David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

“I have a family deserving my apologies,” said Darius. “Not that it’s your business.”

Jerico leaned against the tree, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the weather. Slowly he felt his tension drain away, and once renewed, he returned to Durham to write his letter to the lord of the Towers.

R edclaw waited at the head of his pack for his scout to return.

“He will see little in this daylight,” said Bonebite, his most trusted warrior. His fur was faded with age, but he’d feasted upon more fallen foes than anyone else in his pack.

“The orcs are slow and stupid,” said Redclaw. “They will not expect us to attack while the sun burns the sky.”

Bonebite snorted. “Does the mighty Redclaw need the help of surprise to kill a few runty orcs?”

Redclaw bared his teeth, both smile and threat. Bonebite had once vied for the position Redclaw now held. They’d fought for the honor, but instead of killing him as was custom, Redclaw let him live.

“Wolf should not kill wolf,” he’d declared, his first law of the pack. He’d killed plenty enforcing the rule, but none in the pack were intelligent enough, or brave enough, to point out the contradiction. Bonebite had resented him for the longest time, but Redclaw treated him like the proud warrior he was, and after a time, the wily old wolf had accepted his role, and appeared to even appreciate the younger warrior’s skill and leadership.

“Whenever we fight, we must win,” Redclaw said, turning back east and squinting in search of his scout. “Why let orcs fight fair against us? They deserve nothing. They are food.”

“The fight weans out the weaklings,” argued Bonebite.

Redclaw glared at him. Bonebite’s snout was covered with scars, his nose nearly white with them instead of its original black. One scar ran straight across his eye, the hair around it never growing back.

“Even our weaklings are stronger than the best of man and orc,” he said. “One day you will fall, Bonebite. Would you have me hail you a warrior, or a weakling, when we consume your flesh?”

“Neither,” said Bonebite, and he let out a laugh. “I will be too tough and dry by then. You will choke.”

“I’ll moisten your flesh with the blood of men. Now quiet. I see my scout.”

“I see only the fire in the sky.”

“Then your eyes already succumb to the weakness of age. I hope the rest of you is not the same.”

Bonebite growled but said nothing. Racing along the plain came Redclaw’s scout, running on all fours. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth.

“They’ve come from a hunt,” said his scout, the aptly named Swiftheel. He panted and reached out his hand. A nod from Redclaw and Bonebite gave him a dried stomach full of water.

“Better,” growled Swiftheel after drinking. “The orcs are tired, and will soon be fat and lazy from eating. The time is right.”

“How many are they?” asked Redclaw.

Swiftheel let out a little yip, as if amused his pack leader thought their numbers would matter.

“Four times I counted to fifty.”

“Has their camp been moved?”

“No, they stay in the ravine. They must feel safe there.”

Redclaw let out a howl, alerting the rest of his pack.

“Their safety is their doom,” he snarled. “We will seal both sides. Tonight we feast on the flesh of hundreds of orcs, brethren! With me! To the bloodshed!”

He raced off on all fours as over a hundred more gave chase behind him. The distance was a little under three miles, but they crossed it swiftly. In the cool of night they could run forever; it was only the fire in the sky that made them pant. If they had not been outnumbered, he might have held the raid at night, but he had to hit them unprepared. He had ambitions far greater than the Wedge could offer, and to fulfill them, he needed a pack large enough to endure. When the howls sounded across the land of humans, he wanted them to know fear.

The ground steadily grew rockier, and Redclaw slowed his pack. Up ahead was the ravine, dipping down into the land like a great scar. The orcs had built a wall at either entrance, but the camp was new enough that they had not yet reinforced it, nor built rudimentary towers to keep watch at its top. He didn’t know why they had encroached his land. Perhaps they fled one of the other orc tribes, or they had been scattered and forced their way by the other vile races within the Wedge, the hyena-men with their short, thick claws, or perhaps the bird-men with their cruel beaks.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. They’d come into Redclaw’s ever-expanding territory, earning their fate.

A quick growl, and Bonebite veered to the side, leading half his pack to curl around the ravine and assault from the rear. Redclaw slowed his pace, wanting to give them time to set up. They would hit at once, crawling over both walls and shredding their camp before the orcs could organize a defense. They came from the west, using the depth of the ravine as a shield against watching eyes. No one kept watch, a stupidity that might explain why they had been forced to flee in the first place. No doubt an orc or two stayed at the walls within the ravine, but they would have only a moment’s notice when the wolf-men came rushing in.

Redclaw stood on his legs and lifted a hand. The rest of his pack pulled up, and he heard their panting. A few nipped at one another, clearly on edge.

“Calm,” he growled. “Save your bites for the orcs.”

They endured the daylight and waited, every muscle tense. When the signal howl came from the opposite end of the ravine, they answered in unison.

“For the blood!” Redclaw cried, leading the charge. They stormed into the ravine, toward the wooden wall blocking their way. It was designed against other orcs, no doubt who they thought their greatest enemy. But the wood was thick, rough, and it yielded easily to their claws. Cries of warning came from inside, but no spears thrust at them, no cowardly arrows sailed through the air. Redclaw scaled the wall, paused atop it, and scanned. Orcs were scurrying about, grabbing swords and shields. No line had formed yet, though it seemed like the greatest force gathered in the center, no doubt where their tribal leader hollered in panic.

Three orcs were below him, the spineless lot abandoning their posts in flight. With a push of his enormous legs, Redclaw dove upon two of them at once, his claws shredding their flesh. He let out a howl, and he felt himself falling into the wild warrior beast that lived deep within him. The planning done, the fight begun, he allowed himself to give in.

At first, it was too easy. They raced through the many tents, clawing and biting at any nearby. Mostly it was the old or weak, those unable to fight. Hiding inside the tents, they acted as if they would be safe there. They were not. Blood soaking his fur, Redclaw killed everything that moved, and he drank his fill. From the far side, he heard the roars of Bonebite’s group, and more worrisome, howls of pain. The orcs had finally begun to fight. Furious that he had missed the initial confrontation, he tore through the tents, calling for his pack to join his side. Forming a wedge of nine, they thundered toward the large center of the camp, where the orcs had chosen to make their stand.

Redclaw dove into where they were thickest, unafraid of their thin spears and cruel swords. His claws were sharper, his muscles greater. Even the orcs, tall and strong compared to most races of Dezrel, were puny compared to him. He descended upon one, tore out its throat with a quick snap of his jaw, and then spun to his right. He slashed at the wrist holding the blade swinging at him, and the blow lost all strength when it hit, the blade unable to pierce the thick hide beneath his black coat of fur. A quick swipe, and the orc fell back, blood gushing from its torn throat.