The White Shadow Saga: The Stolen Moon of Londor (13 page)

"Highbinder," Gildan's voice called out with
urgency. "Quicken your pace at once."

Striding into the darkness, Seth soon found
his cohorts, treading softly through the thick brush. Branches
yielded to the pressure of their footfalls with a muffled snap as
they moved in the blackness, swords at the ready.

The only sounds they heard now were their
stealthy footfalls and the faint chirr of crickets. Soon the trees
thinned out as they approached a clearing on rising ground.

"That hill," Arnanor said. "I would risk
gaining it."

"You read my mind," Gildan said. "It will
give us a brief advantage over the forest." In brighter moonlight
again, he turned to those behind him and motioned them ahead.

Seth nodded and took in a deep breath,
quickening his pace as they started up the hill through ankle-high
grass. In the pale moonlight he could see the grand sweep of forest
stretching for miles, with a line of mountains against the distant
horizon.

The wind picked up as they gained the
hilltop, where Gildan stood in front of his companions, staring
into the sky. He could vaguely see Randor on the only other hill in
the area, with a mile of dark forest lying between them. It
appeared that the wizard did not hear the howls--or chose not to
acknowledge them.

"Do we stop here?" Seth asked.

"For a moment, yes," Gildan replied, "though
we cannot linger too long."

"Shouldn't we return for torches?" Seth
inquired. "That would give us a greater advantage."

"We haven't the time," said Gildan.

Hearing a faint sound to his left, Seth
whipped around. "Did you hear that?"

"Let us continue," Gildan ordered. He decided
to keep an eastward heading, knowing that Randor was to their south
and would soon disappear from their sight. Gildan took a last look
at his mentor as he led the way once more down the hill, toward the
forbidding forest, but after only a few steps, he stopped in mid
stride, saying, "Hold fast." The sound he had heard was far closer
now, though no one had yet seen its source. "Reveal yourself and
you may survive!" Gildan growled.

"Survive?" said Arnanor. "I strike to
destroy!"

From out of the dark brush, a massive form
leaped high, soaring through the air and slamming hard to the
ground, where it dug its sharp claws into the earth. The company
retreated a few steps and gazed in horrified fascination at the
seven-foot creature standing before them: a werewolf. The eyes of
the beast, burning like bright red embers, were focused intently on
the small group. A pair of long and twisted horns grew before its
ears, dull in the light, yet menacing. It opened its great,
slavering maw, showing long fangs. The werewolf raised its bulging,
muscled arms, covered by tangled white fur. Though the monster was
outnumbered, its sheer size and power made it a formidable
adversary nonetheless. Moreover, Gildan and Arnanor were not fooled
by its lone presence, knowing that its kind traveled in clans.

"Never have I seen such a beast!" Seth
gasped, almost losing his grip on his sword. "My years of training
now lie useless!"

"Foolishness," Gildan replied, displeased at
the knight's lack of confidence.

"We are surrounded," Malander informed his
companions. But with a quick glance in all directions, Gildan found
this information to be merely a figment of the grim man's
disordered imagination. Undoubtedly, though, they would be
surrounded soon enough, making victory harder to obtain.

The company's enemy stood inert, each muscle
tense, ready to strike. Keeping its eyes on its newfound prey, it
opened its fists, and ten long, curved claws splayed out from its
long, slender fingers. Rearing back, the werewolf howled deeply,
then unleashed a demonic laugh. Squinting its eyes, it spoke.
"Unarm yourselves, mortals!" This beast appeared to be a more
advanced breed, for not all werewolves could speak. "Flee not, for
I will only rip you apart more slowly if you do."

"Who are you?" Arnanor asked. Strangely, he
felt as though he had seen this creature before. The prince's
memory was failing him. He had seen many werewolves before in his
land, during the decades of war between the Northern Kingdom and
the werewolf legions. They were a fearsome adversary, to be sure,
but many evil foes had fallen victim to Arnanor's blade, and
whoever this beast was, he would not yield to it or any other. Yet
Arnanor did find it strange that the attacks on his kingdom by the
werewolves had lessened in the past year--in fact, no recent
accounts were recorded at all.

