The she-wolf roared and crashed into Ernie, throwing him back into the hallway. She rushed forward as he staggered to his feet, pinning him against the wall. He began weeping as she disemboweled him with two ferocious swipes of her claws before throwing him to the ground. Two of the closest hotel guests opened their doors. They met their violent death while fleeing through the bloody hallway towards the street. The guests who hid in their rooms were no luckier.
One lucky man was able to escape the she-wolf by throwing his trousers at her and running as fast as he could out between the buildings. The creature followed him outside and then paused, suddenly wary on the unfamiliar cobblestone street. She could smell trees in the distance and the need for the safety of the forest overrode her instinct to chase the fleeing prey.
A rare snow began to fall as the she-wolf padded on all fours and out onto the street. A faint musk-trail of male wolf permeated the area and she followed it, away from the cramped buildings and the strange noises of the city.
CHAPTER 18.
T
HE FALL OF CANTON
Lord Crawley was exhausted after another long day of shelling the Canton City walls. The worst part was defending the artillery from the repeated attacks of Mongol horsemen. The fierce warriors were relentless in their attacks and spent their lives and mounts endlessly against the platoon of men he now commanded. Given his promotion to Lieutenant, Lord Crawley now regretted his rise, despite proving himself as an intelligent and resourceful officer. The battlefield roiled with chaos and was nearly impossible to predict. He kept watch on Dorian by assigning him as his personal bodyguard. The man had proved himself invaluable as a sharpshooter, able to pick off the well-armored men as they charged the English line.
The English position was well fortified and they were well equipped. They had the support from the ships in the river at their back. Despite their strong station, it was close and bloody fighting. Twice now, the charging Mongols had broken through their lines and nearly reached the artillery before falling to rifle fire. One wild-eyed rider had leapt from his horse and tackled Lord Crawley to the ground. He still carried the bruises from that narrow escape. If it had not been for Dorian hurling himself at the Mongol, he surely would have died. The man had killed the attacker using his rifle as a club. Lord Crawley vowed to never be embarrassed by his own lack of preparation ever again. He now carried a long naval saber that never left his side. It was a fine steel blade with a gold lion’s head pommel.
As darkness fell on the evening of the Harvest Moon, Lord Crawley finally bedded down in his tent for some much-needed rest. It seemed only moments before the sounds of screaming and gunfire roused him from his sleep. He grabbed his pistol and saber and ran outside, thankful that he had been too tired to undress from his officer’s uniform. A thick fog swirled in the hazy moonlight, making it difficult to see where the attack was coming from.
He looked around for Dorian but he was nowhere in sight. Bo’sun Cain staggered from his tent to the left, the man’s pipes still around his neck.
“Bo’sun, call the men to arms.”
The boatswain was slow to react and rubbed his face as if awakened from a dream. “Why? Those rats wouldn’t even be able to see on a night like this.”
Lord Crawley cursed and ran over to club the man. “Now, Bo’sun! We are under attack!”
The man’s eyes widened and he began blowing shrilly on his pipes. Men boiled out of their tents like ants. Lord Crawley struggled to get the soldiers into a line as a spattering of gunfire cut off suddenly at the edge of the mist. A strange growl emanated from the darkest point in the center of the mist. That was not the throaty battle cry of the Mongols.
Lord Crawley thought he saw a large shape running through the murk at the edge of his vision. “Bo’sun, get the men into a square four ranks deep.”
Cain blew his pipes again with the signal for a square. Despite the fear in their eyes, the soldiers’ feet moved them into the familiar shape.
Lord Crawley would be ready for a charge, Mongol horsemen or no. “Fix bayonets and prepare to repel cavalry. First rank kneel and prepare to fire! Second rank prepare to fire on my command.”
The men fell into the positions, hard learned in the recent days. They were inexperienced but loyal soldiers, well bloodied in this campaign. Lord Crawley knew that they would hold against whatever came out of the rolling fog.
Silence.
Nothing made a sound. There was no whinny of horses nor the thrum of hoofs churning the earth.
