Erik wished he could be like the dwarves, to have hope in the face of despair. Although, the look on Bofim’s face … the looks on many of the dwarves’ faces said their notion of hope at this moment was simple pretense.
After Bofim moved away to sit with the other dwarves, Erik removed as much of his armor as the small space would allow. He wouldn’t hope for dry clothing by the morning, but perhaps it would be a little less wet. He watched as Turk continued to tend to Bryon.
“How is he?” Erik asked.
“Not good,” Turk replied. “The cold and rain aren’t helping. I am using all of my ability to try and stem fever and further infection. If we could have a fire, it might be better, but there is no chance of that tonight.”
The darkness of night consumed the makeshift den, and silence fell on the company of men and soldiers, only to be broken by the sounds of Switch rifling through his haversack.
“Ah, that is good,” Switch said in the darkness of night, smacking his lips.
“What is?” Wrothgard asked.
“The sailor’s apple rum,” Switch replied.
“Be easy with it,” Turk said. “We can’t have you drunk and hung-over in the morning.”
“A man has to drink,” Switch replied, “sitting next to naked dwarves and their little, hairy pricks.”
“Nothing little over here.” Dwain laughed.
Switch just groaned, and then they could hear him smack his lips.
“When you are done,” Turk said, “let me have some. It might help Bryon, warm him up.”
Switch never replied, and the cave fell into silence until Wrothgard spoke.
“We were attacked by a cave bear that you say should never have come that close to dwarvish settlements and then you spoke of wolves that aren’t normal. What’s this all about?”
“The cave bear,” Threhof replied, “is an anomaly. It could be because of General Al’Banan’s men if he has a large force camped in these mountains. It could have been driven by hunger. Who knows? But these wolves …”
Threhof fell silent and, even though Erik couldn’t see the dwarf’s face in the darkness, he guessed he wore a look of worry.
“They are not so uncommon in the deepest parts of the mountains,” Dwain said, picking up the explanation. “They are bigger than what you men have probably seen and far, far more intelligent. We will even train them and use them as guard dogs and hunting dogs. Even more so in the north, yes General?”
“Aye,” Balzarak replied. “Gray wolves. They can be loyal, much more loyal than a dog, and their intelligence means they are even more adept fighters. But as their intelligence grows, so does their corruptibility.”
“Corruptibility?” Wrothgard asked. “How can a wolf be corrupted?”
“Do you mean someone who is evil trains them to do evil things?” Erik asked.
“No,” Balzarak replied. “They become evil, minions of the Shadow.”
“How?” Wrothgard asked.
“More intelligence means a greater understanding of good and evil—right and wrong,” Balzarak replied. “Those that have been corrupted, we call them winter wolves because of their white fur, but at certain times of the year, the more common gray wolves also have white fur. However, there is one thing that separates the winter wolves from the others—they have red eyes. That is how you tell them apart, that and the fact a winter wolf will go about terrorizing and killing for sport, aligning themselves with powerful evil forces. It could have been gray wolves that killed that troll, cleansing what they see as their lands of a pest, but more likely, it would have been winter wolves, scaring whatever they can. Whether they were gray wolves or winter wolves, they undoubtedly know we are here.”
Dwain and Threhof seemed to argue for a little while in their own language, speaking rapidly so Erik couldn’t understand most of what they said. But what he did understand was that there was a disagreement between the two as to whether or not the wolves that killed the mountain troll were just gray wolves protecting their territory, or actual winter wolves, simply killing for sport.
“They are uncommon here in the south,” Beldar said, seemingly trying to help resolve the argument. “It is concerning, if the troll was truly killed by winter wolves.”
“Very,” Balzarak agreed. That was enough for silence to descend once more.
A crack of thunder rattled the small cave as Erik heard the sound of the rain falling heavier and faster. Erik sat there as the snores of his companions rose, each one in succession until they were a chorus of noise. The smell of sweat and the infected puss coming from Bryon’s wound caused his nose to curl. He wanted to step outside, despite the rain, and breathe some fresh air. But then he caught a familiar smell, through the stink of bodies huddled together. Apple rum. Switch was there, staring at him. No. He was staring at Erik’s haversack. The scroll.
