“Beastie!” Doran yelled from the mouth of the cave. “I’m not done with ye yet!” he goaded.
Asher looked on, his sight fractured. The wolf walked towards the dwarf on its two powerful legs, its hands and claws reaching out in anticipation. Asher tried to stand and offer aid but he dropped back to his hands and knees and slumped against the wall. Not far away, Avandriell lay coughing and spluttering. They were out of this fight.
Doran slowly backed out onto the shelf, his eye locked on the approaching wolf. He dared to spare a glance at Asher and Avandriell - they were alive but certainly injured. Getting a good look at the wolf in the light, the dwarf could see the damage both had inflicted on it. A particularly nasty wound continued to bleed out from its gut and down its leg. It had, however, already healed the majority of wounds suffered the previous night.
“Ye’ve got the advantages o’ age,” Doran remarked, falling into a circling pattern with the wolf. “So ’ave I,” he quipped with a wicked grin.
Words had no place in the monster’s life and so it reacted with violent action. Doran braced himself, his feet firmly planted. At the last second, in the face of a charging Werewolf, he threw all of his weight to the side and rolled away. The beast came down and skidded across the rock shelf, its claws digging up loose stone to cascade over the edge.
Back on his feet, Doran pressed his attack. He came at the wolf with hammer and axe swinging, determined to slay the monster that had ruined his friend’s life. Though its actions were erratic, the dwarf felt both of his weapons impact its body multiple times, splashing blood across the ground. Thankfully, he could barely feel the wolf’s claws tearing at his skin when they found the gaps in his armour.
Inevitably, the son of Dorain was thrown to the ground - and more than once - but his hammer always slammed into the wolf, giving him the opportunity to find his feet again. His heart was pounding in his chest now and his lungs burned from the exhaustion. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the battle and his muscles informed him as much. How long could he keep this up?
Such thoughts and questions were banished from his mind when the wolf chomped down on one of his pauldrons and swung him around. Dragged by the shoulder, he could only retaliate with his hammer, but the wolf seemed oblivious to the beating he delivered. At last, the beast cast him free, tossing the dwarf towards the edge. The War Mason skidded on his knees and managed to assume his full height before the wolf could take another swipe at him.
“Come on,” he growled.
The Werewolf roared and charged at him with no hesitation. Doran had naught but his instincts to call upon, aware that these would either be his last moments or the wolf’s. He threw his axe at the ground, directly in the path of the wolf. The creature altered its assault, adapting quickly, and leapt over the weapon. As it leapt, however, the dwarf stepped forward, placing himself closer to the wolf than it had anticipated when it avoided the axe. Now, when it came down, Doran was perfectly placed to drive the top of his hammer into the beast’s throat, using its own weight against it.
The son of Dorain was already rolling across the ground, towards his axe, before the wolf could catch its breath. As it choked and gripped at its throat, Doran reclaimed his axe and launched it at his foe in one smooth movement. The steel made a satisfying sound when it dug deep into the creature’s chest. Its eyes bulged in surprise and the monster staggered closer to the lip, barely concerned with its collapsed windpipe anymore.
With a single glassy eye, Doran adjusted the grip around the haft of his hammer. “Rest, old friend.”
The dwarf lobbed his hammer underarm, his aim unerring. It crossed the gap like a bolt from a ballista and slammed into the wolf’s face with all the might of his ancestors behind it. Andaljor took the cursed beast from the rocky shelf and cast it into the white mist. Doran moved to the edge and peered over, making certain that the creature had succumbed to the fall.
There was nothing but fog.
Asher’s spine cracked in several places as he straightened up, finally back on his feet. His head still didn’t feel right, as if it wasn’t quite connected to the rest of his body. Still, he counted being on his feet as a victory where head injuries were concerned.
Avandriell weaved between his legs having overcome the assault on her throat. Her claws and horns were stained with the wolf’s blood, but her scales had protected her from serious harm. Asher bent down to stroke her head but stopped himself when a dizzying wave washed over him. Instead, he made for Doran and welcomed the cold breeze that picked up his hair.
“It is finished?” the ranger asked.
“Let’s find out,” Doran replied sombrely.
Retracing their steps, the companions made their way back down to the forest floor and journeyed around the rock face. Asher wasn’t sure exactly what they would find when they came across the wolf; an uncertainty that kept one of his hands resting on the hilt of his broadsword. What they discovered, however, stumped even the experienced ranger.
The Werewolf that lay sprawled across the hard ground, with an axe in its chest, was completing
