Redclaw had terribly underestimated his opponents. There would be more like this, he realized. How many? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? His knowledge of humans was limited to the few he’d slain. Their flesh was soft. Their armor was a lie, metal twisted and shaped to protect their vulnerable bodies. They wielded heavy weapons that could only wish to be as fast as their claws. What was this? What magic gave their shield and sword power? What lunacy allowed the man in the black robe to command dark lightning, and to knock back his wolf-men as if they were playthings?
Still, he could not hesitate further. He could not allow fear to hold him back. He leapt from the roof, for the way into the building was clear. If the champions wanted to leave the rest unprotected, so be it. But as the last of the four went down, the one with the shield, Jerico, rushed back. His mace struck at him before he had even landed from his jump. Redclaw pushed aside the blow, then rammed his head forward, striking the metal on the man’s chest. As he fell back, Redclaw looked to the other. Darius charged the rest of his pack, slicing through several before they realized a foe had come upon them from behind.
“He will die, buried beneath my brethren,” Redclaw said.
“Perhaps,” said Jerico. “But how many of your brethren will he take with him?”
“You are tired. I see it. Your shoulders sag, and your breath is heavy.”
Jerico grinned at him.
“And you are afraid. I see the terror hidden in your yellow eyes. We’ll see who breaks first.”
Redclaw feinted a slash with his left arm, then curled in with his right, charging at the same time. His claws raked against armor, but he felt the metal give, felt it crunch inward against the weak flesh. The champion’s mace swung, but he shifted his body enough so it only glanced off his shoulder. Two more slashes scraped against the chestplate, and then the shield was in the way. At its touch he felt pain spike up his arms, and he retreated. They faced one another, blood dripping down Redclaw’s shoulder, Jerico wincing and glancing at his chest.
“Your armor does not hide your bleeding,” Redclaw said.
“Neither does your fur.”
Redclaw rushed again. He bit and slashed, using every shred of strength to break the champion down. Yet each blow upon the shield felt like he was trying to crush the very earth itself. His speed was enough that Jerico could scarcely hope to retaliate, but even so, his frustration mounted. The flanged edges cut him, shallow wounds that mounted and soaked his fur with his blood. The champion bled as well, from his wrist, his face, his neck. Nothing deep. Nothing fatal. Roaring, he tried to bury Jerico under his charge, but again the man stood firm and held him back.
“You must fall!” Redclaw cried. “This is my fate. This is my kingdom! I have conquered the faceless dark! I am Wolf King!”
“And I’m Jerico, and I don’t care.”
Redclaw could no longer contain his fury. He wanted this man beaten, bloodied, and shown how pathetic he was. He fought to protect those within, so it was those he would eat while he watched. Their fight had them circling each other many times, and with the human’s exhaustion, he could not keep himself positioned perfectly. Redclaw feinted, then dove for the door.
“No!” he heard Jerico scream. It was music to his ears.
* * * * *
Gregory had abandoned the polearm for the more practical sword in the cramped conditions. They’d seen the wolves assaulting every window, heard the wood groan as they climbed the walls. Whatever hope they had at a uniform defense was lost. Giving the order to fall back, he’d taken his sword, rushed into the home, and scattered his men. They went into individual rooms, where the many families hid behind locked doors. It was their last defense, and it was meager indeed.
Slamming the door shut behind him, Gregory turned and surveyed his surroundings. He was with Jeremy, his daughter, and another family of four. Jeremy held a shortsword, and he faced him with terror in his eyes.
“The door,” he said, as if that should explain everything.
“Overwhelmed,” Gregory said, pointing at the window. “You stand there and guard it with your life. Thrust through the cracks, but don’t let them grab hold.”
Gregory faced the door, locked it, and pushed a dresser in the way. As the first wolf-man slammed into it from the other side, he wondered how in the world he had ended up in such a predicament. He’d been considered a promising recruit for the Mordan army, but then his father had slighted king Baedan. As a way of humiliating him, he’d sent Gregory to the wall of towers, where the greatest honor he could have expected was killing a few brave orcs who crossed the river. Or so he’d thought. Should he survive, they’d sing praises of the defense of this village. At least, he’d pay a damn bard to compose one and sing it a few times. Only seemed right.
