Ronan: Night Wolves by Lisa Daniels (97)

Chapter Three – Malek

Stepping out into the Fractured City gave Malek a scene of disaster and ruin.  Whole streets had been levelled and annihilated.  Shops gone, people dissolved into bones, with the trail of bones indicating the dark path their main army had travelled.  He padded along in his wolf form, Geraline snug on his back, keen yellow eyes scouring the landscape, the broken buildings, nostrils picking up on the scent of panic and hate.  Only a hundred or so wolves padded behind them, the ones still healthy enough to continue the fight, who had not been crippled in the debilitating attack their tiny force had suffered against a mass of tireless Shadows.

They needed more to defend that point.  Of course they did.  But the more they sent to guard the tunnels, the more they siphoned off the main attack, allowing the Supremes and their superior-numbered army to have more chance of overwhelming, even in spite of the element of surprise they possessed with Erlandur's undead legions.

Two thousand or so.  We needed that number, and we might have done it.  A couple more witches, too.

They did what they could.  They had killed themselves upon the masses of enemy, bled for an almost impossible cause.

He was also no longer alone, either, in the way the Lunar Wastes formerly seemed to swirl through his heart before freezing it over.  He couldn't grow too attached.  The woman who clung to his fur now might die soon.  Her magic would make her a target.  The opposing army would focus fire the biggest threats mustered.

Thinking about the enemy and their allies, it worried him to see no sign of anything.  All he had was explicit instructions to reach the Black Tower, the central building in the Fractured City, and possibly the tallest structure in the world.

Unfortunately, judging by the state of battle, there was no way of telling if any of their armies had made it to the center.

When Geraline gasped above him, his heart thudded in panic, before he composed himself, noting the scattered werewolf bodies, and one dead witch.

“I knew her,” Geraline murmured, her hands clutching tighter into her fur.  “She was one of my clanswoman.  A Ghost Lake witch.”

“Apologies for this,” Yarrow said then, galloping on Vrin.  She frowned, and the witch stood up, her eyes dead, a gash on her cheek.  Black veins covered her neck, suggesting she'd been in the process of transforming to Shadow.

“I hate your power,” Geraline said.

“We have to use what we get.  Now, what was this one...?” Bolts of lightning shot out of the witch's fingers.  “Ah! Like me.”

“She was called Herci.”

Yarrow's response came out blunt.  “I recommend you don't think of her as anything, now.  She's empty.”

Malek felt the disgust emanating from Geraline, and he swiveled his head to stare at Yarrow, the witch who had gone from near death, fighting the voices in her head, to one who had two sets of powers – as if the undead possession wasn't enough.

“Some of the ones I control beg me to kill them,” Yarrow informed them, as they continued padding along the ruined streets, their tiny army behind them.  “The ones they call 'mindless,' all they do is scream.  They used to be people.  Before the corruption.”

Jael rode alongside them, mounted on a rather disgruntled werewolf, with Kain and Alyssa loping behind.  “It's one of the crueller things my kind does.  They trap your mind in your body.  And then basically set it on fire, so you're in constant pain.”

She glanced back to Faith and her grandmother as she did so.  Both combat witches seemed in earnest conversation, though the older Supreme had a hollow, listless expression, which Malek recognized as one that lacked purpose.

This whole place was bizarre.  Malek wished he lived elsewhere, in a quiet place, not bothered by the betrayal of his family, perhaps with a nice, homely woman, and at least a dozen children scampering around.

Or, maybe he could settle for someone like Geraline.

Around one corner, the Black Tower loomed over them, tall and imposing, an impressive and ominous sight all at once.  Here, they saw the werewolf army, with Helena and the clan chieftains milling in front of the entrance, having already set up camps.  Despite dreadful losses, they had secured the perimeter.  In the near distance, Erlandur's army were pushing through as well, and Malek saw the battle rage.

What an eerie, ghostly image to see all these dead ancestors ripping into their foes, not making a sound, not bothered when chunks of them got torn off.  Erlandur floated in the air, supported by Kell and an undead witch, who appeared to be shielding them from projectile damage from the Supremes.

“Some of the strongest witches of the ages were buried in the cradle of Crescent Island,” a soft voice said.  Helena.  She had seen where Geraline was looking.  She greeted them, and guided each of the werewolves to their new assignments.  “Though their magic is diminished from their long years dead, their bodies more fragile.  It's good to see you all.  I heard you fought bravely.”

“We were overwhelmed,” Jael replied, her gaze flinty.  “We needed far more than what we had.  But you expected us to die.”

“Yes,” Helena said.  “I did.  But thanks to your stalling, we were able to get into a good position to fend them off.” She indicated the vast stretch of her army.  “About eleven thousand of us still live.  But right now, we need everyone to do what they did in the tunnels.  We need to safeguard the Black Tower for as long as possible.”

“Why?” Geraline asked, echoing Malek's silent question.

Helena's responding smile was sardonic, dark.  “You'll see.  I'm not sure if we can wait for Erlandur, though.  We can't lose the ground here, it's everything.”

