yellowscar.
“Why have you come?” Redclaw asked him.
Yellowscar averted his eyes, his ears pulled back against his skull.
“Rotfur crossed the river,” said Yellowscar. “He went against our wishes, and he feasted on the blood of a human woman. The second time he crossed, he never returned.”
“Damn him,” growled Redclaw. “Better the humans took him, for that fate is better than what I would have given.”
“It is worse,” said Yellowscar. He pressed his stomach flat against the ground. “A group of humans ventured into the Wedge, led by two terrible men, one with a sword of fire, the other a shield of light. We killed many before they could retreat, but we lost six of our own.”
Redclaw felt anger flare through his veins. He’d led an assault on two hundred orcs and lost twelve, yet Yellowscar and the rest of his scouts lost half that to a mere party of humans?
“They will know we are coming,” Redclaw growled, his voice deep and dangerously quiet. “They will send for men from the towers, armed with metal skin and cowardly bows. You let Rotfur’s bloodlust go unchecked. I said watch, and see if the waters are safe to cross. You fail me, Yellowscar.”
“I know,” Yellowscar said, his snout pressed to the dirt.
Redclaw grabbed him by the neck and hoisted him to his feet.
“Wolf does not kill wolf,” he said, staring into Yellowscar’s eyes. “You will pay back your mistakes. When the men come down the river, you will be ready, and you will be the one at the front of the attack.”
“I understand, pack leader.”
Redclaw dropped him and ordered him away. His rage still beat through his veins, and he knew his vow might be tested should the young scout remain in his sight. Fearful for his plan, he looked back at his pups. They deserved far better a home than the Wedge. Beyond the Gihon there was plentiful game, creatures they saw rarely. Deer, with meat so soft. Rabbits, which squealed when biting into their tender flesh. Streams, with water clean and light on the tongue…
“We will escape your prison,” Redclaw growled to the west, imagining the legion of humans that would quake with fear at the sound of his howl. His words were a promise, a vow to which he had sworn his entire life. “We will escape your blades. It is we, the wolves, who will feast.”
4
Despite the respect his men showed him, despite the importance lauded on him by the nearby villages, Sir Robert Godley knew his position was an insult, the best King Marcus Baedan could think of for one of his station.
“The seer says this winter will be a harsh one,” said one of his lieutenants and closest friends, a slender man named Daniel Coldmine.
“Who, that old crone in Dunbree?” asked Robert, staring out the window of the great tower overlooking the Gihon. “She also said I’d fall for a lovely lass come my fortieth birthday, but she’d only betray me. Been a decade past that, and still no lass.”
“Maybe she meant King Baedan,” Daniel said, joining him at the window, a smug grin on his face. Robert chuckled. Perhaps Daniel was right. He looked down at his portly body, remembering a time when it had been all muscle, his heavy fingers calloused from the daily wear of his sword’s hilt. But that had been before the disastrous defeat
at the hands of the elves years before. They’d chased their kind out of Mordan for good, but at the southern bridge leading to Ker, the elves had sent their greatest to make their stand. The magic they’d wielded was immense, godlike powers he still saw in his nightmares. Boulders of ice the size of houses had crashed through his ranks, and fire had rained from the sky, each piece of burning hail bigger than his fist.
“Baedan’s no lass,” Robert said. “He’s just a spineless bigot, Karak curse his name.”
Daniel pointed to where smoke burned in the far distance inside the Wedge.
“A hunting party, perhaps?” he asked. “Orcs? Or have the hyena-men finally learned how to make fire?”
“No matter,” said Robert. “It’s too far away. I won’t lead what few men I have in a hopeless chase of distant smoke.”
“There was a time when we would have ridden across those dead plains on a hundred horses,” Daniel said, a wistful look coming over his face. “The damned creatures feared the very sight of the Gihon, our boats and our towers. What happened?”
