by Aaron Dennis
larger, gray stones. They had reached the foot of the hills and Wilheim had been correct. Where once several trees had stood tall, there were only stumps. The travelers looked in awe. For miles, hills and valleys of green roamed.
“Hold,” Samja called out.
She had come to a halt, her small hand pointing to something. The group gathered, but was unable to discern at what she hinted.
“This is the track of an animal. See here? They are far apart, but the imprints are not too large; something fast. Whether predator or prey, I know not. Either way, if there is one there is the other,” she spoke in a breathy whisper.
Lokheart scanned the group. He wore a sneer when a challenge was present. He wore a sneer then. Sotha placed her hand on his arm. He looked down upon her and his sneer turned to a smile.
“Keep your eyes peeled for more tracks and your ears open for whatever may come,” Jorunhaal said to Samja.
She nodded in reply. Hours of hiking passed, and the group was no longer able to see the large boat or the beach behind them. They broke for food, drink, and rest. What were few, wispy clouds quickly grew to a blanket of white and gray across the sky. The wind had picked up as well. Samja knew from which direction an attack by beast was to come because the wind carried their scent.
“Come, enough rest. Let us press forwards. I think I see a structure in the distance and would like to arrive before nightfall,” Jorunhaal ordered.
They followed. It was not long before Samja’s ear perked up. There had been a call on the wind.
“Jorunhaal,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he asked all too loudly.
She winced before answering, “They are coming for us.”
“What’s that?”
Samja was to reply, but Wilheim interrupted. “Quiet, we make for the stone structure at the valley. We will be safe there,” he said, pointing.
There was something like a leaning tower of rubble; more of a sign that men once lived in the area. Jorunhaal looked at both the old man and the lithe woman then back at the structure. Strange to erect a watchtower in a valley between hills.
“Fine,” Samja replied. “We must make haste…I fear they are coming quickly.”
Everyone was in agreement, and they quickened their pace. The closer they came to the rubble, the more evident it was that such a structure had indeed been some sort of tower built by the hands of men. By then, it was night, and a pale moonlight ensconced by clouds barely lit the way. Gurgling howls echoed from all around.
“By Lenus! What is that,” Lokheart asked.
He drew both swords and spread his feet; the signature of a man ready to do battle. Jorunhaal also took his axe from his back and passed the long handle from hand to hand.
“There,” Samja whispered with a pointing of her finger.
Dark masses came barreling down the hills from the very direction of the tower. They were wolf-like in appearance, but thin and wiry. They ran on two legs; claws and teeth deigned to rend flesh.
Samja was the first to attack. Before the enemies closed the distance, she fired three arrows. Each pierced a beast. Wilheim was next. He brought his fists close to his chin. With a powerful thrust, he threw his arms out, the hands open. A flurry of elongated, tiny, blue flames shot from his hands. He held firm and slowly pivoted on his heels; his eyes locked on the advancing threat.
“You come before Wilheim, son of Wilthur, and his blood courses with magic,” the wizard hissed.
Several of the small were-creatures caught fire and fell, but the rest soon came upon the travelers. With mean bites, they pierced flesh. With sharp claws, they ripped clothing and softer armor. They jumped, barked and growled. As a pack, they worked and separated the men of the expedition.
Lokheart—dual swords drawn—began a whirling display of glinting steel. The pale moonlight reflected off the blades as he slashed one way, dodged a bite or claw, brought his blades overhead, and laid into one, furry enemy after another.
“Blasted dogs!” he growled.
Firmly planted boots dug deep into the earth as Lokheart ran through the enemies. A coat of red grew over his blades. With a relentless hacking, he grunted and yelled into the night. His attacks came across his body and when he thrust or plunged with one blade, he parried or withdrew the other; a constant motion. The soldier fought fiercely, but they were not all fighters.
“Lokheart,” Sotha called.
She was frightened. Sotha had tried to run, but the enemies were too great in number. The soldier caught her glance. A small group of the barking hounds pulled her to the ground. She screamed and thrashed, but they bit at her stomach, tore out her entrails, and ate her throat before arrows pierced them. A choking death rattle was drowned out by the evil howls.
“Nooo,” Lokheart screamed with tears in his eyes.
It is too late for Sotha, Jorunhaal thought. “But not for you,” he cried out while slashing.
