Night of Wolves

6

Daniel ate his breakfast in silence, speaking only to compliment the young woman who had prepared the meal. Amusingly enough, her husband beamed with pride at every word he spoke.

“She’s a real cook, ain’t she?” said Henry, the husband. His wife, a portly lady with auburn hair, flushed and turned away.

Daniel shifted in his seat. Beside him sat two more of his men, all three having slept on the floor of the farmer’s home. Compared to either the boat or the wild, it felt like the softest of beds.

“Never knew oatmeal could taste so fine,” said Gregory.

“We may have to stay longer,” Jon agreed.

Pushing aside his half-full bowl, Daniel stood. The others fell silent.

“Thank you,” he said, tilting his head to the couple. “I have business to discuss, so please, take no offense at my light appetite. The meal was fine, and it is a shame my stomach’s not set to enjoy it.”

“Want us to come with?” Gregory asked.

“Stay. Rest. I’ll talk with the paladins.”

The two soldiers shrugged and continued eating.

Daniel shivered as he stepped outside. Pulling his cloak tighter about him, he trudged toward Hangfield’s home. Daniel had never met the man, but his name had been on the formal request for aid. That, and when he’d spoken with the paladin Darius upon their arrival, he’d been told to meet them there come the morning.

“You get some rest before we discuss this further,” the blue-eyed paladin had told him. Daniel tried to oblige, but his dreams had been full of yellow eyes, and he’d woken multiple times covered with sweat. For all the battles he’d seen, it’d been years since he’d bloodied his blade, and even longer since he’d expected to lose. The feeling was far from welcome.

Damn old age, he thought. What he’d give to have his youthful feeling of invincibility back, if only for a little while.

A pretty lass waited by the door, and she curtseyed to him as he approached.

“Welcome,” she said, and he could tell she was trying her best to hide her nervousness.

“Tell me you weren’t waiting out here in the chill just for me,” he said.

Her gaze fluttered to the ground.

“I was,” she said. “Father wishes his guests to feel welcome.”

Daniel drew his sword, and her eyes widened. Flipping it about, he stabbed it into the dirt and kneeled before her.

“It is I who should bow to a beauty like you,” he said, smiling. “And I who should be waiting in the cold for a greeting. Please gift me with your name.”

It warmed his heart to see her giddy and breathless. She was on the cusp of womanhood, and maybe, just maybe, she would remember the honor shown to her and expect similar from the simple men of the village. She reminded him of his own daughter, who he’d lost to the bloody cough so many years before. The girl had the same green eyes. His heart panged at the remembrance.

“Jessie,” she said.

“Please, Jessie, escort an old man inside.”

She took his offered hand.

“You’re hardly old,” she insisted. “The hair on your head is not all gray.”

“But there is gray in it,” Daniel said, opening the door. “And all it takes is a single faded hair to make a man realize how far his youth has fled.”

Jessie didn’t know what to say, so she quietly led him to the dining room, where both paladins sat, a heavyset man with them.

“Jeremy Hangfield?” he asked as Jessie released his arm.

“I am,” said Jeremy. “I trust my daughter was polite in greeting you?”

“Polite as she might be standing motionless in the autumn air.” He gestured to a chair. “May I sit?”

Jeremy nodded, ignoring the rebuff. Daniel pulled the chair closer and made a show of sitting down. All the while, he scanned the three men, exaggerating his movements and grunts to buy time. Jeremy had noble blood in him, that was obvious, but he’d been tempered by the farmland and distance from the capital. Having his daughter wait in greeting was just a foolish attempt at replicating distant customs, at pretending to a wealth he didn’t really have. He may be the wealthiest man in the village, but compared to the true lords of Mordan, he was insignificant. His house was huge, though, he’d give him that.