The lock broke, and he wasn’t surprised in the slightest. The wolves were strong, and he feared he would be a poor match against them in close quarters. Still, he wasn’t going down without a fight. The door pushed back as two more wolves joined in, knocking the dresser further with each wave. Gregory stabbed into the opening, scoring wounds each time. The wolf-men appeared oblivious to any danger. They might have gotten inside uninjured if they were careful, but that seemed counter to their nature. Everything was brutal, rushed, seeking to overwhelm an opponent with sheer strength and speed regardless of injuries. That tactic had failed in the tight spaces of the estate’s doorway, facing a coordinated defense, but one on one…
He stabbed with renewed vigor. By the gods, he wasn’t going down without a pile of bodies at his feet! Two different yelps greeted his effort, and then the door blasted open. Desperately wishing he had a shield, Gregory met the advance. He cut one down, and he used its falling body to stall the other. His sword could cut and wound, but the wolf-men lunged with such energy that even killing one would not prevent it from crashing into him. The two families screamed, and Gregory tried to make his stand.
“Gregory!” Jeremy shouted. A wolf-man grabbed hold of Gregory’s arm, and he screamed as he felt muscle tear. He stabbed his sword up to the hilt in the wolf-man’s chest, and then spared a glance behind. Something was crashing through the broken boards on the window. Jeremy fell back. It was no wolf-man. Darius hit the floor, spun, and swung his sword in an upward arc. A chasing wolf-man howled, its body cut in two. Gore splattered the floor, and the two families screamed.
“Take the window!” Darius ordered, physically grabbing him and flinging him behind. His burning blade made quick work of one wolf-man, and it kept a second at bay. Gregory joined Jeremy at the window, and when the first tried to climb through, they stabbed it with their swords, knocking it back. It seemed few were there to take advantage of the opening, not with the front doors unguarded.
“There’s too many!” Gregory shouted, leaving the window to join Darius’s side.
“Really? I never noticed!”
Darius braced with his back foot as the wolf-man lost patience and charged, impaling itself on the burning blade. The dark paladin kicked the body off in time to battle a second, this one smaller, faster. Claws ripped off the armor from his shoulder, tearing the leather strap in two. Blood ran, but Darius fought on, his scream drowned out by that of the wolf as he hacked through its collarbone and into its chest.
They heard cries from the other rooms, and Gregory could only imagine how the rest of their men fared. Where was Daniel? Jon? Letts? Was the priest dead, or had he simply exhausted his repertoire of spells? And what of Jerico? Still the wolves rushed through the hallways, seeming endless in number. Would they fight all night, never to know victory?
“Gregory?” Darius asked, standing before the door with his shoulders slumped, gasping in air during a momentary reprieve.
“Yeah?”
“Is it me, or am I hearing trumpets?”
Gregory paused, and sure enough, he heard the same brass sound.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Good,” Darius said, taking up his sword as another wolf-man turned the corner a
nd rushed for him. “I was worried I’d lost so much blood I’d begun hearing things.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jerico didn’t want to imagine the carnage within. He didn’t want to face the failure of his poor positioning, of letting the self-proclaimed Wolf King through. But he went inside anyway.
“Ashhur damn you to the Abyss,” he whispered. Redclaw had had only a moment’s time, but he’d used it well to suit his desire. Blood splattered the walls. People screamed, and men and women lay dying on the floor. The wolf-man tore through those that fled, trying to hurry up the stairs or to the exit. Jerico rushed in, ashamed of his pause. There was no time to take in his surroundings, no time to dwell on his failure. Only one thing mattered: Redclaw’s death.
“Do you hear their wails?” Redclaw asked, whirling to face him, a torn arm hanging limp in his grip.
