Winter's King

by Bryce O'Connor

  It had barely made it twenty feet before two points of ivory light—ghostly mirages in the semi-darkness, guided by skilled hands—caught the creature from either side.

  They’d eaten well that night, and every day thereafter.

  Evenings were a pleasant affair that had rapidly evolved into habit. When the very last hints of the Sun’s light faded, winking out the slim rays that occasionally managed to cut their way through the canopy, they would call a halt and go about making camp. Raz would set off into the trees in search of firewood, leaving the Priests to start the spellwork of warding whatever little nook they had found for shelter. There was little snow in the Arocklen—aside from occasional tumbling chunks that dislodged without warning from above, often taking branches and bark with them as they fell earthward with echoing cracks—and even less wind, so the wards weren’t as elaborate as those they’d used when crossing the Dehn. It took only about a half hour for the sphere of warmth to be cast and bound, which was ideal. It offered Raz a chance to find his solitude again, to bask in discreet wonder at the scenery of the Woods as he went about taking his war-ax to logs and dead branches in the pallid darkness under the glow of the Moon through the ice above. He thought, too, that the two men enjoyed this time, giving them at least a brief period of privacy every day without his constant presence.

  They had no tents, trusting in the land and the Laorin’s magics to shelter them as needed. They often spent nights lounging on pelts and bedrolls spread over cleared ground, making conversation about everything and nothing, or else taking in the dancing show of guttering shadows above them, projected onto the packed snow and branches by the evening’s fire. It was warm and comfortable there, within their little bubble of magical heat beneath the trees, and Raz had long since allowed himself to be enraptured by the majesty of the forest. He would rise earlier than the men every morning, as he always did. After stealing a bite or two of elk meat to break his fast—thawed and seared over the embers of the prior night’s fire—he’d take Ahna and his other weapons into the trees, walking through the diminishing dark until he found any space wide enough to exercise in. He’d go through his morning routine, working his body until he was on his knees, heaving in breaths of icy air and letting them out again in billowing jets of steam, like the flaming breaths of the mythical dahgün. Then he would sit for a time, taking in the morning and the Woods and the uneven pattern of the land spreading out before him through the dawn.

  Sometimes he sat for so long that the cold would start digging into his bones, and he’d have to warm himself up all over again.

  So it was for a week, with Brahnt and al’Dor growing more and more cheerful with every passing day. Raz couldn’t blame them. It must have been a pleasant prospect, returning to Cyurgi’ Di after nearly three months of absence. His initial apprehension had budded into intrigue over the last few days, and from there even into anticipation. After the wonder of the Woods, Raz was starting to become curious as to what sort of place the High Citadel really was to enact such hope and excitement from the Laorin. The men had tried to describe it to him time and time again, but no words seemed to do the place true justice, and Brahnt always resigned himself to simply saying “You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

  Now, Raz couldn’t convince himself one way or the other that he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  The anticipation came to an abrupt end as evening fell on their ninth day within the Arocklen.

  Raz smelled them before he made out the sounds of their approach. The stench of wet fur was the first warning, but as he became aware of their presence he started to weed other things from the air. A tired breeze, sneaking its way through the trees, brought with it the taste of rot and decay. There was a putrid, iron scent there, too, edging the stink of the approaching beasts.

  Blood. And death.

  “… and so it was around 740v.S. that the border actually became a marked distinction,” al’Dor was telling Raz while Brahnt busied himself ahead of them, knocking snow out of his boots as they rode. “Before that, there were disputes regarding taxation and—”

  “Something’s out there.”

  al’Dor tripped over his words as Raz cut him off. Raz himself was peering west through the trees, down along the leaf-strewn hill whose crest the trail had followed for the last quarter-mile. He was trying to see through the gloom, but the brightness of the torches they still held in their hands was blinding him beyond anything more than fifty feet.

  “What did you say?”

  Brahnt had heard him, and was pulling his mare to a halt ahead. Gale and al’Dor’s horses stopped in turn, though Gale huffed in annoyance as he was suddenly brought to a standstill.

  “There’s something out there,” Raz said again, switching his torch to his left hand and drawing the gladius with his right. The metal hissed out of its sheath, the sound ringing eerily through the Woods. He raised the flames high, but could see nothing else. “Somethings. I can hear them. Can you give me more light?”

  At once Talo took his hand from his horse’s reins and lifted it slowly overhead, palm up. As he did, the orbs of white flames that crowned their torches expanded and roared, growing until they tripled in size. The sudden bloom of light hurt Raz’s eyes, but he squinted through the dark, his gaze trailing the edges of the illuminated ring, now extending some hundred feet in all directions.

  At first he saw nothing more than the detail of the Woods below. A few dead trees had fallen along the side of the hill, or else come to rest against their living counterparts, propped up at odd angles. Clear glimmers reflected from yet more patches of ice where trails of water might otherwise have flowed free down the slope. A massive boulder, about as tall as Raz and half again as long, sat at the very base of the incline, nestled into the angled earth and covered in mismatched patches of encrusted white lichen and brown moss.

