The Wolves Of War

by Greg Curtis

  “You can do nothing.” Argen repeated, more quietly. “You have no right to make demands here in the land of the faerun. You have no claim to the throne in Abylon. And I would guess you no longer have a castle to return to in Grole. Have you Prince Vel Moran?” It wasn't really a question.

  “How dare you Priest!”

  “I am a Priest of the Great Sage and I speak in his name. And he reveals to me the truth. You have no army left other than the remnants of one, currently standing in the courtyard outside. And you have no home either. You wagered everything on being able to claim the throne of Abylon. You lost. The wolf mother destroyed your army. And when you brought more and more troops through to hold the city of Abysynth against her you left yourself vulnerable. Your brother has taken your castle and you are now homeless.”

  “After that your only hope was to be hand-fasted the Princess Elan to legitimise your claim to the throne of Abylon. So you brought the last of your soldiers here in an effort to intimidate the fae and force the Princess to your will. But the wildred ended that hope. Now all you have left are lies and bluster. Oh, and a hundred and twenty men who will all be dead in a heartbeat should you choose to try and force the issue.”

  “It's time for you to leave.”

  The Great Sage had shown him the truth. Moreover, the Prince confirmed it with his refusal to say anything. Instead he remained sitting there at the table in silence, an angry scowl on his face. Gone were the threats he would normally be uttering. All that was left to him was an unpalatable choice. To stand and fight – and die here. Or to return to Grole where he no doubt feared the retribution of the people and an ignoble death on the end of a noose that would be waiting for him. Or if he was really unlucky he might run into another wildred.

  But in the end he didn't want to die. He would choose to leave – and then run somewhere far away. Despite all his claims of courage, in the end the man was a coward. Happy to kill but not to die. An iron glove wrapped around a fist of straw.

  The Prince had pride. But eventually Argen saw the Prince's head begin to fall, as he silently admitted his weakness. He had nothing and he knew it.

  Suddenly his head rose again as determination and fury found his heart. “But did your Lord tell you this old man? That the wolves have struck Grole? That it was only raiding parties at first. Small packs that were easily destroyed? But that they keep coming? That both my brother's forces and mine were being kept busy by them when I left?”

  “Did he tell you that they have also been seen in the Copperhearth Mountains? Attacking parties of miners? Attacking trade caravans? And that they have been seen as far west as Vellary Fell too?”

  “And perhaps most important of all, did he mention that when I marched on Abylon to be hand-fasted to the Princess, it was with a plan to destroy this wolf mother? That whatever this nightmare is, it seems to start with her and she has to be killed. And despite the setbacks that is still my plan.”

  “I need the Princess. I need the throne. And I need to unite all of Abylon under my banner because it is not only the largest and most powerful realm with the largest standing army, but it is also the heart from which the wolf mother's army strikes. My soldiers could not find her in the city. The complete destruction of Abysynth's sewers where she supposedly lurks, did not kill her. The only way to kill her now is with a massive standing army. The only standing army that can be assembled which is large enough is Abylon's. And the only man who can command it is me!”

  Argen collapsed back in his seat, suddenly feeling weak. He was far from alone he realised as he looked around the room. Was the man telling the truth? Could this wolf plague have spread so far, so fast? Or was the Prince simply making up a story to persuade them to his course. The man was a killer and a muckspouter after all.

  By the Great Sage's wisdom, he could have used Lord Daelyn's presence just then! Or more particularly his soothsayer. But he didn't have them. The Lord was back in Egoli going about his normal duties. Which left the Commander and the Magistrate with the decision to be made. And the decision in the end was simple for the fae. The Prince had to go. They would not tolerate the presence of barbarians in their land. And they would never hand over the Princess to him either.

  Argen was pleased with the decision. Or at least with the look of anger that abruptly twisted the Prince's face. It was also the right decision to make. They could not keep the barbarian Prince here and even if everything he had said was true, his chances of succeeding in uniting all of Abylon's forces under his banner were slight. The Abylonian's probably hated him as much as the fae. But even though he thought it was the right decision, he still had cause to doubt himself.

  It should perhaps have been a victory of some sort he thought as he watched the Prince abruptly stand up and then stomp out in his steel clad boots to go to his men. But it wasn't. Not for Argen. Not for any of the people the Prince had murdered. The dead would not suddenly be getting back up. Argen just felt sad.

  Abruptly sadness turned to horror as he heard a wolf howl in the distance and he realised that while they had been busy dealing with the Prince, the wolves had been making their move – unnoticed.

  Everyone it seemed, was coming to Perna Sil. Why?

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  The howl of a wolf in the distance chilled Briagh's blood, just as he built up a good sweat from his endless wood chopping duties. And when that first howl was joined by many others, the blood in his veins turned to ice. It had been a long time since he’d heard that sound. But he would never forget the day that Abysynth had been attacked. Nor the days that had followed.

