Going Down
Snarls pierced the night. The dark forest around them bulged, breaking branches and scattered leaves spitting forth massive gray shapes. Ivory teeth and yellow eyes flashed in the moonlight as the wolfen fell upon them. Diyn and his men raised their guard.
A pair of jaws snapped at Diyn’s throat. He offered the bracer of his left gauntlet instead, immediately feeling the force clamp down and the strength of the beast wrenching his arm away. His right hand swiftly drew out his long blade, cutting a deep red ravine from the thing’s right hip to its left underarm. Speckles of blood splashed across the dhampyl’s breastplate and face, his sword crimson as he brought it back around in a horizontal slash, severing the wolfen’s head. The jaw never ceased its grip on his left wrist, the eyes still wild with fury as it clung there.
The Sentry with the horned helm was assaulted by two furry beasts at once. The brown and tan one, wearing leather armor and sporting spiked steel pauldrons, dove at his legs. The silvery-gray wolfen with the enormous slavering maw, staggering to the side and getting ready to flank his prey, hefted a massive wooden club over its head. The dhampyl drove the toe of his armored boot into the brown and tan wolfen’s nose, sending the creature back with a crack. As it reeled away, the monster brought up one of its claws and ripped its nails across the Sentry’s exposed hamstrings. The dhampyl did his best to ignore the pain, spinning counter-clockwise to the silver-gray wolfen with his greatsword at a high guard, but not fast enough. The head of the club came down and crushed the Sentry’s left shoulder.
The other two Sentries were outnumbered as well. Back to back, they deflected maces and clubs with their shields at expert proficiency, but against a circle of five raging wolf-men their longswords could do little else but parry. A black wolfen, keener and more patient than his comrades, prowled the outside of the circle. He wore a pair of masterwork gauntlets with bladed fingers, fashioned precisely for his kind. He waited for an opening and slipped in, thrusting his outstretched fingers between the straps of a breastplate, four daggers driven straight into a kidney. Out as fast as he had come, the black wolfen threw his head back into a howl.
The victory song was cut short into a gurgle as a red longsword emerged from his chest. Pushing the wolfen forward and sliding his blade free, Diyn stepped over the creature and joined his men.
The brown and tan wolfen regained his senses and prepared to charge the horn helmed dhampyl. He lowered his head and put forward his right shoulder, the spikes glistening. Meanwhile, the silvery-gray wolfen leered and brought his club behind him, torquing at the waist for a full body swing. The half-dead had extra seconds to act, but his right leg and his left arm weren’t responding; he was losing ounces of blood from behind his knee with every movement and the bones of his shoulder were pulverized. Still, his sharpened dhampyl senses clearly heard the brown and tan wolf rushing behind him. He let two seconds slip, feigning fugue, and sprung low to his left as the club came around, letting his greatsword hang from his good arm, dragging and digging into the ground. The brown and tan wolfen came upon it at that instant, tripping over the blade, colliding with his packmate’s club and sending both into a tangled heap. The horned helm Sentry rushed upon them, greatsword out like a lance, hoping to impale both to the earth. The brown and tan wriggled away too quick, but the silvery-gray, his view blocked and his intention only on being rid of his brother’s weight, sat up directly into the blade’s tip. With a hiss, the horn helmed warrior rammed it through the monster’s enormous gaping mouth. Cherry blossoming from the wound, the eyes froze.
Diyn pushed his way between two club wielders, breaking the circle’s rank with three deft stabs. Although wild creatures, the wolfen are known for their combat prowess. The two immediately flanked Diyn and began swinging alternately high and low with clockwork precision, never missing a beat. Sword dancing left to right, deflecting four passes, Diyn saw their pattern, and tried to go for a killing strike to the left one’s throat when its club should have been low, but was surprised when they both soft-stepped away and came back with two simultaneous downward swings. Diyn dropped to a crouch and arced his blade over his head, sending both clubs away, but the force rung through his arm as would punching a stone column.
The other two dhampyl, however, were now facing three opponents. One of the Sentries spun around on the ball of his heel, and they both edged out the same wolfen by boxing him with both their shields. Now their blades were at a single wolfen apiece, and took to the offensive.
Horn helm turned to the brown and tan wolfen, ducking his head under his right arm with both of his hands still on the handle of his greatsword behind him. Both snarled at each other. The lust of battle had lessened the screams of the dhampyl’s wounds. With a short cry, he brought the massive blade out of its fleshy sheath, over his head and down, into a ready stance. A line of gore dropped down the distance between adversaries and fell at the brown and tan wolfen’s feet.
A sound came from the brush. Another wolfen stepped into the fray behind the horn helmed Sentry, about thirty paces away. The horn helm noted it and remained focused on the brown and tan wolf-man, charging again, jaw open and claws splayed. He brought the sword up with his right arm over his chest, the blade perpendicular to the ground, ready to cleave his oncoming foe in half. Then, the ground gave way beneath him.
Diyn saw it from the corner of his eye. A wolfen, its coat a mix of mottled colors and its fur bedecked with braided-in feathers and bones and painted with runes, weaved a spell into the air. The horn helmed dhampyl, with his back to the shaman, did not see the motes of yellow light strike the ground at his feet. The earth peeled away and opened up around him. The Sentry, distracted by his oncoming target and unstable on his right leg, immediately tumbled into the pit. The brown and tan wolfen loped over him as he fell. The dhampyl disappeared below. With a wave of his paw, the shaman sent another shower of yellow sparks at the hole, and with a rumble it closed. The horned helmet and its wearer trapped, buried alive. “Pity,” Diyn mumbled as he deflected more club strikes, “I don’t recall learning his name.”
The other two Sentries had wounded their combatants, and kept the third frustrated and befuddled, but it was clear the tide was changing. The shaman turned his attention to the rest of the fight.
Diyn slapped away the clubs while trying to step closer to the wolfen pack leader, but his arm was tiring. To his surprise, it was easy enough and kept getting easier, and when he was within ten feet he realized they had let him close the distance. His two assailants sprung away from him and back to the other two dhampyl.
Diyn lurched around and extended his blade at the shaman’s gut with all of his body. With a circular motion of his right claw, the wolfen shaman cradled and brushed away the blade. A sour note resonated throughout the air, and a red nimbus pulsed out from the furry index finger and coursed along the length of Diyn’s steel. He regained his composure and readied another strike, but his blade, glowing red, became a rusted relic that flaked away into nothing with the force of his next swing. Diyn held only a hilt.