David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

“He cannot stand,” Gregory said when they let go.

“Untie him anyway. We shall see.”

Watching him closely, Jerico cut the bonds around the wrists. Ashhur cried no soft warning in his head, so he did not flinch at their freedom. He removed the muzzle next. Done, he stepped back and pulled his shield off his back, the glow lighting up the darkness. He would not need it, but neither would he shame Yellowscar by handicapping himself.

“Stand, Yellowscar,” he said, drawing his mace.

The rest watched, keeping silent. The creature groaned, then rolled onto its stomach. Its heavy arms pushed itself to a sit. Its tongue hung from the side of its mouth, and every muscle in its body quivered.

“I said stand.”

One leg propped underneath, followed by the other. The joints snapped, the bones shifting back the way they belonged. Yellowscar howled, but did not fall. Inch by inch he rose, great shuddering breaths thundering out of his mouth.

“Redclaw attacks come the full moon,” he said, each word a labor. “And they will feast, and sing, and never return to the Wedge.”

Jerico felt the words in his head, and with an innate power of Ashhur, he tested to see if they were true. They were. He glanced at Daniel, nodded, and then took a step forward.

“Strike me, creature of the Wedge.”

Yellowscar cried out, for one brief moment sounding like the furious creature he was. His claws lashed out, slapping across Jerico’s shield. The paladin stepped in, swung his mace, and then closed his eyes as the metal struck bone. Yellowscar dropped to the ground, blood oozing from his jaw and empty eye socket.

“About damn time,” Darius muttered.

Jerico glared.

“We have two days,” Daniel said. He breathed in deep and then sighed, as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. “Now we know. Now we prepare. This is your mess, Jerico. I trust you to bury it.”

Daniel took his men and left. Pheus frowned at the corpse.

“Yellowscar was a heartless, brutal killer,” the priest said. “You give honor to what has none. You bow to the wishes of a beaten foe. Your kind is weak, Jerico, and full of fools. A shame the world may never learn this, for when the last paladin of Ashhur fades away, how will they ever see for themselves?”

He left, leaving only Darius and Jerico standing beside the body.

“I expected better from you,” Jerico said.

“You know nothing of me. Your own damn fault.”

He turned to leave, but Jerico stopped him.

“What did he mean, when we fade away?”

Darius opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked away, clearly troubled.

“Darius?”

“What?”

Jerico put a hand on his shoulder. “Will you help me bury him?”

The dark paladin sighed.

“Yes. I will, though I doubt even Karak knows why.”

R edclaw had discussed battle with his elders while growing up as a pup, and in turn, spoken with those now sworn to his name. Nearly all talked of eagerness, the swelling of fury and triumph as they raced for a kill. It was almost a madness, a desire unparalleled to taste the blood of their foe. In this, Redclaw had learned from an early age how different he was, how weak. When he howled to the night sky, it was because he tried to hide his fear. When he raced ahead of his pack to be the first into bloodshed, it was because he knew the moment he felt his claws sink into the flesh of his opponent, his instincts would take over. It was only then, when he lost himself amid the chaos, that he felt his nerves calm.

That same nervous fear swelled in him as he waited for Bloodfang and Murdertongue to arrive at the Gathering. Outwardly he exuded nothing but confidence. He wondered if his pack could smell the scent of shame upon him, betraying him. So far none had dared ask, and he himself had never detected it. Every time he thought of being the moon made flesh, of being the Wolf King, he remembered his fear, and he wondered how worthy he was of the title. A glance at his pups, watching him from the first row with Bonebite lurking protectively over them, gave him the strength to continue. They would not remain in the Wedge, trapped with other animals in a crowded cage. They would not be raised on tough meat and foul water.

Moonclaw stood behind him and to the side, showing his reverence and loyalty. Their combined packs waited in a half-circle, the two newcomers’ packs to fill the other half. The night dragged on, and he knew the other pack leaders desired to make him wait. They wanted to shame him, test his patience. It wouldn’t work. Before the night ended, they would have to come, and they would kneel before him. He was the Wolf King. They would pay their respects.

“They are here,” said Moonclaw. Redclaw nodded, having detected them as well. They came from upwind, and the scent of their pack rolled over the hill in great waves. His pack yipped and stirred, filled with restless energy. They wanted to see the strength of their leader. No doubt they hoped Murdertongue, Bloodfang, or both, would refuse his rule so they might have their bodies crushed at his feet. Deep down, Redclaw did too. He felt the eyes of everyone upon him, and it made his fur stand on end. Better to lose himself in combat. Better to end his fear than fight it with the tender words humans preferred.

“ Murdertongue! ” cried a hundred voices, and with that the pack came over the hill, loping on all fours. Redclaw stood tall, and despite the tremor in his chest, told himself to remain strong. He would show no fear in the light of the moon. The pack took their places in the circle, leaving only a small gap. Redclaw knew there’d be jostling and biting to make room for Bloodfang. It wouldn’t be a true Gathering without it. Instead of joining the circle, Murdertongue stood on the other side of the bone pile from him. He was short for a pack leader, but made up for it with enormous amounts of muscle. Redclaw had met him several times before, watching how he moved. He was slow, but could take a beating. Many scars covered his body, proof of that fact. He was smart, though, and that was where he was truly dangerous. He’d earned his name by talking his pack into slaughtering their previous leader, making way for his accession.

“I have come,” Murdertongue said, his voice deep and commanding. “Who is the pup?”

Moonclaw riled at the insult.

“He is Moonclaw. He feasted on Goldteeth’s flesh and drank his blood, and now commands his pack.”

“Goldteeth, eh? He was a stupid one. I bet he tasted foul.”

Moonclaw stepped forward, and he bared his teeth. Redclaw flung an arm in the way, and snarled his disapproval.

“At your place,” he said, and Moonclaw dipped his head in obedience. Murdertongue saw this, and sniffed, a reaction signifying either curiosity or contempt. Redclaw figured he had plenty of time to figure out which.

“ Bloodfang! ”

The pack swarmed into the Gathering. Redclaw chilled at the combined sight of the several packs. There were three hundred wolf-men in total, strong and deadly. What human force could be assembled against that might? And they were but the first drop of a downpour.

“I see I have missed no bloodshed,” Bloodfang said as he joined them at the pile. He stood near Murdertongue, but far enough away to ensure he showed no allegiance or submission to him. Unlike Murdertongue, he was tall, his spine hardly bearing a shred of curve. His fur was a vibrant red, a rare color for their kind. He grinned at them all, clearly thinking himself funny. Also unlike Murdertongue, Bloodfang was stupid and slow. His pack was on the smaller side, and he ruled through his size alone.

“Plenty of moonlight left,” Murdertongue said, and he laughed.

They went through the ritual introductions, with Redclaw going last. His howl was deeper than the others, and he held it for nearly a full minute. The others glared at him, unhappy with being shown up. That earned him the right to speak first, though, and despite his aching lungs and pounding head, he needed his cry to carry across the hills. He stepped onto the pile, walked to its very top, and looked to the crowd.