Night of Wolves (11 page)

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.

7

“C
areful with the boat,” Jerico said as Darius guided them across the Gihon. “I doubt either of us could do much swimming in platemail if you capsize us.”

“I can remove my armor in less than twenty seconds. Can you?”

“A handy skill with the ladies, I guess.”

Darius shot him a wink. “I didn’t think that would be something a paladin of Ashhur would know much about.”

Jerico laughed. “Just watch the river. I doubt any comely lasses are waiting for you at the bottom.”

They stowed the boat amid the tall reeds growing by the river’s edge. From there they checked their armor, tightened it, and began their trek.

“Keep that shield on your back,” Darius said as they jogged. “Last thing we need is your glow giving us away.”

“Perhaps you should have ducked into the river. I wonder which is noticeable from farther away, my shield’s light, or your smell?”

“Your insults are like those of children.”

“Didn’t you tell me I should adept to my audience?”

Darius hit him with an elbow, which clanged against his platemail. Jerico grinned and smacked his shoulder. For a long while they ran, the minutes passing by in relative silence. The river faded behind them, soon just a barely visible line of trees. At last they stopped for a breather, and Jerico wondered at how many miles they had crossed.

“I think I know why elves only wear leather,” Jerico muttered as he tugged at the undercoat of his armor.

“We’re slower to arrive, and slower to be killed,” Darius said. “Fair tradeoff.”

“From what I hear, they’re tough to kill as well.”

Darius shrugged. “Well, they’d be even harder to kill in plate. Must you always debate?”

“Must you always be right?”

“It’s my charming trait. What’s yours?”

“The red beard.”

Despite the heaviness of his breath, Darius laughed.

“Fair enough. I see no wolf tracks here, and the night is strangely void of their howls.”

Jerico shifted the shield on his back and then gazed west, which was a long stretch of flat ground leading to where hills grew like bumps atop the wedge. In the starlight, he saw only grass and rock.

“It is strange,” he agreed. “Did we pass their camp, perhaps?”

“I doubt that. They run faster and farther than us, so it’d make sense for them to keep distance between their pack and the river. Last thing they want is easy surprise by our soldiers. But still, why the silence? Surely there’s at least one pack out there hunting.”

“What if they’re hunting us?”

They both glanced about, and Jerico felt the hairs on his neck rise.

“Your god warning you of impending danger?” Darius asked.

“No. You?”

“No. Then we’re not being hunted…yet. Come. In time, the wolf-men will have to…”

The cacophony of howls stunned him quiet. It came from their north, the wild sounds crying to the moon. Their volume was so great both paladins shivered, their mouths dropping open in surprise.

“It can’t be,” Darius whispered.

“We have to see for certain,” Jerico said, swallowing his fear.

“But there are hundreds. Hundreds!”

“And we will get as close as we can to know for sure.” Jerico struck Darius across the chest with the back of his hand, an almost playful gesture. “You aren’t losing your spine on me, are you?”

A second wave of howls reached them, accompanied by many faster yips. Darius listened, then shook his head as if snapping out of a daze.

“Spine is still intact,” he said, staring hard to the north. “But we won’t be if any spot us. They’ll devour even our bones, Jerico. Lead on if you must. No paladin of Ashhur will go where a paladin of Karak will not.”

Jerico took point, almost wishing Darius had objected more strongly. Part of him wanted to get as far away from that fearful gathering as possible. From what he could tell, they were somewhere between the dips of the hills, but where, he did not know. Sound could do strange things when traveling across the plains. The two ran on, their idle chatter ended, their breathing muffled. The rattle of their armor suddenly seemed dangerous and unnecessary. Leather armor, thought Jerico. Yet another reason to wear that instead of this damn plate.

They slowed as they approached a tall hill, and from the other side they heard constant shouts and growls. The wolf-men spoke the tongue of humans, as all creatures other than the orcs of the Wedge did. Ever since their creation and subsequent use in the Gods’ War, the wolves had changed it the least, while the other races had added strange accents to fit their tongues. Jerico remembered studying each race during his time in the Citadel, and now he wished he’d paid ten times more attention to those studies. What could the wolf-men possibly be doing raising such a ruckus?

