Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3

by Brian Ference

  In defiance to the ruthless killer lurking inside him, he adjusted his aim and fired his rifle—to maim, not kill. The bullet took the Chinese soldier in the leg and knocked him from his perch in the tree. A straight fall from that height might still have killed him, but he guessed the thickly needled branches cushioned the man’s fall.

  Dorian was upon him almost as soon as he hit the ground. He knocked the man unconscious with the butt of his rifle. He dragged the still living man into the underbrush and tied him to the base of a nearby dove tree. Cutting pieces from the soldier’s shirt, he gagged the enemy and dressed the leg wound. It was enough just to stop the man from bleeding to death. At that moment, Dorian resolved to do his duty without killing.

  He ran along the valley floor, able to sense where the next soldier hid among the trees. This man had awoken at the sound of the gunshot. Alerted, the lurking marksman would not be so easily subdued. Dorian had no choice but to fight him in hand-to-hand combat. Some quick punches to the ribs and a blow to the head laid the man senseless on the lush turf. By the time he had incapacitated four more of the sharpshooters, he had taken several vicious wounds that would have killed an ordinary man.

  Dorian watched in wonder. Each knife and bullet wound slowly closed up as his body healed. This dual life of his was both a blessing and a curse. Fatigue hit him in a dull wave and an overwhelming hunger began to grow in his belly as the sun rose. He ate some of his victim’s rations, which helped a little. He climbed a tree of his own, lashing his body to the trunk with some rope before falling into a deep sleep. During the day, the English and French troops advanced unmolested into the valley.

  Dorian repeated his nocturnal hunt the next night. The English and French armies were able to march closer to the Qing camp facing no opposition. Dorian was confident that he needed only one more night to take out all of the sharpshooters. He would have done just that if only the Qing General had not ordered a daring nighttime charge of his Mongol cavalry—with their path illuminated by the full moon.

  CHAPTER 24.

  T

  HE BATTLE OF TONGZHOU

  The Bo’sun’s pipes sounded the alarm as the Mongol horde charged through the valley. The same moonlight that allowed the horses to run also made the riders easy to spot. This was exactly what Lord Crawley had been counting on. “Ready the artillery to fire!”

  Lieutenant Purcell pulled his commander aside. “Lord Crawley, didn’t you order Midshipman Lynch into that very spot of the valley?”

  Lord Crawley’s face turned red in anger. “And what alternative do I have, Lieutenant? The cavalry will be our death if they reach us. Midshipman Lynch knew the risk when he agreed to the mission.”

  Lieutenant Purcell turned away, convinced that if the Mongol charge did not result in his friend’s death, the English artillery would.

  * * *

  Dorian was in too much agony to notice the approaching horsemen. As before, the bones in his body and chest cracked and reformed around enlarging muscles. His skin blackened and grew coarse hair as his arms swelled and extended. His teeth and nails fell out as wolfish replacements surged in to replace them. The man that was Dorian fell to the ground as his leg bones shredded and re-healed at twice their normal length and size. His human cries of agony transformed into animalistic rage as his jaw split and remade itself into a terrifying amalgam of wolf and man. He struggled against the cage forming in his mind as it ripped control away from him. The werewolf returned to dominance, the bloody eyes of the man melting away to reveal the elongated red eyes of the beast.

  The werewolf crouched low on the ground as the stench of horse sweat and the unwashed bodies of men approached. His pointed black ears could detect a great many coming towards him very quickly. The werewolf ran to his right and began scaling one of the few trees scattered across the open ground. He clung there in wait as the first line of cavalry appeared.

  The heavily armored Mongol warriors leading the charge wore small iron plates bound together tightly with leather. They rode stallions protected in the front with similar jointed armor and a custom head plate. Their long lances extended their reach, saving their curved scimitars for close fighting. The fiercest of the fighters could break through any barricade or pike line and make way for the second line to swarm in.