Robert turned away from the window and leaned against the stone. Closing his eyes, he sighed. During that disastrous attack against the elves, he’d pulled back his men, refusing to continue. They’d lost thousands trying to kill a mere ten. There would be no victory, no revenge. The fight had lasted another six hours, and when Marcus heard of his retreat, he blamed him for the deaths, as if his cowardice had allowed the elves to endure as long as they did. But Robert was also the hero of Dezerea, and it was his strategy that had burned the elven capital to the ground. Unable to punish him how he wished, instead Marcus had sent him to the wall of towers.
Year after year, the king had denied requests for supplies and soldiers. Their boats grew worse, their weaponry chipped and dull no matter how often they polished and shined it. They’d been forced to beg donations from the nearby villages, for Baedan’s coin was not enough to feed them all. Their role in patrolling the river, protecting the lands from the various creatures of the Vile Wedge, ensured the local populace aided them whenever they could. Robert’s muscular body had thickened as the tedious years rolled on. His calluses had vanished, his black hair grown long and gray, and his finely honed reflexes had faded away into the dusty corners of his mind.
“You want to know what happened?” Robert asked. “I was put in charge. That’s what happened. Marcus will bleed us with the patience of a spider, until at last we are so weak something gets through. He doesn’t care how many die, so long as he can strip me of my title and exile me in shame.”
Daniel grew quiet, and he looked to the distant smoke with new worry.
“We’re not so thin,” he said. “We can stop whatever those savages send at us.”
“Here, perhaps,” said Robert. They were within his study, and he walked across the room and gestured to a map of northern Mordan. Drawn in exquisite detail were the towers placed alongside the Gihon at thirty to forty mile intervals. The distance grew the closer they came to the Citadel, for the paladins aided them in guarding the lower section of the Gihon, where it met the Rigon, forming the lower V part of the wedge. Robert gestured to the various towers, all named after the colors they were drawn in.
“Tower Red and Silver are at a tenth of their full capacity,” he said, pointing at the two nearest to theirs. “Green is down to a single horse, and I have none left to send. The best I can hope for is a wealthy farmer donating one to us. Gold’s foundation is cracking, and no matter how often I request a mason from Mordeina, Marcus only responds with vague promises. At the far end, Violet is all but unmanned, the paladins of Ashhur graciously patrolling its waters for us. Most of our troops lack training, don’t try to deny it. We’re a rotting fence penning in a herd of bulls. One of these days those bulls will realize it, turn their horns our way, and smash through.”
“What of the Blood Tower?” asked Daniel. “How are things there?”
Robert forced himself to smile. Blood Tower was his, the base of command for the entire wall.
“Blood has the finest soldiers Mordan could hope for,” he said. “And I hear they won’t quit no matter how terrible their situation becomes, and never will they let the creatures cross the Gihon.”
“That’s what I thought,” Daniel said.
Someone knocked at the door, and Robert ordered them in. A younger lad, an orphan volunteered into their service from a nearby village, stepped inside, bowed his head, and offered a small scroll. Robert took it and dismissed him.
“More promises and gifts from Mordeina?” asked Daniel, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“No,” said Robert, furrowing his brow. “It’s from Durham.”
“Durham?”
Robert pointed on the map. It was an unnamed dot in the lengthy space between towers Bronze and Gold, not far from the river.
“Says wolf-men have been crossing the Gihon. Damn fools, they even went into the Wedge to try stopping them. They killed six, but say at least four remain. Now they want our help in case there’s more.”
“Sounds like they’re capable of handling this themselves,” Daniel said.
Robert handed him the scroll so he could read for himself.
“They went into the Wedge and found monsters,” Robert said, returning to the window. “Nothing surprising about that. It says only a single wolf-man actually entered their village, and it was slain. Starvation probably drove it across.”
“It’s far from either tower,” Daniel said, glancing back at the map. “I guess our boats don’t go there except maybe once a month. Still, worrisome that there’d be so many bunched together.”