The two paladins intrigued him. The one for Ashhur sat to his left, his red hair carefully cut, his beard trimmed. He wore no armor, but he kept his weapon at his side, and a pendant of the golden mountain hung from his neck. The man looked worn, about as bad as Daniel felt. On the right was Karak’s paladin, a handsome man whom he’d met the night before. His blue eyes seemed subdued in the daylight. When they’d first met in starlight, Darius’s gaze had sparkled as if infused with sapphires. He also lacked armor, but his greatsword leaned against his chair, his right hand gripping the handle. Compared to the other paladin, he looked a picture of health.

“I suppose introductions are in order,” said Daniel.

“I believe you’ve already met Darius,” Jeremy said after dismissing his daughter. He gestured to the other paladin. “And this is Jerico, our guest from the Citadel. Both have done well in protecting our village, but given the threat looming before us, we felt it best to contact you.”

“Well, I’m Daniel Coldmine,” Daniel said, leaning back in his chair. “I must admit, I first thought your letter a hoax. Wolf-men gathering near the Wedge’s border, and even worse, brave enough to cross the river? Preposterous. And to have paladins of both gods unable to stop them, and even more shocking, working together to do so? Now I’ve heard some tales in my days, gentlemen, but that one nearly got your letter burned.”

“We live in strange times,” Darius said, chuckling. Jerico remained quiet, and he looked as if his mind were far away.

“Even so, Sir Godley and I decided if it were true, things had to be bad indeed. Well, they are, and far beyond it. The wolf-men are scouting the river. They were waiting for us. Waiting! That takes a patience and cunning they normally lack. Whoever leads them is not to be dismissed lightly. They assaulted our boats from the water, killed half my men before we could reach safety. The question we all need to answer is, what does it all mean?”

“Wolf-men have always been territorial,” Jeremy said. He drank from his glass, then realized his manners. “A drink, my friend?”

“Strongest you have, Jeremy. I had a long night.”

The room fell quiet while Jeremy retrieved him a mug. Daniel scratched at his chin and watched the paladins. Jerico never once met his gaze. Darius seemed bothered by this, and Daniel caught several worried glances directed Jerico’s way. So bizarre. The dark paladin was actually upset. Them working together wasn’t some diplomatic necessity. They appeared to be friends.

“Strongest ale in the cellar,” Jeremy said, sitting back down. Daniel accepted the wooden mug and took a heavy swig. It burned going down, and he loved it. For the first time all morning, he felt himself coming around.

“Thank Ashhur for that. Karak too,” he said, winking.

Neither paladin rose to the bait. Damn, they were calm ones, weren’t they?

“This isn’t territorial,” Jerico said suddenly. He looked around, and he had the air of one pulling out of a dream. “They were scouting us with those first attacks. When we crossed the Gihon, they baited us, then attacked from both sides. And now they watch the river, doing all they can to prevent reinforcements. Jeremy, when is the next shipment coming from Bluewater?”

“Their boat should arrive early tomorrow, if not tonight,” said Jeremy. “Why?”

“It won’t arrive,” Darius said, realizing what Jerico was thinking. “The wolf-men will assault it like they did the troops from Blood Tower. They’re treating us like an animal separated from its herd.”

Daniel frowned. It felt like a bit of a leap, but still…

“Not entirely sure I buy this,” he said.

“They’ve found us weak,” Darius said, shaking his head. “And now they’ll do whatever they can to starve us, deny us safety in numbers. When will the pack descend upon Durham? And in how great a number?”

“Lot of assumptions here,” Jeremy insisted. “We’ve killed plenty of them. That alone should prove we are no easy prey.”

Daniel thought of the viciousness the wolf-men had displayed in attacking their boat. They hadn’t cared about their losses or the disadvantages they faced because of the water. No, they’d fought and died to ensure they didn’t reach the village. Still, they’d failed, which meant they weren’t invincible. Daniel felt pride swell in his chest knowing they’d given as good as they’d gotten, if not better, and that was without armor or solid footing.

