Chapter Twenty Four: Of Night and Dark Dealings
(Note: This is not official version and may be removed in the near future. This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter. I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that. This novel has since been rewritten.) James heard the sounds before he looked. They were close and he imagined that he could actually feel the breath of wicked monsters along the nape of his neck. Powerful howls forced him to close off his ear canals. He’d heard them in the distance moments before, but now they were immediately behind. There were screeches unlike the Nu’thri, like children screaming at that unnaturally high pitch, inhuman. Then there was the sound of the Nu’thri, screeching in protest somewhere farther behind. Then he looked, chancing that brief moment when the trek ahead seemed without obstacles. His heart leapt into his throat, his stomach too, and he gulped frantically to push them down. The beats of his heart became wild with fear and terror. His skin crawled with goose bumps and every hair on his body, except the ones on his head that were far too heavy to move, stood up at attention, while his pupils became narrow like lifeless circles embedded in his skull. The creatures that followed were far removed from being human, yet at the same time they bore disturbingly human characteristics. The three beasts in the lead of the pack were wolves, but not ordinary wolves. They were larger than any man James had ever seen with obvious muscles flexing and rippling down their flanks. They ran on all fours, but hobbled on their two front legs as if they could run on both two and four legs. Long snouts, enshrouded with thick, oily, silver fur met with jaws filled with sharp yellow teeth, monstrous in every way. Spittle dribbled from their lips and their eyes were unnaturally blue as if they were dead. The fur ran all the way down their flanks to stretched, bushy tails; claws dug deep into the earth with each movement and their snarls filtered through the air of other sounds. James knew immediately that these were werewolves. The landscape rushed by as he rode, the soft ashen earth bursting alive at each hoof beat. Iliad led him one way, and then another, winding around small fires that thrust new ash and black smoke into the air, flames lost in the dark and only noticeable by the sounds and the continuing motion of new burned material. The air became suddenly warmer as Iliad led on. When James took in his surroundings again he saw massive fires burning everywhere—a hot spot. The flames were visible and rose up into the sky like hungry fingers. The sounds were deafening, so much so that he could hardly hear the sound of his own steed plowing along. Howls came again from the rear. He peered once more, saw the beasts, and turned back. Fear engulfed him. They were going to catch up, there was no doubt in his mind. The steeds were fast, but not fast enough. Mirdur’eth turned sharp right, following Iliad, and then sharp left, and back again. They wound around a huge flame, the heat causing a sudden tinge of pain on James’ face. He leaned away and then they were away from it. Then all stopped. On both sides of them were flames and molten ash festering in tiny pools. Ahead the flat ground abruptly gave way to a tall cliff face too steep and high for anyone to climb. The cliff was obsidian all the way up, dark and shimmering with the light from the fires. James turned Mirdur’eth, catching Iliad’s eye and seeing the panic in the man’s face. He saw Pea and Darl too—sweat trickling down to their chins—and Triska with her soft, motherly complexion turned into a dirty and stern parody of her former self. He knew instantly that they were trapped, even as he turned and beckoned Mirdur’eth to gallop in the opposite direction. The werewolves were there first, waltzing out of the shadows and black plumes with wicked grins upon their faces, if such a thing were possible. Heads low, mouths frothing with anticipation, they ambled forward and covered the only escape route, spreading out across the small expanse of open space. Their eyes gleamed with the flickers of orange flame, turning their unnaturally blue eyes into sinister moons reddened by the path of the sun. Each were entirely the same, no distinguishing marks whatsoever. Yet it was the one in the middle that seemed to lead as it took a few steps and let out a mighty howl, leaning its head back as it did so. A moment later and the other two followed suit. “Dismount,” Darl said. “Why?” Iliad clung to the reigns as if they were his only hope of survival. “Werewolves have no regard for other living things. They’ll kill the horses and Blaersteeds without thinking twice. A meal is a meal to them.” Iliad seemed to concede, moving his gaze from Darl to James, and then to the three werewolves, now pacing back and forth as if contemplating the best action to take next. “At least we have magic on our side,” James said with a fake grin, then hopped off of Mirdur’eth. “Not really,” Pea said, dismounting. “Werewolves are resistant.” “And cunning.” Darl drew James’ sword for him, handing the hilt over. “A scratch can be healed, but if any of you are bitten after this is over I will not hesitate to kill you.” Pea grimaced. “I thought you would say something of that nature. The feeling is all too mutual my grumpy friend.” James lifted his blade, feeling the weight. It felt no different in his hands than it had days ago, yet doubt in his abilities appeared in his mind and stuck. The corrupted Masters were easy, he thought. They had no physical weapons,