A shadow moved to the rear of the men and a young seaman fired into the gray cloud.
“Hold your fire!” Lord Crawley moved to the center of the square. “They are moving behind us in the mist. Tighten the line and be ready from all directions.”
With a roar, a massive beast exploded from the haze and collided with the back edge of the square. Men in the first rank had their bayonets swatted away harmlessly before they were thrown bodily into the air. The soldiers who kept their wits enough to fire either missed or had little effect in countering the attack. Massive claws shredded faces and separated limbs in a whirling shadow of death that never stopped moving. The thing attacking their line came forward, rending flesh and forcing men to the ground before retreating in the face of their gunfire—only to attack again a moment later in a different section of the square.
Lord Crawley could scarcely believe his eyes. “Second rank, fire!”
A powerful volley staggered the creature and gave the soldiers the opportunity to tighten their line and shrink the size of the square.
“Third rank, fire!”
This volley sent the monster reeling backward and dark blood and chunks of hairy flesh spewed into the air. With a high-pitched yelp the creature turned, bounding off into the night despite the limp on its hind leg. A low grunting whine, like that of a dog, receded into the fog and towards Canton City.
Bo’sun Cain crossed himself and made the sign of the evil eye for good measure. “What in the Devil’s bloody bollocks was that?”
Lord Crawley reluctantly acknowledged the truth. Lady Helena’s suspicions were correct. That beast was Dorian. He missed his chance to fulfill his promise by ending the creature’s life. He looked in dismay at the dead and dismembered soldiers under his command. “Whatever it was, it has retreated to the city. Make ready the artillery.”
The werewolf growled as it squeezed the metal bullets from its leg. He had been no match for the fire-sticks the men had used—at least not against their entire pack. The small holes slowly closed and his strength began to return. He had taken many wounds, and the healing had spiked his need to hunt. He moved towards the large wall in front of him. Perhaps there would be easier prey inside the city of men.
The wolf fell to four legs and ran to a section of the wall with few Qing men atop it. He waited until they turned away to talk before hurling himself at a section of the wall pockmarked from the English artillery. The wolf’s claws found many places to grab hold as his powerful forepaws and hind legs propelled him up the soaring stone wall.
The two guards noticed the clattering sounds, looking down on the wall just as the wolf threw his body into the air. Before they could react, they died as claws slashed through both of the men’s throats. He landed between them, pausing briefly to feed until his strength fully restored itself. The wolf began running on two legs towards the inner wall.
The werewolf tasted the air as he reached a stone staircase. Men teemed around him, vague shapes in the swirling mist. Many carried the primitive fire-sticks. Because of the fog, they were not yet aware of his presence. Remembering the recent wounds he suffered, the werewolf thought it best to keep himself hidden. He was just about to lope down the stairs when a loud explosion at the top of the outer wall sent a shower of stone and dust airborne in every direction. Booms filled the once silent night and hundreds more of the Qing soldiers emerged from the parapets and towers. Pressing his hide against the wall, his tongue lolled out as they ran past tow
ards the walkways leading to the outer wall.
The instinct to flee rose inside him as the explosions reverberated, but the vibrations only reached the outer wall. He was safe for now. The artillery raining down upon the city was perfect. It provided the chaos and noise that was perfect cover for the werewolf to move about unnoticed.
He avoided large groups of soldiers, killing any stray men he ran into with swift precision. He moved among them like the shadow of death, sticking to the dark places and using the murk to stay hidden. The men had their attention focused on the threat outside the walls. They were blind to screams coming from within. He tore through patrols, ripping out their throats and slashing limbs with his claws. He cleared the inner wall and approached the main city gates.
That was when the werewolf came upon a Manchu warrior, fully armored and larger than the rest. The Mancu looked through the darkness and straight at the werewolf. He raised a large steel-tipped spear while taking a defensive stance. The werewolf roared a challenge and stood to his full height on two legs.