"I am Yindraken, Lord of the Mazazuken Clan!"
the beast declared with great gravity. Arnanor knew that this clan
had been exalted above all its kindred, and that all wolf-kind
feared them.

"I know all too well of you, foul creature!"
Arnanor shouted, barely able to contain his hatred. Knowing that
the Mazazuken were inclined to a boreal climate, he was baffled to
find his enemy here. The prince was proud that his people had kept
the Mazazuken at bay for thousands of years, though he did feel
sadness at the number of lives sacrificed to ensure the kingdom's
freedom. Years of suppressed images and memories long buried in his
young mind now broke open like a new wound. "Fate has brought you
to me this night," he proclaimed. You and your clan shall
fall!"

Yindraken the werewolf laughed in derision as
he stepped forward from the partial shadow and loomed closer to
Gildan. Seth retreated and stumbled behind Malander. "The Mazazuken
will never fall!" he proclaimed.

"By my hand I will see it done!" said the
prince. "I am Arnanor, heir to the throne of the Northern
Kingdom!"

"You…" Yindraken hissed. "You should not have
told me this. Now I will take special care to kill you myself. My
brothers will no longer fall victim to your demonic elves."
Yindraken sprang for Arnanor's throat, his fangs bared. Gildan, who
stood between the prince and the beast, ducked quickly as the beast
soared overhead. Arnanor began his retreat and parried each of the
werewolf's powerful attacks, which came furiously and without a
pause. As precise as Arnanor was with his sword, he was not able to
wound the beast.

As the lust for battle flowed through them
both like a raging river, the world around them was shut out. But
it was to Yindraken's disadvantage that he disregarded the other
three of Arnanor's company, for Gildan, Malander, and Seth quietly
surrounded the beast. Arnanor swung the great sword, slash after
slash, as he fought for his life, drawing away to the edge of the
hill's flat peak. Meanwhile, his three companions sidestepped to
maintain a constant encirclement. Seth, covering the area behind
Arnanor, felt his footing slip on the incline and fell
backward.

Yindraken showed great skill in unarmed
combat, for as Arnanor well knew, the use of swords, spears, or any
other weaponry was considered beneath the Mazazuken. With blinding
speed he spun around and unleashed a viciously clawed kick.
Slip-stepping to his left, the prince swung his blade downward onto
the wolf's thigh. But no harm came to Yindraken, and suddenly a
powerful forward kick struck Arnanor in the pit of the stomach. The
elf-prince's armor provided scant cushioning, and the blow knocked
the breath from him. Curling around the kick, Arnanor was launched
backward into the night and went tumbling violently down the back
of the hill.

Gildan, enraged, could no longer stand back,
and raising his blade, he rushed at Yindraken's back. The wolf,
meanwhile, so gloated in his victory over the prince of Northern
Kingdom that he was oblivious to the world around him. Closer came
the elven mercenary, ready to strike down the evil, but just as his
long blade came into deadly reach, Yindraken leaped over Gildan's
head. Gildan spun about to continue the assault, and Yindraken
retreated slightly, shaking his finger at the elf and laughing.
With Malander nearing the enemy, and Seth regaining his feet, the
company had Yindraken caught in a triangle once more. Without any
real strategy, they fought bravely on.

But Yindraken continued to counter all their
attacks with tremendous speed and power. "Surrender to me!" he
yelled.

The company of three suddenly ceased their
attack, and the battle paused as Yindraken summoned his buried mana
not yet brought to bear. This was the first time the company had to
work as one, and it was a difficult struggle. Their battle plan
thus far was not effective and there was no point in carrying on in
this manner. If they were to dominate this situation, Gildan would
have to organize their collective skills. In the pause, the three
watched Yindraken gather his strength. Seth leaned forward and
placed his hands on his knees, exhausted and out of breath, and let
the tip of his blade sink to the ground. In the midst of his
fatigue, he looked up and saw Yindraken staring directly at him.
The triangular formation of the company was broken just as quickly
as it had formed, and Yindraken was free of threat. The werewolf
turned away from his enemies and toward the fallen Arnanor, lying
on his back on the hillside. He wanted nothing more than to end the
prince's life, thus placing his clan one step closer to mastery
over the North. No longer would the elves be the victors. This
fueled Yindraken's mind with each long stride he took. He would be
remembered as the savior of his people, and for generations
hereafter his name would be revered.