While Lokheart ran to slay the beasts eating Sotha’s corpse, Jorunhaal and his mighty axe cut through more animals. He waved his weapon overhead to gain momentum then hacked at one. It was in mid-dash when Jorunhaal struck. Its top half came off—a bleeding mess—and the legs took a few steps before falling over. He struck at another from on high, bringing all his might behind the blow. It crushed through the wolf’s skull. Bits of leathery skin and fur covered the axe.
Wilheim continued casting his magic, blue flame and arcs of yellow lightning either caught the enemies aflame or caused them to burst into gory tissue. Samja, with no more arrows, resorted to using daggers and throwing knives. From one knee she locked onto an enemy, threw a knife, took a few steps, and grabbed one wolf from behind to slit its throat. Little grunts of rage escaped her lips.
“Where is he? Where is Pasquale,” Jorunhaal asked.
The battle wound down. Many of the remaining beasts fled. One or two remained, but Wilheim lit them up with his lightning. The great blasts of magic crashed through the night and reduced the creatures to cinders.
“He has fled,” Wilheim said.
“Fled? To where? I didn’t see ‘im,” Lokheart snorted.
He walked over to Sotha’s ravaged figure. There wasn’t much of her left.
“We will bury her after we find Pasquale,” Jorunhaal said.
The warrior looked at the watchtower. It was the only place for the herbalist to find safety. Perhaps, it was never a watchtower, but a refuge for travelers in the night….
No Refuge
“It’s too dark,” Lokheart complained.
“Pasquale,” Jorunhaal called out.
“Fools,” Wilheim answered.
A sudden glow filled the watchtower. Wilheim had cast a light spell. The yellow radiance illuminated the stone room. Several, broken stones laid about the ground along with aged, wood beams. Pasquale was not there.
“Here,” Samja whispered.
Blood was fresh on the ground. It led beyond the listing, center pillar. They followed it. A set of stairs led down somewhere beneath the hills.
“He’s gone down,” Jorunhaal said with a hint of worry.
“We must leave at once,” Wilheim ordered.
“Damn you, old man! We lost one tonight, maybe two! Do you want to be the third?” Lokheart accosted.
Wilheim was not intimidated by the tall soldier. “There are far worse things here than you.”
“Perhaps he is right, but we cannot abandon an injured man, and especially not one of our own,” Jorunhaal interceded.
They proceeded down the steps, Samja in the lead. The stairwell was narrow and long, but finally spat them out into a small room with natural ground. A lone, wooden door stood closed only a dozen paces before them. A figure stirred in the darkened corner.
“Pasquale! We thought you were dead,” Jorunhaal said.
He ran over to the cowering man. The herbalist stood. He grabbed Jorunhaal’s arms and bit him on the chest. The warrior screamed before recoiling. There was something wrong with Pasquale’s face. Aside from his bl
ood-smeared lips, it was lifeless.
“He has been befouled,” Wilheim said, pointing.
“What is this madness?” Lokheart gasped.
Pasquale stumbled forwards with a groan. After vomiting greenish bile, he staggered, and dealt a blow so powerful it knocked Jorunhaal over. Wilheim shot Pasquale with a bolt of lightning. His explosion covered everyone with gruesome entrails and bits of bone. They all vomited profusely, save Wilheim, who simply took back to the stairs.
“By the Gods,” Lockheart sighed. “What has come to pass?”
“Quickly, now,” Jorunhaal coughed. “We must pull ourselves together.”
Inside the dilapidated tower, they reconvened. They stood silent, all looking at the old wizard.
“Alright, old man, what say you,” Jorunhaal asked.
He was finally ready to admit the mage had been right from the beginning; they should not have set foot on the island.
“We make our way back to the beach immediately,” he replied.
“We should at least take Sotha back with us,” Lokheart added.
“There is nothing left to take. Those walking wolves have absconded with her remains,” Wilheim replied.
“Then, we simply leave,” Jorunhaal ordered.
No sooner had they come to an agreement, a storm erupted. Flashes of lightning flickered about them and huge drops of water fell through the cracks in the tower. Jorunhaal let out a sigh. At least Pasquale’s rind will be washed away.
“We must go now!” Wilheim barked.
The barbarian was unsure of what he feared more, the wizard or the island. He nodded. Through heavy rain and frightening thunder, they trod. Only Samja