Night of Wolves (5 page)

“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.

All around he heard the sound of fighting, and at his side were his trusted pack, tearing into the orcs as if their armor were butter, their weapons toys. Still, the orcs were stubborn, and their spears were the worst. Redclaw caught sight of one of his best warriors howling, a spear embedded deep in his breast.

“Back!” he cried. “Circle!”

They began running, both his group and Bonebite’s merging together in a river of fur and muscle. The entirety of the orc camp huddled in a circle, everyone else having been massacred. Redclaw guessed at least sixty within, maybe more. They kept their shields high, and their spears poking past the front lines. Deep within, he heard the angry cries of an orc chieftain.

Redclaw led the circle, the rest following his lead. He dipped them closer, then pulled away, never letting the orcs know for certain where the ring would stretch or shrink. The nervous orcs at the front lashed out several times, always missing, always finding their arms grabbed or their weapons snatched from their hands. Once they fell into the circle, they never stood again. Trampled under the pounding feet, they could only cry out until dead.

Redclaw howled, and his pack took up the call. The orcs looked ready to break. He could smell the fear on them, and it was strong. His next howl was an order, and his pack obeyed with perfection he was immensely proud of. Leading the way, he lunged into a gap of orc shields, batting aside a wild thrust of a blade. He didn’t fight the outer wall, instead shoving through, trying to crack their ring. The rest of the wolves did not attack as the orcs expected. Instead they continued to circle, pouring into the gap opened up by Redclaw. They cracked the orcs like an egg, pushing deeper and deeper into their center. He had almost reached their chieftain when the orcs on the opposite side, realizing they were no longer surrounded, turned to flee.

The battle belonged to the wolves.

Redclaw drank the blood of their chieftain as the rest of his pack hunted down the fleeing orcs. Only the hyena-men could run faster than his kind, he knew. The slaughter would be complete. He stood atop the dead body and roared his victory. Bonebite joined him moments later, sporting a fresh new scar across his chest.

“Lucky bastard,” said Bonebite, seeing Redclaw’s eyes analyzing the wound. “I tore his head off for it.”

“Gather our dead,” Redclaw told him. “It is time we honor them.”

Twelve wolf-men had died in the attack, a far cry from the two-hundred dead orcs. Many others were wounded, but his people were strong, and he knew they would endure without complaint. They gathered the twelve together, laying them in a line side by side. Redclaw scanned them, searching for the strongest. Recognizing the corpse of a young, hot-tempered wolf-man that had gone by the name of Bloodgut, Redclaw walked over to it and then knelt on all fours. He was the one he’d seen struck by a spear.

“To our glorious dead!” Redclaw cried out, plunging his claws into Bloodgut’s chest and tearing out his heart. He shredded it in his teeth, the blood sweet across his tongue. With that, the rest descended upon the bodies, all strength of the pack preserved and redistributed throughout. The twelve were not enough to sate their hunger, though. Each wolf took the body of an orc, some still alive, and flung them over their shoulders.

“Let us return,” Bonebite said, two orcs across his back. “My pups will be hungry.”

They walked back on just their two hind legs, the journey much longer. They walked in victory, though, so they bore their aches and the light of the sun in good humor. At last they reached their camp. Only the pups remained, those not strong enough to fight. The women had come with them on the attack, and they had performed well during the slaughter. Redclaw dropped the orc he carried. His two pups approached, their arms lightly touching the ground for they were still learning to walk upright.

“Eat well,” he told them, proud of their size. Already he knew they would outgrow him. Come the day they feasted on his remains, they would fight amongst each other, the winner sure to be a great and powerful pack leader. Maybe they would surpass his accomplishments. He hoped they would.

As the rest arrived, Redclaw saw that it was not just children at the camp. A smaller wolf-man waited in the camp’s center, kneeling on his haunches in a display of humility. Redclaw recognized him as Yellowscar.

“Why have you come?” Redclaw asked him.

Yellowscar averted his eyes, his ears pulled back against his skull.

“Rotfur crossed the river,” said Yellowscar. “He went against our wishes, and he feasted on the blood of a human woman. The second time he crossed, he never returned.”

“Damn him,” growled Redclaw. “Better the humans took him, for that fate is better than what I would have given.”

“It is worse,” said Yellowscar. He pressed his stomach flat against the ground. “A group of humans ventured into the Wedge, led by two terrible men, one with a sword of fire, the other a shield of light. We killed many before they could retreat, but we lost six of our own.”

Redclaw felt anger flare through his veins. He’d led an assault on two hundred orcs and lost twelve, yet Yellowscar and the rest of his scouts lost half that to a mere party of
humans?

“They will know we are coming,” Redclaw growled, his voice deep and dangerously quiet. “They will send for men from the towers, armed with metal skin and cowardly bows. You let Rotfur’s bloodlust go unchecked. I said watch, and see if the waters are safe to cross. You fail me, Yellowscar.”

“I know,” Yellowscar said, his snout pressed to the dirt.

Redclaw grabbed him by the neck and hoisted him to his feet.

“Wolf does not kill wolf,” he said, staring into Yellowscar’s eyes. “You will pay back your mistakes. When the men come down the river, you will be ready, and you will be the one at the front of the attack.”

“I understand, pack leader.”

Redclaw dropped him and ordered him away. His rage still beat through his veins, and he knew his vow might be tested should the young scout remain in his sight. Fearful for his plan, he looked back at his pups. They deserved far better a home than the Wedge. Beyond the Gihon there was plentiful game, creatures they saw rarely. Deer, with meat so soft. Rabbits, which squealed when biting into their tender flesh. Streams, with water clean and light on the tongue…

“We will escape your prison,” Redclaw growled to the west, imagining the legion of humans that would quake with fear at the sound of his howl. His words were a promise, a vow to which he had sworn his entire life. “We will escape your blades. It is we, the wolves, who will feast.”

4

D
espite the respect his men showed him, despite the importance lauded on him by the nearby villages, Sir Robert Godley knew his position was an insult, the best King Marcus Baedan could think of for one of his station.