The warrior flexed his thick muscles and slowly circled the werewolf, waving the long ornate spear in the air threateningly. “Come Emo. If you seek to enter my city, you must first defeat me.”
Khorghosun had shaved the front half of his head just this morning as his wife Maral braided the back into a single, long braid of black hair. He wore the ceremonial leather and iron armor of an officer Bannerman. He wore it proudly as his father had before him. He had cared for it carefully and it was unchanged except for the colored chalk drawings of horses that his daughter’s Nergüi and Yisu had lovingly drawn beneath the tassets. He had held them all in a tender embrace as the city alarm rang out, calling him to his duty.
The werewolf seemed to sense the threat of the spear and tried a low swipe at the Khorghosun’s legs. The tip of his spear cut a bloody line across the werewolf’s forepaw as the Manchu danced out of reach. The werewolf growled and pounced forward, intending to knock him to the ground. Instead, his claws met only air. The werewolf slid awkwardly across the stone where Khorghosun had been standing just a moment ago. Sliding across the stone on his knees, he gouged the spear point into the side of the werewolf’s underbelly.
The creature reeled back, howling in frustration. Khorghosun was surprised to see that the cut on the werewolf’s arm had healed. Blood still dripped from the wound in the creature’s side. Khorghosun rose and again circled the werewolf, his spear gleaming in the moonlight, as it sought a new place to bite.
The werewolf swiped high at his face, using its claws to block his spear when it answered with a low swipe of its own. The spear bounced back, but Khorghosun ducked lower, extending his leg and spinning the weapon around his head so it stabbed at the werewolf’s exposed flank. The steel cut deeply into the werewolf’s leg and it limped backward. It wasn’t the only thing with sharp teeth.
The werewolf shook its dripping fangs and turned to corner Khorghosun against a low wall. It approached with savage strength, accepting the small slices and cuts from his spear. Khorghosun was beginning to tire, his breath coming in labored gusts. He wiped the sweat from his brow and changed his hold to the back of the spear. “You are a strong fighter, Emo. If I am to die, I will do so with honor.”
Khorghosun watched the werewolf’s wounds close again. As long as it continued to mend itself, it was unstoppable. He looked at the trail of bodies leading to the outer wall and thought of his wife and daughters. He would not let this monster enter the city where his family waited for his return.
Khorghosun charged the werewolf, at the last moment turning to spring towards the wall and then pushing himself back off it with a leap high into the air. He thrust his spear with both hands deep into the werewolf’s chest. The spear point entered the werewolf’s rib cage, driving towards the heart. But the werewolf lowered its terrifying jaws and caught the pole in its teeth. Khorghosun hung on for a moment, suspended in midair before the werewolf backhanded him. He lost his hold on the spear and crashed into the wall.
Khorghosun watched in horror as the clawed hands gripped his father’s spear and slowly pulled it out. The werewolf snapped the weapon in half and discarded it. Khorghosun struggled to his feet, bellowing in rage as he drew his single-edged, curved Dao sword. He set upon the werewolf, his strength nearly failing, knowing it would be his last attack.
Khorghosun grimaced as the werewolf caught the downswing of the sword in his clawed left hand, the blade biting deep, but stopping as it hit bone. Tears came to his eyes as the werewolf’s right hand shot out to grab him by the throat and lift him off the ground. The werewolf absorbed his powerful kick to its head, snarling in response. If only he could play with Nergüi and Yisu in the fields once more. He would give anything to hear their laughter as he lead them around on a small shaggy pony.
The werewolf bit forward directly into the man’s face, tearing the flesh and ripping with the claws of its right hand. The decapitated body of the Manchu warrior fell to the ground. With grave wounds again in need of fuel for healing, the werewolf entered the inner city of Canton and continued its rampage through the night. The English and French shelling continued until morning, sowing chaos and stifling the sounds of slaughter moving through the city. The werewolf continued to avoid larger groups of soldiers with fire-sticks and killed throughout the night until even its great bloodlust was at last sated.
