Tarion asked ?
A chorus of howls broke the stillness of the night.
CHAPTER 5: Cries in the Wilderness
“To arms, werewolves are upon us!” shouted Hrolf, rousing the men from their meals, “Use silver or magic if you have it; to arms!”
“You see,” Alexandrus said evenly. “There’s some deviltry about this, no doubt something foreseen by the Dread Lord!” He leaned forward and the carpet whisked out of the trees. “I think I should take you out of this Praetorian; we’re expendable, but you must survive!”
Tarion unlatched his wrist-blade. Glancing darkly at the wizard, he told Alexandrus, “I’ll see you in Hell before I abandon a battle!”
“Stubborn, just like father! Call if you need aid; I will do what I can! Remember, this trap is set for you! The Destructor baited you; he’s had this set for an age! Good luck Praetorian, but remember, you at least must survive!” Alexandrus flew higher into the air, heading in the direction of the howls.
Tarion stared after the wizard, but he had no time to dissect his words or meaning. The howling grew louder. He trotted toward the gathering Norse. He knew the were-people well, or the lycans, as they knew them in the west. They became a terrible scourge after the battle of Vigrid. It all had to do with Luna, the Moon. Throughout all of history, the lycans turned into their bestial forms during the full moon. They lived relatively normal lives excepting that terrible time of month and Tarion even had a few friends with the affliction. That all changed after Vigrid. When Thor struck the Destructor with his hammer, Luna shattered and gathered around the globe in glowing rings. Now, every night filled with the silver light of the Luna’s rings, the Godsbridge folk called it. Though beautiful, it meant that every night became a nightmare for the lycans and their prey.
The mastodon rider, Hrolf led the company to the crest of the knoll. It wasn't much of a defense, but the slope protected them somewhat and behind was a precipice. He directed the Norseman to form a semi-circle just beneath the crest.
A tinge of admiration coursed through Tarion’s heart. Were-creatures were rare in the North Country and the Norsemen weren't ready for such an attack, but there was no sense of panic. Like the hardened veterans they were, the warriors sorted themselves out for the onslaught. Those with silver gilt weapons or charmed metal rushed to form the line. Those without such weapons rooted through their packs for anything made of silver: combs, picks, knives, even bags of silver coins. Unfortunately, there was little time for preparation. Even as Tarion planted himself in the shield wall, shaggy shapes with glowing red eyes loped out of the darkness.
H undreds of werewolves ran across the snow in a mangy black wave of glistening fangs, claws and fur. It was astonishing, even to Tarion who had experience with these creatures. Lycans were solitary hunters! They never congregated in numbers unless it was a family or a mated pair. Something or someone of extraordinary power and evil was behind this, but who and why?
“Stand fast! The legions of Hell are upon us!” Hrolf cried.
The Norse roared in answer, letting loose their battle cries, taunting and cursing the monsters, building their own courage for the defense, working themselves into a frenzy of bestiality to match the terrors approaching them. Tarion felt the familiar comfort of ice-cold clarity encompass him.
A mangy tumult of red eyes and claws fell upon Tarion and the Norse. His wrist-blade shone in the night, piercing and ripping the hides, turning the raucous howls into piteous screams. Still, there were many more lycans than he’d ever fought before. They attacked like beasts with mindless ferocity and he was feeling pressed when something whooshed over his head. Alexandrus flew past on his carpet. Crackling lightning sprang from his wand. The wizard cast his magic on the
A chorus of howls broke the stillness of the night.
CHAPTER 5: Cries in the Wilderness
“To arms, werewolves are upon us!” shouted Hrolf, rousing the men from their meals, “Use silver or magic if you have it; to arms!”
“You see,” Alexandrus said evenly. “There’s some deviltry about this, no doubt something foreseen by the Dread Lord!” He leaned forward and the carpet whisked out of the trees. “I think I should take you out of this Praetorian; we’re expendable, but you must survive!”
Tarion unlatched his wrist-blade. Glancing darkly at the wizard, he told Alexandrus, “I’ll see you in Hell before I abandon a battle!”
“Stubborn, just like father! Call if you need aid; I will do what I can! Remember, this trap is set for you! The Destructor baited you; he’s had this set for an age! Good luck Praetorian, but remember, you at least must survive!” Alexandrus flew higher into the air, heading in the direction of the howls.
Tarion stared after the wizard, but he had no time to dissect his words or meaning. The howling grew louder. He trotted toward the gathering Norse. He knew the were-people well, or the lycans, as they knew them in the west. They became a terrible scourge after the battle of Vigrid. It all had to do with Luna, the Moon. Throughout all of history, the lycans turned into their bestial forms during the full moon. They lived relatively normal lives excepting that terrible time of month and Tarion even had a few friends with the affliction. That all changed after Vigrid. When Thor struck the Destructor with his hammer, Luna shattered and gathered around the globe in glowing rings. Now, every night filled with the silver light of the Luna’s rings, the Godsbridge folk called it. Though beautiful, it meant that every night became a nightmare for the lycans and their prey.
The mastodon rider, Hrolf led the company to the crest of the knoll. It wasn't much of a defense, but the slope protected them somewhat and behind was a precipice. He directed the Norseman to form a semi-circle just beneath the crest.
A tinge of admiration coursed through Tarion’s heart. Were-creatures were rare in the North Country and the Norsemen weren't ready for such an attack, but there was no sense of panic. Like the hardened veterans they were, the warriors sorted themselves out for the onslaught. Those with silver gilt weapons or charmed metal rushed to form the line. Those without such weapons rooted through their packs for anything made of silver: combs, picks, knives, even bags of silver coins. Unfortunately, there was little time for preparation. Even as Tarion planted himself in the shield wall, shaggy shapes with glowing red eyes loped out of the darkness.
H undreds of werewolves ran across the snow in a mangy black wave of glistening fangs, claws and fur. It was astonishing, even to Tarion who had experience with these creatures. Lycans were solitary hunters! They never congregated in numbers unless it was a family or a mated pair. Something or someone of extraordinary power and evil was behind this, but who and why?
“Stand fast! The legions of Hell are upon us!” Hrolf cried.
The Norse roared in answer, letting loose their battle cries, taunting and cursing the monsters, building their own courage for the defense, working themselves into a frenzy of bestiality to match the terrors approaching them. Tarion felt the familiar comfort of ice-cold clarity encompass him.
A mangy tumult of red eyes and claws fell upon Tarion and the Norse. His wrist-blade shone in the night, piercing and ripping the hides, turning the raucous howls into piteous screams. Still, there were many more lycans than he’d ever fought before. They attacked like beasts with mindless ferocity and he was feeling pressed when something whooshed over his head. Alexandrus flew past on his carpet. Crackling lightning sprang from his wand. The wizard cast his magic on the
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