Dozens upon dozens of Shadows oozed out of the ground.  A blitz of different witch spells ended them, from fire to lightning to ice.

Malek snorted.  Typical the armies would have had a big supply of witches.  Though he understood on a tactical level Helena's intent to sacrifice them.

Didn't mean he had to like it.

They were lucky enough to escape as it was.

His attention got wrought again by a huge monstrosity, a hulking mass of Shadow with hundreds of little tentacles that seemed to instantly stab and kill whatever it came into contact with.

It belonged to that strange witch of the underbelly, who only referred to herself as Echo.  She called her summon the appropriate moniker of Monster.  A fearsome, impressive and disgusting beast all in one.

“Blasted skies,” Jael said, for the first time, sounding impressed.  “Now that's like the behemoths back on our home world.”

“Yes.” Helena didn't bother elaborating.  She scowled, impatient, her eyes constantly darting to the Black Tower.  “We may not get another chance to do this...” She pondered for a moment.  “Okay.  I need Faith and...  oh? Grace?” Helena now spotted Faith's grandmother.  “What in the world...?”

“Helena.  Up to your tricks again, I see,” Grace said, with the ghost of a smile upon her lips.  Her wizened face looked less hollow, and more infused with amusement.  The combat Supreme tilted her head to regard Helena.  “Though we appear to be on the same side now.”

“Hmm.” Helena inspected her.  “No.  You're not the Shadow that's wearing the body.  That's locked up.  You're the memories.”

“Perhaps.” Grace pointed to the Black Tower.  “Well? What's your dastardly plan, then? Obviously you haven't been plotting the Fractured City's downfall for the past five hundred years without a plan, right?”

Helena snorted.  A mass of Shadows were accumulating on the edges of their camp, even as Erlandur's surprise army struggled against superior numbers.  Erlandur appeared to have extended the undead shield witch's shield on Echo, since Supreme fire had been focusing on her, because of Monster's damage and tendency to regenerate any damage inflicted.

“I need all the witches from the tunnels.  I need you, Jael, to be our shield.  And at least a hundred werewolves.  We won't need a big force.  Just a well protected one.”

Geraline sighed from above Malek.  No rest for the wicked.  Yarrow smiled thinly, her black veins prominent on her arms.  Malek observed everyone here, wondering if this was the last time he'd see anyone alive.

Someone scurried to them from the other side of the encampment.  Malek squinted as he recognized the enchantment witch, Raine Lancer.

“Here,” the dark haired beauty said, pressing something into Helena's palm.  “It should help protect you from the pain, and enhance the potency of your ice magic.”

Helena nodded.  “Thank you.  And good luck.”

“Good luck,” Raine echoed, before retreating to an anxious looking man's side.

Surveying the battlefield, seeing the heart and valor everyone put into the fight, he felt a surge of hate towards his family.  His stupid, stubborn family, that would rather keep to their narrow little corner of the world instead of fight for a cause.

People who he wished he didn't share his blood with.

His heart pounded heavily, and he inhaled deep, mentally preparing himself for death.

Helena quickly assembled the small advance guard she wanted.  Then, with a last glance towards Erlandur's illuminated section of the city, and the growing mass of Shadows waiting to reclaim the Black Tower back, they followed her in.

“I wonder what plan Helena has,” Geraline whispered to Faith, who shrugged.  The combat witch had been staring towards Erlandur, suspended above the battlefield with a constant sliver of fear upon her face.  Fear and concern and love.  It made Malek respect her, and worry with her.

Kell seemed to be doing a good job of keeping Erlandur out of harm's way, and apparently levitating some Supremes towards the group every now and then, making them easy pickings.

Inside the Black Tower, Malek's heart quailed.

Evil saturated this place.  It stank out of every wall, bled into every orifice.

The walls were just as black as they looked on the outside, though an ethereal blue glow illuminated the spindly corridors.

The pull of the place made Malek believe in the concept of true evil.  His hackles flared, his tail turned into a spiky brush, and Geraline slid off him, instead pacing by his side.  The inside of the place was vast, bigger than any structure he'd ever seen.  It needed to be, of course, to support the height the thing soared to.  It was likely many leagues long on each side, more like a miniature city within the heartland of the Fractured City itself, which was pretty much the size of the Lunar Wastes.

Though they referred to the Black Tower as the center, it was actually near the front of the city, with the rest dwindling back into frozen tundra, and where the Shadows seemed to be massing up.

The whole first floor was a network of tunnels, of ancient architecture, grand and intimidating at the same time, of a bygone era.  When people must have been so much more advanced than the scrabbling civilizations today.  Chills rippled over Malek's fur.  He snuffled Geraline's palm when he sensed fear emanating from her as well.  Her chest heaved up and down under her warm gray robes, and her leather boots padded softly on the hard ground.  Every noise they made got amplified, echoing into the expanse.

Every moment, Malek expected something to happen.  For the walls to start teeming Shadows.  Either Helena's army had already cleaned out the floors and fortified them against additional Shadows, which was unlikely...  or they didn't dwell in this place.  Was it sacred to them? Something to avoid?