"We must act now," said Gildan.

Malander and Seth gave their rattled
attention to the mercenary. "What is your advice?" Seth asked.

Gildan paused in short reflection, then said,
"Seth, return to the camp and inform the others. We will need
Randor's help. There is no doubt that our superior numbers will not
last much longer. Yindraken's clan will be here before we know
it."

Seth nodded, then realized that he would be
alone in the unknown darkness. Captivated by fear, he debated
agreeing to the elf's plan. But Lorn's cries suddenly haunted his
soul. Seth would never forgive himself if something should happen
to his friend.

"Are you listening to me?" Gildan asked,
frustrated.

"Yes."

"Then why are you still here?"

Seth bit his lower lip and set his fright
aside. "Right. I shall return shortly." He began down the hill to
the west as quietly as he could manage. He knew that Randor could
ward off the evil with ease, but first Seth had to reach him. The
fate of the company, and with them the rest of the world, hinged on
his trek to find the wizard. The group's inability to bring down
the werewolf puzzled Seth's mind as he pressed on. Many times over
he analyzed his techniques, but the answer was always the same: he
had executed his sword techniques just as he had been taught, but
without managing to put a single mark on his enemy.

Seth was halfway down the hillside when he
began to tread more softly, using his toes rather than the flat of
his feet. He stayed low to the ground and clenched his cloak in
hand so as not to trip, knowing that he was not the best at balance
when his nerves were in a dither. Seeing the way clear, he threw
stealth to the winds and sprinted toward the forest. Hurdling a
small row of thorn bushes, he thumped down on a dirt path. Seth did
not know if this was even the correct way to the camp, and he
prayed he had guessed right. Deeply he drove into the forest,
branches slapping him across his face and chest, yet he did not
yield to their sting. As the canopy above him thickened, the
moonlight faded quickly, and the blackened land enveloped him as he
ran down the twisted path. He still thought of Lorn, wondering what
the dwarf was experiencing this very moment. Seth was also
concerned with Arnanor, for his own good standing with the Council
rested in the well-being of the princes.

The forest was quiet, with not even a rustle
of leaves, as if the trees themselves stood frozen in fear of the
werewolves.

Where is it?
he asked himself, out of breath. His legs began to feel
unstable. Seth saw the road fork just ahead--one path leading
uphill, where the trees thinned out, and the other leading down
into greater darkness. He did not deliberate but chose the higher
ground, and again moonlight appeared as he passed through the
unfamiliar forest. Looking up, he saw that he was passing through a
clearing--though not the one he desired. This particular setting
was in a horrid condition: dead trees uprooted, rotted black leaves
crunching with every footfall, and a small, befouled creek running
through the clearing's center. Insects swarmed about the stagnant
surface. Though Seth was terribly thirsty, he would never drink
this vile liquid. The way across was not clear; he would have to
maneuver warily through shattered wood and bad water.

From the corner of his sight he saw two
shadowed figures move silently from tree to tree; they went past
him without sound or confrontation. Chances were, the two either
did not notice Seth or were not concerned with him--just yet.
"Werewolves," he muttered as he pressed his back along a huge
fallen tree trunk.
I must reach
Randor.
He crept low, looking around him with every
step.

Passing the midpoint of the clearing, he took
refuge beneath a tree that leaned heavily to one side. He clasped
one hand to his trusted sword and pointed the blade towards the
moss-covered ground. He was not alone, and no longer could he trick
his mind into thinking otherwise. Leaves rustled behind him; he
could hear the faint sound of shallow breathing heard between gusts
of the wind. Carefully he peered over his shoulder, but saw
nothing. Seth did not like being in mysterious situations, nor did
he take any pleasure in being detained from his duties. The gusts
of wind increased, lulling the knight into thinking the threat was
gone. Perhaps he had just imagined it all. Swallowing his fear, he
sprinted ahead to a small gap in the trees, even though knowing
that he would be exposed now to anything wishing him harm.