  On either side this rock, about ten feet in each direction, paired eyes glinted and blinked, shining in the light of the flames.

  “WOLVES!” Brahnt shouted, and the hand he had used to brighten the torches was suddenly alight with fire. His own torch he flung down the hill, its flames dimming slightly as they lost the spurring of his magic. It landed ten feet from the mossy bolder, though, and the light was still more than strong enough to banish the dark around it.

  Raz felt his grip tighten involuntarily on the handle of his gladius as the animals were revealed.

  He had had a concept of what “wolves” were. Arrun had given him a description once, and al’Dor had expanded on it not a few days before at Raz’s request. He knew what a dog was. He’d played with his fair share of them growing up along the shores of the Garin, kept as pets or guard animals by some of the various trading clans. He’d thought of a wolf as a large, hairier version of a dog, roaming about in packs.

  This last detail was the only one that did the beasts justice.

  There were seven of them that they could see. Three along the right side of the hill’s bottom, four to the left. They were massive creatures compared to the slight image Raz had composed in his head, ranging from four to five feet from heads to haunches, and the largest likely weighing around two hundred pounds. Their fur was white and grey, so matted and dirty in places that it stuck up frozen in the air. Their muzzles and fore chests were all a unanimous shade of reddish brown, stained time after time with the blood of the kill. To a one they stood stock still, bodies parallel to the trail, heads turned upwards to look up the hill, teeth bared.

  Raz was about to demand what the Priests wanted to do, seeking out some guidance in the situation, when he caught the delicate crunch of leaves from the right.

  “BEHIND US!” he yelled, whirling and bringing the gladius up instinctively. He wasn’t fast enough to deal a killing blow, but his reflexes still proved sufficient to save his life as yellowish fangs, intended for the back of his neck, found the steel bracer of his right arm instead. There was nothing he could do about the momentum of the wolf’s leap, though, and the
animal’s body slammed into his, hitting him with a hundred-and-fifty-some-odd pounds of unstoppable force. He had only a glimpse of whitish, dirty fur before he was flying off his saddle sideways, hitting the frozen ground with a hard thud that knocked the torch from his left hand and Ahna from his lap.

  The wolf, though, stayed atop him.

  It was a vicious thing, unlike any animal he had ever seen. Even sandcats were quick to strike and retreat, calculating their movements and attacks. The wolf, rather than backing off now that it had vulnerable prey on the ground, never let go of the bracer, wrenching Raz’s arm about so powerfully he felt his elbow strain under the pressure. They rolled once, twice, three times down the hill, and only then did Raz understand what the creature was doing.

  It was keeping him down until the others arrived to help.

  Everything clicked into place, and Raz moved with all the haste and skill of a cornered killer. Dropping the gladius he’d managed to hold onto in his pinned right hand, he sliced at the animal’s neck with claws of his left, intent on freeing himself. Thick, knotted hair foiled the blow, though, and so Raz drew his whole hand back, clenching the gauntlet into a steel fist.

  The punch broke the animal’s neck with a snap.

  It fell limp off his arm with a pitiful yelp of pain, jaw slackening abruptly. Raz didn’t pause, though, whirling around to meet the assault he knew was coming head on. The four wolves on the left seemed to have gone around the hill, likely trying to take the Priests from the flank.

  The three on the right, though, were already on him.

  With a roar that might have shaken the snow from the trees around him, Raz lanced forward. As the first wolf leapt for him with a snarl, going for the throat, Raz snatched it out of the air by the neck with one hand and slammed it to the ground. The other two came from either side of him, and he leapt back and away, abandoning his hope of gutting the pinned one before it could get back on its feet.

  He did, though, manage to draw the war-ax from his belt.

  “COME ON!” he screamed, his wings spreading to their fullest extent, ripping his hood back so his crest flared like a blade over his head as the wolf he’d downed managed to scramble up and join the others. “COME AND GET ME!”

  The beasts obliged.

  They rushed him head-on now, not splitting up this time. One went for his face, but the others stayed low, darting at his legs. Dropping under the leaping one, Raz’s struck at the closest of the bottom two, looking to plant his ax between its eyes. The animal was too quick, though, dodging away.

  But simultaneously abandoning its companion.

  Momentarily free of all other distractions, Raz’s full attention snapped onto the third wolf just as it reached him. He was too slow to stop the bite, too slow to keep it from latching crushing jaws around his left thigh, but his thick furs and the leather wrappings he dressed his legs in every day kept the teeth from piercing flesh.

  Instead of taking him down, the wolf found itself on the end of a massive kick from Raz’s armored right leg.

  Ribs cracked audibly, and the wolf screeched as it was sent flying down the hill, tumbling to rest against the boulder where it stayed, whimpering and kicking its legs. Without pausing Raz spun to face the remaining two animals. The wolves changed tactics yet again, circling him slowly in opposite directions, keeping their distance and threatening him with throaty, angry growls all the while. He returned the threats with his own snarls, doing his best as long as he could to keep both in view, knowing they would attack as soon as they were on either side of him.

  He didn’t give them the chance.