“I do.” He flung his mace, the flanged edges striking the Wolf King across the side of his face. “And I hear yours, too.”
He charged, shield leading. Only a fool would consider him unarmed without his mace. The glowing surface slammed into the wolf-man, its holy light burning. Redclaw howled, and despite his training, Jerico felt joy in the sound. At least ten lay dead or dying because of the creature. Hopefully Ashhur would forgive him for taking delight in Redclaw’s death. He punched with his gauntlet, braced his knees, and then lunged again. His shield struck the Wolf King’s chest, accompanied by a flash of light.
“I am no pup!” Redclaw roared. Despite the pain from its contact, he slashed the shield anyway, shoving it back and denting its surface. “I am no fool! You will die, human. We will be free, free to roam, free to feast! The western lands belong to your kind no longer!”
“The blood on your face says otherwise.”
Redclaw snarled, and Jerico ducked underneath the desperate strike. Bending down, he grabbed his mace, spun, and struck the wolf-man on the underside of his chin. The blow rocked him to his heels, and Jerico followed it up with a shield to the face. Blood splattered across the metal of his armor. The paladin couldn’t deny the immense satisfaction. So many dead. So many dying.
“We are too many,” Redclaw said, but his voice was nearly a whimper. He staggered away, his weight leaning against a wall. One eye had swollen shut from the thrown mace, and blood dripped from his nose and teeth.
“I know,” Jerico said, not worried about the remaining few who heard him. “But we stood strong anyway, wolf. You know we beat you. You’ll die knowing it, as I’ll die knowing we crushed your pack. This land is ours. Go back to the Wedge.”
Redclaw tensed, Jerico braced his shield, but then the wolf-man tore to the side, rushing past him and out the door. The paladin thought to call him a coward, but insulting a fleeing creature seemed both petty and pointless. It’d be like calling a dog a dog and thinking it’d care. His armor feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, he staggered back to the door. The last of his adrenaline was fading, Ashhur’s lent strength seeming to fade. He’d faced their best, and won. At least he knew that.
Stepping out from the tavern, he looked to Hangfield’s. He expected it destroyed, to hear the cries of the dying, or even worse, the sound of feasting. Instead, the creatures appeared in disarray. Wolf-men were looking about, and many rushed from the main door. Before Jerico could begin to wonder why, he heard the heavy sound of a trumpet, shockingly close. Glancing the other way, he saw a squad of twenty soldiers on foot rushing toward the wolves, armor shining and swords raised high. An older man led them, his hair and beard gray, but his battle-cry sounded youthful enough. Jerico laughed and wondered if he’d somehow lost his mind.
The soldiers crashed into the back ranks of the wolves, who clearly lacked any leadership. Keeping tight battle lines, the humans waded through them, pressing toward the house. Jerico took up his shield and joined in. The wolf-men had already suffered tremendous casualties, and against the reinforcements, however few, they were unprepared. Jerico heard the soldiers singing as they fought, and he sang along. His mace struck once, twice, bringing down a wolf-man, and then his shield led him on, smashing aside two more to link up with the soldiers.
“What miracle brought you here?” he asked as the wolf-men surrounded them, forming a loose perimeter that was unable to punch through their shields.
“If it is a miracle, it’s a damn poor one,” shouted the older man. “Because all you got was me, paladin.”
“I’ll gladly take it,” Jerico laughed. With him in the lead, he broke the wolf’s line, using his shield to fend off two attackers hoping to bury him with their weight. The way to the house clear, they rushed in, cutting down a few stragglers trying to flee. Inside, he found Darius, who saluted with his gore-coated blade. It seemed even the dark fire was struggling to burn away all the blood.
“Friends of yours?” Darius asked him, gesturing to the soldiers.
“Friends of mine,” Gregory said, stepping past. “Robert, you old bastard!”
The older man hugged him, then gestured about.
“An interesting fortress.”
“It did its job,” said Daniel, emerging from one of the rooms. He walked with a limp, and blood covered his left side, but he looked like he’d live another twenty years easy. “Why in blazes are you here?”
