When he saw a wolf himself, he was glad he had not accused the other soldiers of exaggerating. He shouted the alarm as he sprang toward the creature, swinging his axe with all the strength he could muster. Its eyes were level with his own, not so much reflecting moonlight as glowing with their own inner green fire. Its muzzle was scarred with what looked like intentional designs or even infernal runes. Its foreparts were as much bear as wolf, shaggy and strong, ending in enormous paws. As his axe struck its shoulder and knocked it a step sideways, Cart could see that its hindquarters had no fur, but were armored with obsidian scales.
He wondered if the scouts who called these monsters “demonic wolves” had actually seen them or had just fled in terror from their unearthly howls.
In response to Cart’s attack, the demon-wolf howled, and it was quickly joined by four or five other voices, surrounding the camp. At such close quarters, Cart could feel the low rumble vibrating in the ground beneath his feet and shaking his resolve. Then, as though it sensed his fear, the creature bared a thicket of pointed teeth and twisted its lips in a fiendish mockery of a smile.
Cart’s axe lashed out again, impelled by his revulsion and terror, and bit deep into the wolf’s shoulder, spraying a gout of green-brown blood. It staggered back, then pounced at him and knocked him to the ground. As it stood over him, its teeth clattered against his plated body, seeking softer parts beneath.
He had been vaguely aware of other soldiers moving around the camp, and other wolves tearing them down. But face to snarling face with one of the monsters, he drowned in its burning green eyes, terror numbing his senses and rooting him to the ground. He had managed to wedge his shield between himself and the pouncing wolf, but the creature’s weight pinned the shield and his left arm tightly against his body. He still had a grip on his axe, but he couldn’t bring the blade to bear with any strength.
Instead, he drove the bladed pommel of his axe into one of the wolf’s green eyes. It recoiled, and Cart found his feet, glancing around to get the feel of the battle. Once again, the overall plan for their mission would need alteration. Many soldiers were on the ground, and in some cases wolves still stood over them, ripping at their flesh to feed, heedless of live soldiers who jabbed their spears at the monsters.
“Aundair!” Cart shouted, hoping to rally the soldiers’ courage, and he charged the wolf he’d wounded. A few weak cries of “Aundair!” answered him, but another chorus of demonic howls drowned them out. The wolf reared up on its hind legs to meet Cart’s charge and batted his axe out of the way before clamping its jaws on his shoulder.
Fury began to supplant Cart’s fear. Another military debacle under Haldren’s command was more than he could bear. He jabbed the pointed tip of his axe into the wolf’s belly, pulled it back as the wolf released its grip on him, and brought it around for one final blow with the blade, cutting through the wolf’s neck.
Cart spun around to see where he was most needed, and a blast of fire flared in his eyes. When the fire died down, he saw the blackened corpse of another wolf at his feet, and Haldren glaring at him from a few yards away. Just as Cart nodded his thanks, Haldren looked away and loosed a blast of fire to engulf still another of the demon-wolves.
At that, the remaining wolves turned tail and disappeared into the night, leaving a scene of carnage at the camp. Ashara moved slowly among the fallen with a pair of wands in her hands, tending to the wounded and dying. Of the ten soldiers marching with them, two were dead and four were seriously injured. Haldren, Ashara, and the wizard from Arcanix-whose name Cart could never remember-were unhurt, but Cart and the other four soldiers bore minor wounds testifying to their part in the struggle.
Haldren fumed. “Two squads of soldiers torn to shreds by one wolf sortie.” He spat. “And you call yourselves soldiers of Aundair.”
The soldiers hung their heads, but Cart could see resentment, rather than shame, on some of their faces.
“Worgs,” came a voice.
“What?” Haldren wheeled on the wizard.
He was as young as any soldier Cart had ever seen, a downy moustache clinging to his upper lip. He wore a coat of brilliant red-hardly practical in these surroundings-over clothes too elegant for hard travel. He quailed in the face of Haldren’s fury but repeated what he’d said. “Not wolves, worgs.”
“Are you questioning my choice of words, soldier?”
This seemed to steel the young man. “I’m not a soldier under your command, General. I represent the Arcane Congress on this mission, and I assert my right to share the knowledge of the Congress when the situation warrants it.”
Fire crackled in Haldren’s hand and for a moment Cart thought he would actually hurl it at the wizard, but his better judgment prevailed.
“Fine,” Haldren said, rage strangling his voice. “Why don’t you tell us about these worgs?”
“The scouts who described them as demon-wolves were not far from the truth. They’re like wolves with the hearts of fiends, filled with malice and insatiable hunger.” The opportunity to discourse on a subject he knew something about evidently strengthened the wizard’s nerve-his voice was louder, and his body more animated as he spoke. “Most importantly, they’re intelligent. Not geniuses, by any means, but not dumb wolves. They attacked with a plan, and they fled with a plan. We have not defeated them.”
“That fact had not escaped my notice,” Haldren said, “nor does your learning, while fascinating, illuminate how one attack from these worgs could leave two veteran soldiers dead.”
To Cart, this was at last the Lord General’s familiar face, at home on the field of battle, harsh in discipline, firm in commands, and tactically brilliant. The worgs’ attack had opened Haldren’s mind to what Cart had realized in Fairhaven: this was a military operation, not a hunting party. And from what the wizard had said, the worgs were very much like enemy soldiers.
CHAPTER 16
Kauth’s initial impression of the Labyrinth did not change when Vor led them down the bluff and into its jagged, twisting passages. There was a wrongness to the place that reminded him of the Depravation around the serpents’ lair, but compounded by a sense of brooding evil shrouding the land like a fog. The thick air burned in his nostrils, hot and acidic.
“I will lead you through the passages of the Labyrinth,” Vor said, stopping at the entrance he had chosen. They stood at the top of a steep slope that cut down into the earth, closed in by blackened walls. “I know its passages as well as I know my name.”
“What is your name, again?” Zandar said. Vor’s growl had always impressed Kauth. It was a sound no human could make, as richly textured as a lion’s roar. He resolved to practice the sound in an orcish guise, if he ever had the chance.
“But I remind you,” the orc continued, “that I can’t predict the movements of the Ghaash’kala. They are likely to find us.”
“What will they do?” Sevren asked.
“It depends on which clan finds us. The Khuruk clan will attack without bothering to challenge us or question us. The Darvuks will pause long enough to tell us why we have to die, and they’ll try to pepper us with arrows without ever standing in honorable combat. The Maruks will talk first, offering a choice: Commit your lives to the service of Kalok Shash and the holy calling of the Ghaash’kala, or die where you stand.”
“I take it you were a Maruk,” Zandar observed.
To Kauth’s surprise, Vor didn’t growl or even snarl at the warlock. “I once had that honor,” the orc muttered. His shame was plain on his face, and Kauth felt a pang of sympathy he couldn’t quash.
“All right, Vor,” Sevren said. “You lead us through the maze, and I’ll steer us away from recent tracks and try to keep us out of a Khuruk ambush.”