“Not easy,” Daniel said. He glanced at the three. “But I don’t think they expect it to be easy. If they attack here, it will be soon. The longer they wait, the greater the chance Sir Godley realizes the danger and sends more reinforcements from the other towers.”

“What is it you suggest?” Jeremy asked.

The paladins shared a look, then deferred to Daniel.

“We either prepare a defense, or flee until we return with greater numbers.”

“Fight or flight,” said Darius. “It always seems to come down to those two, doesn’t it?”

“We cannot leave our homes!” insisted Jeremy. “For nearly everyone here, this is all we have. Our few wagons will not carry a tenth of our possessions. Our livestock will lack for food wherever we go, for how will we bring our grain and hay? Autumn will soon end; there is nothing for us to forage.”

“It is better to live with less than die with more,” Jerico said.

“Such a fine platitude,” Darius said. “But there’s a problem. We cannot outrun the wolf-men, not loaded and bearing women and children. Even if we left several days before them, they would descend upon us before we ever reached safety.”

“You think their attack will be so soon?” Daniel asked.

“Why else would they attack your ship? Whoever leads them is not stupid. They know time is running out. Even more, I know that defending a caravan of hungry, tired people is far harder than a prepared fortification.”

“Prepared fortification?” Jeremy laughed. “We’re a farming village. We fish and plant crops. Our homes are plain and made of wood. What fortifications?”

Darius grinned at him, and there was something dangerous in the smile.

“Such little faith,” he said.

“Enough,” said Jerico. “We don’t know what numbers we face. We don’t know who leads them and we don’t know how much time we have. Everything is guesswork, and in such a state, we are talking out of our behinds. Hot tempers help no one.”

“Then what is it you suggest?” Daniel asked, throwing up his hands.

“We go into the Wedge and find out for ourselves.”

“We?” asked Jeremy. “Might I remind you how well that turned out last time?”

Darius’s face turned red.

“No reminder needed,” he said. He glared at Jerico. “And you mean just the two of us, don’t you?”

“I do. We slip in and out of the Wedge unnoticed, and when we return, we prepare accordingly.”

Daniel stood, feeling the conversation reaching its end.

“And if you do not return?” he asked.

“Then I expect your men to defend this village with their lives,” Jerico said, as if it should be obvious. “Whether that is in flight, guarding the river, or behind locked doors, I don’t care.”

“Of course you don’t care,” Darius muttered. “We’ll be dead, after all.”

“These are simple folk,” Jeremy said, rising. “Keep news of this to yourselves, all of you. That is the only thing I ask. It’s not the unknown they’ll fear, only the lack of action. Once we know what we’re to do, trust me, trust us, to stand tall and do what must be done.”

Daniel turned to leave, and as he did, he heard Darius’s biting comment behind him.

“Very few stand tall when staring into the eyes of a wolf-man, Jeremy. Pray we return with good news.”

R edclaw’s fury swelled as Yellowscar groveled before him, his belly pressed against the pale grass and his snout jammed into the ground. Every quaking breath blew dirt back and forth from his nostrils. Across his arm was a shallow wound, the blood crusted over and matting his fur.

“Twice now you fail me,” Redclaw said. The rest of the pack surrounded him, for when Yellowscar’s group had returned, they’d come limping with wounds and half their original number. The pack had sensed blood then, and come to watch it drawn. Redclaw keenly felt their eyes upon him, and his law of wolf not killing wolf weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“I have earned your wrath, pack leader,” Yellowscar said. “They were prepared somehow, and when we burst from the water, they struck us with swords and pushed toward the shore with heavy poles.”

Again the numbers confounded Redclaw. He’d sent twenty-five wolf-men to deal with what turned out to be a mere twenty humans. Nine humans had died, to fourteen wolves. How could such a thing happen? Was he underestimating their weak, pink flesh? The orcs wielded weapons akin to the humans, yet they died in droves when they descended upon them. What made these humans so much more dangerous?

They couldn’t be. The failure came in the leader, the commander.

