Night of Wolves p-1

by David Dalglish

  “I have come,” Murdertongue said, his voice deep and commanding. “Who is the pup?”

  Moonclaw riled at the insult.

  “He is Moonclaw. He feasted on Goldteeth’s flesh and drank his blood, and now commands his pack.”

  “Goldteeth, eh? He was a stupid one. I bet he tasted foul.”

  Moonclaw stepped forward, and he bared his teeth. Redclaw flung an arm in the way, and snarled his disapproval.

  “At your place,” he said, and Moonclaw dipped his head in obedience. Murdertongue saw this, and sniffed, a reaction signifying either curiosity or contempt. Redclaw figured he had plenty of time to figure out which.

  “ Bloodfang! ”

  The pack swarmed into the Gathering. Redclaw chilled at the combined sight of the several packs. There were three hundred wolf-men in total, strong and deadly. What human force could be assembled against that might? And they were but the first drop of a downpour.

  “I see I have missed no bloodshed,” Bloodfang said as he joined them at the pile. He stood near Murdertongue, but far enough away to ensure he showed no allegiance or submission to him. Unlike Murdertongue, he was tall, his spine hardly bearing a shred of curve. His fur was a vibrant red, a rare color for their kind. He grinned at them all, clearly thinking himself funny. Also unlike Murdertongue, Bloodfang was stupid and slow. His pack was on the smaller side, and he ruled through his size alone.

  “Plenty of moonlight left,” Murdertongue said, and he laughed.

  They went through the ritual introductions, with Redclaw going last. His howl was deeper than the others, and he held it for nearly a full minute. The others glared at him, unhappy with being shown up. That earned him the right to speak first, though, and despite his aching lungs and pounding head, he needed his cry to carry across the hills. He stepped onto the pile, walked to its very top, and looked to the crowd.

  “Wolves of Murdertongue, wolves of Bloodfang,” he cried. “I come not to challenge your leaders. They are strong, and they have earned their right to lead. No, I bring them here, I bring you all here, for I have been blessed. The moon shines upon me, and has since my birth. We are not destined for this vile land. We are not meant to eat hyena shit and drink orc piss. We must be free! We must rule a land worthy of ruling!”

  “What nonsense do you speak of?” asked Murdertongue. “Say what you mean, so we may all laugh!”

  Redclaw narrowed his eyes. Murdertongue was not allowed to speak until he’d finished, and by breaking the rule, he could challenge him now to a contest of strength. But he needed true rule. He didn’t want to lead one giant pack. There would be too many, and he would be forced to meet a constant stream of challengers. No, better to let other pack leaders be the targets, to let them all squabble beneath him, with only a few pack leaders carrying the right to challenge his rule. He let the insult pass.

  “I say that I know of a way across the river, where the water is shallow and the human boats do not patrol. There is land there, and forest, food and water. Already many of my pack surround it, weakening them, starving them. I ask that you join me! I ask that you come and take what we deserve by right of strength, by right of claw, by right of the moon!”

  “And who are you to lead?” asked Murdertongue.

  “I am Redclaw, and I will be Wolf King.”

  The gathered wolf-men went crazy. They howled, nipped at one another, and stomped their feet upon the dirt. Murdertongue’s eyes sparkled, but Bloodfang looked ready to explode.

  “You would have me kneel to you?” he asked.

  “Moonclaw has already, and he is only the first.”

  “There are a hundred packs,” said Murdertongue. “Who are you to claim yourself Wolf King with but a few kneeling to your strength? Not since our creation have we had a Wolf King. You are mighty, Redclaw, but not so mighty as that.”

  “Not mighty at all!” roared Bloodfang. He stepped onto the pile of bone, his challenge begun. “I will not bow to you. You will bow to me! Tiny wolf, I will take your pack into mine, and they will be stronger for it!”