“They’re probably lying about the numbers they found, just to get us to help them.”
“I doubt that. It’s signed by two paladins. Shit, one’s Ashhur, and one’s for Karak.”
Robert raised an eyebrow. He yanked the scroll out of Daniel’s hand and scanned the bottom.
“Tan my hide,” he said. “You’re right.”
“If something can get a paladin of both gods to agree, I’d say it’s serious.”
“Damn it. Two paladins, and they can’t defend themselves?”
“Those two might be the only reason they killed the ones they did,” Daniel pointed out.
“Fine. If you’re so overcome with boredom, take a squad and go. It might do some good to instill a bit more faith in us. And give Sir Lars an earful when you pass through Bronze. That’s his stretch he’s supposed to be guarding, and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”
Daniel struck his breast with his fist and bowed.
“I’ll tell you of all my legendary conquests when I return,” he said, grinning.
“You’re not much younger than I,” Robert said, laughing. “I’ll be impressed if you even get blood on your sword.”
“Perhaps not younger, but I’m not as fat, either,” Daniel said, ducking out the door before Robert could respond with the rightful blow to the head he deserved.
*
The week passed, and the people of Durham moved on best they could given their losses. No wolf-men crossed the river. Jerico and Darius resumed giving their respective sermons, though Jerico noticed his numbers had grown by fifteen or so, while Darius’s dwindled. No doubt many still bore grudges at his pain-fueled condemnation of Bobby’s fate. All the while, they waited for the message they’d sent upriver by way of tower Gold to be received, and the response to be given.
On the eighth day, as Jerico toiled in the field, he saw a man in silver armor approach from the distance. Straightening up, he stretched his arms and waited.
“Jerico?” asked the man as he arrived. He was older, with a white, well-trimmed beard. His small eyes looked Jerico up and down. “Or perhaps I am mistaken?”
“I am he,” Jerico said, offering his hand.
“Strange to see you half-naked and working a field.”
Jerico chuckled. “On days with nothing to preach, I like to help with what I can. It is the least I can do for what they’v
e given me.”
“You bring them truth and salvation. The least they could do is feed you and give you a roof over your head,” said the man.
“Might I have your name?” Jerico asked, the man seeming familiar, but only a little.
“I am Pallos. I’ve come from the Citadel to observe your progress.”
Jerico laughed. “Well, I’ve done about a quarter of this field, and should have another quarter done by sundown…”
Pallos’s glare showed that he was not amused.
“Right. Sorry. I’m actually glad you’re here. Let me go tell Jeremy he’ll need to send someone over here to replace me, and then we can return to the village.”
“I’ll be waiting,” said Pallos, saluting with a mailed fist. As he walked away, Jerico wondered just how far Pallos had his sword shoved up his ass. Of course, such thoughts were hardly worthy of a paladin, but as he hurried to where Jeremy overlooked the rest of his workers, he figured that Ashhur might not only forgive him, but probably agree over the matter.
Pallos sat in the shade of a tree not far from the village square, drinking from a waterskin. Jerico joined him, having taken a quick detour to his room to throw on a shirt. It felt grand while out in the field working, but once at rest, his body slick with sweat, the air turned uncomfortably chill.
“I hope you had a pleasant ride here,” Jerico said, sitting down beside his superior.
“Pleasant enough, though I must apologize for my mood. I have lost a dear friend; we all have. That is why I have come.”
“Who?” asked Jerico.
Pallos leaned his weight against the tree, and he looked rather uncomfortable about the whole matter. His eyes watered, but the man’s self-control was too great for such displays of emotion.
“Mornida died of a sickness. Sorollos has replaced him as High Paladin. I’ve been traveling north informing all of our men in the field.”
Jerico crossed his arms and frowned.
“A good man,” he said. “Though I doubt I knew him as well as you. But we are strong, and will endure the loss.”
The Paladins Page 4
