After their meal, they began their final dash to the Mountain-city. But just as they began to pick up their pace, Elekan stopped. He turned and faced south and growled deeply. Mathion stopped at the sound and when he turned, saw a fierce light in Elekan’s eyes.
“What is it?” Mathion asked. The others slowed their pace and turned back at the sound of Mathion’s voice.
Soc ondóv? the Wolf replied.
(Can’t you see?)
Mathion closed his eyes, and almost immediately he felt himself hurtling skyward, and he looked down on the land below. The Red Mountains arched in a majestic red band across the northern reach of Ánovén, and the blue waters of the Great Gulf crashed against their northern slopes. There was a bright golden light that illumined his entire vision, but it also seemed sheer, as if made of mist and smoke. He floated, hovered for a moment, then saw it…
Mathion opened his eyes and summoned his sword.
“Kânín!” he cried. The others pulled hard on their reins, forcing the horses to an abrupt halt.
“What? Where?” said Kéle’il, dismounting and summoning his sword as well.
“Close,” Mathion replied. Suddenly a great black shape leapt up from behind a knoll and threw Oharion’s horse to the ground. Oharion flew back several feet before landing hard on his back, unconscious. Dovosir ran to him and stood at his guard. Narios crouched and summoned two short swords with curved blades and ran headlong towards the werewolf, but just then two more werewolves joined their brother and cornered Dovosir and Oharion.
Narios vaulted over the one werewolf and with blinding speed slashed its back. The beast whimpered and gnashed its teeth as if trying to snatch Narios out of the air, but to no avail.
“Bé-tathálij hrisa!” Mathion cried and no sooner had the dagger flashed into his hand when he threw it. His aim was ever true, and it pierced the neck of one of the werewolves, whereupon the thing slumped to the ground and with a final howl of anguish and rage burst into silver flame.
Elekan howled, and the surviving werewolves snarled in pain. The force of his howl shook the mountains violently, and a white sheet of ice and snow cascaded down a pillar of red stone. The horses were driven far back as the werewolves were buried under. But they burst forth from the icy rubble and darted for their prey.
Mathion’s eyes flashed and he and Elekan took on one werewolf while Kéle’il and Narios challenged the other. Dovosir managed to pull Oharion up through the snow and joined the fray while protecting the young prince.
Werewolves are resilient when cornered, and potentially even more dangerous if wounded, and these slashed with their claws and gnashed with their teeth. Mathion caught the brunt of one such swipe and he was flung to the side, and Elekan growled in anger and leapt on the werewolf’s back, biting into its neck and spilling its blood on the verdant grass. The beast howled and reached up with a powerful claw and pulled the White Wolf off of him, but Dovosir stood ready and with his silversteel broadsword decapitated the beast. Both its head and body were consumed by fire, and Kéle’il, true to form even in the midst of his own fight, laughed as he saw the flaming head bouncing and rolling down the gently sloping plain.
Narios was quick with his blades and dealt the werewolf many blows in rapid succession which wounded it greatly. But Narios had blades of steel, not silver, so his could not kill. But the werewolf was caught at unawares, and lost blood so that it was sluggish and slow to react. It was then that Oharion awoke amidst the white snow stained with the red gore of werewolf blood, and his lust for vengeance was stirred. He hollered for Narios and Kéle’il to hold on their attack. The werewolf saw him, to be sure, and growled at his approach, but Oharion opened his hand and summoned his sword. Made of the purest steel found west of the Greatwater, it shone like illuminated blood in the light of the setting sun. There was a wicked smirk on his face and his green eyes glimmered.
The werewolf seemed too weak to fight, and had begun to revert back into its man-form. But Oharion was of no mind to forgive, and the werewolf now kneeled before him as a man, ragged with hunger and pouring blood from several gashes along his chest and abdomen.
“Please, please! Mercy!” he cried, folding his hands in front of him, but Oharion was not swayed. Grabbing the werewolf by the scruff he took his sword and plunged it deep into its stomach, slicing upwards and splitting its ribcage. The werewolf cried in pain and blood poured from his mouth. Oharion simply smiled and wiped the blood and spittle from his face.
“I’ll give you mercy, spawn of Ak’horos,” he said in a low voice. And he recalled his sword and summoned a silver dagger and in one swift motion plunged it through the nape of the werewolf’s neck upwards into its skull. Silver light erupted and filled the werewolf’s eyes, and as Oharion tossed it to the side the body began to burn.
Mathion ran up, and Oharion was still breathing heavily, almost rabidly. Mathion’s arm was crimson with his own blood.
“What was that?” Mathion hollered.
“Those things tried to kill us!”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“You know damn well I did what had to be done.”
“You were excessive, and driven by bloodlust, Oharion! That’s not how we’ve been trained to defend ourselves; we do not kill in cold blood.”
“The bastard had it coming.”
“And you will as well if you stay on this path.” Oharion stopped, and stared at Mathion blankly. “Oharion, I’m not angry with you, believe me. But you must understand that everything we do has a price, and a consequence. Kill without mercy, and you will be killed without mercy.”
Oharion nodded, and his breaths slowed. “Are you hurt?” he said, nodding to the gashes in Mathion’s arm. Mathion held it out and examined the injury.
“Surface scratches,” he said with a smile. “Barely broke the skin.”