  Briagh dropped his axe and rushed out onto the street, heedless of the stupidity of the act. It didn't matter how foolish it was to rush out to see the approaching wolves, he simply had to see with his own eyes if it was true.

  Fortunately, there were no wolves yet charging down the streets of Perna Sil. Just a group of other residents who had also come out to see what was coming like him. But the howling was getting closer and he knew it wouldn't be long before they arrived and people started dying. He had seen it before. It was then that he realised what they needed to do.

  “Everyone, inside! On the roofs if you can! And get your bows out!” He yelled it at the others as loudly as he could, repeating himself several times. Locked doors and heights were their only hope if they were to survive this attack.

  Eventually people took notice of what he had said and Briagh watched as some of the people began heading back towards the houses, passing on the message as they went. At least some of them understood how urgent things were when he ripped off his vest and shifted into his panther form. When he snarled and roared as only a wildcat could, the rest paid attention. He didn't like doing it, but they needed to understand how serious things were.

  With the people now on the move, Briagh remained standing in the middle of the street and awaited the arrival of the wolves. This time he was not going to run and hide! It was time to fight. Fortunately, as he had learned over the previous months, he could fight, and fight well. Hearing them come and remembering what they had done in Abysynth he really wanted to fight.

  Then the first of the wolves ran out into the street, and he forget everything except his fury.

  Dung! It ran for him. He ran for it. When they met there was nothing but blood and claws.

  He won the fight. He was faster and could jump right over it, though he took a few scratches in the short battle. But the wolf, another mostly white dire creature, limped off to die somewhere, several arrows also sticking out of its hide, owing to the rangers standing on top of the roofs and shooting down at it. And that was what mattered. Especially when the next member of the pack was on him within seconds.

  After that things became a blur. He ran and he fought, and much of the time he leapt. Often he would pounce from one back to another of the creatures, ripping out huge chunks of flesh as he did so. At the same time arrows rained down on the wolves. The rangers were mostly shooting at wolves a l
ittle distance away from him to avoid hitting him by mistake. Still, they had come close to shooting him on several occasions.

  The rangers weren't alone. This was a fae town in a fae land. Many had magic; most could use a longbow. Fire and lightning ripped into the pack as well. People yelled and screamed. And the battle raged.

  It raged across the entire town. But Briagh could only concentrate on his own little part of it. Running, leaping, and letting his claws tear through fur and flesh as he dodged the teeth and claws of his enemies. Giving in to the rage he had always held back.

  How long the battle lasted he didn't know. At times it felt as though it went on forever. That it had always been. Especially when he had to keep shifting forms to heal his own wounds and each time waited to feel the teeth of a wolf fasten on his throat. But it was also frenetic and desperate; so fast that he could barely keep up with what was happening.

  All he really knew was that he had to fight. It was life and death. Nothing else. He either fought or he died.

  So Briagh fought. He tore into the wolves and they fought back, surprising him each time when he felt another set of claws rake him or teeth find his skin. But somehow when things became too much for him and he had to start thinking about running, an arrow or a bolt of lightning would magically strike his opponent, giving him time to heal and recover before leaping back into the fray.

  He wasn't the only one standing and fighting them hand to hand. however. At one point he saw a fae man of middling years with a pair of sabres flashing in his hands, moving faster than a bullet. A blade dancer of some sort. There were soldiers too – barbarian solders and rangers both. They should have been on the roof raining down death on the enemy with their bows and rifles, but he didn't have time to tell them that. Nor to head to the aid of a bear growling that he was sure had to be another morph. He just had to fight.

  Minutes or hours later the battle began to die down. There were less wolves around. Less howling at him. Less running for him. And the number of wolf bodies lying in the street was growing. The lightning strikes and fire balls and whatever else that had been used against them had been effective, and he could see many charred and smoking corpses.

  Better still, not many people had died in this attack. Not as far as he could see. This wasn't Abysynth. There were far fewer people here in Perna Sil, but so many more of them were magical and nearly all of them could use a bow. So while there were a lot of bodies in the street, and many of them were on fire, most of them were wolves. Obviously the magic of the fae had proved decisive. That and the fact that everywhere he looked he could see the towns folk standing on the roofs and upstairs balconies of their homes, longbows in hand. This was a town, rather than a city but here everyone knew how to fight and did so with fierce determination. As a result, the town of just over four thousand people boasted an army of four thousand skilled bowmen. That was a force to be reckoned with.

  As the last of the wolves were brought down, Briagh celebrated. He roared as only a wild cat could, then shifted to two legs and screamed for joy, heedless of who saw him like that. The victory felt just too good. To have finally won a victory against the relentless death these wolves brought! So he yelled and then he yelled some more, letting the gods themselves know that they had won. And oddly enough, he wasn't the only one to be heard roaring. Somewhere in the town another morph was doing the same.