This used to be a human city, right? Long, long ago.  Before they invaded.  Before the Lunar Wastes became what it is today.

Where in the moon were they supposed to go? Up? Where was up?

Helena acted as if she knew where she wanted to go.  So did Jael.  The others fell into silent step behind them, unsure.  All the werewolves behaved like Malek.  Uneasy.  Expecting something awful to happen.

The Supreme, the former enemy known as Grace, glared into the back of Helena, as if trying to figure out what lay in her mind.  What her end goal was.

Malek wanted to know, too.  He didn't trust Grace at all.  He didn't know if Yarrow's magic was a temporary salve on an ongoing problem – and that at any moment, the combat witch would turn on them.  Given the melee prowess of such a witch, and that awful gift of intuition which allowed the keening of an opponent's move, she might obliterate them all before they stood a chance.

So unnatural.  To work with some of their enemies.  To be surrounded by thousands upon thousands of the aberrations, without knowing if any of them would ever make it out the Tower again.

He wanted to morph, to assure Geraline that he'd do everything to protect her.  To make sure the witches made it out alive, because their magic could change the tide of a fight.

All he offered was a rumbling growl and a nuzzle of her palm.  Some of her fear subsided, and it made him feel good, to see he had that effect on someone.

Proud, even.  Without any attachments, he found his thoughts gravitating more to her, wondering, contemplating if they could try working things out together if they survived.  He didn't want to appear as needy, or clingy, but he did desire company.  Affection.  Love.

Things to give life meaning, and a purpose to thrive.  He didn't know so much about her.  Her thoughts.  Her bonds to her family.  Her hopes and fears.  If she wanted children or if she intended to become a sage.  What made her laugh, what made her cry.

He found her physically attractive and passably satisfying to talk to, but the secrets of her heart remained a mystery to him.  He hoped he might have a chance to find out.

“It's going to be a long climb,” Helena whispered, her voice creating susurrations through the arched hallway, which descended further than the eye saw, and glowed with that ethereal light.  The same light that animated the true undead, replacing the soul that housed their bodies before.

What was it about this place that oppressed them? The silence? The darkness? The size? Feeling tiny and signature against the achievements of humanity before?

Was it because of the Shadows that humanity had regressed?

After wandering the solemn halls for what felt like an eternity, they took a left turn, folding into one of the spacious corridors, where ornate frames were strung up on either side.  Each frame depicted something from a bygone age.  Beautiful, rolling plains stuffed with colorful flowers.  The original Lunar Wastes? Each picture had a description, but the language was unrecognizable, nothing Malek had ever seen.  He padded along these ancient, pristine halls, devoid of dust, though they had stood the test of time for centuries.  Meadows.  Shining cities and cobbled streets.  Humans smiling, posing for their portraits, wearing rich clothings of zany colors.

Scholars, architects, painters, musicians.

Malek hesitated for a second on one picture, which displayed a shadowy being standing above everyone else, whilst they bowed their heads towards it.

It bore an odd resemblance to Helena.

He narrowed his wolfish eyes, suspicions increasing.

He didn't trust her.  And he needed to find out her motivations before he could act.  But what if by the time he figured them out, it would be too late?

They approached a huge set of stairs with black marble bannisters, polished to mirror brightness, adding to the disjointed atmosphere of the Black Tower.

“It will be a long climb, but the stairs in this place are at least together.”

“How long?” Geraline whispered, as if afraid to speak out loud.

“Well...  we're aiming for the top floor.” Helena jabbed at a long set of symbols engraved in the wall.  “And there's about two thousand five hundred floors.”

“You've got to be joking,” Alyssa exclaimed.  “We'll die of exhaustion before we even reach there!”

“I never joke.”

Perhaps if you're centuries old, you lose your sense of humor, Malek thought, glowering at her.

“WHO DARES INVADE THESE SACRED HALLS!” A voice boomed.

Everyone stared, looking around to where it came from.  Then, a horrible wailing sound penetrated the atmosphere.  To Malek's shock, he saw one of the werewolves who trailed the back of their expedition suddenly melt into bones, without any obvious touch by a Shadow.

“Defenses activated...” Helena huffed.  “Alright, run, run, run!”

Several more werewolves met the same fate.  In a panic, everyone galvanized themselves to run, witches hopping onto werewolves, Helena flinging herself over what Malek suspected was the Dreadwood chieftain – a brave move, considering the Dreadwood reviled the Shadows more than anyone else.

Up the stairs, Malek glimpsed black arms groping from the marble floor, and shuddered.

About nine werewolf bones lay scattered between them.  Mighty warriors, usually so resilient against the Shadow touch, dissolved.

Dark magic, indeed.

Fear igniting his thoughts, and Geraline clinging hard onto him, he puffed as he stretched out his limbs, fighting for the long climb ahead.

For all he knew, everyone on the ground floor, inside and out were dying right now.

They had nowhere to go but up.