A rustling followed by rapid steps turned the dwarf on his heel. Nothing. Doran widened his gait and braced himself, his knuckles cracking around the hafts of his weapons.
“I know ye’re out there, beastie,” he called.
Claws raking down a tree spun the dwarf around but he caught only a glimpse of something darting through the shadows.
“Me friend sent me for ye!” Doran yelled, working himself up. “Ye might know ’im! He went by the name Russell Maybury!” A low growl rumbled from the darkness, turning the War Mason in another direction. A wicked smile broke across Doran’s face. “I thought ye might know ’im. He sends his regards!”
A pair of eyes shone in the pitch black beyond the firelight and slowly rose up until the Werewolf was standing on its back legs. The son of Dorain spat on the ground and bashed his hammer and axe together.
“Come an’ get it!” he provoked.
The Werewolf exploded from between the trees and crossed most of their camp in a single bound. Its claws were outstretched and its jaws of razor-sharp fangs ready to clamp around Doran’s neck. It was damn fast, faster than the dwarf remembered. He swung his axe and hammer simultaneously but, even as he raised his arms, he knew he had mistimed it.
That was the moment when a two-handed broadsword plunged down through the monster’s back. It also had Asher’s weight behind it. The ranger had dropped down from the surrounding trees with, thankfully, perfect timing. The wolf was brought down by the piercing steel and most of Asher, bringing it to a stop at Doran’s feet.
A sword through its ribs, however, was not enough to finish the Werewolf. It roared with rage and thrashed about, knocking Asher clear with a backhand across his face. With the sword still impaled, the beast tried to rise, only to discover an ancient hammer slamming onto its head. Some of the roar was taken out of the wolf as its jaws were driven into the ground. Doran meant to follow up his attack with a swing of the axe, but the monster found a burst of energy and barrelled into the dwarf, hurling him into a tree trunk.
Falling onto his hands and knees, it took every bit of Doran’s iron will to keep his weapons in his hands. As it had been for Thorgen, his great ancestor, Andaljor was an extension of his arms and he refused to give it up. Instead, he offered the wolf a roar of his own and threw himself into the beast. The axe took a chunk out of its right leg and the hammer impacted the side of its head as it crouched down to bite him. Neither attack was strong enough to deliver a final blow, but they were enough to turn the wolf away and into the waiting claws of a dragon.
Avandriell swooped down from the canopy, her movements far more gracious than that of her companion. All four of her claws sank into the Werewolf’s back while she snapped at its neck and face. The monster staggered back and howled in pain, but even that wasn’t enough to quash the wolf’s rage. The young dragon was gripped by the neck and thrown to the ground.
A primal roar tore through the still air as Asher leapt over the fire, his silvyr short-sword raised over his head. The ranger collided with the wolf, his blade flashing high and low as he scored red lines up and down the beast. It swiped at him with enough strength to break his neck, but Asher ducked under the claws and spun on his heel. Returning to his full height in one smooth motion, he pulled free his broadsword and swung it at his enemy’s head.
The wolf caught the blade in its meaty hand.
Blood trickled down its dark hide, running the length of its arm. As it lowered its head towards the ranger, its teeth already stained red, Doran brought his axe to bear. The steel was embedded in the creature’s leg, drawing a pain-filled howl from its lips. Asher didn’t hesitate to drive his short-sword into the wolf’s hip, their combined attacks dropping it to one knee.
The intelligence of Werewolves had been debated by many a ranger over the centuries but, judging by the look in its eyes right now, Doran could see this beast knew its time was up. And, like all animals, the instinct to survive kicked in. The wolf forced Asher’s broadsword aside and directly into Doran’s face. The dwarf stumbled backwards and took his axe with him. Using its free hand, the beast shoved Asher away, launching him clear from the ground.
With hands not dissimilar to a human’s, the wolf gripped the hilt of the silvyr blade and removed it from its hip. By the time the short-sword could be heard clattering on the ground, the beast was gone, vanishing into the night.
Doran shook his head and blinked hard. The broadsword had left a dark line across his forehead. Asher was already picking himself up, coaxed by Avandriell beside him. The dragon appeared to have gained a limp but, like the rangers, she had emerged from the fight intact. Asher ran a hand over her head and under her jaw before returning his broadsword to its scabbard.
“What are ye doin’?” Doran demanded. “We didn’ kill it.”
Asher bent down and retrieved his silvyr short-sword. “The wolf won’t be coming back tonight,” he replied boldly. “We might not have killed it, but we definitely wounded it. If it has claimed that bear’s lair for its own, we’ll follow the blood until we find it.”
“Well let’s be gettin’ on with it then!” Doran huffed, making for the gap in the trees.
“At first light,” Asher stated.
Doran