“Yellowscar,” Redclaw said, grabbing him by the neck and lifting him from the ground. “I see now where the fault lies.”

And with that, he pressed his nose against Yellowscar’s, a sign of friendship and forgiveness. All around, the pack yipped and growled with confusion.

“I have sent scouts to do the job of warriors. I have sent the fast do the work of the strong. It is I who should have led this charge, to witness for myself the strength of humans. They were brave enough to come into the Wedge and slay many of my pack. Vengeance, my brethren! That is what we must howl for.”

He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice.

“You will sleep outside the pack for the rest of your life,” he growled. “Twice now you fail me, and yet I humble myself so you may live. Wolf must not slay wolf. But twenty wolves died under your lead, yet you did not. So that is how many you must slay before I accept you back into our warmth.”

“My mate…”

“You may not lie with her, nor cuddle with your pups. They stay with us, and you outside. Do you understand, Yellowscar, or must I name you Yellowbelly to the entire pack?”

Yellowscar flattened his ears and lowered his head.

“I understand. I will earn my way back with blood, pack leader. I promise.”

Redclaw stepped back and looked west.

“Time has become our enemy. Let us go to the river. Another boat should arrive, this of food and tools, yes?”

“Every seven days, and tonight is the seventh,” Yellowscar said, looking pleased that his watch was proving useful in any way.

“Good. Let us see if you can feast upon the first of your twenty.”

Redclaw gathered fifteen of his strongest, including Yellowscar, and then ran toward the water. The ugly grass grew thicker, some of its color turning to traces of healthy green. The moon was bright in the sky, and Redclaw felt pleasure in its light. It was a cool presence, soft on his eyes, unlike the fiery day. With everything so bright, it seemed the world shimmered, the colors flushed and exaggerated. In the darkness, his eyes soaked in the curves of the grass, the drifting of the clouds, and the jutted crevices of each stone, all without long distorting shadows. Up ahead, trees grew, a sign they had arrived at the river the humans called the Gihon.

“Why did you not bring Bonebite?” asked Yellowscar as they slowed, walking on their hind legs instead of all fours.

“Why? Do you feel fright without him to cower behind?” snapped one of the other warriors, brown-furred and wide-shouldered with the name of Dirtyhide. Redclaw shot him a glare, and he nipped at his face to show his displeasure.

“It is no cowardice to want a strong warrior at your side,” he snarled. “Calm yourselves, all of you. This is Yellowscar’s hunt.”

“A doomed hunt then,” Dirtyhide grumbled.

Redclaw bared his teeth, and before the other wolf could respond, he grabbed him by the throat and lifted his back legs off the ground.

“I fight at his side,” he said. “You insult me in saying us doomed. Speak it again, Dirtyhide, if you are so brave. I relish the thought of your blood on my tongue.”

“Wolf must not kill wolf,” Dirtyhide managed to say, his clawed fists clutching Redclaw’s wrist as it held him.

“I would only eat one arm. You’d still live.”

Dirtyhide yipped at that. Giving him one last shake, Redclaw tossed him to the ground and snarled at the others. He towered a foot above all of them, and he pulled back and howled to the moon, letting them hear the strength of his lungs, see the corded muscles of his chest. The rest backed away, all but Yellowscar, who lowered his head and ears respectfully while staying at his side.

“Enough,” said Redclaw. “We must not nip at our own heels when food is near. To the river. The human village must starve as we starve. They must know the hunger we have lived with all our lives. No boats can arrive. As for Bonebite, he remains at the pack for I need him at the Gathering. I would not want Goldteeth to arrive without someone strong to greet him.”

“We don’t need Goldteeth to feast upon the human flesh,” said Rockeye, looking to the rest for support. He was stronger than many, his powerful muscles visible through the mange on his skin, but it was for his reflexes that Redclaw brought him. “Send Goldteeth away. Let his pack starve while we reap what we have earned.”

