David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

The rest howled at the title, and Redclaw felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

“Wolf King,” he said, drool swelling on his tongue. “If the moon is kind, I will see it so. But for now, the boat. Let us worry about Goldteeth and his pack later. Ears sharp, and noses open. They must not pass.”

They fell silent, the only sound that of their footfalls and the deep inhalations through their nostrils. The world was awash with colors, not just of light, but of scent. They floated like mists before him, should he let his mind focus upon the sense. When on the hunt, the mist would trail through the air, fading with each moment, falling upon the grass and leaves like dew. But his eyes were sharp, his nose strong, and he could smell what others could not, track what others could not. And in the night, hovering like smoke across the water, was the scent of humans.

“Already passed here,” Redclaw growled.

“Not long,” said Yellowscar, whose nose was stronger than his, which is why he was a scout. “The scent is heavy. Let us run. No boat along the water can match the speed of a wolf.”

“Send them our fear,” Redclaw said, taking in a deep breath as the others did likewise. As one they howled, the sound traveling for miles. He wished he were close enough to smell the human’s fear on the boat. Surely it would be delicious.

South along the river they ran. They moved without need for silence. This territory had long been theirs, and there was no creature that would dare hunt a wolf-man. The river curved, gently widening. The trees grew taller and further apart. As Redclaw ran, he kept his concentration off the scent. It was just a vague swarm of color to him, and unless he slowed down he could make no sense of it. Yellowscar, however, yipped and pointed, able to decipher meaning even when at full run.

“Very close,” he said. “But the town is close as well. Hurry.”

“It is your hunt,” Redclaw told him. “Lead on, and show no hesitation.”

They thundered along, Yellowscar leading, Redclaw following with the rest of his hunting party. The trees were a blur as they passed by. Panting heavily, Redclaw watched the moon steadily dip. Morning would arrive all too soon, along with the damned fire in the sky. He wondered how Bonebite handled himself at the Gathering. They greatly outnumbered Goldteeth’s pack, but with him and his greatest warriors gone, the other leader would grow bold, as he hoped. Still, that was for another time. The hunt was on, and he couldn’t risk distraction.

He didn’t need Yellowscar’s signal to know the boat was near, for between the trees his sharp eyes spotted the humans. There were six, sitting on a large, flat structure that floated along. Several crates were stacked atop it. Whether or not the humans wielded metal weapons, he didn’t know. They often hid them in strips of leather at their sides, and with them sitting, he could not see.

“Howl or swim?” Yellowscar asked, keeping his voice low.

“Your hunt,” Redclaw said.

Yellowscar continued his run, and faster than the river they continued south. Soon the boat was behind them, and then Yellowscar sprinted into the water. Redclaw followed, and he did his best to hide his discomfort. There were many of his brethren who loved to paddle in the water. They claimed it made them feel free, but Redclaw always felt trapped. It made him slower, his claw strikes weak and clumsy. Before his pack, though, he couldn’t dare show weakness. He remained at Yellowscar’s left, only their heads visible above the water as they paddled.

“No deaths,” Redclaw whispered. Yellowscar flattened his ears in response.

The six men were clearly on edge. It mixed with their scent, changing its color. Two rowed, and a third guided them along with a heavy pole. Three more sat in the center, and it was they that Redclaw assumed would have weapons. Yellowscar snapped his teeth to the left, then to the right. The pack split, half one way, half the other. Redclaw led the left. Only Yellowscar remained at the front, and he stopped his paddling. The boat drifted toward them, moving faster than the river.

Redclaw shifted closer, checking his positioning. By the time they reached Yellowscar, he would be within grabbing distance of an oarsman. The other side would be similarly attacked, and Yellowscar could surely handle the man with the pole. Half the boat would be bleeding in the water before they knew they were under attack. He felt his anticipation rise, saliva building on his tongue. Closer, closer…

He was just about to reach out when Yellowscar burst from the water and howled at the top of his lungs. The oarsmen jerked back, and Redclaw’s swipe missed. Furious, he paddled closer to the boat as the humans cried out in panic. The boat was a confusion of bodies and arms. Snarling, Redclaw grabbed the side and hoisted himself up. The man with the oar had dropped it to grab a blade, and he swung it with strength born of desperation. With no room to move, and no desire to fall back into the water, Redclaw endured the slash. It tore into his flesh, but his muscles were thick, and his hide tough. Blood spilled across his fur. He slashed the oarsman, trading him blow for blow. The human had only weak skin, and beneath his sharp claws, it shredded and tore. An eyeball flung loose from the human’s skull, and Redclaw felt disappointment as it plopped into the water, sure to be lost and eaten by fish.

His fury growing, he lunged at the men in the center, the three of them keeping their backs together and their swords thrusting. They wore light armor, like the scales of fish, and his claws caught and pulled. One went down, the blow surely breaking bones. Another tried slashing at him to protect his comrade, but two wolf-men attacked from the other side. Just like that, the defense collapsed. More and more of his pack climbed aboard, tossing bodies into the water so the rest could feast.

At last they were dead, and Redclaw stood in the boat’s center. The blood-haze faded from his mind, and once more he took in his surroundings. The village’s dock was within sight.

Grabbing a crate, he hefted it into his arms and dumped it into the river. The rest followed his example, filling the river with old meats, filthy grains, and blocks of salt. Finished, he looked about, and when he saw the body floating face down, his fury swelled anew.

“Dirtyhide,” he said. His voice was calm, belying his fury. He searched for Yellowscar, found him at the back of the boat, his mouth hanging open with a dumb expression. Redclaw let loose a howl and leapt at him. His claws tore two great stripes across Yellowscar’s chest, soaking his claws with blood. Yellowscar moved to defend himself, but Redclaw grabbed his throat and squeezed. Knowing struggling was useless, Yellowscar lay there, the thin layer of water along the bottom of the boat soaking into his fur.

“You gave us away!” he cried.

“I wanted them afraid,” Yellowscar argued.

“And I wanted them dead! Dirtyhide died. I warned you, Yellowscar. Three times is your failure, and how many did you kill this night?”

“Two.”

“Two? You are pathetic. You are weak.”

He picked him up and hurled him into the water. When he tried to come near, the others nipped at him and chased him away.

“The territory of Redclaw is no longer your home,” he decreed. “Step one foot in my land, and we will cut you, bleed you, and leave you for the vultures. Do you understand me, Yellowscar?”

Yellowscar ignored them, instead paddling toward the human side of the river. When he reached the shore, he turned back and howled.

“I will come for my pups. I will come for my mate. You will not banish me, Redclaw!”

“You are banished, Yellowscar! And I will take your mate as my own, for her fur is soft, and she deserves a stronger mate than you.”