  With a howl Raz threw himself at the closest animal before it could bunch up for the pounce. Its companion rushed in the moment he started to move, probably hoping to leap onto his back and pull him down, but even the wolves of the North couldn’t keep pace with Raz i’Syul Arro in his element.

  He caught the wolf he’d launched himself at barely, seizing it by the scruff of the neck with a clawed hand as it tried to leap away. It howled in pain, thrashing in his grip and trying to get its teeth around to gnash at his arm, but only long enough for the ax to flash up.

  Then it fell, and the animal sagged in Raz’s hand as blood and brain spilled over the steel of his fingers.

  Upon seeing this, the last wolf did the only smart thing it could. Turning tail, it bolted back into the Woods, yelping as it ran.

  Breathing hard, Raz let the carcass fall from his grasp. Heaving himself around he scrambled up the hill towards the flashing light of magic and the shapes of rearing horses at its crest, snatching his gladius from the ground as he did. When he reached the top he found Brahnt and al’Dor in the full swing of battle, and Raz couldn’t help but pause in stunned amazement.

  The Priests were standing in a ring of fire.

  They had encircled themselves and the two remaining mounts in what could only be described as a halo of flame. al’Dor seemed to be the one maintaining the spell, standing at its center between a panicking Gale and Brahnt’s spotted mare, arms held out before him and face twisted in concentration. Brahnt himself was at the very edge of the ring, alternately striking out with his staff and launching handfuls of flame at the dark shapes that seemed to be attempting to get past the fire. A half-dozen wolves circled the men, looking for a way in.

  Several paces down the path, al’Dor’s horse lay still, obviously dead, neck and abdomen torn open by teeth and claws to spill hot blood and organs over the leafy, snow-speckled ground.

  “WHAT ABOUT ARRO?” al’Dor was screaming, twisting his hands in intricate runes as he worked the magic. “TALO! WHERE IS RAZ?”

  “JUST KEEP THE WARD UP!” the High Priest yelled in return. “RAZ CAN TAKE CARE OF HIMSELF! JUST KEEP THE WARD UP!”

  At the words, Raz came to his senses.

  And decided it was time to make his presence known.

  With another roaring warcry the Monster of Karth barreled into the side of the pack, taking them completely unaware. Using his gladius and ax to devastating effect he cut down two before any of the others had a chance to turn and face him. The last four collapsed inward at once, attacking from either side of the ring. One he killed as it hurled itself at him, sliding on wet leaves under its leaping form and splitting it through the chest. Another died in similar fashion, flipped over by a kick and gutted by the flashing sword.

  The other two were never given the opportunity to try their luck. By the time Raz had turned around they were smoldering husks, smoke wafting from the gaps between exposed bone and sizzling muscle that marked where Brahnt’s fire had taken them in the sides.

  No one relaxed.

  “Are they gone?” Brahnt yelled over the roar of the spell, eyes darting between the trees. Raz didn’t reply, doing the same. His nose was useless, foiled by the stench of the dead animals scattered about his feet, as were his ears, deafened by the screams of Gale and the one mare they were left with, coupled with the snap and whoosh of the flames.

  Still, his eyes were sharp in the light of the fire, and after a minute he flicked his gladius clean of blood, sliding it back into it sheath with a click over his shoulder.

  “They’re gone!” he shouted in confirmation, and almost at once the ward fell. He turned in time to see al’Dor stumble onto all fours, heaving.

  “Laor’s mercy,” the Priest said. “I don’t think I could have held much longer.”

  “You did well,” Brahnt told him, extinguishing the flames he’d still been holding in his right hand and limping over to the blond man. “Are you alright? Can you stand?”

  al’Dor shook his head. “Maybe in a minute. Just-just give me a minute.”

  Raz let Brahnt tend to the Priest, moving forward with raised hands—one still holding the bloody war-ax—in the hope of soothing Gale. The stallion was huffing and screaming, stamping the ground in fear, dark eyes rolling about. Tossing the ax aside, Raz approached him slowly, inch by inch, speaking to the animal all the while in gentle tones.


  “Easy, boy,” he said, stepping closer and keeping low. “Eeeasy. Shh.”

  It took some time, but he eventually managed to get ahold of the horse’s reins, and within a minute Gale calmed, pressing himself into Raz’s stroking hands as though taking comfort from the act. After this, Brahnt’s mare—which seemed to have been considering bolting off through the trees—did the same, coming about and bobbing her head to snort at the still bodies of the wolves.

  “Everyone all right?” Raz asked after he was sure the animals weren’t going to make a run for it, turning to look at the Priests. al’Dor had found his feet, leaning on Brahnt’s arm for a change, and he still looked shaken.

  “Lifegiver’s balls,” he cursed, lifting his head to look about, his face blanched. “Where did they come from? Where did they come from?”

  “Everywhere,” Raz answered him, moving back to pick up his discarded ax and starting to work the hardened, frozen blood off the blade with a steel claw. “They’re pack hunters. We have wild dogs in the desert, and it’s much the same. They attack from as many angles as they can because they know it’s almost impossible to defend every direction.”