“I said enough!” Redclaw snarled. “You are my strongest, yet you doubt me? We do not attack to eat. We attack to live! The humans will send men to drive us back across the river, hundreds of them. With our every victory, more will arrive, until we face a sea of metal and flesh. Come then, we must have every wolf-man united together. I cannot be just pack leader. I must be leader of leaders. Humans are fearful of the future, and that is why they will never let us be. We must be smarter. We must be stronger. Goldteeth will only be the first.”

“You are strong,” Yellowscar said, still keeping his body low. “Not since the old tales have we had a leader of leaders, but you are mighty. You will be Wolf King.”

The rest howled at the title, and Redclaw felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

“Wolf King,” he said, drool swelling on his tongue. “If the moon is kind, I will see it so. But for now, the boat. Let us worry about Goldteeth and his pack later. Ears sharp, and noses open. They must not pass.”

They fell silent, the only sound that of their footfalls and the deep inhalations through their nostrils. The world was awash with colors, not just of light, but of scent. They floated like mists before him, should he let his mind focus upon the sense. When on the hunt, the mist would trail through the air, fading with each moment, falling upon the grass and leaves like dew. But his eyes were sharp, his nose strong, and he could smell what others could not, track what others could not. And in the night, hovering like smoke across the water, was the scent of humans.

“Already passed here,” Redclaw growled.

“Not long,” said Yellowscar, whose nose was stronger than his, which is why he was a scout. “The scent is heavy. Let us run. No boat along the water can match the speed of a wolf.”

“Send them our fear,” Redclaw said, taking in a deep breath as the others did likewise. As one they howled, the sound traveling for miles. He wished he were close enough to smell the human’s fear on the boat. Surely it would be delicious.

South along the river they ran. They moved without need for silence. This territory had long been theirs, and there was no creature that would dare hunt a wolf-man. The river curved, gently widening. The trees grew taller and further apart. As Redclaw ran, he kept his concentration off the scent. It was just a vague swarm of color to him, and unless he slowed down he could make no sense of it. Yellowscar, however, yipped and pointed, able to decipher meaning even when at full run.

“Very close,” he said. “But the town is close as well. Hurry.”

“It is your hunt,” Redclaw told him. “Lead on, and show no hesitation.”

They thundered along, Yellowscar leading, Redclaw following with the rest of his hunting party. The trees were a blur as they passed by. Panting heavily, Redclaw watched the moon steadily dip. Morning would arrive all too soon, along with the damned fire in the sky. He wondered how Bonebite handled himself at the Gathering. They greatly outnumbered Goldteeth’s pack, but with him and his greatest warriors gone, the other leader would grow bold, as he hoped. Still, that was for another time. The hunt was on, and he couldn’t risk distraction.

He didn’t need Yellowscar’s signal to know the boat was near, for between the trees his sharp eyes spotted the humans. There were six, sitting on a large, flat structure that floated along. Several crates were stacked atop it. Whether or not the humans wielded metal weapons, he didn’t know. They often hid them in strips of leather at their sides, and with them sitting, he could not see.

“Howl or swim?” Yellowscar asked, keeping his voice low.

“Your hunt,” Redclaw said.

Yellowscar continued his run, and faster than the river they continued south. Soon the boat was behind them, and then Yellowscar sprinted into the water. Redclaw followed, and he did his best to hide his discomfort. There were many of his brethren who loved to paddle in the water. They claimed it made them feel free, but Redclaw always felt trapped. It made him slower, his claw strikes weak and clumsy. Before his pack, though, he couldn’t dare show weakness. He remained at Yellowscar’s left, only their heads visible above the water as they paddled.

“No deaths,” Redclaw whispered. Yellowscar flattened his ears in response.

The six men were clearly on edge. It mixed with their scent, changing its color. Two rowed, and a third guided them along with a heavy pole. Three more sat in the center, and it was they that Redclaw assumed would have weapons. Yellowscar snapped his teeth to the left, then to the right. The pack split, half one way, half the other. Redclaw led the left. Only Yellowscar remained at the front, and he stopped his paddling. The boat drifted toward them, moving faster than the river.

