David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

They were only frightened, he told himself. Only tired, scared, and expecting to die. They didn’t want laws to live by. They didn’t want truths to mold their lives around. They wanted weak grace, a childish promise of safety in the hereafter. Darius frowned, his heart bitter. No Golden Eternity awaited them, only the belly of wolves. He shook his head, knowing he was being cruel. Had he not admitted Jerico his friend a few nights prior? It was only under Pheus’s watch that he felt such a failure. What did that mean? Had he fallen from his god’s wisdom? For surely the elder priest was closer to Karak than he was…

Doing his best to shove the thoughts from his mind, he approached Jerico and stood before him, feeling strangely awkward.

“A fine job,” he said.

“Don’t feel like it.”

“Trust me on it. Has Daniel informed you of our plan?”

Jerico nodded. “I looked them over. So much of it depends upon the two of us. I don’t know if I can do it, Darius.”

“You don’t have much choice,” Darius said, a grim smile on his face. “It’ll be just you and me between the wolves and their meal. Neither of us can fail, and we won’t, either.”

Jerico smacked his shoulder, and for the first time that day, he really smiled.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Glad to hear you admit it. Maybe you’ll start listening to other things I have to say as well.”

I t would be the last peaceful night before the wolf-men attacked, and Darius knew he must use it. His muscles ached, for he’d worked side by side with the rest of the village. They’d said little to him, though they showed no animosity or uncomfortable reactions, either. He knew he should be guarding the tavern, but he’d convinced Daniel to send a few of his men over instead under the excuse that he needed to pray, which was no lie.

Darius kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached the thin forest that lay between them and the river. He knew the wolf-men surrounded them, watching for any escape attempts, but he strayed north, not quite reaching the river. He listened for the occasional howls, and he kept his body crouched low. With how bright the moon was, he needed no torch for light. Should he reach the forest, he figured he would be safe for a while. The wolves would expect men to try to flee upon the river, not hide beside it.

Once surrounded by trees, he cleared a space of leaves, and with his hands, tore away the grass until he exposed bare earth. Using his sword, he carved a circle. His throat tightened, and he felt his pulse race. What he was about to do was beyond dangerous. Here he was, a potential disappointment to Karak, ready to enact one of Karak’s most sacred rituals. Every motion must be perfect. Every word spoken must be true. Karak was a god of Order, and he would not suffer the presence of one with so much chaos in his heart.

The circle complete, he carved seven runes around it, double-checking each and every one. Satisfied, he thrust his blade into the center, both hands clutching the hilt. Dark fire surrounded it, and he cried out to Karak despite the danger of the wolf-men. The fire burst, and it filled the circle of dirt, though it had nothing to burn. It burned on his faith, he’d been told at the Stronghold, and for it to burn strong, so must he be strong. He repeated prayers to Karak, strengthening the fire. At last he dared make his request known.

“Reveal the fate awaiting me,” he whispered. “What will happen if I deny Jerico a death at my hand?”

He stared, not daring to blink, not daring to breathe. In the center of the fire he saw what looked like a dark pebble. It grew, and it seemed like a window to another world, its edges washing over his blade as if it were not there. Within its center he saw the answer to his question. His heart recoiled, and only his strong will kept his hands closed, his jaw clenched shut.

Jerico stood over him, mace in hand. Blood, Darius’s blood, stained its edges. At his feet, Darius saw himself lying there, wounded, beaten, and asking for death.

“No!” he cried, yanking free his blade. Above him thunder rolled, though not a cloud covered the sky. The dark fire continued to burn, traveling up his blade to the hilt. It touched his bare hand, and though it had never harmed him before, today he felt its heat with startling clarity. His skin blackened. His nerves flared with pain. Tears rolled down his face and, unable to withstand the punishment, he dropped his weapon. At the loss of contact, the fire vanished, plain steel landing atop the carpet of leaves. Clutching his blackened hand to his chest, he wept for his weakness.

“Must it be so?” he asked, unable to believe it.

He glanced down at his hand. He expected blistered skin, but instead he saw only the dark hue his flesh had become. He flexed it, and it wasn’t tight, nor did it cause him pain. He’d been marked, he knew, permanently branded with his weakness and doubt. A burnt, blackened hand wielding a sword of dark flame. Faith burned both ways, he realized. He was naive to think otherwise.

“My god asks for your death,” Darius said, sheathing his blade. He rolled his hand up in a scrap of cloth, having no desire to look upon it. “And I will obey. You are no friend, Jerico, for what friend would strike me down? I am a paladin, damn it, a paladin of Karak.”

Hollow, frightened words, born of pain. He knew it, and he tried to pretend he didn’t. Hardening his heart, he returned to the inn and slept. But Karak was not done with him. Throughout the night, Darius had one dream, and it was of himself lying on the ground, Jerico towering over him. They had fought, though he never remembered the beginning, only the end. Every time, it was Jerico who was the mightier paladin, taller, better, and with Darius’s blood on his mace.

The day passed quiet and uneventful, with most of them sleeping. All but Redclaw. He tossed and turned so much his two pups shifted away, curling their bodies against others of his pack. He didn’t blame them, but he was also envious. They didn’t understand the momentous occasion before them. They only knew that many were nervous, that their father was quick to anger, and that numerous strangers had come to stay, feasting the night before on orc, goblin, and hyena. Bellies full, they slept while Redclaw watched the steady rise of their chests.

He tilted his head, hiding it from the glare of the sun. Often he wished there were caves about, but knew of none, and the few trees that grew in the Wedge were thin, offering little shade. Shielding his eyes with an arm, he wished for the cool grace of the moon. In it, he felt hidden. In it, he felt like the Wolf King. Under the sun, he was just another wolf-man, doing his best to sleep.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he rolled, growling. An elderly wolf stood over him, and she frowned at the noise he made.

“What is it you want, female?” he asked her.

“Come, and be quiet about it,” she said, her voice low. Without an explanation, she turned and began walking toward the river. Grumbling, he glanced at his pups, then followed. Her name was Silver-Ear, though that silver had long since faded to a dull gray. While most elderly fell in battle before reaching Silver’s edge, she had been given a special place at the back of every fight, often partaking of fresh blood only after the rest of the pack had obtained victory. She was the shaman of their pack, though rarely did she wield her influence.

The wind howled, and Redclaw wondered if a storm would come. He hoped one would not. The clouds were still a calm white, nearly blotting out the sun. Heavy rains might make the Gihon dangerous, and he didn’t want to lose anyone to something as simple as water.

“Where do you take me?” he asked Silver-Ear, having easily caught up with her. Behind them, the pack slowly vanished into the distance.