David Dalglish - Night of Wolves

“Baedan’s no lass,” Robert said. “He’s just a spineless bigot, Karak curse his name.”

Daniel pointed to where smoke burned in the far distance inside the Wedge.

“A hunting party, perhaps?” he asked. “Orcs? Or have the hyena-men finally learned how to make fire?”

“No matter,” said Robert. “It’s too far away. I won’t lead what few men I have in a hopeless chase of distant smoke.”

“There was a time when we would have ridden across those dead plains on a hundred horses,” Daniel said, a wistful look coming over his face. “The damned creatures feared the very sight of the Gihon, our boats and our towers. What happened?”

Robert turned away from the window and leaned against the stone. Closing his eyes, he sighed. During that disastrous attack against the elves, he’d pulled back his men, refusing to continue. They’d lost thousands trying to kill a mere ten. There would be no victory, no revenge. The fight had lasted another six hours, and when Marcus heard of his retreat, he blamed him for the deaths, as if his cowardice had allowed the elves to endure as long as they did. But Robert was also the hero of Dezerea, and it was his strategy that had burned the elven capital to the ground. Unable to punish him how he wished, instead Marcus had sent him to the wall of towers.

Year after year, the king had denied requests for supplies and soldiers. Their boats grew worse, their weaponry chipped and dull no matter how often they polished and shined it. They’d been forced to beg donations from the nearby villages, for Baedan’s coin was not enough to feed them all. Their role in patrolling the river, protecting the lands from the various creatures of the Vile Wedge, ensured the local populace aided them whenever they could. Robert’s muscular body had thickened as the tedious years rolled on. His calluses had vanished, his black hair grown long and gray, and his finely honed reflexes had faded away into the dusty corners of his mind.

“You want to know what happened?” Robert asked. “I was put in charge. That’s what happened. Marcus will bleed us with the patience of a spider, until at last we are so weak something gets through. He doesn’t care how many die, so long as he can strip me of my title and exile me in shame.”

Daniel grew quiet, and he looked to the distant smoke with new worry.

“We’re not so thin,” he said. “We can stop whatever those savages send at us.”

“Here, perhaps,” said Robert. They were within his study, and he walked across the room and gestured to a map of northern Mordan. Drawn in exquisite detail were the towers placed alongside the Gihon at thirty to forty mile intervals. The distance grew the closer they came to the Citadel, for the paladins aided them in guarding the lower section of the Gihon, where it met the Rigon, forming the lower V part of the wedge. Robert gestured to the various towers, all named after the colors they were drawn in.

“Tower Red and Silver are at a tenth of their full capacity,” he said, pointing at the two nearest to theirs. “Green is down to a single horse, and I have none left to send. The best I can hope for is a wealthy farmer donating one to us. Gold’s foundation is cracking, and no matter how often I request a mason from Mordeina, Marcus only responds with vague promises. At the far end, Violet is all but unmanned, the paladins of Ashhur graciously patrolling its waters for us. Most of our troops lack training, don’t try to deny it. We’re a rotting fence penning in a herd of bulls. One of these days those bulls will realize it, turn their horns our way, and smash through.”

“What of the Blood Tower?” asked Daniel. “How are things there?”

Robert forced himself to smile. Blood Tower was his, the base of command for the entire wall.

“Blood has the finest soldiers Mordan could hope for,” he said. “And I hear they won’t quit no matter how terrible their situation becomes, and never will they let the creatures cross the Gihon.”

“That’s what I thought,” Daniel said.

Someone knocked at the door, and Robert ordered them in. A younger lad, an orphan volunteered into their service from a nearby village, stepped inside, bowed his head, and offered a small scroll. Robert took it and dismissed him.

“More promises and gifts from Mordeina?” asked Daniel, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“No,” said Robert, furrowing his brow. “It’s from Durham.”

“Durham?”

Robert pointed on the map. It was an unnamed dot in the lengthy space between towers Bronze and Gold, not far from the river.

“Says wolf-men have been crossing the Gihon. Damn fools, they even went into the Wedge to try stopping them. They killed six, but say at least four remain. Now they want our help in case there’s more.”

“Sounds like they’re capable of handling this themselves,” Daniel said.

Robert handed him the scroll so he could read for himself.

“They went into the Wedge and found monsters,” Robert said, returning to the window. “Nothing surprising about that. It says only a single wolf-man actually entered their village, and it was slain. Starvation probably drove it across.”

“It’s far from either tower,” Daniel said, glancing back at the map. “I guess our boats don’t go there except maybe once a month. Still, worrisome that there’d be so many bunched together.”

“They’re probably lying about the numbers they found, just to get us to help them.”

“I doubt that. It’s signed by two paladins. Shit, one’s Ashhur, and one’s for Karak.”

Robert raised an eyebrow. He yanked the scroll out of Daniel’s hand and scanned the bottom.

“Tan my hide,” he said. “You’re right.”

“If something can get a paladin of both gods to agree, I’d say it’s serious.”

“Damn it. Two paladins, and they can’t defend themselves?”

“Those two might be the only reason they killed the ones they did,” Daniel pointed out.

“Fine. If you’re so overcome with boredom, take a squad and go. It might do some good to instill a bit more faith in us. And give Sir Lars an earful when you pass through Bronze. That’s his stretch he’s supposed to be guarding, and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

Daniel struck his breast with his fist and bowed.

“I’ll tell you of all my legendary conquests when I return,” he said, grinning.

“You’re not much younger than I,” Robert said, laughing. “I’ll be impressed if you even get blood on your sword.”

“Perhaps not younger, but I’m not as fat, either,” Daniel said, ducking out the door before Robert could respond with the rightful blow to the head he deserved.

T he week passed, and the people of Durham moved on best they could given their losses. No wolf-men crossed the river. Jerico and Darius resumed giving their respective sermons, though Jerico noticed his numbers had grown by fifteen or so, while Darius’s dwindled. No doubt many still bore grudges at his pain-fueled condemnation of Bobby’s fate. All the while, they waited for the message they’d sent upriver by way of tower Gold to be received, and the response to be given.

On the eighth day, as Jerico toiled in the field, he saw a man in silver armor approach from the distance. Straightening up, he stretched his arms and waited.

“Jerico?” asked the man as he arrived. He was older, with a white, well-trimmed beard. His small eyes looked Jerico up and down. “Or perhaps I am mistaken?”

“I am he,” Jerico said, offering his hand.

“Strange to see you half-naked and working a field.”

Jerico chuckled. “On days with nothing to preach, I like to help with what I can. It is the least I can do for what they’ve given me.”

“You bring them truth and salvation. The least they could do is feed you and give you a roof over your head,” said the man.