David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

Hurling the body to the ground, he stood above the champions, reared back, and let his roar ascend to the heavens, let the moon hear his exaltation of the most basic desires of his race.

His sharp ears sensed a shift in the battle, and he glanced to where the combat had begun anew. The defenders at the front had retreated within, whether killed or falling back, he could not yet tell. The two men below him noticed as well, and he caught them staring at the great wave of wolf-men flowing into the building.

“Is it not as I said?” he told them, hoping to break their spirit. “All within will die, and then we will come for you.”

The men looked to one another, and it seemed as if they were somehow communicating. When they reacted, it was far from what Redclaw expected. The two broke for the building, leaving their own place unguarded. Baffled, Redclaw stood and watched. The four wolf-men met them in battle, and in open ground they stood a better chance, but only a little. The black blade looped about, and they had no defense against it. Severed claws struck the ground, followed by arms, followed by heads. The glowing shield shifted back and forth, protecting Darius as well as its wielder. Redclaw couldn’t believe the sight. These were his best, his finest, and mere humans were tearing them apart. Had they, too, been raised in a lifetime of battle? Was their training so great that even the wolf’s speed and strength could be overcome?

Redclaw had terribly underestimated his opponents. There would be more like this, he realized. How many? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? His knowledge of humans was limited to the few he’d slain. Their flesh was soft. Their armor was a lie, metal twisted and shaped to protect their vulnerable bodies. They wielded heavy weapons that could only wish to be as fast as their claws. What was this? What magic gave their shield and sword power? What lunacy allowed the man in the black robe to command dark lightning, and to knock back his wolf-men as if they were playthings?

Still, he could not hesitate further. He could not allow fear to hold him back. He leapt from the roof, for the way into the building was clear. If the champions wanted to leave the rest unprotected, so be it. But as the last of the four went down, the one with the shield, Jerico, rushed back. His mace struck at him before he had even landed from his jump. Redclaw pushed aside the blow, then rammed his head forward, striking the metal on the man’s chest. As he fell back, Redclaw looked to the other. Darius charged the rest of his pack, slicing through several before they realized a foe had come upon them from behind.

“He will die, buried beneath my brethren,” Redclaw said.

“Perhaps,” said Jerico. “But how many of your brethren will he take with him?”

“You are tired. I see it. Your shoulders sag, and your breath is heavy.”

Jerico grinned at him.

“And you are afraid. I see the terror hidden in your yellow eyes. We’ll see who breaks first.”

Redclaw feinted a slash with his left arm, then curled in with his right, charging at the same time. His claws raked against armor, but he felt the metal give, felt it crunch inward against the weak flesh. The champion’s mace swung, but he shifted his body enough so it only glanced off his shoulder. Two more slashes scraped against the chestplate, and then the shield was in the way. At its touch he felt pain spike up his arms, and he retreated. They faced one another, blood dripping down Redclaw’s shoulder, Jerico wincing and glancing at his chest.

“Your armor does not hide your bleeding,” Redclaw said.

“Neither does your fur.”

Redclaw rushed again. He bit and slashed, using every shred of strength to break the champion down. Yet each blow upon the shield felt like he was trying to crush the very earth itself. His speed was enough that Jerico could scarcely hope to retaliate, but even so, his frustration mounted. The flanged edges cut him, shallow wounds that mounted and soaked his fur with his blood. The champion bled as well, from his wrist, his face, his neck. Nothing deep. Nothing fatal. Roaring, he tried to bury Jerico under his charge, but again the man stood firm and held him back.

“You must fall!” Redclaw cried. “This is my fate. This is my kingdom! I have conquered the faceless dark! I am Wolf King!”

“And I’m Jerico, and I don’t care.”

Redclaw could no longer contain his fury. He wanted this man beaten, bloodied, and shown how pathetic he was. He fought to protect those within, so it was those he would eat while he watched. Their fight had them circling each other many times, and with the human’s exhaustion, he could not keep himself positioned perfectly. Redclaw feinted, then dove for the door.

“No!” he heard Jerico scream. It was music to his ears.

G regory had abandoned the polearm for the more practical sword in the cramped conditions. They’d seen the wolves assaulting every window, heard the wood groan as they climbed the walls. Whatever hope they had at a uniform defense was lost. Giving the order to fall back, he’d taken his sword, rushed into the home, and scattered his men. They went into individual rooms, where the many families hid behind locked doors. It was their last defense, and it was meager indeed.

Slamming the door shut behind him, Gregory turned and surveyed his surroundings. He was with Jeremy, his daughter, and another family of four. Jeremy held a shortsword, and he faced him with terror in his eyes.

“The door,” he said, as if that should explain everything.

“Overwhelmed,” Gregory said, pointing at the window. “You stand there and guard it with your life. Thrust through the cracks, but don’t let them grab hold.”

Gregory faced the door, locked it, and pushed a dresser in the way. As the first wolf-man slammed into it from the other side, he wondered how in the world he had ended up in such a predicament. He’d been considered a promising recruit for the Mordan army, but then his father had slighted king Baedan. As a way of humiliating him, he’d sent Gregory to the wall of towers, where the greatest honor he could have expected was killing a few brave orcs who crossed the river. Or so he’d thought. Should he survive, they’d sing praises of the defense of this village. At least, he’d pay a damn bard to compose one and sing it a few times. Only seemed right.

The lock broke, and he wasn’t surprised in the slightest. The wolves were strong, and he feared he would be a poor match against them in close quarters. Still, he wasn’t going down without a fight. The door pushed back as two more wolves joined in, knocking the dresser further with each wave. Gregory stabbed into the opening, scoring wounds each time. The wolf-men appeared oblivious to any danger. They might have gotten inside uninjured if they were careful, but that seemed counter to their nature. Everything was brutal, rushed, seeking to overwhelm an opponent with sheer strength and speed regardless of injuries. That tactic had failed in the tight spaces of the estate’s doorway, facing a coordinated defense, but one on one…

He stabbed with renewed vigor. By the gods, he wasn’t going down without a pile of bodies at his feet! Two different yelps greeted his effort, and then the door blasted open. Desperately wishing he had a shield, Gregory met the advance. He cut one down, and he used its falling body to stall the other. His sword could cut and wound, but the wolf-men lunged with such energy that even killing one would not prevent it from crashing into him. The two families screamed, and Gregory tried to make his stand.

“Gregory!” Jeremy shouted. A wolf-man grabbed hold of Gregory’s arm, and he screamed as he felt muscle tear. He stabbed his sword up to the hilt in the wolf-man’s chest, and then spared a glance behind. Something was crashing through the broken boards on the window. Jeremy fell back. It was no wolf-man. Darius hit the floor, spun, and swung his sword in an upward arc. A chasing wolf-man howled, its body cut in two. Gore splattered the floor, and the two families screamed.