  More warriors rode in the second line, composed mostly of light cavalry archers riding smaller mares. These men wore almost no armor but brandished two or more composite bows. Extra quivers bulging with sixty or more arrows sprouted from their backs. Every third archer bore baskets filled with explosive gunpowder bombs—deadly when used in short-range.

  Behind this grim vanguard marched half of the leather-armored infantry. They were slower on foot, but armed with sharpened halberds and bundles of throwing spears.

  The werewolf allowed the first line of heavy cavalry to pass beneath him before falling among the unarmored archers. He landed with claws splayed outwards, bringing down two horses at once. The mares screamed as their exposed sides were shredded. The muscles on their back legs tore as their momentum carried them forward and they fell to the ground. The riders tumbled free and rolled to their feet brandishing knives, but the werewolf was already moving sideways through the line, hamstringing horses and bringing others to the ground with his incredible strength.

  He spun in a whirling dervish of death, ripping out throats and crushing limbs. Blood sprayed in the night as the werewolf flung the bodies into the men behind them. The charge grinded to a halt as men and horses turned in confusion.

  His back and chest quickly sprouted with arrows, but they were too lightweight to slow the werewolf as he ran among the Mongols inflicting death wherever he passed.

  An ornate steel halberd on a long Zitan wood pole sliced into the werewolf’s chest. On the other end of the weapon smiled a heavily muscled Kheshig guard.

  Baltu sang as he fought. His name meant ‘blessed’ and he gave thanks for a battle such as this. His face was round from good food and excessive drink. He was as strong as he was fat and renowned as the deadliest warrior in the imperial guard. He wore a more decorative version of armor than the heavy cavalry made of tightly woven iron pieces. On his head, he wore an iron helmet lined with soft rabbit fur and a braid of black horsehair on top.

  He pulled his halberd from the chest of the great werewolf and began to sing the Mongolian throat song recounting the exploits of the legendary hero Jangar. Jangar faced his greatest test when he fought the demon Goljing with the ancestral weapon of his people. Baltu did not wield the Aram Spear, but he would vanquish this Erbörü without it.

  Blood gushed from the werewolf’s chest; it sank to one knee. Baltu circled it slowly, waiting for as many eyes as possible before delivering the death stroke. But suddenly the creature rose to his full height and rumbled a challenge. Baltu drew a curved sabre from his belt and threw it end-over-end into the werewolf’s stomach. The steel blade sank deep into the creature’s belly, causing it to stagger and fall once more to one knee. Baltu sensed the moment was right. He swung his halberd in a wide loop around his head, ready to embed the blade deep in the werewolf’s neck.

  But the werewolf’s hand shot up and caught the heavy pole, stopping the blade just centimeters away from his face. No one had ever stopped one of Baltu’s attacks before. Baltu gaped in astonishment. The werewolf’s other hand shot out, its claws raking Baltu’s chest. But his armor was finely made and the iron plating screeched in defiance, protecting him from the deadly rake. Baltu spun away, leaving his halberd in the werewolf’s bloody grip. He laughed and drew a scimitar from his belt.

  His throaty song switched to the contest of Jangar and Altan Gheej: a warrior who could see into the future. Baltu ran towards the werewolf, feinting to retrieve his halberd. The beast seemed to sense his need for the weapon and pulled it back while preparing its own attack. Baltu rolled away from the weapon at the last moment, ducking under the creature’s swipe. He rose quickly to his feet, and then drove the scimitar upward between
the creature’s arm and shoulder blade.

  The werewolf grunted in pain. It dropped the halberd into the waiting hands of the warrior, who dove to recover it. The spear of another infantryman bit into the back of the creature’s calf, pinning him just long enough for a nearby mounted archer to drop a handful of ignited bombs.

  The acrid smell seemed to give the werewolf warning of the peril it was in. It reached back with human-like dexterity to break the shaft of the spear in its leg. It sprang away from the bombs as they exploded, killing the spear-wielding warrior, but doing little damage to its intended target.

  Baltu was thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion. Slowly he rose to his feet. His helmet was gone but he spun his halberd expertly around his body and sang on, undaunted by the blood caking his face as he looked around for the werewolf.

