David Dalglish: Night of Wolves

The corded muscles in its legs tensed, and then it lunged. Dirk struck it with his torch, but he was young and outweighed thrice over. The torch bounced off the wolf-man’s chest, causing no harm. The two rolled to the ground, Dirk’s arms pinned, the wolf-man growling, its bared teeth reaching for Dirk’s exposed throat.

Gary stabbed its side before it could. His sword sank halfway to the handle, then snapped when the creature twisted. Claws slashed across his face, the pain immense. Blood blotted the vision of his left eye, and he clutched it with a hand. Be brave, he told himself as the wolf-man jumped off of Dirk. He saw only teeth. The dead one hanging in their town had had its teeth ripped out, he realized. He’d never have come if he’d seen them like he saw them now.

Its jaw closed on his shoulder; its weight slammed him to the ground. Warm blood spilled across his chest. He screamed.

“The Abyss take you!” Jerico cried, smashing its body with his shield. Gary saw the light stab into it, as if the glow were a dagger capable of cutting flesh. It released its grip on his shoulder, and he let out an involuntary gasp. Down came the mace, catching the retreating wolf-man across the snout. Teeth flew, and its blood sprayed across them both.

“We will feast!” it shrieked. Jerico’s shield shone brighter, and amid his delirium, Gary thought he heard the paladin chuckle.

“No,” Jerico said. “You won’t.”

The wolf-man charged, struck his shield once more, and then fell. Jerico’s mace smashed the bones of its face, and it stayed down.

“Dirk?” Gary asked, trying to stand. But Dirk was fine, and he grabbed Gary’s arm and helped him up.

“To the river,” Jerico told the two as he turned to the battle beyond. “Run, and don’t stop.”

“Ashhur be with you,” Gary said, leaning some of his weight on Dirk.

“You as well.”

They stumbled west, between the hills and toward the Gihon. They’d taken no turns, the path Darius led them on perfectly straight, and soon they saw the river in the distance. Gary’s shoulder burned, and every breath he took felt like fire in his lungs. Dirk didn’t look much better, but guilty as he felt for burdening his wounded friend, Gary knew he could not run without aid. They glanced back only once, the torches looking like glowing dots in the distance.

It seemed like an eternity, but they reached the river and the waiting boat. Dirk helped him inside, then prepared to push it into the water.

“Wait,” Gary said. His head felt light, but damn did it feel good to sit down. He clutched his shoulder and wished the pain would go away. Dimly, he wondered how badly the creature had scarred his face.

“No,” Dirk said, realizing what he wanted. “Please, no, we can go…”

“We stay.”

Dirk sighed, then shook his head.

“Fine. You’re right.”

They watched and waited for the first to show. A minute later, three men appeared, two relatively unscathed, but the third limped along in their arms, his left leg mangled and missing its foot.

“Hurry,” Gary said, beckoning them to the boat.

“We thought you’d leave,” said one of them.

“Never. Push us off, and then get in, Dirk. This boat’ll float with five.”

Out on the peaceful water, it seemed the fight was a hundred miles away. If not for the pain, Gary might have convinced himself it was a horrible, horrible nightmare. When they reached the other side, one of the men helped him out, and he lay against a tree beside the other wounded man.

“The others,” Gary said, pointing back to the Wedge. He felt sleepy, and knew if he closed his eyes he’d succumb to it, but this was important. “You must…you must go back…”

Dirk was crying, his face wet with tears, but still he went to the boat and started to push.

“No,” said a larger man. Jacob Wheatley, he realized. Jacob was always quick to argue, more temper than sense. But he seemed calm here, and he eased Dirk out. “I’ll go.”

He stepped into the boat, angled it, and began rowing.

Time grew slippery. Gary remembered the first boat returning, weeping men disembarking. He heard muttering, names listed off. Counting the dead, he realized. He wondered if they counted him or not. More men appeared, though he didn’t remember their arrival. The water splashed the shore, and he wished to dip his hand in it. Suddenly he was thirsty, very thirsty.

“Gary?” someone asked. He opened his eyes, not remembering closing them. A young face hovered over him, blurry and unrecognizable.

“Get back,” he mumbled. “I’m tired.”

“Gary, it’s Dirk. You got to stay awake. Gruss says you got to…”

Darkness, filled with the sound of water. Something touched his shoulder, and the pain awakened there. He opened his eyes and saw Jerico kneeling before him. White light shone from his hands, which pressed against his shoulder. His drowsiness faded, and the pain, which had been all encompassing, shrank down to something he could endure, something he could comprehend. Carefully Jerico wiped the blood from Gary’s left eye with his bare thumb so he might see.

“Stand, Mr. Reed,” he said, taking his hand. “You have a wife and child waiting for you.”

When the light of morning shone through his window, Jerico winced. Every part of his body ached, and it felt like a pack of giants banged drums inside his forehead. He’d stayed up late into the night, praying over the wounded and offering them healing magic. Between him and the town’s midwife, an old woman named Zelda, they’d sewn, bandaged and kept as many alive as possible. After that, the entire village had gathered in a prayer of remembrance, for they had no bodies to bury. Under the cover of stars, they mourned those the wolves feasted upon.

“Seven men,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “We lost seven men. I hope you’re happy, Darius.”

He felt guilty saying it, but he also felt better. At least alone in his room he could grumble, mutter, and let his frustration show. Once in his armor and about the town, he had to be all forgiveness and prayers. Sometimes he enjoyed taking up his mace and smashing the head of an outlaw. At least he wasn’t pretending about anything there.

But of course he also knew he wasn’t being fair. Darius had taken them out to deal with a threat to the town. None of them could have foreseen how serious it’d be. After the battle, he’d spoken with all but Darius, who had stayed quiet and away from the others. Three wolf-men had attacked from the back, two from each side, and three more from the front. A pack of ten so close to the Gihon and the towers that guarded it? They’d killed six of the ten, and injured the remaining four. Given how unprepared they’d been, it could have been far worse.

“Jerico?” asked a voice on the other side of the door, followed by a gentle knock.

“I’m awake,” he said, sitting up in bed and stretching his sore muscles. The door opened, and in stepped his host’s pretty daughter, Jessie.

“Forgive me,” she said, turning away and blushing when she saw Jerico wore no shirt. He chuckled, tossed on his tunic, and then asked her what was the matter. Something bothered her, he could tell. It was written all over her face.

“It’s Bobby,” she said, struggling to meet his gaze. Her eyes kept flicking to the floor, and her hands clasped behind her. “He…he hung himself last night. My father wishes you to pray over his body before we bury him.”

The words knifed through Jerico, but despite the pain, he wasn’t surprised. He’d seen the lingering sorrow and death in Bobby’s eyes. Last night’s excursion hadn’t brought him the satisfaction he’d hoped for. Instead, seven of his friends had died, and many more suffered greatly. Again he thought of Darius, and wondered how the paladin was taking the news.