Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [129]
And the goddess looked at Robyn, and smiled.
*****
Erian looked across the ravaged field, suddenly concerned. His crimson jaws dripped with gore, and he stood astride the corpse of a half-eaten man. The pleasure of the feast was forgotten as his sensitive nostrils searched the air for the source of his worry.
The frenzied feeding of the Pack surrounded the werewolf with a chorus of growls and snarls. But then the wolves, sensing their master’s unease, slowed. One after another, the gray heads raised from the kills, to look across the field as they followed his gaze.
Erian saw the newcomer first. A huge moorhound, loping easily, as if on a routine hunt, came toward him. The dog’s head hung low, swinging patiently from side to side in rhythm with his long, surprisingly fleet, strides. His yellow eyes searched among a thousand wolves on the ruined farm. Finally the gaze locked with Erian’s.
Erian did not feel fear – although the dog was even bigger than the wolf Erian had slain to take the leadership of the Pack, Erian himself was still bigger. And the Darkwell-bred wolf knew that no normal weapon, no mortal flesh, could strike a wound into his hide.
Still, there was something strange and unnatural in this hound’s singleminded determination. Already the werewolf could hear the creature’s deep and rumbling growl and see its shaggy hackles bristle menacingly.
Erian did not hesitate to spring forward to meet the intruder. His own deep growl rumbled, and he bristled for battle. Black lips curled upward to reveal long fangs, slippery with drool and hungry for the kill.
XVIII
THE ATTACK
RAIN LASHED THE town and its gathered armies throughout most of the night, fading to mist several hours before dawn. The perimeter of each force was marked by a ring of blazing fires, creating pockets of life in the miserable night.
Tristan walked uneasily from fire to fire along the town wall, leading Avalon by the reins. He knew that it was nearly dawn, but no streak of light penetrated the overcast sky.
“Good morning, my prince,” greeted a young man-at-arms as the prince walked up to the fire. A dozen of his fellows all nodded a greeting, and Tristan saw that not one of them was old enough to grow a beard.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he answered. “I need to warm up a bit.”
“Do you think they will attack?” asked one youth, his voice cracking.
“Probably, Are you ready?” responded Tristan.
The youths nodded seriously, and most of them looked into the misty night as if they could see the northmen assembling. Tristan wondered if they knew how acutely dangerous their position actually was. The town wall, varying from four to six feet high, would create only a minor obstacle for the attacking raiders. And once they breached the wall, the fall of the town would follow shortly.
He walked on, stopping to chat briefly at each fire. He wondered if his presence really did anything to bolster the fighters’ morale.
Finally, he reached the south gate. This was a crucial point, since the largest body of northmen was massed beyond it. Daryth and Keren stood at the gate itself, looking up soberly as the prince approached.
“How does it look?” asked Tristan.
“We’re doing all right,” said Daryth, looking around. “But a lot of these people don’t have much spirit for battle. I’m not optimistic about stopping them here.”
“There are no more troops I can give you,” admitted the prince. “So do what you can.”
“Where’s Robyn?” asked the Calishite.
“In the castle. I haven’t seen her since she talked to the king right after our return.”
“You sound worried. Do you think something’s wrong?”
“I am worried,” the prince admitted. “But I can’t do much about it now.”
“We’ll laugh about this come winter,” said Daryth, clasping the prince by the shoulder and looking him in the eyes.
“I certainly hope you’re right.” Tristan returned the gesture, and then swung into the saddle of his stallion. “See you at daybreak!”
As Avalon trotted up the street, the prince noticed a crowd