The fog cleared with the dawn to reveal city walls ravaged by artillery and thousands dead. A great wailing rose in the inner city as the bodies of over two hundred men, women, and children were found. Several witnesses claimed to have seen a merciless Demon killing for sport. Viceroy Ye Mingchen surrendered unconditionally to the English and French forces outside his gates. He fell to his knees as he met with their generals and begged for their protection.
CHAPTER 19.
T
HE HUNT
Van Helsing followed the trail of the beast deep into the forest. The falling white snow obscured all tracks and he stood gazing into the white haze with a mixture of cold determination and boiling anger. Steeling his resolve, he gritted his teeth and pushed onward with the Inspector and Constable McDonaugh at his side.
The Inspector was carrying a .500 caliber, Holland double-barreled breech-loading shotgun. Constable McDonaugh was armed with a .577 caliber, short barrel Enfield Cavalry percussion carbine and a single-head, steel Irish battle-axe. Van Helsing had his Prussian rifle, repeating crossbow, and Damascus-steel longsword.
For the last few kilometers, Van Helsing had relied only on his tracking experience, following what small signs he could. A small tuft of fur caught on a bush or a pattern of broken branches hinted at the creature’s general direction. These signs soon faded as well, leaving only the enhanced senses from the demon eye.
Constable McDonaugh shivered while trying to keep his limbs from freezing. “Do ya even know which way we are going, Doctor?”
“I lost the trail a kilometer ago.” Van Helsing turned towards the muscular young man. “You’re welcome to turn back, but I will push on.”
Constable McDonaugh’s face reddened. “You think you can handle such a killer alone? He murdered twelve people. They are calling it the ‘Red Hotel’.”
“She.” Van Helsing removed his felt cap and rubbed his eyepatch.
The Constable slung his rifle over his shoulder and crossed his arms. “What are you talking about? No woman could do this. How could you even know it was a woman?”
“I can sense it, Constable. And I never said she was a woman.”
“Not this nonsense again! What type of Doctor did you say you were?”
The Inspector raised his hand for silence. “Let’s entertain the idea that there is something else in the woods, perhaps a bear or other animal. Observe the tall elm tree ahead.”
The three approached the large tree. Long scratches ran the length of its wide trunk. “It is difficult to determine what animal made these.” Van Helsing inspected it closely. “These scratches were m
ade some time ago.”
The Inspector nodded. “That is true. As we have no other markings to follow, let us follow them to their source, if we can, and see what we find there.”
The scratches appeared more frequently as the trees grew closer together and the forest floor more sheltered from the falling snow. They wondered if the creature used it to mark its territory, or if it was simply sharpening its claws. The clawmarks were easy to follow now and led the men to a den of sorts, a great mound of earth littered with bones and long-decayed carrion. A large entrance gaped before them. Van Helsing shouldered his Prussian rifle and readied his repeating crossbow. He motioned for silence and then gestured to indicate that the three men should spread out. The Constable nodded and moved out to the left. The Inspector raised his double-barreled shotgun and moved quietly to the right flank.
Van Helsing approached the opening of the den from the center. He moved slowly, his boots light as rabbit feet in the snow. When he was only three meters away, he paused to reach into his coat and remove a small torch. Affixed to it was a small fuse and stuffed inside was a small vile of Demon Fire. He lit the fuse with a match and threw it down the hole in front of him. He jump back and covered his eyes, motioning for the other men to do the same.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then earth and bones were flying in all directions as a small explosion destroyed the den and engulfed it in flames. The three men brought their weapons to bear as they watched for any movement among the dying flames. But there had been nothing more than a decomposing deer carcass and dirt inside the den.
That was when the she-wolf fell from the treetops and attacked Constable McDonaugh. She dropped down from a tall cedar tree, landing on two legs to deliver a slash with her claws. The blow could have opened the Constable’s insides. But to his credit, Constable McDonaugh swiftly raised his percussion carbine in two hands and deflected the blow. The short rifle snapped in half at the impact. The man was thrown to the ground, the claws of the werewolf leaving only shallow gashes on his forearms.
Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3 Page 25