Erik could see the thief’s eyes, even in the darkness. He had positioned himself so that he pretended to sleep on his side, back to the cave’s entrance and facing Erik. He feigned a snore. Erik saw his mouth move, heard the man lick his lips. He thought Erik was asleep.
Erik repositioned himself, acting as if it was normal movement during slumber. But he moved so that he could get to his dagger. He felt it buzz against its hip. It was ready. He touched the handle with his left hand. The thief would come slowly, quietly. Erik inched the blade from its sheath, exposing just a bit of the steel. He moved again, freeing his right arm that was partially stuck underneath Turk.
Erik blinked. The thief was closer. Was this the night? When one of them would die? He moved again.
“Erik, what are you doing?” Turk grumbled, half asleep.
“Sorry,” Erik replied, “can’t sleep.”
“With you moving about,” Turk said, his voice slurred with sleep, “neither can I.”
“Sorry,” Erik said again, and when he looked to the thief, the man’s eyes were closed, and he had inched back closer to the wall. Turk had foiled his plan. He knew Erik was awake, and he would not try to take the scroll now. It would be too risky. Nonetheless, Erik didn’t sleep.
Chapter 19
Their leader stood at the entrance of the tunnel. His neck stretched, he sniffed the air, smelling their recent presence before he inspected the ground. He could see their footsteps. They would be easy to track. They always were. They always thought they were so clever. Fools.
She had called on him, she needed him, but it had been a long time. Many winters had passed since she beckoned him to her side, since he had killed for her, since he had feasted on the flesh of dwarves and men.
More of the pack arrived, sniffing and grunting, but keeping their distance from him. They knew their place. His mistress had called him, and, in turn, he had called his … his followers. He once had many who would only think to do his bidding, but he knew they all wouldn’t come. Distance separated many of them, time, and death.
He waited a little longer, and as the others got impatient, he sensed that no more would heed his call; there were enough. He turned his head and looked into the red eyes of each of the four. It was time. He sniffed the path again and then, neck stretched once more, he howled at the gray sky. With a long, steady pace, he set out toward their scent. He had no problem finding his way … no problem following his kill. Their time had come again.
They traveled a day and a night, not stopping to rest nor eat as the scent became strong. The stink of their prey was heavy in this place, and he knew they were congregated together. Weak. Hiding away.
He saw it, boulders leaning together, forming a shelter, probably used by their scrawny cousins. They were there. He growled at his comrades—he would go first—they understood. Two would follow, and other two would wait, to ambush them when they ran, to take them one by one.
His red eyes peered through the fog. He saw them, their shadows, huddled together like sheep. So frail. So helpless. So insignificant. Fools. Fools for the taking.
Chapter 20
The rain had st
opped. There was a chill in the morning air despite the close proximity of everyone in the den. Looking outside, beyond the boulders stacked against each other, Erik could see a heavy haze hanging just off the ground, a thick fog that masked everything outside the small cave.
Erik looked about the small den. Everyone else was asleep, even Switch. An eerie, uncomfortable silence hung as thick as the fog outside. A wolf’s howl—too close for comfort—snapped the uneasy quiet, and Erik decided he preferred the stillness. He patted his mail hauberk, lying next to him, and contemplated putting it back on. Rather, he crouched low, unable to fully stand in the small den, strapping Ilken’s Blade to his belt and moving towards the cave’s entrance.
Erik heard two more howls, one more distant, perhaps a response to the first one. The first howl sounded like it was just outside, beyond the boulders that made up the den’s entrance, and the hair on the back of Erik’s neck stood up. Then he heard soft footsteps. Someone or something was out there, creeping through the thick fog.
Erik shook Turk’s shoulder, the dwarf sleeping soundly.
“Who?” Turk said groggily, rolling over to see Erik crouching over him. “Erik, are you alright?”
“There’s something outside,” Erik said, keeping his eyes trained on the fog just outside the cave.
“I am sure there is,” Turk replied with his typical smile. “It is the morning on a secluded mountainside.”