  Baltu’s song cut off as a spinning curved sabre crashed into the side of his head. The werewolf had pulled the warrior’s weapon from his gut and thrown it in a clumsy approximation of the warrior’s earlier throw. The weapon struck Baltu’s pommel first and bounced off instead of killing him. However, it flew with enough power to knock the fearsome warrior to the ground.

  The werewolf snarled and wrinkled his snout in triumph. It grasped the short scimitar lodged in his shoulder and drew it out with a wince. It sniffed the weapon and then discarded it. The werewolf swayed slowly from blood loss, the creature’s healing had slowed again from the many wounds he had taken.

  Baltu stood unsteadily, his vision slightly blurred. Nonetheless, he attacked the monster, this time thrusting the point of his halberd like a spear. The werewolf grasped the blade of the weapon, clamping down on the sharp steel as it cut deeply into its hand. The werewolf moved in close and grabbed the man’s armor by the collar. Their chests were nearly touching as the werewolf opened his jaws in preparation to savage the Baltu’s throat.

  In a desperate move, the Mongol planted his foot on the werewolf’s knee and vaulted upwards, before driving the top of his head downward in a vicious head-butt. The blow stunned the werewolf, causing it to lower its head and release him.

  Drawn to the sound of the exploding bombs, a small group of the heavy cavalry saw Baltu hammer the creature with blows. They grouped their horses tightly around the werewolf so it could not escape. The well-armored Mongols surged forward as one, raising their scimitars and spears. No foe could withstand such a charge.

  That was when the English and French ordnances fired. The English seventy-five-pound guns erupted with a mighty boom, sending a canister shot exploding above the charging horsemen. The large shell detonated, sending hundreds of steel balls in all directions. Shrapnel pierced horseflesh and the men’s armor like marbles thrown on a dollop of butter. Men screamed out in agony and the werewolf roared as two of the small balls shot through his limbs, shattering the bones inside.

  Baltu fell limply to the ground, killed on the spot as a ball passed through the exposed back of his skull.

  Explosions sounded from all around as the larger French shells gouged out mounds of earth and sinew. The Minggan-u Noyan commanding the center of the Mongol charge called for a tactical retreat. There was no way to survive such devastating fire. The remaining horsemen broke up into smaller groups of Tumen and renewed their charge, this time to flank the enemy artillery.

  The werewolf fell on all fours in anguish, rolling on the ground like a dog as his body struggled to push out the steel balls and heal the disaster the canister shot had wrought on his internal organs. His neck twitched as one of the small projectiles dislodged from its place at the base of his spine.

  The werewolf growled as the last of the loathsome balls exited his body and fell into the tall grass. He desperately needed nourishment to heal. His sharp eyes caught sight of a one-armed Mongol staggering aimlessly nearby in smoky coils of mist. It took only a savage leap as he hamstrung the stunned warrior, before gorging himself on the man’s flesh. The healing flared back, restoring the werewolf’s energy and closing his remaining wounds. He ran in fear from the large shells and whistling canisters as they fell to the earth.

  The Mongol line was in chaos. The werewolf found the remaining warriors all too easy prey. A few moments later the shelling rotated outward, tracking the splintering groups of cavalry that were rapidly approaching their firing positions.

  The Mongols made it as close as fifty meters before the French and English Marines began emptying their rifles in alternating lines of three. The first line of kneeling men fired low at the legs of the charging horses, hoping to penetrate the animals’ armor. At Lord Crawley’s command, they fixed their bayonets and braced their rifles against the ground. The second line boasted the best marksmen and aimed for the faces and necks of the enemy as trained. The charging cavalry slowed under the onslaught. The second line stepped back behind the third to reload. The third line remained under orders to pick their shots, targeting any riders that made it within range of the artillery.

  The Mongols died by the thousands as they retreated and charged repeatedly. The French and English suffered minimal casualties, save for a brave Mongol archer who rode through the French line. He survived long enough to hurl several gunpowder bombs at one of the French guns, destroying it and killing its six gunners.

