David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

“Wolves of Murdertongue, wolves of Bloodfang,” he cried. “I come not to challenge your leaders. They are strong, and they have earned their right to lead. No, I bring them here, I bring you all here, for I have been blessed. The moon shines upon me, and has since my birth. We are not destined for this vile land. We are not meant to eat hyena shit and drink orc piss. We must be free! We must rule a land worthy of ruling!”

“What nonsense do you speak of?” asked Murdertongue. “Say what you mean, so we may all laugh!”

Redclaw narrowed his eyes. Murdertongue was not allowed to speak until he’d finished, and by breaking the rule, he could challenge him now to a contest of strength. But he needed true rule. He didn’t want to lead one giant pack. There would be too many, and he would be forced to meet a constant stream of challengers. No, better to let other pack leaders be the targets, to let them all squabble beneath him, with only a few pack leaders carrying the right to challenge his rule. He let the insult pass.

“I say that I know of a way across the river, where the water is shallow and the human boats do not patrol. There is land there, and forest, food and water. Already many of my pack surround it, weakening them, starving them. I ask that you join me! I ask that you come and take what we deserve by right of strength, by right of claw, by right of the moon!”

“And who are you to lead?” asked Murdertongue.

“I am Redclaw, and I will be Wolf King.”

The gathered wolf-men went crazy. They howled, nipped at one another, and stomped their feet upon the dirt. Murdertongue’s eyes sparkled, but Bloodfang looked ready to explode.

“You would have me kneel to you?” he asked.

“Moonclaw has already, and he is only the first.”

“There are a hundred packs,” said Murdertongue. “Who are you to claim yourself Wolf King with but a few kneeling to your strength? Not since our creation have we had a Wolf King. You are mighty, Redclaw, but not so mighty as that.”

“Not mighty at all!” roared Bloodfang. He stepped onto the pile of bone, his challenge begun. “I will not bow to you. You will bow to me! Tiny wolf, I will take your pack into mine, and they will be stronger for it!”

Murdertongue stayed back, though he could join in at any time. There had been Gatherings in times past where ten or twelve pack leaders descended upon each other at the same time, but the wolf-men had numbered greater then. The orcs had spread across the Wedge, and even the bird-men and the hyena-men had worn away at their numbers. Redclaw crouched, thinking of his law. Wolf may not kill wolf, but Bloodfang was not of his pack, and besides, atop the bone pile they stood upon a tradition greater than Redclaw could dismiss. His mind raced for an answer. Killing Bloodfang gained him little, but leaving him alive would accomplish even less. What chance was there Bloodfang would ever bow his head to him, no matter how many times beaten?

“I do not wish to kill you,” he said, carefully watching his opponent’s movements.

“But I do!”

Bloodfang launched himself, bones scattering down the pile from where he leapt. Redclaw shifted to the side, so that the bulk of Bloodfang’s weight missed. His left arm shot out, grabbing Bloodfang’s wrist. A tug, and they rolled atop one another, snarling and biting. Redclaw had timed it well, however, and he ended their roll with his hind legs tearing into Bloodfang’s thighs and his claws pinning him to the ground.

“Obey,” he cried, his roar thundering across the Gathering.

“No.”

Redclaw held him there, and he felt all eyes upon him. Wolf must not kill wolf, he thought. Be King, leader of all packs, not just one. He shoved away and walked to the edge of the bone pile. Behind him, Bloodfang stood, blood dripping down his arms and legs.

“You are weak,” Bloodfang snarled. “You are a fool. You are not worthy of any pack, and I will-”

He howled, and his back arced as gore spilled atop the bones from the gaping wound in his belly. Murdertongue held him in a mockery of an embrace, his arms flexed, his claws opening the wound further. Bloodfang struggled, but his strength quickly fled, and his head rolled to one side. Murdertongue dropped the body and kicked it, sending it tumbling off the pile.

“Will you challenge me now?” Redclaw asked, standing to his full height. His voice, however, was but a whisper, almost a plea in the raucous night.

“Bloodfang’s pack is mine,” said Murdertongue. “And I still think you are a fool, Redclaw. But perhaps, just perhaps, you may lead us to victory.”

He turned to the crowd, lifted his arms to the moon, and then knelt in submission.

“My pack swears obedience,” he said, and the entire Gathering erupted into chaos.

Redclaw stood among it, grinning at the crowd. He’d done it. The first step of a hunt was always the hardest. Between Moonclaw and Murdertongue, he had the beginnings of an army. He approached his new comrade, knelt before him, and pressed his nose against his to show their friendship.

“I will reward us with a kingdom,” he whispered.

“Pray you do,” Murdertongue whispered back.

Standing, Redclaw addressed the crowd, knowing now was the time to solidify his position.

“I am your Wolf King!” he cried. More cheers and howls. “I am leader of packs, now few, but soon to be many. The humans are weak. Their skin is soft, and their minds dull from years of safety. We are the vicious. We are the destroyers. Come the full moon, when our goddess shines and watches our victory, we will cross the river. We will take their land. We will feast upon the flesh of men, women, and children. Imagine the taste of their blood! Imagine their screams in your ears! Few now, but when the Wedge hears, when all know Redclaw stood before the humans and made them tremble, the rest will come. Every pack will kneel. Let your cry reach the stars! All the west will be our prey!”

“You speak the words of the Wolf King,” Moonclaw said as he and Murdertongue joined him at the bottom of the bone pile. His fur stood on end, and he clearly felt the excitement of the others. “They cry for blood.”

“To the north is a small pack of bird-men,” Redclaw said. “They are few, and stay at the edges of my land. Send our wolves upon them. I want them sharp, ready. I want to remind them how poor our food is, tough meat and hollow bones. When we cross the river, I don’t want them angry. I want them hungry. ”

“As you wish…Wolf King,” Murdertongue said, leaving to address his pack, now merged with those who had followed Bloodfang. Before he turned, Redclaw saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, though what its meaning was, he didn’t know, but he felt certain he wouldn’t like it if he did.

Jerico slept well into the morning, having already given Jeremy orders for the townsfolk to follow. His rest was not deep, nor fulfilling, and he rose red-eyed and groggy. His breakfast was meager, various vegetables fried in animal fat, with only water from the town’s well to wash it down. After that, he donned his armor, even though he expected no combat. It would do the people good to see him prepared, he knew. With his shining platemail and thick shield, they might think they had a chance to survive while protected by such a warrior.

Even though it was hopeless. Jerico had seen the pack gathered that night. But he dared not voice that belief, and he felt guilty enough thinking it in his heart. Nothing was hopeless when Ashhur was at his side. But no matter how often he reminded himself that, he also remembered that terrible vision of the Citadel cracking and falling, and of the belief that its fall would mean the end of his order. The end of him. Was this where the last paladin of Ashhur would fall, some backwater village lost to the belly of beasts?