Redclaw shifted closer, checking his positioning. By the time they reached Yellowscar, he would be within grabbing distance of an oarsman. The other side would be similarly attacked, and Yellowscar could surely handle the man with the pole. Half the boat would be bleeding in the water before they knew they were under attack. He felt his anticipation rise, saliva building on his tongue. Closer, closer…

He was just about to reach out when Yellowscar burst from the water and howled at the top of his lungs. The oarsmen jerked back, and Redclaw’s swipe missed. Furious, he paddled closer to the boat as the humans cried out in panic. The boat was a confusion of bodies and arms. Snarling, Redclaw grabbed the side and hoisted himself up. The man with the oar had dropped it to grab a blade, and he swung it with strength born of desperation. With no room to move, and no desire to fall back into the water, Redclaw endured the slash. It tore into his flesh, but his muscles were thick, and his hide tough. Blood spilled across his fur. He slashed the oarsman, trading him blow for blow. The human had only weak skin, and beneath his sharp claws, it shredded and tore. An eyeball flung loose from the human’s skull, and Redclaw felt disappointment as it plopped into the water, sure to be lost and eaten by fish.

His fury growing, he lunged at the men in the center, the three of them keeping their backs together and their swords thrusting. They wore light armor, like the scales of fish, and his claws caught and pulled. One went down, the blow surely breaking bones. Another tried slashing at him to protect his comrade, but two wolf-men attacked from the other side. Just like that, the defense collapsed. More and more of his pack climbed aboard, tossing bodies into the water so the rest could feast.

At last they were dead, and Redclaw stood in the boat’s center. The blood-haze faded from his mind, and once more he took in his surroundings. The village’s dock was within sight.

Grabbing a crate, he hefted it into his arms and dumped it into the river. The rest followed his example, filling the river with old meats, filthy grains, and blocks of salt. Finished, he looked about, and when he saw the body floating face down, his fury swelled anew.

“Dirtyhide,” he said. His voice was calm, belying his fury. He searched for Yellowscar, found him at the back of the boat, his mouth hanging open with a dumb expression. Redclaw let loose a howl and leapt at him. His claws tore two great stripes across Yellowscar’s chest, soaking his claws with blood. Yellowscar moved to defend himself, but Redclaw grabbed his throat and squeezed. Knowing struggling was useless, Yellowscar lay there, the thin layer of water along the bottom of the boat soaking into his fur.

“You gave us away!” he cried.

“I wanted them afraid,” Yellowscar argued.

“And I wanted them dead! Dirtyhide died. I warned you, Yellowscar. Three times is your failure, and how many did you kill this night?”

“Two.”

“Two? You are pathetic. You are weak.”

He picked him up and hurled him into the water. When he tried to come near, the others nipped at him and chased him away.

“The territory of Redclaw is no longer your home,” he decreed. “Step one foot in my land, and we will cut you, bleed you, and leave you for the vultures. Do you understand me, Yellowscar?”

Yellowscar ignored them, instead paddling toward the human side of the river. When he reached the shore, he turned back and howled.

“I will come for my pups. I will come for my mate. You will not banish me, Redclaw!”

“You are banished, Yellowscar! And I will take your mate as my own, for her fur is soft, and she deserves a stronger mate than you.”

Yellowscar howled again, this one mixed with anger and helpless anguish. Redclaw responded in kind, and his cry was louder, stronger, and it humbled the banished wolf-man.

“Come,” he told his brethren. “We shall return home. The humans will suffer now, and they will worry. Let us see how the Gathering has gone, and if Bonebite has earned us another ally.”

They swam west, back into the Wedge. Redclaw looked back only once, curious to see if a pair of yellow eyes watched them from the opposite shore. There were none. Yellowscar was gone.