by C S Vass
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouted as he kicked frantically at the demon. His boots slammed into its body, keeping the beast at bay. It wouldn’t last.
Yaura tugged at her own leg desperately in an attempt to free herself. Frozen mud clung to her, keeping her glued to the spot. Cursing, she drew her sword and hacked at the ground, trying to leverage herself out of the trap.
Meanwhile the demon thrust forward towards a frantic Robert. Its arms were comically small and unable to do much, but there was nothing funny about the grotesque sucking mouths with sickly green tongues that snapped at his flesh.
Suddenly, Yaura sprang free just as Robert’s boot caught in one of the demon’s mouths. “Ahhh!” he screamed as teeth shredded into thick leather.
Yaura barreled into the creature with all of her strength, slashing viciously at its body. The demon made a hissing noise as it recoiled. Robert whimpered on the ground, but Yaura didn’t dare take her eyes of the beast to see how terrible the damage was.
“Come on!” she shouted.
The creature responded by crouching on its haunched, furry legs and launching itself at her. Yaura leapt sideways and slashed at the demon horizontally. A foul odor exploded from it as her sword sunk into its meaty flesh.
Instinctively she covered her nose and stepped backwards, uncertain if the demon’s innards contained some sort of poison. “Back, damn you!” she said. The creature wobbled on its wolfish legs but made no move to retreat.
“Yaura, just run,” Robert shouted from behind her.
“No,” she said. She didn’t know if Robert was in any condition to flee after his foot had been mauled but even if he was, she had no reason to think they would be able to outrun the demon’s muscular legs.
“You’ll never kill it with a mere sword!” a baritone voice shouted from the darkness.
Yaura could hardly believe it. She hadn’t heard that voice in a long time. “Logun!”
Logun emerged from the woods, his bald head shining in the starlight. In his hands was a powerful maul with an ebony handle. Logun swirled the war hammer in his hands as easily as if it were a mere spear. A point on top of the hammer’s head formed a silver dragon-in-chains. “Come on, you bastard!” he shouted.
The demon hissed and seethed as it sensed new danger. Logun didn’t give it a chance to do more than that. In an instant he fell upon the beast, slamming the war hammer’s head into the demon’s face. Yaura felt her body spasm and heard Robert retching as its head caved into a warm pulp.
“That’ll teach you, you fucker,” Logun growled. He cleaned the head of his maul with a cloth. “Are you injured, lad?” he asked to Robert.
Robert took a few moments to finish emptying the contents of his stomach before answering. “No…no. I’m fine,” he said, standing.
“You’re limping,” Yaura said to him.
“A small injury. I’ll be fine when we get to the castle and have a rest.”
“You’ll find no rest at Unduyo,” Logun said seriously.
“What’s going on?” Yaura asked. “What’s that smoke?”
“Unduyo is under attack,” he said. “So forgive my rudeness, but we don’t have much time for a reunion. Are you well enough to fight?”
“Yes,” Yaura said. “But he certainly isn’t.”
“There’s nowhere for me that will be safer than with you two,” Robert said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage.”
“Logun, who’s attacking us?”
Logun sighed. As easy as he made his battle appear, Yaura could tell her comrade was exhausted by the blow he had struck. His small blue eyes twinkled in the darkness. “I don’t know. The demons started pouring into the castle. They came accompanied by men in strange masks. I’ve never heard of such an unholy alliance. We’re giving the fuckers hell though.”
“Men fighting alongside demons? Against Unduyo? Who in their right minds would possibly want to do that?”
“If we’re to get any answers, they’ll be waiting for us at the end of the battle. There are foes inside the castle. We need to expel them.”
“Are the Sages safe?”
“For now. The inner keep has not been breached as far as I know. But they’re coming upon us like a hurricane. If you’re well enough to fight, then make your way to Unduyo and kill as many of these bastards as you can.”
“What about you? Aren’t you coming back?”
