David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

And then he realized he must have begun hallucinating, for the wolf-man’s head suddenly vanished, replaced by a stump that spurted blood into his eyes. He cried out and shut them, hating the sting. The pressure on his wrists vanished. People were talking, he realized, and he made an effort to listen.

“…too badly, Jacob. Sorry I don’t have time to stitch your chest. You’ll have to make do with a tight cloth.”

“No bother,” Jacob said, the dreamlike feel growing. “Is it still going to eat me?”

Dark laughter met his ears.

“It is dead, though I fear it’s not the only one we have to worry about. Take my arm and stand.”

Jacob felt something grab him, lifting him by his armpits. Once righted, he felt his weight rest on his feet, and he struggled to maintain balance. His strange savior held him steady, and ignoring the biting pain in his eyes, he opened them to look. The dark paladin, Darius, leaned his weight against him, and together they walked back to his home.

“Perry got to me just in time,” Darius said, picking up their pace. “Your back’s a mess, and your chest is bleeding like a stuck pig, but I’m not giving you any choice. You’re going to walk, you’re going to live, and you’re going to remember to tithe every week whether you feel like it or not.”

“Will two of three do?” Jacob asked.

His savior laughed. “For now.”

Perry was waiting for him at the house, his face wet with tears and covered with dirt. His father was with him, along with his damned wagon. They’d already loaded his vegetables, he realized. That was kind of them.

“You’re all right,” Perry said, the relief palpable.

“Don’t feel it.”

They laid him in the wagon, pushing aside rickety crates of food and clothing to make room. Darius gave the order and the wagon began moving. Perry hopped in with him, holding a long rag.

“He said to tie this around you,” the kid said.

“Then do it.”

Jacob grunted as the cloth slid around his chest. It didn’t take long for it to turn a dark crimson, but the pressure felt good. Leaning back, Jacob closed his eyes, drowsiness overcoming him.

“There was another,” Perry said, talking out of nervousness. “Back at my pa’s house. If Darius hadn’t been there, if he…”

“Perry?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up, will ya? We’re going to be fine.”

He opened an eye to see the kid smiling at him. It was a thin mask, a tiny strength covering a massive wall of fear, but at least it was something.

“Should have known a single wolf-man wouldn’t kill you,” Perry said. “You’re too stubborn for that.”

“Too stupid’s more like it. So is this it? This the big attack?”

Perry’s smile wavered, but he managed to keep it there.

“Nah. Darius said it ain’t.”

“Then what is it? You got any ideas, boy?”

Apparently he didn’t, for he only shrugged. Jacob leaned back, moaning occasionally as the wagon bounced along.

“Jacob?”

“Yeah?”

Perry looked away.

“Thanks for saving me.”

Jacob slapped the boy’s leg, then lay back down.

“Was nothing,” he said. “Nothing…”

He slept despite the pain and movement of the wagon.

Jerico felt lost in a storm of people, and nothing made sense. At first it was only a trickle, a single family claiming the wolves had come. He grabbed his shield and mace, but before he could leave, another family arrived, holding their bleeding son in their arms.

“Two of ’em!” the father cried. “They got Terry. They got my son!”

Fearing the full attack to come, he sought out Darius. Not finding him, he instead located Daniel and his men, who had also prepared themselves for battle.

“Death may be coming for us,” Daniel said, “but we’ll meet it armed and ready. Gods willing, we’ll take plenty of them with us!”

They marched to the center of town, and that was when Jerico found Darius. He waited there, looking strangely calm amid the din. People were shouting, asking questions. He ignored them all.

“Jerico,” he said, seeing him. “Two attacked the outer farms, Douglas and Wheatley. I saw more, but they kept back, circling.”

“Why didn’t you chase them down, then?” Daniel asked, pushing people aside to join them.

“Because I am no fool,” Darius said, glaring at the older man. “They’re circling, don’t you get it? We’re completely cut off from the world. Every road, every farm, even the river…the wolf-men watch them all.”

The realization hit Jerico like a blow from his own mace.

“We’re trapped,” he whispered. “What do we tell the people? What do we do?”

“My baby!” a mother wailed behind them. Jerico couldn’t think of her name. She was a lost face in a sea of frightened villagers. Several more wandered about, bleeding, and Jerico saw the wounded man in a cart sitting beside him in the square.

“We need to get the wounded somewhere,” he said. “I can heal them, though it’ll take much of my strength.”

“The attack isn’t coming today,” Daniel said. “You have time.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if it was coming today, they’d bloody well do it. They’ve given us warning now, which does them no good. That means they plan on keeping us here, nice and quiet, while they starve us, weaken and frighten us.”

Jerico glanced to Darius, who nodded in agreement.

“Move the wounded to the inn,” said the dark paladin. “I’ll check the roads north. Daniel, send men to check the south. Have the rest try to keep order here. We need to take stock of what we have, in both food and weaponry. If they’re to trap us, then we need to lay a trap right back. We are the cornered animal, gentlemen, so let’s act like it.”

Jerico stepped back, pushing his way toward Dolores’s inn.

“Bring your wounded!” he shouted to them. “All hurt, all bleeding, come to me at Dolores’s!”

Inside he found Dolores sitting on a stool, her hands crossed on her lap. She was crying.

“We’re all to die, aren’t we?” she asked.

“Someday,” Jerico said, clearing space on the floor. “But not today.”

“I’m not scared of dying,” she said as the first of many followed, carrying wounded or bearing wounds themselves. “But to die to them…to be alive when they…they…”

“Dolores!” Jerico looked at her, refusing to let his gaze falter. She stared at him, tears running down her face, and her old lips quivered. “Not now. Not ever. Help me, please. Blankets, bandages, and towels for the blood. Your passing will be in your sleep, even older, and even crankier. You think a damn wolf can chew through your leathery hide?”

She smiled at him, and whatever daze she’d been in crumbled.

“Lay ’em the other way,” she said as Jerico put the first down. “More room. Ugh, so much blood. You got a needle for stitches?”

“Something like that,” Jerico said, closing his eyes and putting his hands on a man’s chest, lined with eight vicious cuts. Where his fingers touched skin they glowed with white light, and after a quiet moment, the light plunged within, smoothing over the flesh and knitting torn muscle.

More and more came in, crowding the small inn. Dolores guided them to corners, and she wrapped blankets across those Jerico healed. The sobs of both healthy and sick echoed upon the walls.

“Jerico!” a boy cried out. He glanced that way, saw Perry kneeling over Jacob Wheatley.

“Close your eyes and be strong,” Jerico whispered to a woman who had lost her arm. He’d closed the wound and wrapped it with a bandage, the best he could do. Walking to Perry, he stopped a moment, a dizzy spell coming over him.