  In time though, the smell of blood on him started to bother him and he wandered over to the nearest trough and drenched himself in water. There was a lot of blood to wash off, and some of it was his. But he still let out a few more cries of triumph as he did so. He couldn't keep himself from doing so. This was a mighty victory. And he had proven himself a powerful warrior.

  Suddenly he heard someone shout and looked up to see a man pointing to the stockade and the black smoke streaming from it. And the instant he saw it he knew he'd miscalculated. They all had. The barbarian Prince was there, probably the Princess and her brothers too. Endorian as well, and Father Argen. But of course they had all been left undefended as the town guards and rangers had come rushing into the town to fight the wolves. His heart sank as he realised that the town hadn't been the true target of the wolves. It had been a diversion. It was the only reason why the townsfolk had won.

  Briagh shifted and ran for the stockade as fast as he could. But even as he ran he knew it was already too late. Whatever had been the plan there, it had already happened.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  The sound of the wolves attacking the town awoke the anger in Elan. Anger that she’d thought had gone away after her brothers had been returned to her. With them back, even crazed as they were, she had felt a lot calmer than before. Calm enough to at least listen to the orders given to her by the Commander as she was told to stay in his quarters and not come out at any cost while the barbarian Prince was there. Though actually she would have preferred to kill him. But it had seemed like a reasonable suggestion and she hadn't needed the four soldiers posted at the door to secure her cooperation. For a while though, when she had watched the Prince being escorted through to his meeting with Commander Fillen and the others, she had been tempted to get out her longbow and end his miserable life. He was not worthy of meeting with anyone, even if he did have over a hundred men at arms with him. Though truthfully they had looked rather dishevelled. Not at all like soldiers in the peak of fitness.

  But after several hours of sitting in her quarters, waiting to be told what had been, she had more or less given up on the whole thing. Everyone was in the meeting save her. The soldiers were all standing out in the hot sun looking tired and bored as they waited for orders. And she was pouring endless cups of hot tea for herself as she waited for someone to tell her what was happening.

  Then the wolves had started howling and her blood had started pumping once more.

  She knew that sound. She knew it only too well. She had seen what happened when the wolves howled in numbers. The only thing she didn't know was why they were here. Were they working with the Prince? Or were they giving chase? She knew wolves hunted, but she had never heard of wolves hunting down armies. In any case, according to the snippets she had overheard from the soldiers posted outside her door as they spoke among themselves, the Prince's army had been attacked by a wildred of all things. Not wolves.

  Soon things grew worse. While she couldn't see the town from her window – the palisade walls prevented that – she could see the sky above it, and the plumes of smoke rising high into the sky. Things were burning. She could hear the snarls and growls of the wolves growing louder as they came closer and realised that there were a lot of them. And then a few minutes later she watched as two thirds of the rangers now holding the stockade secure against the threat of the Prince's army, suddenly took to their heals to defend the town. She wondered if that was a mistake. It left only a third of them, one patrol and the normal guards remaining to watch the barbarians.

  Was this the plan? Had the wolves struck then to draw the rangers away from the stockade? To leave it vulnerable? Were the barbarians and the wolves working together? Was this all part of the Prince’s plan? Was he coming after her and her brothers? She wasn’t certain he knew that they still lived. But if he did know of Myrim and Sal, he would be out of luck as they were not here. They had been taken into the care of the priests and priestesses of Asbeth. The Goddess of Healing had a temple not far away. But surely he could not know that the princes were here?

  Then again the barbarians looked nothing like an army preparing to attack anyone. They weren't in formation. And though they were busy loading their weapons hurriedly, they looked more nervous than aggressive. It looked as though they were preparing to be attacked rather than doing the attacking. Maybe, she thought, this wasn't their doing after all?

  That thought was confirmed moments later when the first of the wolves came charging through the gate and the barbarian soldiers went down on one knee, took aim and fired. A score of wolves fell under that first volley, but t
here were more behind them. Many more.

  The second wave came charging through and though the guards and the rangers lining the walls met them with arrows, not all fell. Some made it all the way to the barbarians, who met them with swords and axes. After that the entire stockade turned into a riot.

  There were wolves roaring and attacking. Axes and swords met teeth and claws, while arrows flew through the battleground. Even wild magic was being thrown into the fray. Soon there were burning wolves charging the soldiers, and the sound of things exploding. Then Elan saw walls and buildings collapsing even as huge stone shafts rose out of the ground. How they could suddenly appear she had no idea. But she knew as she reached for her longbow that she had to get out of the building before it fell on top of her.

  Heart pounding, she raced for the door, only to have it and half the wall disintegrate in front of her. Then she felt a blast of some kind that threw her all the way back again the far wall. But despite the pain of the impact she managed to return quickly to her feet, and tried once again to run for the safety of outside.