“A number of our allies such as yourself are coming from Meno. I’m to find you in the woods and make sure nothing prevents you from joining our main force at the castle. Now enough with the questions. Go!”
Yaura nodded. Without another word Logun ran off into the darkness.
“This is bad,” Robert said. “Yaura, are we going to live through the night?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “If you’d rather wait in the woods…”
“No! I mean, no. I’d rather be with you.” He drew his two shortswords from his back and twirled the weapons in his hands. “I prefer not to use these, but it seems there will be no choice tonight.”
“Unduyo isn’t your home,” Yaura said. “Just fight to keep yourself alive. Let us Shigata worry about expelling these demons.”
They ran together in the darkness, guiding by the smoke that plumed over Unduyo. The trees continued to thin and soon the castle was sprawled out before them.
It was small as far as castles went. A lone fortress guarded by thick walls of stone with only the basic necessities used to construct the inner bailey. Two of the four conical spires that formed the castle’s watchtowers at its corners were ablaze.
“Those flames will be visible in Meno,” Robert said. “Let’s hope that Lord Wolfbane is keener to help the Shigata than he was to help the ogres.”
“He will be if he knows what’s good for him,” Yaura said. “Without the Shigata nearby demons will devour the population of Meno in a fortnight. Now come on, we’ve no time to lose.”
“Yaura!”
Yaura turned at hearing a newcomer call her name. She saw Torin’s thrygta glitter around his neck,
“Torin!” she ran towards her comrade. “We need to get to the castle!”
“Indeed,” Torin agreed. “But first we need to talk.”
Chapter 25
The werewolves stalked them like dark angels of death.
“Back to back,” Brett urged. He hid the fear in his voice well. “We may be able to convince them that we’re not worth the trouble.”
“Gods of ice, gods of shadow, please help us,” Paetrick moaned. “Restore Faela’s fire. Deliver us from this evil.”
The werewolves approached slowly. Malice shone in their intelligent eyes.
“Faela, is there any chance of that happening?” Brett asked. “Do you feel any connection to the Dragon?”
Faela pushed inside of herself as hard as she had ever tried. The pain was enormous, like placing her hands into a burning fire. She forced herself to hold on, desperately searching for the power that once came so easily to her.
She let go with a cry of despair.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breathing heavily. “There’s nothing there. I simply can’t do it.”
Brett nodded soberly. “It’s alright. We’ll get through this.”
Faela found herself incredibly grateful for Brett’s cool demeanor. The Captain of the Guard was greatly impressing her, but all the same she didn’t believe him.
One of the werewolves made a choking noise, and Faela realized it was speaking to them in its garbled way of talking.
“These lands are now the domain of our holy matron. Ashanimara rules here now!”
Another werewolf, this one likely a female judging by the higher pitch of the voice, spoke up, “The boy has taken something from us. The boy has displeased our matron. Give it back, boy! If you do, we’ll save you for last.” Hatred radiated from her burning eyes.
Paetrick moaned, but was unable to form any kind of coherent sentence.
“Try it wolf, and I’
ll spill your guts across the Shield,” Faela said, forcing herself to sound much braver than she felt.
The wolves responded with a strange choking noise. It took Faela a few moments to realize that the noise they were making was laughter.
“I think it’s unlikely that a wolf can threaten a bear,” Brett said. “I have need of some new furs to keep the winter chill at bay. Ever wonder what it’s like to be worn?”
The wolves responded by snarling. All their desire to taunt the group was now replaced by a deadly bloodlust.
The beast closest to them leapt. It was a cautious attack, meant to test the will of its enemies. Brett did not disappoint. With an aggressive blow he struck at the werewolf, cutting it just below its left eye. The wolf growled with hatred and jumped backwards.
The momentary victory did little to lift their spirits. The wolves circled them, growling and snapping as they drew ever closer. Paetrick was making frightened noises that Faela didn’t know a human being could make. The cold seemed to grow ever more severe as she shivered violently.
