David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

Jerico took up song as he fought, a jaunty tune Darius had heard in many taverns. He laughed aloud as he realized its title: The Wolf and the Maiden. One line amused him to no end, and he sang along as his sword whirled.

“And down, down, down came the woodsman’s axe, down, down, down!”

How well the wolves understood their song, Darius didn’t know, but it seemed to infuriate them to no end. On and on they came, leaping over ditches filled with their dead, crawling over the walls of their bodies. He couldn’t think of how many he killed. The number was lost to him. Twenty? Thirty? His arms ached. Scratches lined his face and neck. The taste of blood remained permanent on his tongue. But he sang along with Jerico all the same, until a great cry pierced the noise. Appearing none too pleased, the wolf-men backed away, growling amongst themselves.

“What’s going on?” Darius asked.

“I don’t know. Jon, you still alive?”

The archer waved an arm over the top of the roof.

“You guys are scaring the shit out of me,” said Jon. “Dear gods, how many did you kill?”

Darius glanced at the dead and shrugged.

“A lot.”

They heard shouts, and a large commotion spread to the center. It was then they saw Redclaw lording over the pack, giving orders, commanding with his howls. Their eyes locked, and Darius felt chills flow through his blood. The wolf was unafraid, unimpressed with their stand.

“Their leader,” Jerico whispered.

“If he dies, we might break their spirit.”

The wolves about them seemed small by comparison to that center group, and Darius realized they had fought the weakest, the scouts and runners. In a group of near a hundred were the true elites, the muscle of the wolf pack. Above them Redclaw towered, and Darius had no desire to face him.

“We did well,” he said. “Let us die knowing that.”

Jerico laughed.

“You can die, if you like. We’re not done yet, Darius. We’ll pat our backs in the morning, with breath still in our lungs.”

“Amen,” said Jon from the roof.

Redclaw stepped forward, and the three fell silent, for the leader began to speak.

If all humans were this strong, Redclaw knew the wolves of the Wedge could never claim a land of their own. He surveyed the damage, strangely unafraid. The loss of life felt distant to him, for many were not of his own pack. Even being in human lands felt unreal, but at the same time, a fulfilled destiny. No matter how many died, he would take this village, and the next, until his entire race had itself a proud nation. But these villagers were strong, and though they had killed many breaking into one of their buildings, still the two defended structures remained.

Redclaw had watched the fight for a time, seeing both defenders. The larger building, the one with many boarded windows, was guarded by human men that he had seen and fought before. They wore metal for skin, and gathered together for strength. Their long blades kept his wolves at bay, for they could not swarm them like they could on open ground. But they were still weak, and he could see their movements slowing. In time they would fall, and all within would die. Only the strange man on their roof appeared truly dangerous, wielding magics that confounded reason. The attacks had slowed, though, the man garbed in black possibly lacking the strength to continue.

But these two…

“What are they?” he asked Murdertongue, hoping the intelligent wolf might know.

“I do not know,” Murdertongue replied. “Surely they are men, like any other.”

Redclaw shook his head. The shield of one glowed with a blue light painful to look upon, while the other swung a massive sword that burned with black fire. They held their ground against his pack, unafraid. They even sung to them in mockery! Side by side, they seemed unbreakable. They were champions of the human race, he realized, the ones Yellowscar had spoken of. No wonder he had lost so many! They were the best, the strongest, the bravest. Calling his pack together, he ordered a stop to the attack. Reluctantly they returned to him.

“Moonclaw, take twenty to the back of the house,” he said, pointing to the place guarded by the soldiers. “Murdertongue, keep them busy at the front.”

“What of them?” Moonclaw asked, gesturing to the human champions.

“Five of you, stay with me,” he ordered. “I will remain here. Against all our numbers, the others cannot hope to live. Let the champions brave the open ground if they wish to save them. Let them face me in combat! We will not play their game. We will not crouch under tiny roofs.”

Orders given, he let out a cry, sending them into motion. Patience, he told himself. He had been a fool in giving the humans warning. He’d wanted greater numbers, and a chance for them all to feast. He’d expected the humans to be hungry, tired, but instead they’d built trenches and placed sharpened poles in all directions. For the next attack, he would need to use speed and surprise. If they had not been gathered in those buildings, if they had not prepared their defenses, already his packs would be feasting on their flesh.

With the five at his back, he approached the two humans.

“Champions, I am Redclaw, Wolf King of the Wedge. Who are you to defy me?”

“Darius Wolf Slayer,” said the man with the black blade.

“And you can call me Jerico Wolf Smacker.”

“You do not amuse me. Do you think we will not suck the marrow from your bones before the moon sets?”

They both shrugged.

“I see far more of your dead than mine,” Darius said.

Redclaw snarled. They were certainly right about that.

“You are tired,” he said. “And your games are nothing. My wolves descend upon this village, and a scattered few will not stop us. Then we will come for you. We will tear the wood from these walls. We will rip the roof from its base. There is no stopping us.”

“Sure there is.”

Redclaw looked up to see a third man on the roof, a bow in hand. An arrow shot from the string, and it thudded into the eye of the wolf-man beside him. Redclaw snarled, and he caught the dying body of his fellow wolf-kin.

“Last shot,” said the archer. “Figured I’d make it a good one. Shame I missed. Was hoping for your throat, Redclaw.”

Redclaw felt his blood boil as he set the body down. He glanced at the archer, an unarmed man with a cowardly weapon. More than anything, he felt a desire to feel his bones crunch between his teeth, and he let it overwhelm his fear at realizing death had been so close, just the slightest correction in flight by the archer.

“Keep them here,” he ordered the remaining four. “Do not let them escape.”

He bolted to one side, running on all fours. The sudden exertion felt wonderful to his muscles. All night, he’d stayed back from the fight, behaving as he thought a king should. But that was the way of human kings, perhaps. He should have been in the fray long before. How many wolves might he have spared by slaughtering the defenders? He was the strongest, the fastest. He should have acted like it.

Climbing the building was simple, the wood providing easy grip for his claws. In moments he was on top. The archer, instead of trying to flee, surprised him by lunging with his dagger. Redclaw bit at it, catching the blade in his teeth. A vicious jerk and the weapon went flying. This time the archer did run, heading toward where the two champions stood. A kick of his legs and he flew across the roof, his claws sinking into the man’s back. He twisted and slashed, relishing the warm flow that spilled across his hands. His teeth sank into the man’s neck, opening veins. Blood poured across his tongue, and he drank it eagerly. Fulfilling his desire, he tore free the man’s collarbone and crunched it in his teeth. The resulting ecstasy flooded his primal mind.