Down came the stroke, the killing blow that would take the light of Doran Heavybelly. Only it never got past the meaty fist and vice-like grip of Russell Maybury. The old wolf caught the hammer in one hand and quickly reversed its momentum into Gondrith’s face. He followed it up with a swing from his own battle hammer and sent the Dragon Rider into a group of Reavers, knocking them all down.
Doran rolled over, supporting himself on his elbows, as he watched his friend do what he did best. “Give ’em hell, lad,” he rasped.
Russell pursued his foe with determination, though both of his hands were trembling. His stance was no longer that of a man but more a beast, hunched and feral. He beat down the Reavers that recovered faster than Gondrith and none of them got back up again. His every blow was wild and brimming with untameable rage.
He was also much stronger than any of them, including the Rider. Gondrith discovered this when he got up and took his first swipe at Russell. The old wolf caught the end of the hammer in his hand and stopped it mid-swing. The impact would have shattered the bones in a normal man.
Baring large fangs, he roared at the Dragon Rider and snatched the hammer from his grasp before tossing it aside.
“No,” Doran hissed, glimpsing the wolf. He looked up at the night’s sky, searching for the gleam of the moon in the lightly falling snow. “Don’ give in to it, Rus!” he yelled. “Fight it!”
But Russell was a slave to the moon now; he heard only its call.
Gondrith lashed out at the old wolf with fists alone but he might as well have offered his head on a plate. Holding on to what he could of his humanity, Russell delivered an uppercut with his battle hammer and snapped the Rider’s head back. As Gondrith landed on his back, Russell was already looming over him. The veins beneath his skin pulsed and his muscles began to expand, tearing the seams of his clothes.
“No, lad!” Doran cried. “Fight it!”
Before his bones broke and altered his appearance, Russell drove the haft of his battle hammer down onto Gondrith’s mouth. With one hand flat to the hammer’s head, he forced it down until the weapon sank into the ground, pinning the Rider in place. His hands shaking, the old wolf retrieved Gondrith’s legendary hammer and gave one last swing with the arms of a man… of a ranger.
What there was of the Reaver’s head came together between the two hammers in a spray of ancient remains. Gondrith the Just was returned to Gondrith the dead.
Russell staggered backwards and fell to his hands and knees. He was heaving, his chest panting at an unhealthy speed. Whatever he had managed to keep in his stomach was released across the battlefield. His fingers dug into the dirt as the bones in the back of his hand snapped and realigned into something worse.
Doran struggled to his feet and approached his old friend. Russell shot up a hand to halt him, displaying extended fingers and razor-sharp nails. The skin began to discolour, losing its pale complexion as it turned into a dark brown. It was his eyes, however, that truly stopped Doran from getting any closer. Though yellow, they were still Russell’s. They showed something of the man trapped inside as well as his fear for Doran.
It quickly became too much after that and his head bowed. His clothes tore and his leathers ripped as his frame expanded. It looked like agony. Eventually, he was pushed off his knees when his feet changed shape and his arms lengthened. Doran was now slowly backing away, his eye scanning the ground for his axe and hammer.
The wolf’s head snapped up at last. There was nothing left of the man Doran had come to call a friend. Sharp yellow eyes looked down a large snout at him. Thick saliva slopped from the Werewolf’s mouth, between a jaw of deadly fangs. A low growl rumbled out of its throat.
Doran had no idea how he was going to fight the wolf - he could barely lift his arms anymore. Stepping on something hard and flat, Doran glanced down to discover the axe of Andaljor under his boot. He didn’t dare reach for it or make any sudden movements.
His attention darted to the left when two elves emerged from the chaos to attack the wolf. Their scimitars sliced its arms, enraging the beast. As it lashed out with tooth and claw, Doran retrieved his axe and then his hammer, not far from where he was standing.
When next he looked back, the elves were dead, a mangled heap of bloody limbs at the wolf’s feet. Its yellow eyes soon returned to the son of Dorain and the beast crouched, ready to pounce. For the first time, Doran was saved by Reavers after a small group of the mindless fiends were forced into the wolf’s path by a Centaur and an elf. The cursed creature ripped their undead heads from their bodies like they were made of parchment.
“Stay back!” Doran warned the Centaur and elf.
The War Mason rocked from foot to foot, no clue as to how he was going to survive the next few seconds. The wolf closed the gap between them in a heartbeat and knocked Doran over with a hard shove to the chest. It took the air out of the dwarf’s lungs, leaving him gasping on his back. The Werewolf then came to hunch over him, all four of its limbs boxing Doran in while its frame eclipsed the sky above.
This was not the way Doran wanted to leave the world, but at least it was Russell and not some meat puppet of Alijah’s. The wolf opened its maw and the dwarf turned
