Paladins 01 - Night of Wolves

by David Dalglish

  So she shouted it mentally. Shut up, shut up, shut up! It was unfair, absurdly unfair, but this was her room. She wanted to bury her face in her pillow and scream until her lungs gave out, to cry until her pillow could take no more tears. Every noise she heard made her heart stop. Every weird creak was the step of a wolf. Jessie could imagine one leering over her, its mouth drooling, its yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Tears ran down her face, and she wiped them with a blanket. Lyla began her prayer for the sixth time. Jessie whispered the words along this time, begging Ashhur to let her sleep, to let her forget the day’s horror for only a few blissful hours.

  Granny Jane slept by the door. As if on clockwork, she rolled from her left side to her right every ten minutes. She snored loud, long, and with enough depth that Jessie thought it could pass for the growl of a bear. Her husband had died several years back, and as Jessie wiped tears from her face she wondered how in the world Granny’s husband had endured those many nights. Maybe he’d wedged cotton into his ears, or better yet, candle wax. That’s what she should have done. Despite her exhaustion, she pondered leaving her bedroom and searching the kitchen for some wax to use. But no matter how much she wanted to, she never worked up the nerve. The reason was stupid, she knew, but in her exhausted mind it didn’t seem to matter. She didn’t want to offend her guests, or make them feel they were unwanted. Because in truth she wasn’t a selfish girl, and she knew they’d all suffered far worse than her that day.

  “Blessed of the light, watch over me. May I walk your road and never stray…”

  A shape blocked the window, a small part of it glinting yellow. Jessie screamed. The window smashed open. As the shards fell, the wolf-man crashed atop of Lyla, its claws flinging blood in wild arcs across the room. Jessie screamed again, and blood splashed across her face, stinging her eyes. Lyla, poor Lyla…this couldn’t be happening. Her mind refused to believe it.

  The third guest, a midwife named Wilma, bolted to a sit, screaming as well. She turned to crawl, her portly body nearly smothering Granny Jane on her way to the door. The wolf-man would have none of it. It leapt atop her next, its teeth sinking into the fat of her back. Jessie felt her bladder let go. The creature was so huge, and it flung Wilma’s head side to side, snapping her neck. The sound it made, like a heavy branch breaking on someone’s knee, spurred her to action. She rolled off the bed, away from the door. She didn’t want the thing to see her. That was all she could think of, that infantile desire to hide.

  The thing snarled, and suddenly she found breathing difficult. The opposite side of the bed was not enough. She crawled underneath, quietly sobbing the whole while. As if from a hundred miles away, she heard shouts from further within her father’s house. Granny knelt against the door, her mouth open and her eyes wide. Her left arm reached for the knob, flailing at it wildly as if she’d forgotten how the contraption worked.

  “Get out of here!” Granny shouted. At first Jessie thought she shouted at the beast, but then realized it was to her she cried. “The window, out now!”

  Granny held the doorknob tight, and when the wolf-men tore into her, she never let go. Unable to stop crying, Jessie looked away and crawled for the other side. The window...the glass was shattered from the creature’s arrival. If she could sneak out and hide, she might survive. Stumbling onto her feet, she ran for it, unafraid of the jagged edges of glass that remained. Shards littered the floor as well, and they cut her bare feet. Something tripped her, and she cried out. Lyla’s body. They stared face to face, noses almost touching. Panic gave her speed she didn’t know she possessed. Her hands clawed at the window, and up she went, thinking only of escape. Something tugged her dressed, she fought, and then she was flying.

  “No!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs, landing atop her piss-soaked bed. The wolf-man towered over her, blood on its claws and pieces of flesh hanging from its teeth.

  “Four for Yellowscar,” it snarled, reaching for her throat.

  The door burst inward, and in the distraction, Jessie dove once more to the ground. She rolled under the bed, her arms tucked against her chest. She closed her eyes and wished she could blot out the sounds. The wolf-man snarled, but several men were crying out. Steel hit claw, and daring to open her eyes, she saw the soldiers from Blood Tower had come. The wolf twisted and struck, but every time she heard it scrape against something, a shield perhaps, or maybe their armor. Another set of legs came through the open door. She wanted to run for it, but she feared getting in their way. Not knowing what else to do, she prayed the same cadence, her heart aching for poor Lyla.

  “Blessed of the light, watch over me.”

  A man cried out. Blood splashed to the floor.

  “May I walk your road and never stray.”

  The soldier hit the ground, his head facing hers. Air leaked from his torn throat.

  “May I feel your arms around me when I fall.”

  The life in his eyes faded, his arms twitching their last. The wolf-man growled deep.

  May I sing your praises when I stand.

  More cries. The legs of the soldiers surrounded the wolf, and she heard it yelp in pain.

  Blessed of the light, may I love you, as you have always loved me.

  A hand reached for her under the bed, and she took it. Crawling out, she looked up to see her father.

  “Daddy,” she cried, flinging her arms around him and sobbing into his chest.

  “There, there,” Jeremy said, stroking her head as beside her the soldiers dragged the bleeding, bound body of the wolf-man from the room.

  She never wanted him to let her go.

  10

  “Are you sure there are no more?” Jerico asked as he followed the soldier through the town toward the Hangfield home.

  “Fairly sure,” said the soldier. “It crashed through the window of Jeremy’s girl. Killed three before we got there, and another before we could get it down. We’ve got it tied up in Jeremy’s cellar. So far it hasn’t said a word.”

