David Dalglish - Wrath of Lions

Patrick felt a lump form in his throat. “They might not be very far behind us,” he said. “What are we going to do?”

“We need to leave,” answered his god. “Now. As it is, the elves who burned this settlement are still lingering. I can feel them in the trees, though they probably hesitate to quarrel with a god.”

“So above and behind, we have enemies. The Wooden Bridge is only a two-day hike from here. If we depart now and march through the night, we can get there before sunset tomorrow-”

“No,” said Ashhur.

“What, my Grace?”

“No. That will not do. We travel with thirty thousand of my children. It would be impossible to march with such haste without leaving many behind, and that is something I will not do. I fear my sacrifices have been for naught. My children must be made safe, no matter what the risk.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“We will delay my brother. We will fight him.”

Patrick threw his hands up. “We can’t fight him, my Grace. He has trained soldiers, and we have…you, a few dozen Wardens, and me, I guess. We’d be slaughtered.”

At that Ashhur grinned, and his smile was full of cold cunning. “Who says we must do the fighting?”

Without further explanation, Ashhur rose from his oaken chair and walked to the entryway. The hawk on his shoulder took flight, darting upward through the thick canopy. The god then began to walk away, gesturing for Patrick to follow. They curled around the camp and started up the rise. Headache all but forgotten, Patrick felt ill at ease, and it had nothing to do with the odd glances they garnered from those they passed. He did not like the look in Ashhur’s glowing yellow eyes.

They reached the top of the hill where Patrick had slept the previous night, and kept on climbing. Three hundred yards farther up was the tattered settlement, and farther still was the clearing where the horror-filled barn stood. Patrick exited the copse of trees behind his god, and Ashhur marched right up to the blackened structure.

“What are you doing, my Grace?” Patrick asked.

Ashhur sighed and bowed his head. “They are gone now,” he said. “They have found their way to the afterlife. What resides here are but their shells, pale reminders of the people they were. I have no more reason to grieve.”

With those words, the deity placed his palm against the side of the barn. The wall began to glow, black being replaced by a brilliant orange, and then the whole structure was alight with blinding white flame. The weakened boards creaked and snapped, and the roof began to crumple. With a mighty groan, the barn caved in on itself, the wood crackling and dissolving, becoming wisps of ash that spiraled up in a funnel. A dome of bluish light formed over the crumbling ruins, pulsing, spreading, and then all sound seemed to be swallowed. A single whoosh followed, and what remained of the barn became a pile of blackened flakes that the wind picked up and carried into the sky.

When it was over, the only sign that there had been a structure there at all was a darkened rectangular depression. Ashhur walked to the center of the depression and stopped there. Patrick stayed by his side, afraid to do anything else. Ashhur closed his godly eyes, then lifted his chin. His lips parted ever so slightly, and his throat began to vibrate. Patrick couldn’t hear a sound, but a moment later the whole of the forest erupted with a cacophony of animalistic howls. They came from every direction, from near and far, from the high ground and the low ground, and their approach was so loud that he was sure it could be heard for miles. Beneath the howling he noticed frightened shouts from their people far below. They must have been terrified. Patrick sure as shit was.

The forest came alive around them. Undergrowth rustled, trees swayed, and small saplings were trampled as countless forms approached, emerging into the clearing. The creatures were hunched on four legs, their backs arched, their fangs bared, snarling and snapping.

Wolves. A whole pack of them, if not multiple packs combined into one. Patrick tried counting them to ease his fraying nerves, but he stopped when he reached a hundred sets of rheumy yellow eyes. Some had black fur, some gray, and others were differing shades of brown or even patchwork. They were all mangy, and the heat of their combined breath seemed to close in on him.

Their growls became louder until Ashhur held out his hand, and then the beasts stopped their rumbling and sat on their haunches. Some offered whimpers and some lay down in submission, whereas others simply stared straight ahead with frostily primitive eyes that spoke only of hunger. Many of them had globules of red clinging to the fur around their jaws, bespeaking recent hunts. Patrick sidled up closer to Ashhur. Craning his neck as far as his hunched back would allow, he stared up at his deity’s face.

“My Grace,” he said, keeping his tone a faint whisper, “what are you doing?”

“My children are in need of protectors,” Ashhur said, “and so I will create them.”

With that he lifted his arms. Ashhur’s glowing eyes became twice as bright, as words of magic flew from his lips. The atmosphere shivered, and the gathered throng of wolves began to writhe. They thrashed and mewled, offering braying protests to the heavens. Patrick covered his ears once more, his eyes wide as he watched the beasts flay and twist. A repetitious crack filled the air, rhythmic like the beating of a thousand drums at once.

“From the flesh you gain sustenance!” shouted Ashhur. “And like the plants, from the soil you grow!”

The foliage that lined the clearing liquefied, becoming a multitude of thin silver streams that flowed toward the thrashing beasts. The rippling fur of each wolf seemed to drink in the liquid, and then they began to grow . Their limbs stretched, their chests widened, and the cracking noise became all the more pronounced. Patrick looked on as paws flattened and then extended, furry fingers sprouting from the creatures’ paws. Each of the beings wailed in pain as they thrashed, their newly formed arms and legs smacking at the silver liquid that flowed into them.

Then the moaning began. To Patrick, it sounded like a chorus of sadness, of wounded creatures lamenting the loss of their natural innocence. Ashhur ceased his chanting, and very slowly the wolves began to cease their struggles. The strange cracking sound died away, as did the bellowing. Soon all that could be heard was the combined rasps of hundreds of gasping lungs.

One by one, the wolves rose off the ground. Patrick looked on, not believing his eyes. The creatures were now twice the size they had been, and they stood upright on two legs. Patrick stopped breathing. They were a perfect combination of man and wolf, every single one of them, though they stared ahead with eyes that appeared just as icy and unfeeling as ever-the single-minded gaze of an animal.

Patrick happened to glance down, where the streams of silvery liquid had appeared, and he saw that the grass beneath the wolf-men’s clawed feet, grass that had only moments before been the bright green of spring growth, was now light brown and dead. Looking up, he saw that the first row of trees behind the beasts was just as lifeless, their leaves crinkled and sagging, the bark breaking away in chunks.

He heard a thud beside him. Ashhur had fallen to a knee, the glow in his eyes faded. He panted, the knuckles of his right hand digging into the scorched earth beneath him. Patrick held out his hand, and the god took it. He instantly felt silly for the gesture, for Ashhur’s hand swallowed his own like an infant’s, but his act seemed to steady the god. Ashhur closed his eyes, rolled his neck, and then stood to his full height. When he did, every single wolf-man fell to his knees. They were clumsy even then, some falling over and rolling on the ground in panic.