The Broken Pieces(71)

“No!” Redclaw roared, slamming both his fists against the shield. The blow sent the paladin back a step, and despite the terrible agony it inflicted on his hands, Redclaw struck again, wanting the shield out of the way. Its position shifted, he swung, his claws catching the interior edge and shoving it all the way to the side.

“Die at last,” he said, flinging all his weight forward. He’d expected to crush the exposed paladin, but instead a blade slashed through his left arm, cutting all the way to bone. He twisted in mid-air, crashing at the feet of Jerico.

“You didn’t forget the Wolf Slayer, did you?” asked Darius, greatsword in hand. In his delirium Redclaw saw it glowed blue instead of the dark fire it once possessed, but he didn’t know what that meant. He couldn’t think, not with such terrible pain flooding his body. He struggled to stand, but Jerico slammed his shield against his forehead. The blow nearly knocked him unconscious. Clutching his bleeding arm, he thrashed on the ground. His quick glance about saw much of his pack defeated or already in retreat.

Together the two paladins approached him as on either side the rest of the human army surged forward, letting out cries of victory.

“Last words?” Darius asked, pointing his sword at him.

Before he could utter any, Warfang slammed into the paladin’s side, flinging him through the air and into Jerico. The two rolled along the ground in a clanking pile of armor. Without any care to be gentle, Warfang reached down, grabbed Redclaw’s wounded arm, and yanked him to a stand. Redclaw howled, and he used the pain to focus.

“Run,” Warfang told him, and together they did. A howl left Warfang’s tongue, subtle in its inflection. A human might not hear the difference, but all the wolf-men there heard the anger and shame embodied in the howl. It was their call to retreat. Some ignored it, giving in to their bloodlust and dying in a flurry of blows against their superior opponents. The rest turned and fled, easily outrunning the slow humans in their armor. Only the spells of the priests gave chase, slaying a few before they could reach the forest.

Within the trees Warfang stopped, turning on Redclaw. Before Redclaw could say a thing, Warfang’s claws were digging into his chest, slamming him against a tree.

“You are not worthy of your gift,” he snarled. “I smell your fear, you coward. You did not revel in the fight! You did not trust Cyric’s power!”

“You want this power?” Redclaw asked, fighting down the impulse to snap at Warfang’s neck. “Then take it.”

Warfang’s eyes narrowed.

“Some gifts can’t be taken by force,” he said. “And some cannot be given away. Remember your place, Redclaw. Remember who you are.”

“Or what?”

The claws dug deeper into his chest.

“Or our god will find a new champion.”

With that, Warfang pulled free and then ran. Redclaw waited a moment for his bloodlust to settle, then followed. Without a word spoken between the entire pack they fled back to Cyric’s camp, leaving a trail of spilled blood behind them.





21



With the sun well on its rise they staggered into the camp. It had been difficult to count numbers with so many hidden behind trees, but as they stepped into the open, Redclaw saw that nearly half his pack had been crushed in battle. How many humans had they slain in return? Two hundred? Three? At least his arm had stopped bleeding. It seemed the very fire of his blood had sealed the wound.

Most of the pack collapsed at the edge of Cyric’s camp. For many, it seemed the run was all that had kept them alive. Redclaw knew the feeling, and with head low he slunk through his pack. All he felt was shame and confusion. Who did he serve? Had they attacked the followers of his own god? Or was he a god at all?

And then Cyric called his name. He looked up, met his eyes briefly, then once more cast them to the dirt.

“Warfang told me of the force you faced,” said Cyric. “Fifteen hundred strong, all sworn to Karak. Even more fearsome, you fought priests and paladins as well. Do not be ashamed of your loss. They are the greatest foe we will face in all the North, for they no longer follow the true god of their faith. I would not expect you to defeat them without my presence.”

The words helped, but only a little.

“Master,” said Silver-Ear, the shaman rushing up to them as fast as her old bones would allow. “I have gathered the wounded. Please, you are our god. I beg you to heal them.”

“Of course,” Cyric said, smiling at her. “The faithful must always be rewarded.”

At the far edge of the camp was where the shaman tended the wounded. Redclaw followed them there, and counted at least fifty that Silver-Ear deemed in mortal peril. Cyric walked among them, scanning their wounds and nodding his head as if privy to a conversation none of them could hear.