“No,” Erik said, “something more than just a mountain bird or rabbit. I heard two howls … one was close by.”
Turk sat up quickly. He told Demik and Nafer to get up, and as they began to stir, so did Switch and Wrothgard. While he waited, Erik peered into the gloom and saw a shape move in the mist of the mountain morning. It seemed to stop just outside the mouth of the den. As Erik gripped the handle of his sword and drew Ilken’s Blade, the fog swirled, and a snout appeared in the entrance of the cave, followed by a wolf’s head and body until, as the mist swirled about the beast’s long, strong legs in swirling eddies, the animal stood completely inside the den.
Erik could hear the wolf sniffing. It didn’t see him yet, but nonetheless, it crouched low, ready to pounce, and he heard the rumble of a growl. Its white fur, turned gray with the incessant rain, clung to its body, but the beast was still larger than any wolf Erik had ever seen; it was as big as a small horse. Then, as the beast turned its head, he saw them … red eyes.
“Winter wolf!” Erik yelled. His call inside the den sounded as if it had been blown through a mighty trumpet.
Everyone in the den immediately got to their feet. Those who were already awake grabbed weapons, and those who had still been dozing were scrambling around, seeking to focus.
The wolf threw its head back and howled. The cry was deafening in the small space and was answered by more howls and yelps. Erik knew there was a message in that howl.
The wolf launched itself towards the nearest person—Beldar. The dwarf threw up an arm as the wolf’s powerful jaws wrapped around his forearm. Beldar groaned loudly as dagger-like teeth dug into his flesh but still punched out, striking the wolf in the head. Dwain moved to help Beldar, but another winter wolf leapt through the fog and tackled him to the ground. Before the beast could bite down on the dwarf’s throat, two arrows thudded into the creature’s meaty shoulder. It yelped and jumped back.
The den became a mass of chaos in such a small space. The growls and howls of the wolves drowned out the shouting. Erik couldn’t move, stuck towards the back of the den as Turk shoved Bryon behind them—too weak to fight—and the rest of the mercenaries crowded in front of him.
Erik smelled blood. Dwain. Threhof. Wrothgard. Gôdruk. Even Balzarak. They all suffered wounds at the teeth and claws of the wolves, the animals—as big as they were—adept at moving in small spaces.
“We have to move outside!” Wrothgard yelled, blood smearing his face and claw marks etched deep into his unarmored chest.
The wolves’ attack seemed to intensify, and Erik watched as the first one, leaping out of the way of two more arrows loosed from Switch’s bow, jumped against the den wall and behind most of the mercenaries, just in front of Erik. The second one isolated Beldar and Dwain, both already injured, driving them towards the front of the cave.
“They’re trying to isolate us,” Erik said. He had seen wolves, and even sheepdogs, do it back home. It made for an easier kill or round up.
The wolf in front of Erik paid no attention to him, rather nipping at Turk and Demik. Erik slashed Ilken’s Blade across the beast’s flank. Even Dwarf’s Iron did little to wound the creature, but it turned its attention away from the dwarves and towards Erik.
He watched as both Beldar and Dwain disappeared into the thick fog that hung just at the entrance of the den and realized what the wolves wanted to do.
“They’re trying to drive us outside!”
Like the dragon, Erik saw intelligence in the wolves’ eyes, and as the one in front of him growled before turning away to leap at Threhof, he couldn’t help thinking there was a malevolent mirth in that snarl. Both Threhof and Thormok tried defending themselves, but the wolf was too fast, and again, Erik saw the beast slowly leading them to the entrance of the den. Out from the fog, as Thormok stood at the entrance, a muzzle appeared, its sharp fangs clamping around the dwarf’s ankle, and dragging him outside.
“There’s more outside!” Wrothgard yelled.
“They’re going to kill us, one by one,” Erik said, “if we don’t do something.”
Both winter wolves ran outside. Balzarak yelled something in Dwarvish—a command to follow.
“Be ready,” Turk said.