Another wolf attacked, this time barreling forward towards Paetrick’s legs. It snapped at his ankle, sending the monk falling to the ground. Faela brought her sword down with all her strength, just missing the attacking beast as it scampered back to its pack.
They drew closer still.
Dread filled the air as she realized her doom was upon them. Faela knew that without her fire, there was no hope of survival. She pushed herself again, ignoring the mind-splitting pain that set her nerves ablaze and made her blood burn.
“I am a direct servant of King Boldfrost,” Brett proclaimed. “Captain of his household guard. The boy is his son, the Prince of Iryllium. We will prove valuable hostages. Should you kill us, you will forfeit the potential to earn a great boon from the King.”
The werewolves laughed again. “You speak in half-truths,” a vicious hulking werewolf with jet black fur snarled. “You are indeed the Captain of the Guard, the boy is no prince. He’s just a foolish monk worshipping false idols who stole something very important to us. Give it back, boy. Give it back, or else I will have to search every inch of you for it. Inside and out.”
“Thieves can make no demands of thieves,” Brett said.
“And the words of liars are as wind beating against the mountain,” the black werewolf replied. “But you bore me, oh servant of the King. Why don’t you throw your false claw down and fight as nature intended you to.”
“I think I’ll make a gift of your head to the King,” Brett said. “Your pelt however is ugly. Perhaps I’ll put it on the floor of my privy to keep away the chill when I take my morning shit.”
“Funny words for a man who is going to turn into my morning shit by the morrow. Prepare yourself!”
The werewolf struck again, and the same thing happened. Brett swung his blade and the beast retreated. It happened again. And again. Each time the wolves circled closer and closer. Each time Faela realized with dread that there would be no getting out of the situation. Eventually their bloodlust would win out over their sense of caution and one of the werewolves would attack in earnest without retreating at the slashing of a sword.
“Faela, I believe in you,” Paetrick said. “I know if you try your hardest that you’ll be able to find your fire. It’s our only hope. I know you can do it. I’ll pray for you.”
Paetrick closed his eyes and began chanting. The words brought Faela no sense of power. She felt only the hopeless despair of knowing she was their only hope and that she was doomed to fail them. The harsh wind cut through her furs, causing her to tremble violently.
Still, she tried. She pushed herself through pain like she never imagined possible, all the while staying on her feet, and tried to find some spark of the flames that she had lost her connection with. Cursing, she felt as though her body was on fire. Nevertheless there was nothing she could do to translate that feeling into real, burning flames.
Finally it happened.
A werewolf barreled its way into Brett’s body, shoving him back and hurtling through the cut that Faela delivered. The werewolf’s hide was much thicker than she realized, more akin to a thick leather jerkin than the flesh of an ordinary wolf. Screaming, Brett tustled with the creature.
Faela rushed to help when another werewolf blocked her path. Deadlocked with the monster, she held her ground. That’s when she heard Paetrick scream behind her.
Forgetting herself entirely, Faela turned to see Paetrick on the ground, blood pooling underneath him, and a huge werewolf sinking its teeth into the flesh where his shoulder met his neck.
“Paetrick!” she screamed. She felt a familiar rush of energy. Flames licked at her hands, but only for a moment. Rather than sending a blast of flames at the beast as she had intended, she merely created a flicker of fire for a brief moment before it disappeared.
It was enough to startle the werewolf that attacked Paetrick. The beast leapt backwards, baring its fangs. “A Dragon?” the werewolf sneered in its phlegmy voice. “What’s wrong then? Scared to use your fire? Or maybe you just don’t know how?”
“Maybe I’m giving you one final chance before I completely roast you,” Faela shouted.
“Maybe I’ll kill you before you get the chance,” the beast replied.
It hurtled at her. She dodged to the left, but not fast enough to avoid the slash of sharp claws that scraped the flesh of her right shoulder. Almost dropping her sword, Faela stumbled away as she felt the warm trickle of blood moving down her arm.