  Murdertongue stayed back, though he could join in at any time. There had been Gatherings in times past where ten or twelve pack leaders descended upon each other at the same time, but the wolf-men had numbered greater then. The orcs had spread across the Wedge, and even the bird-men and the hyena-men had worn away at their numbers. Redclaw crouched, thinking of his law. Wolf may not kill wolf, but Bloodfang was not of his pack, and besides, atop the bone pile they stood upon a tradition greater than Redclaw could dismiss. His mind raced for an answer. Killing Bloodfang gained him little, but leaving him alive would accomplish even less. What chance was there Bloodfang would ever bow his head to him, no matter how many times beaten?

  “I do not wish to kill you,” he said, carefully watching his opponent’s movements.

  “But I do!”

  Bloodfang launched himself, bones scattering down the pile from where he leapt. Redclaw shifted to the side, so that the bulk of Bloodfang’s weight missed. His left arm shot out, grabbing Bloodfang’s wrist. A tug, and they rolled atop one another, snarling and biting. Redclaw had timed it well, however, and he ended their roll with his hind legs tearing into Bloodfang’s thighs and his claws pinning him to the ground.

  “Obey,” he cried, his roar thundering across the Gathering.

  “No.”

  Redclaw held him there, and he felt all eyes upon him. Wolf must not kill wolf, he thought. Be King, leader of all packs, not just one. He shoved away and walked to the edge of the bone pile. Behind him, Bloodfang stood, blood dripping down his arms and legs.

  “You are weak,” Bloodfang snarled. “You are a fool. You are not worthy of any pack, and I will-”

  He howled, and his back arced as gore spilled atop the bones from the gaping wound in his belly. Murdertongue held him in a mockery of an embrace, his arms flexed, his claws opening the wound further. Bloodfang struggled, but his strength quickly fled, and his head rolled to one side. Murdertongue dropped the body and kicked it, sending it tumbling off the pile.

  “Will you challenge me now?” Redclaw asked, standing to his full height. His voice, however, was but a whisper, almost a plea in the raucous night.

  “Bloodfang’s pack is mine,” said Murdertongue. “And I still think you are a fool, Redclaw. But perhaps, just perhaps, you may lead us to victory.”

  He turned to the crowd, lifted his arms to the moon, and then knelt in submission.

  “My pack swears obedience,” he said, and the entire Gathering erupted into chaos.

  Redclaw stood among it, grinning at the crowd. He’d done it. The first step of a hunt was always the hardest. Between Moonclaw and Murdertongue, he had the beginnings of an army. He approached his new comrade, knelt before him, and pressed his nose against his to show their friendship.

  “I will reward us with a kingdom,” he whispered.

  “Pray you do,” Murdertongue whispered back.

  Standing, Redclaw addressed the crowd, knowing now was the time to solidify his position.

  “I am your Wolf King!” he cried. More cheers and howls. “I am leader of packs, now few, but soon to be many. The humans are weak. Their skin is soft, and their minds dull from years of safety. We are the vicious. We are the destroyers. Come the full moon, when our goddess shines and watches our victory, we will cross the river. We will take their land. We will feast upon the flesh of men, women, and children. Imagine the taste of their blood! Imagine their screams in your ears! Few now, but when the Wedge hears, when all know Redclaw stood before the humans and made them tremble, the rest will come. Every pack will kneel. Let your cry reach the stars! All the west will be our prey!”

  “You speak the words of the Wolf King,” Moonclaw said as he and Murdertongue joined him at the bottom of the bone pile. His fur stood on end, and he clearly felt the excitement of the others. “They cry for blood.”

  “To the north is a small pack of bird-men,” Redclaw said. “They are few, and stay at the ed
ges of my land. Send our wolves upon them. I want them sharp, ready. I want to remind them how poor our food is, tough meat and hollow bones. When we cross the river, I don’t want them angry. I want them hungry. ”

  “As you wish…Wolf King,” Murdertongue said, leaving to address his pack, now merged with those who had followed Bloodfang. Before he turned, Redclaw saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, though what its meaning was, he didn’t know, but he felt certain he wouldn’t like it if he did.