Erik was still shirtless and only had time to grab his shield. He left an unconscious Bryon behind and followed his companions outside. When he passed through the cave’s entrance of fallen, leaning boulders, he looked to his left. Thormok lay there, face down in the mud created by the torrential rain. Balzarak and Gôdruk stood in front of him, both yelling and cursing. Threhof lay on the other side of the den, lying face up, blood covering his face. He cradled his left arm with his right. Five wolves surrounded Dwain and Beldar, the fur on their backs bristling as they growled and yelped.
They attacked. One wolf easily dodged Turk’s attacks only to clamp down hard on the dwarf’s leg. As it pulled Turk to the ground, it swiped a clawed foot across his chest, leaving four neat, red lines from shoulder to belt. At the same time, it jerked the dwarf’s leg side to side. Any more, any harder, and his leg would surely break.
Erik rushed to the aid of his friend. He kicked the wolf hard in the ribs. He should have heard bone cracking under his boot. The beast should have run away, whimpering with its tail between its legs. The kick only made the wolf jerk harder. Turk cried out. Erik stabbed with Ilken’s Blade. The sword barely pierced the tough hide, but it was enough to give the animal reason to drop the leg and turn his attention towards Erik.
The winter wolf snapped. Erik blocked the attack with his shield. Turk, limping and bleeding, got to his feet and attacked with his battle-axe with little effectiveness. The tip of Erik’s sword nipped the wolf’s snout, and he cut a forelimb when the beast swiped its claws at him. But when the wolf leapt at Erik, its front feet landed squarely on his shield, pushing him to the ground. As he felt the full force and weight of the wolf, he found it difficult to breathe as he ducked behind his shield when the wolf bit at his face. He felt scratches along his legs as the beast breathed down on him, baring teeth already stained with blood, teeth that belonged on a dragon, not a dog. Its breath was thick and putrid, and as it growled, Erik thought he heard a voice.
Turk and Nafer came running. Demik was there too, knocking the wolf off Erik, causing it to back away. Erik surveyed the mountain outside the cave. Wrothgard was alone, fending off a wolf, his back to the trees. Beldar and Dwain as well.
“Don’t you see,” Erik said, “they are trying to divide us. We need to come together, with our backs to the cave.”
“You are right, Erik
,” Demik said.
Demik yelled, called to their companions in Dwarvish, telling them to gather in front of the den, next to Balzarak and Gôdruk who both still stood over the unconscious Thormok.
Wrothgard tried to push past the wolf in front of him, but any which way he ran, the beast cut him off. It was the same with Dwain and Beldar. The rest were able to gather together. Nafer grabbed Threhof’s collar and pulled him into the cave. Switch fired two more arrows at the beast that had cornered Wrothgard, but it was as if it didn’t even feel the attack.
Erik jumped over the swiping claw of one wolf and rolled under the biting maw of another, coming up to his feet, dropping his shield, and grabbing his sword with both hands. The beast that held Wrothgard at bay growled at the soldier, its flank towards Erik. He lunged forward, hard, the steel biting deep into the wolf’s hide. It yelped and jumped, and that was all the time Wrothgard needed to run past the beast. As the winter wolf yelped, the two that cornered Dwain and Beldar turned, giving them enough time to run to the mouth of the small cave.
Erik felt his dagger twitch, and the moment he touched it, he sensed another voice inside his head. At first, it consisted of growls and barks and yelps, and then they turned into a language, one Erik didn’t understand, but he had heard it before. In the entrance hall of Orvencrest. There was more than one voice, and he couldn’t help thinking he could hear the wolves communicating with one another. His dagger twitched again only harder.
They are coordinating an attack. They are focusing on you.
Erik felt a sharp pain at this ankle as his face smacked hard into the ground. He looked back through one eye as mud caked his face and saw a wolf’s jaws clamped around his foot, dragging him back, away from the cave.
He heard the voices again, in that dark language. They were laughing wickedly. Then, another voice, a commanding voice, cut through the others. And he could understand.
The wolf let go of his foot, and Erik stood despite the pain. The wolves circled him as he stood. He could hear his companions yelling, even see them run to him through a sidelong glance, but every time they got close, two or three wolves would break from the circle and push them back.
Breaking the Flame Page 15