Looking around a feeling of utter hopelessness crashed upon Faela. Brett was taking on two wolves by himself, but they were wearing him down. His hacking blows were slower with each swing of his sword. Meanwhile Paetrick was frozen with fear as a werewolf approached him slowly.
Tears welled in her eyes. Not for herself, but for her friends. And for the frustration of knowing that somewhere, deep down, she had the power to save them but not the ability to access it.
Through the tears the world seemed to shimmer with silver light. No…the world was shimmering with silver light. What was happening? Silver threads streamed through the air like barely visible tendrils. They grew longer and longer, connecting to each other and creating a dome of silver all around them.
The wolves howled uncertainly, and backed away from their prey. They came closer to each other, fearfully gazing at the sky around them.
“A miracle from the gods,” Paetrick breathed with wonder. He was on his knees, his entire shoulder soaked in blood. The wolves howled again, but this time the howl lacked the depth it had before. Swiftly, howls turned to moans as paws turned to hands and feet.
“What sorcery is this?” a man who used to be a wolf said. “How did—”
He stopped speaking. He was too surprised by a fat arrow that had landed square in his fleshy belly. A second sprung into his head. In an instant, the air was thick with arrows that cut the werewolves down where they stood.
“Gods above,” Brett said, looking around with wonder. “We lived.”
The ogres approached them cautiously. They wore heavy steel plate armor and severe faces. Faela paid them no mind and instead rushed to Paetrick.
“It’s okay,” she told him gently. “Help is here. I’m going to take care of you. You’re going to be fine.”
Paetrick tried to speak, but he was too weak. His face was the same color as the snow next to him, and his shoulder had been torn terribly by the werewolf.
“Help him!” Faela begged of the ogres. “Please.”
An old ogre with heavy lines on his face observed the boy casually. “Might be better if he dies.”
“What are you talking about?” Faela shouted. “Please, you have to try.”
“Thank you for rescuing us,” Brett interjected. “Will you help our comrade? He is grievously hurt, we must see to him immediately if you will not.”
The ogre’s wrinkled face became even more serious as he considered. “Very well. I will do what I can. But I warn you, yo
u may not be thanking me when it’s over.”
“I’m thanking you now,” Faela said. “Please, just do whatever you can.”
“Faela,” Paetrick moaned. Faela went to him. His eyes flickered as he struggled to speak. “Swear to me…whatever happens you must swear…take the medallion to the Shigata.”
“I will,” she said. “Don’t you worry about something silly like that.
Paetrick’s eyes widened and a fit of coughing overtook him. “Not silly,” he rasped. “I…I didn’t tell you everything. No time now…this thrygta…it belonged to my brother.”
“Your brother?” Faela asked, surprised. “The thrygta belonged to your brother? He was a Shigata?”
“Step aside,” the ogre commanded. “You’re putting too much stress on the boy. He needs space. Let me work.”
The old ogre unceremoniously shoved Faela aside.
“We thank you for your assistance,” Brett said to the other dozen ogres that stood around them.”
“Werewolves are filthy beasts,” a younger ogre with a necklace made from animal bones said. “Part human and part demon. What could be more despicable?”
Brett let the insult go unchallenged. “What brings you to the Shield?” he asked.
The ogre’s eyes narrowed. “Are we not free to roam the land as we please? Does the King require everyone to have proper papers to move from one place to another?”
“Easy,” Brett said, holding his hands up. “Just making conversation.”
The ogre seemed to relax somewhat. “My name is Krut,” he said. “This is a bad time for such a small number as yourselves to wander the Shield. The stars are tumultuous.”
Faela chanced a glance upwards. Krut wasn’t wrong. The stars were spiraling around each other at a much faster pace than usual.
“You had best head to wherever you’re going quickly,” Krut continued. “I foresee much violence in the coming days. If you listen carefully, you can hear the ghosts of the Rainbow Wood forewarning of the danger.