  “Jessie…is she all right?”

  Jerico felt his heart pause for a moment as the soldier thought, but then he nodded.

  “Yeah. I remember seeing her crying in her father’s arms. She looked fine. Well, fine as circumstances allowed, if you get my meaning.”

  The paladin breathed a sigh of relief.

  “She’s a good soul,” he said. “I’d hate for something to happen to her.”

  “Four others died instead of her,” the soldier said, halting before Jeremy’s house. “One of ’em was my friend. You saying they ain’t good souls?”

  Jerico flushed, and embarrassed, he shook his head.

  “Forgive me. I was wrong. What is your name, soldier?”

  The man gave him a look, then nodded.

  “All right. I see we understand each other. My name’s Gregory. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Jerico muttered as they entered through the front door.

  Jeremy was waiting for them, standing in his robes by the door. With him in the small room was his daughter, sitting in a chair near the corner. Her eyes were closed, and she rocked the chair back and forth with gentle pushes of her foot.

  “Glad you’re here,” Jeremy said. “Darius and his, uh, friend are already down there, and I don’t like the sounds I’m hearing.”

  “Sounds?” Jerico asked.

  The man only shrugged and pointed them toward the musty door leading to the cellar. Gregory led the way. Halfway down he heard a strange shriek, and he realized it was the wolf-man crying out in agony. The sound made his skin crawl, and he pitied the others throughout the large house still trying to sleep. Jerico braced himself for the scene he knew he’d encounter, but was still unprepared for the brutality of it.

  The wolf-man lay flat on the floor, this feat accomplished by the breaking of its knees so they might bend the necessary way, instead of backwards like a wolf’s. Ropes lashed across its body, nailed into the hard earth of the cellar. Patches of its skin were missing, as if burn
ed, though he saw only a single torch hung upon the wall. Blood seeped across its body from a multitude of wounds. Pheus stood over it, shadows dancing across his fingers. Darius stood at his side. Watching with three of his men was Daniel, his arms crossed and his expression revealing nothing. The shadows dipped into the wolf-man’s flesh. It pulled against the ropes holding it, every muscle twitching chaotically.

  “What is this?” Jerico asked, feeling stupid even as he said it.

  “No business of yours,” said Pheus. “We have information to learn from this mongrel. Daniel’s soldiers were wise in keeping it alive, and should be commended for such quick thinking.”

  Daniel scowled, clearly unimpressed with the compliment.

  “You’re letting him torture it?” Jerico asked him.

  “Three helpless women dead,” Daniel said, looking away. “Plus one of my men. Go take a look at Jessie’s room if you want to see why I let them be. The walls are painted red.”

  Jerico glared at Darius, but the man returned his gaze unflinching.

  “All our lives may depend on this,” said the dark paladin.

  “Enough,” said Pheus. He knelt down and placed his hands on either side of the wolf-man’s head. “It is time you talk. Tell me your name, or you will feel pain a thousand times greater than you have felt before.”

  “Yellowscar,” the creature whimpered. Its eyes were unfocused, with the whites of one turned pink and covered with veins.

  “Very well, Yellowscar. Why did you kill those women? Were you under order?”

  The creature made a strange sound. Jerico couldn’t decide if it were a laugh or a growl.

  “I killed for honor.”

  “Honor?” Daniel spat. “You killed helpless women for honor?”

  Yellowscar tilted its head so it could stare at him with its good eye. The pink one didn’t move with the other.

  “You are weak. Human. You know nothing of honor.”

  “Is that so?” Pheus said. He struck Yellowscar’s snout with his palm. Dark energy flowed into it, and the wolf-man yelped at the top of its lungs, a cry that stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

  “Enough!” Jerico cried, not to the wolf, but to Pheus.

  “You would challenge me?” the priest asked. Instead of angry, he appeared almost delighted by the prospect.

  “I won’t watch you torture this poor creature.”

  “Then leave,” said Darius. “You know this must be done.”

  Jerico felt all eyes upon him, and he struggled to decide what was right. This creature might know when the attack would come. But making it suffer and howl while above children slept…it wasn’t right. He stepped toward Yellowscar, his motions careful. Black stars sparkled on the edge of Pheus’s fingertips, and he seemed eager for the slightest excuse to let them fly. Kneeling beside the wolf-man, Jerico put his hands on the worst of the creature’s wounds and prayed for the pain to stop.

  “Rest,” he said to it, his voice low, reassuring. “Now listen. You have murdered our own, and no matter how this night ends, you will die for those crimes. We know who leads your pack. Redclaw, isn’t it? I’ve looked upon him. I’ve seen his strength, and when he comes to kill us, I will face him. I will bring him down. But before I do, I will tell him Yellowscar died a warrior. When will your pack attack Durham? Tell me, and I will end your suffering. The blood will be on my hands, not theirs. No torture. No pain. This is your one chance, Yellowscar. This is all I can promise, for beyond this is uncertain.”

  Yellowscar looked at him, glancing only once at Pheus and his eager, painful touch.

  “You are of honor,” it told him. “You I will trust. I will speak, but do not kill me here. Do not kill Yellowscar in ropes. Fight me beneath the moon so I may die a warrior.”

  Jerico glanced at Daniel, who scratched his chin.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “His legs are broke. He ain’t running off like that.”

  “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 a
head 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.