He wished he couldn’t. More wolves, scores of them. He heard wood tearing, and he saw many pulling at the boards to various windows. Once they made it in, they could attack from multiple directions. If that happened…
“Cowards!” he screamed. Much as his body ached, much as he desired the reprieve, he knew the wolf-men needed to be kept wild with anger, unable to think, unable to realize the disadvantage they faced when challenging him in the doorway. He struggled to find breath to even cry out, but still he did. “Will you hide? Will you run? I am here, yet you play the coward and try for women and children?”
“You will die, human!” one cried, and several took up the cry.
“Blood,” they shouted. “Blood from the humans!”
An arrow sailed into the throat of the first, but this time, there was no bragging from Jon, no jokes.
“Get him,” shouted one of the wolf-men. Jerico felt his blood run cold, but he could do nothing. Several charged him, while others climbed the walls. Praying for the best, Jerico braced his legs once more, smacked his shield with his mace, and met the yellow gaze of his foe. Shield raised, he could only hope to endure for a time, until the wolves finally broke him down, split his armor, and had their feast.
T he first wave was the easiest. Daniel stood in the center, his sword at ready. To his side and his back, his trusted soldiers held polearms. They were a wall of thorns and spears, and the first wolf that leapt at them found out the hard way. Blades pierced its body in three places, it fell to the ground, shoved away by the soldiers. The next two met similar fates, and Daniel dared to hope. Then the entirety of the attacking pack arrived, and he realized how foolish he had been. They tripped into ditches, they impaled themselves on the spikes, and still they came.
“Brace!” he commanded, and the men did. Three wolf-men leapt at once, slamming onto the ends of their weapons as if they desired death. Daniel swung his sword, lopping the head off one and piercing another through the heart. They could not shove them aside, though, for the wolves were a river, and it flowed against them in a constant stream of muscle, claws, and howling. Daniel stood in the center of it all, trusting his men to keep him from being overwhelmed. For a moment he felt like the young man he had been, his sword a part of himself, a shining death that cut through defenses and showered the ground with gore.
And then the priest made his presence known. A sound like thunder rolled across them, and lightning struck the earth, its center a deep black. A crater sunk at its impact, and several wolves crumpled, their innards blackened. Daniel cheered at the raw display of power. The strange priest certainly had his uses. Renewed, he let out a cry and cut down his attackers.
But Daniel’s strength soon failed him, and despite the spears, wolf-men twisted and slashed undeterred. Claws raked across his forehead. Blood ran across his eyes, and blinded, he fell back. His men closed the gap instantly, the entryway of the house filled with the sound of battle. Collapsing against a wall, he sat there as someone wiped away the blood and pressed a heavy cloth against his wound.
“It is not lethal,” Jeremy said, apparently his nurse.
“Course not,” Daniel muttered. “Take more than a scratch to bring an old bull like me down.”
He was blustering, of course. His head throbbed in agony, and he felt like his breath would never come back to him. Still, he forced himself to a stand. Another soldier fell back, blood gushing from his torn throat. Daniel tried to take his place, but his men would not let him.
“Rest,” Gregory said, commanding the defense. “Take your place when you must.”
“Fine,” Daniel said, turning to Jeremy. “Tie this, will you?”
Jeremy knotted the cloth behind his head, pulling it so tight he thought his skull was going to explode. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain. As he picked up his sword, he heard screams from further in the house.
“The windows?” he asked.
“Men guard them,” Jeremy said. “But yes, I fear so.”
“Hold the door,” Daniel shouted to his men. “By the gods, we’ll make legends of ourselves tonight, if we must!”
He and Jeremy hurried down the hall, following the sound of screams. In the first bedroom, they found a single farmer thrusting a pitchfork into a gap in the window, half the boards covering it torn loose. The farmer’s wife and children huddled beside the door, sobbing. Two wolf-men batted at the pitchfork and dug at the boards like wild animals.