“Stay low,” Darius said as they neared the hill. “The wind favors us, so thank Karak for that.”

“Karak’s lord of the air?”

“And the dirt. Now shut up and follow me.”

Darius climbed on his hands and knees, and Jerico followed. Near the very top they began crawling on their stomachs, and at the summit, they peered over to witness the gathering of wolf-men. Jerico’s jaw dropped at the number. There were at least two hundred, and they formed a great circle around a massive pile of rock that, he guessed, was sacred to them in some way. At first he thought them one group, but then he saw they were sectioned into two. On the left was the larger, nearly a hundred and fifty, while on the right was a group a third that size.

“Their leaders,” Darius whispered as he pointed. Jerico followed his gaze. Two wolf-men stood beside the rock pile, and they took turns howling. One of them, representing the larger group, had gray fur and a heavy stoop to its back, but its size and strength was incredible. The other, taller but thinner in the arms, snarled and consistently bared its ugly yellow teeth. Whatever they said between their howls, neither paladin could hear through the din.

“We’ve seen enough,” Darius said.

“Wait.” Jerico grabbed his arm and then gestured. “Something’s going on.”

The two leaders stepped onto the pile of rocks. They scattered and shifted, and then Jerico realized they were no rocks. They were bones, an enormous collection, all of them incredibly old. With their ascension, the rest quieted so they might hear their leaders speak.

“I am Bonebite,” said the older wolf-man. “I speak for Redclaw, pack leader of his tribe. Let all look upon me and know my strength.”

Bonebite stood to his full height and howled. It went on and on, at a pitch that made Jerico’s ears ache.

“I am Goldteeth,” said the other. “Pack leader of my tribe. Let all look upon me and know my strength.”

Goldteeth’s turn to howl, and this time Jerico plugged his ears with his fingers. His howl was louder, but did not last as long. He wondered which one would be considered the greater. Was that a lecture he slept through at the Citadel? Maybe he could take his knowledge back to his teachers and…

He felt a pain in his chest as he remembered his vision of the Citadel’s collapse. No, there would be no teachers, no students, no lessons. Biting his tongue to focus, as well as fight back tears, he listened as the wolf-men resumed whatever strange ritual they’d stumbled upon.

“You called us here,” Goldteeth said, his howl still ringing in Jerico’s ears. “We come to the Gathering. Why is Redclaw not here? Must he hide behind others? Must he use your strength, Bonebite?”

The larger group growled, the sound low and deep.

“Redclaw hides behind no one,” said Bonebite. “His pack is strong, and he is stronger than I. Would you insult what you cannot strike, Goldteeth?”

The other’s turn to growl and yip. Jerico strained his eyes to see. Goldteeth had bared his fangs, and he paced before Bonebite. His fingers opened and closed, as if he were imagining burying his claws into a foe.

“I hear his reason, and I come now to challenge it. Redclaw would seek to be leader of leaders, yet he will not appear at his own Gathering? I will not bow my head to such a coward. Hear me, it is I that should lead your pack. Goldteeth is the stronger, and Redclaw the weakling.”

“Then why is your pack the smaller?” asked Bonebite. He gestured toward them, as if mocking their numbers. “If you are stronger, why does your pack not rival ours?”

“You grow fat on better land,” argued Goldteeth. “You hunt by the river in your secret place, but it is secret no longer. We also hear of the weakness of Redclaw. My pack is small, but it is strong. You nurse weaklings and gray-furs. You do not cull the lesser. Two wolves can destroy twenty cows, Bonebite the gray-fur.”

“That got under his skin,” Darius muttered as Bonebite howled at the top of his lungs, the rest of his pack joining in.

“Still not sure what we’re watching,” Jerico said, raising his voice to be heard.

“A pissing contest is my guess. I also think Bonebite’s pack is the one that’s been giving us trouble.”

Jerico agreed, and he quieted down as the events unfolded. The two leaders were crouching before one another on the pile of bones, their teeth bared and their ears flattened.