Galladrin jumped at the bounty hunter’s voice beside him.
“Bloody Hell!” Coragan swore. “The wolves are coming across!”
Galladrin looked to the river. In a fearful procession, driven by madness, the wolves hurled themselves into the water with no thought for its chill or its torrents. Led by a great grey beast, nearly half again the size of any other, the wolves paddled their way toward the island like a small army of rabid dogs.
Galladrin glanced toward Coragan and saw the bounty hunter hastily loading his crossbow. Beside him, Borak staggered to his feet, awkwardly hefting his axe in his one good hand. In the air about them, snowflakes began to fall. He looked around for something, anything that could aid them, but the island held nothing save rocks, lichen, and the lonely tree. Coragan stepped forward and loosed his bolt.
With a muffled yelp and a splash, one of the dark shapes in the river stopped its forward motion, floundered a moment, then ducked beneath the water. It resurfaced, thrashing violently. After several moments, its struggles ceased and the current carried it away in its swirling grasp. Coragan hastily reloaded his weapon. “Only nine bolts left,” he said.
Galladrin nodded grimly, then slashed at empty air. “Yeah. Well, you got about thirty wolves.”
Coragan fired and another dark shape went under. Undaunted, the pack paddled on, closing ranks like soldiers in war. The lead wolf drew within ten paces of the island rocks. Again Coragan fired and another shape went down. Seconds later, the great grey reached the shore. It lumbered forward, scrambling over the rocks, then stopped just a half dozen paces from the trio of men. It stared at them as if in consideration, weighing them according to its lupine mind. Suddenly, it howled. Three dark shapes rose from the water behind and rushed to attack.
Galladrin stepped up to meet them, rapier flashing in his hand. The first wolf that charged received a rapier point to the eye, the second an axe to the skull, and the third a sword through the heart. As quickly as that the first wolves went down, but others followed. Many others. They broke from the water in waves, howling and snarling as they advanced.
Galladrin lay about himself with his blade, thrusting, slashing, and stabbing. His rapier flickered like a silver serpent, dealing death and agony in his skillful hands. But the rapier was not without its adversaries. With every flicker, bright teeth flashed, nipping that much closer to his flesh.
Beside the rogue, his companions fought. Borak wielded his great axe with only his one good hand, yet he killed a wolf with every blow. Past Borak, ensconced defensively between two large boulders, Coragan engaged in a daring struggle. The bounty hunter danced about with his sword, drawing the wolves in, then hacking them down as they attacked.
Bitter pain lanced through Galladrin’s leg. He looked down and stabbed. Surprisingly, the wolf clamped onto his shin managed to squirm and avoid the blow. It growled through its teeth then gave Galladrin’s leg a violent shake to pull the rogue from his feet. The earth fell away, but Galladrin did not despair; he spun his rapier around and held it before him as he tumbled. Point first he plunged, with all his weight, onto the dark beast’s back. Two and a half feet of steel drove through the creature’s spine and struck sparks on the rocks beneath. The beast whimpered once, then lay still.
Galladrin struggled to his feet and shoved the dead wolf aside. About him, three wolves had fallen to his blade, and next to Borak no less than six were down. The progressing battle obscured Coragan and his struggles, but the rogue was sure he had heard at least two strangled yelps from the bounty hunter’s quarter. That made eleven—at least a third of the wolves. Only a madman would keep up the charge after this.
Mad or not, the great grey kept howling, and more of its sinister brethren poured forth, snapping and snarling as they came, rushing forward like a great dark wave of fury. A wave, yes, and like a wave it broke. Three warriors like shoreline stones stood against the onslaught, ignoring wounds and agony as they hacked the wolves down. Beast after beast fell in the desperate battle, until at last only the great grey remained. Like a truly mad general, it howled once, then launched itself into the fray.
Drooling and snarling it charged the center, leaping for Borak’s throat as the warrior swung his axe. The weapon struck the beast in its side, crushing ribs and slicing flesh. The grey wolf, however, was like no other. Larger, stronger, it continued the fight. Its body slammed into Borak’s chest and knocked him heavily to the ground. Its jaws snapped shut, missing his face and throat alike, but grazing his chin. Teeth scraped into flesh, then slipped away, leaving small rivulets of flowing blood. Again, the wolf lunged for the throat; and Borak raised his arm as a shield. Its jaws closed securely on his forearm, and it shook its head in anger, sinking great fangs deep in the warrior’s flesh.
With its concentration on Borak the wolf made an easy target for the others. Galladrin stepped forward, rapier in hand, and speared the grey wolf behind the ear. It shuddered once. Twice. Then ceased.
Borak let out a groan, then heaved. The dead wolf slid from his chest and the warrior struggled to his feet. He grimaced, then hobbled toward the fire. Galladrin stared in astonishment, utterly amazed the man could still move. Covered from head to toe in blood, a great deal of it his own, the warrior looked like a torturer’s victim come back from the dead. His tattered animal skins fluttered crazily in the wind; both his legs and his free arm oozed blood from various savage wounds, while his chest and side bled from several long gashes. Only his injured arm seemed to have escaped the battle untouched, and that was broken anyway. The huge man staggered to a large stone, then sat down.
“Here, Borak, let me hel—” Galladrin took several steps, then winced, suddenly very aware of the pain in his own leg. The wolf’s teeth had cut deep into his calf, and numerous other wounds—though none so serious—marked his chest and arms. He wondered briefly how bad he looked in comparison to the warrior, then glanced toward Coragan to evaluate that man’s condition. Of the three men, it seemed the bounty hunter had escaped with the least injury. He still suffered from the wound he received on his shoulder, but beyond that ... there was one gash on his thigh, another on his side. The man’s cloak, however, had seen better days. Like much of Borak’s clothing, it hung in tatters, shredded by teeth, offering no more protection from the wind than a fishing net might—and a tattered one at that. With a disgruntled frown, Coragan tossed the ruined cloak on the fire.
Looking around, Galladrin gave a quick count. Twenty three lupine bodies lay sprawled about, while he and his friends were still alive. “All things considered, I think we did well.”
Coragan glanced back at him. “Yeah. But I think we owe our lives twice over to Borak here. I saw him kill at least nine on his own.”
The warrior grimaced. “Eleven.”
Galladrin managed a pained smile. Twenty-three wolves and eleven to Borak. He thought back. He remembered killing six. That would mean he and Coragan had split the difference. Fair enough. He hobbled toward the fire. “Here, Borak, let me take a look at those wounds.”
The warrior lifted up his arm as Galladrin approached. The rogue grabbed his wrist, then turned his injuries toward the light. Several ragged tears near the center of the warrior’s forearm oozed blood freely. Inspection showed the wounds deep and Galladrin frowned. “It’s not as bad as the other arm ... but, really Borak, are you trying to get out of using your axe? First your right arm and now this. I’ll wrap it up, but I can’t do much else.”
“I think we should stop at the abbey tomorrow,” Coragan said as he watched Galladrin dress the wound. “The priests of Drellenor may be able to help us, especially Borak.”
Galladrin looked up. “Do you have a plan to get us to the abbey? We are down to two horses and if you haven’t forgotten, we still have the Lord and Lady Deathbringer over there.” The rogue turned as he motioned across the river. “Hey. Where’d they go?” The far bank seemed empty. He gripped the hilt of his rapier and took a step toward the shoreline. His heart started racing
in fearful foreboding. “They’re swimming across. We’ll have to make a stand.” He could almost feel the Scythe-Bearer’s Sickle tickling his back.
Borak looked up. “They aren’t swimming across.”
Galladrin shot the warrior a startled glare. “How do you know?”
“Because they’re vampires.”
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 35