  The cheer that went up from the Mongol Tumen was short lived as the French began firing their short-range thirty-one-kilogram carronade. The grape shot cut the horsemen to ribbons and set them to full retreat. Their painful withdrawal through the trees led them directly into the waiting jaws of the werewolf.

  It had created a new territory among the carnage: a killing ground for any man or animal that came too close. Pinned between the monster and the relentless volleys of French and English troops, some Mongol warriors took their chances and fled through the open fields, erupting under the fire of the heavy guns.

  Lord Crawley held his troops back from any pursuit of the Mongol army. He rested his gunners in shifts, calling upon the reserves to rotate in and keep the guns firing long into the night.

  General Sengge Rinchen surrendered the next morning, opening the path to the city of Peking. The English scouts found Dorian in the center of the battlefield, surrounded by piles of bodies. He was clothed in some scavenged Mongol clothing, which did not completely hide his bloodstained skin.

  CHAPTER 25.

  T

  HE OAKWOOD OF SOUTH WALES

  Lucious grimaced as the train lurched unexpectedly at a rough spot on the tracks. Travelling with Lady Helena on the Bristol and South Wales Direct Railway made him feel like the walls were closing in on him. They had spent an eternity in the coach of the steam engine locomotive already, and he was eager to be away from it. His stomach roiled. Lucious tried to focus on the line between the mountains and the sky in the distance. “Mistress, howfur oan earth did ye convince me tae tak’ this blasted train, instead o’ a guid horse!”

  Lady Helena tried to hide her smile with a white-lace silk handkerchief. “You will have your feet under you again soon enough, Lucious. The railway route is much shorter over the Brunel’s Chepstow Bridge. It would take ages for horses to go around the River Seven. After that we should reach the Oakwood in another day or so by carriage.”

  Lucious balled his hands into fists. “Ah dinnae lik’ this. We shuid hae brought mair men. Ah cannae protect ye against this gang o’ Romani.”

  Lady Helena suppressed the nagging feeling of doubt biting at the back of her mind. “I am not so old that I cannot take care of myself. Besides, more men will hardly be necessary. After all, I am a fellow matriarch—of sorts. The Kalá tribe would never tolerate a woman guest to come to harm.” Surely, they would honor a female who came to them in peace. She was slightly less sure how her male companion would fare.

  The locomotive screamed as the brakes engaged, and the iron behemoth slowed to a crawl as it belched steam and passengers onto the platform at Newport Station. While Lucious retrieved their bags, Lady Helena hired a four-wheel Brougham carriage. Led by a
pair of light-brown Welsh Cob horses, they moved swiftly over fertile farmland until they arrived at the coal-mining town of Newbridge.

  The townsfolk seemed to have a similar tale of a sickly cousin or fortune-seeking miner who had sought out Shuvani Ingraham’s advice in the Oakwood. Details on how exactly to find the mysterious Romani were much harder to come by.

  They traded their enclosed transport for a pair of chestnut colored Welsh ponies to use on the long ride towards the Oakwood Forest.

  Lady Helena refused the single-pommel sidesaddle when the groom offered it to her. She detached her skirt, exposing her leather riding knickerbockers.

  The groom’s face reddened as he wavered between looking at her still shapely legs and the ground while sputtering his apologies. Lady Helena threw him a small bag of coins and waved the man on his way.

  Lucious mounted his pony with relief. “Ah thought that laddie wis aff tae stammer forever whin ye lifted yer skirt.”

  Lady Helena pulled on a pair of bleached kidskin riding gloves. “It never hurts to be prepared.” She lifted her knickerbockers to display a .41 caliber muzzle-loaded percussion pistol strapped to her muscular leg. Now it was Lucious’ turn to blush and stammer.

  Lady Helena squeezed her knees together and nudged her horse forward. “You men are all so predictable. Come, we have a long ride ahead of us.”

  Lucious dug his heels into his own mount with significantly less grace. “Aye, mistress.”