Robert looked back to his men, who had formed a wedge and begun chasing after the wolf-men, who had taken flight outside.
“Looks like we’ll miss the rest of the fun,” he said. “Good. Tired enough just making my way here. The young can go do the chasing.”
Jerico leaned against the wall and, finally able to relax, he felt a massive weight leave his shoulders. They’d lived. Somehow, someway, they’d lived.
“What brought you here?” Gregory asked.
“Believe it or not, King Baedan sent us a few more recruits. I kept ‘em for myself, but figured I’d escort some of my more veteran men down to Tower Violet. I planned to keep going, pay respects to the paladins at the Citadel for aiding us, but then we ran across some traders two days back. Claimed wolf-men assaulted their boat when they tried sailing south past Durham. We rode the river all night and day to reach you, and by the looks of it, we weren’t that terribly needed. Goddamn, Daniel, I swear we walked through the town on the bodies of wolves!”
“The King sent us men?” Daniel asked when the story was told. “Truly?”
Sir Robert laughed, and he winked at Jerico.
“Aye, he did. So maybe there is a miracle in all this, eh, paladin?”
“Come,” Darius said, hefting his sword onto his shoulder. “Let’s take final count of all this mess.”
He exited, and Jerico followed.
“Good to see you survived,” Jerico said.
“I’m glad I did, too. Had to crash in through a window. Thank Karak the wolves softened it up for me first.”
Jerico laughed and elbowed the dark paladin. Darius grinned.
“Fine. Glad to see you lived as well. You got that monster, I take it?”
“He fled,” said Jerico, a bit of his smile fading. “And he made it inside the tavern. So many…”
They stopped in the center of the town, which appeared to be the spot of a great slaughter given how many corpses lay strewn about, all of them wolf-men. Someone called out Darius’s name, and they both turned to see Pheus approaching. Jerico felt his stomach tighten, but he did his best to ignore it. They’d survived against terrible odds, and while many had died, many had also lived. He would bear no ill will against the troubling priest, given how much he had aided their struggle.
“Darius,” said the priest. “The battle is done, and the wolf-men beaten.”
“You state the obvious,” Darius said, but his mood soured. Jerico frowned, wondering what bothered his friend so.
“With the threat over, your last excuse is gone. Will you do what must be done?”
Darius approached the priest, and he leaned close as if to whisper an answer, but Pheus pushed him back.
“No secrets,” h
e said. “No whispers, no silence. Do you have the courage, or do you not?”
“Darius?” Jerico asked, wondering what was going on, and not liking the cold feeling traveling up his neck.
“This is not what Karak wants,” Darius insisted.
“You are to tell me what Karak wants?” the priest asked. He looked flabbergasted. “You, a child in armor, a weakling in our god’s eyes, would tell me his will? Step aside, paladin. You shame your name, and all your brethren, with such cowardice.”
Eyes downcast, Darius stepped back. Pheus glared at Jerico, and shadows danced around his fingers, swelling with power. Reluctantly Jerico lifted his shield, his fingers wrapping about the mace clipped to his belt.
“What nonsense is this?” he asked, wishing for any other explanation.
“Your friends are dead, paladin of Ashhur. Your kind will soon be a fading memory from this world. Go to the Abyss with my blessing.”
Darius’s sword slashed out, resting against the pale flesh of Pheus’s throat.
“No,” said the dark paladin.
The priest’s whole body trembled with rage.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Darius shook his head. He still looked troubled, but a change had come over him. He stood tall, and his words were firm, proud.
“You are not the will of our god. Because of Jerico, these people survived. I refuse to believe Karak would honor such bravery with death and betrayal. The wolf-men represent the chaos of this world, not him. Speak another word of that spell, and I will silence you forever.”
“You would threaten a priest of Karak? You would betray your own order?”
“I betray no one, Pheus. Go on your way.”
Pheus’s eyes flickered between them. Decision made, he relaxed his arms, and the shadows faded away from his hands.
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