  11

  Jerico slept well into the morning, having already given Jeremy orders for the townsfolk to follow. His rest was not deep, nor fulfilling, and he rose red-eyed and groggy. His breakfast was meager, various vegetables fried in animal fat, with only water from the town’s well to wash it down. After that, he donned his armor, even though he expected no combat. It would do the people good to see him prepared, he knew. With his shining platemail and thick shield, they might think they had a chance to survive while protected by such a warrior.

  Even though it was hopeless. Jerico had seen the pack gathered that night. But he dared not voice that belief, and he felt guilty enough thinking it in his heart. Nothing was hopeless when Ashhur was at his side. But no matter how often he reminded himself that, he also remembered that terrible vision of the Citadel cracking and falling, and of the belief that its fall would mean the end of his order. The end of him. Was this where the last paladin of Ashhur would fall, some backwater village lost to the belly of beasts?

  “Sorry,” Jerico muttered to his god as he stepped from Jeremy’s home. “I’m cranky and stupid. Ignore me.”

  Darius was already up and about, but he stood in the center of town with Pheus at his side. Wishing nothing to do with the priest, Jerico instead found Daniel and his men guiding the rest of the townsfolk in preparing the defenses.

  “You look like shit,” Daniel said at his arrival.

  “Feel like it, too. How goes the defenses?”

  The lieutenant gestured about him. Before three particular buildings the people were digging trenches, boarding up windows, and planting stakes.

  “We decided cramming everyone into one single building wasn’t feasible, so we settled on three: the inn, the tavern, and Mr. Hangfield’s estate. They all have their unique quirks, but we think with enough time we can nail shut the doors and block every window. When they attack, we’ll funnel them to a single doorway. If we can negate their numbers advantage, we might stand a chance.”

  “Where’s all the wood coming from?” Jerico asked.

  “We’ve had volunteers. We’re tearing down other homes within the wolf-men’s circle. Nearly everyone figures they can rebuild if we survive.”

  “A large if,” Jerico muttered.

  “The trenches should slow them a little,” Daniel said, glaring. “And we’ll fill each one with stakes and traps. Figure to build as many as we can before each of the three entrances. All the buildings are within sight of one another, which’ll help too. I figure we’ll have an archer atop each one, and use ’em to thin the wolves at the doors. Darius also says that priest of his should prove dangerous with open space to cast, so we’ll probably stick him atop of Hangfield’s.”

  “As solid a plan as any,” Jerico said. “What if they try to starve us out?”

  “Well, time’s on our side, not theirs right?”

  Jerico saw the desperate hope in the lieutenant’s eyes, wanting reassurance more than anything.

  “Of course,” said the paladin. “One of the other towers is bound to notice our absence, if not the traders.”

  “Right.” Daniel looked at the townspeople, and a smile touched his lips. “They’re good workers here. If they have any sons to spare, I’ll probably try to bring them back with me to Blood Tower. This is the fine stuff true fighters are made of, not those sniveling brats nobles send off in hopes of winning their family honor.”

  They walked between the three areas, Jerico pointing out gaps in the defenses, plotting locations of more trenches, and correcting angles of the spikes.

  “They like to leap,” he said. “Remember that. They aren’t charging men on foot. Push the tips higher. Make every one of them suffer for jumping too much, or too little.”

  When he was back at Jeremy’s, Jessie came out to greet them. She looked about as bad as Jerico felt, and he felt guilty for not being there to protect her against Yellowscar’s attack. He knew it was irrational, but he felt it all the same. After Yellowscar’s burial, he’d gone inside to help with the others. The image of that room had haunted his dreams, robbing it of rest. He thought of Darius’s anger at giving the creature any form of honorable death. Viewing that carnage, he finally understood.

  “Jerico?” she asked, and the paladin bowed politely.

  “Yes, Jessie?”

  “We, well, some of the others were getting together, and we were hoping you could, you know…”

  He smiled even as the selfish part of him wished for anything else in the world.

  “Of course,” he said. “Where?”

  “In the square. The men are about to take a break to eat.”