“Stand firm!” Daniel shouted, joining the farmer. His sword thrust into the gap, and he smiled with grim satisfaction at the resistance he felt, knowing his blade pierced chest or belly. He pulled back, thrust again, and now emboldened, the farmer stabbed with his pitchfork, giving no more ground. The first fell dead, but it was replaced by another. Arms reached into the room, seeking anything to grab hold of with their sharp claws. Daniel swung, the farmer stabbed, and they built their own pile of dead at the window.
All at once, the assault stopped.
“Brace your pitchfork,” Daniel said, gasping for breath. “Don’t you run on me, you hear? You stand here, stand tall, and keep that fucking thing pointed at the window.”
The man nodded. His eyes were wide, his skin pale. He was a hair’s width away from running. It didn’t matter that there was no safety anywhere in the village. All he wanted was away from the wolves, Daniel knew, to where he didn’t have to see their hungry eyes, their shining teeth, and their wicked claws. Daniel stood beside him, aimed his blood-soaked blade at the window, and again ordered him to stand firm.
“Here they come,” he said, seeing yellow glinting in the torchlight. The wolf-men, tired of trying to push through, had gained some distance so they could run. Leaping into the window, they crashed through the boards, the first one impaling itself on the farmer’s pitchfork. The man let out a cry, his bladder let go, but he did not run. Daniel felt proud, and he refused to let the wolves gain entry. He cut down the next, then stepped closer, calling for the farmer to join his side.
“Jeremy!” he cried. “Get men in here. Beds, boards, anything to block this damn window!”
Another thunderclap shook the house, and Daniel hoped the priest had killed twenty of the sons of bitches overrunning the village. Through the window, he saw the wolf-men gathering, preparing another leap. Three lay dead on the floor of the room, and he could do nothing to remove them. Seeing the pack, seeing their numbers, he could not blame the farmer’s desire to run. They were endless, and he was old, and tired. The night, however, was still young.
“You run, I cut you down,” he said to the farmer. “And I run, you better do the same damn thing to me.”
Blade and pitchfork lifted, they drank in the blood of wolves as the next charge came.
D arius’s sword cleaved through his foes, and in the chaos of combat, he felt like an exultant beacon of order. Above him his archer, Letts, was emptying his quiver while shouting warnings.
“Two at right!” Letts cried, firing an arrow off in that direction. Two wolf-men, hoping to surprise him, curled about the inn and leapt. Darius stepped into the attack, ducking under the first’s claws and swinging. His greatsword cut the damned creature in half, spilling its gore across the dirt. The second slammed into him and they rolled. Claws scraped his armor, and teeth sank into the gorget protecting his throat.
“Get off me, you bastard!” Darius cried. He pressed his blackened hand against its breast. All his anger poured through, a powerful blow made stronger by his faith in Karak. The wolf-man flew back, smoke billowing from a hole in its chest. Darius stood, having little time to prepare before three more assaulted him. Letts took down one, then swore.
“Bad dog, down!”
Wolf-men were climbing the sides of the building, but there was nothing Darius could do but hope Letts handled it himself. The first rammed into him, but Darius held firm, piercing its heart with his blade. He tore it out the side, cutting off the head of a second. Bone and muscle were like wheat to Darius’s mighty scythe, and he felt himself the reaper. The third wolf scored a hit against his side, his claws sinking in through a gap in his armor. He sliced off its hand at the wrist for such insolence, then opened its throat.
Above him, Letts screamed.
“Letts?” Darius asked as he caught his breath. “Letts!”
The archer’s body sailed over his head and landed in a heap. He spun, saw wolves crawling across the roof, tearing at the shingles. Already he saw gaps opening up. Darius thought of Dolores inside, of the many wounded. He turned back, and already a group of five were preparing to charge. He couldn’t save them. Guilt clawed at his throat, but what could he do? In the distance, he saw the soldiers handling the wolves at Hangfield’s, but only because the priest continually cursed and disrupted the assaults. But Jerico…