  She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite take. When she left, Jerico sighed and shook his head.

  “She should be worried about which boy to take to the hay-dance, not prayer for friends and family soon to die.”

  “World ain’t fair, nor just,” Daniel said.

  A vision of the Citadel flashed before his eyes, and then it fell.

  “No,” said Jerico. “It is not.”

  “I need a bite to eat myself. Join me when you’re done.”

  Jerico waved him off, then trudged to the square. He took his shield off his back and glanced at its light on the way, feeling childish for needing to do so. He wanted some visual proof of Ashhur’s presence, for he felt so exhausted, so trapped. Waiting for him was nearly half the village, men sitting with their wives, their children beside them, the younger ones cuddling on their laps. Some ate, and some drank. When Jerico stepped among them, he felt their presence, their need for reassurance. They were tired, ragged eyed, fighting terror and exhaustion.

  “I’m here,” Jerico said, for he knew not what else to say. He felt woefully unprepared. His training at the Citadel meant nothing for this. Where were his teachers? Where was their faith that had seemed unshakeable? Before the crowd he felt his neck flush, his hands tremble, and his back go slick with cold sweat. So many of them would die, if not all. What fate awaited them? Would it be Ashhur’s graceful hands? Karak’s fire in the Abyss? Or only emptiness, a nothing that belied what he knew and believed?

  “Thank you for coming,” Jessie said, sitting in the front row. Several others echoed similar thoughts.

  Jerico bowed his head and closed his eyes. He drowned them out, all of them. Denying his doubt, denying his fear, he spoke to Ashhur as if he were alone. His voice quivered at first, then grew firm. He asked for strength. He asked for forgiveness. He revealed his fear, his uncertainty, and his desperate trust that it would be conquered. Through it all, the people listened.

  “D o you see them?” Pheus said, watching from afar. His arms crossed, he leaned against a partly disassembled home and frowned at the sight. “Do you see what I warned you of?”

  Darius stood beside him, and he keenly felt the shame burn in his chest.

  “They are only afraid,” he argued. “It will not mean anything beyond today, perhaps tomorrow…”

  “The now means everything,” Pheus said, willing to hear none of it. “It should be you they come to for guidance. It should be you who shows them what it means to be strong. When afraid, when facing death, men and women flee to the gods for succor. There will be no lulls to win them back over to you now. No quiet moments of doubt to speak your word. The wolves will come, and fight, and many will die. How many there once sat in your congregation, Darius?”

  Taking his greatsword off his back, the dark paladin stared into the black fire that enveloped it.

  “Many,” he sa
id at last.

  “Many?” Pheus sighed. “Even one is too many, and we both know there are far more than one in that gathering. This is your failure. Their lost souls are upon your shoulders for not doing what needed to be done. How tall will you stand before Karak when he asks of this? What will you tell our great lord? I fear what I myself must say. I trusted you, I suppose. Will he accept it? Doubtful. Perhaps we can still acquire some measure of mercy, but only when Jerico dies at our feet. Only when his blood wets your sword and burns in its dark flame…”

  Darius sheathed his weapon.

  “Enough,” he said. “You have made your point. But whoever out there would abandon Karak now in their moments of weakness, they were never true servants of our god. Perhaps we only separate the wheat from the chaff.”

  Pheus waved a dismissive hand.

  “Use platitudes to excuse your weakness if you must, paladin. Those with knowledge will know the truth. I pray you are one of knowledge.”

  He left. Darius remained, and he listened to Jerico’s prayer. It was heartfelt, he knew that for sure. Whether he served a false god or not, he believed it fully. The crowd sang, and cried, and ached for the dead and the soon to be dying. It did not last long, and soon Jerico fell quiet. Some came to talk to him, but most returned to their tasks, shovels and hammers in hand. Jealousy burned in his heart. He had always been the greater speaker, always commanded the greater presence. But it seemed the village almost reveled in Jerico’s revealed weakness. It made no sense. How could a trembling of faith affect them more than his iron certainty?