Last week I wrote two posts in the series — just to confuse people…
I felt like some more Shadow Wolf this week. This is part of my weekly writing exercise, written raw and rough. The first story arc, Blade Breaker, can be found here. The first story of this arc, Red Fangs, can be found here. The previous week’s post can be found here (and also here, since I did two)
The street in front of Git’s shop was a grim little abattoir, awash in blood, with a pair of charred forms smoking amidst the corpses. There was too much blood, far too much with only a dozen lying dead before us: the vampires had obviously drunk their fill before seeking us in battle. I have heard tales of a single well-fed bloodsucker letting loose a torrent of blood, when split open by swift sword or hungry axe, that could knock a half-giant from his feet. I could almost believe the tales now, I have seen battlefields with less blood.
“Murith, how are your wounds?” I asked, tearing my eyes from a lazy flow of gore down a street grate. There would be a feast below us tonight.
“I’ll live Ragnar,” returned Murith as Git fussed over her wounds. “Now please tell me that the death of my watch squad has nothing to do with your fucking escapades.”
I turned to find the dwarven woman glaring at me. She was pale, but there was still fight enough in her that her glower smoldered.
“I–” I began.
“This is Cinder’s doing,” intoned Berkhilda. “It is the way of Cinder to stir up discord between Vampires and those who do not drink blood. Cinder wants a war. Killing a watch patrol is a good way of striking fear and stirring up anger in the general populace.”
Murith’s anger deflected to the giant Nordan vampire. If she was impressed by Berkhilda’s massive frame, fangs, or warlike demeanour, she gave no sign.
“Who are you?”
“I am Berkhilda Furisdottir. My mother was a warrior of great renown in Clan Bloodaxe. I myself am–.”
“I don’t need the list of your deeds,” said Murith. “I don’t want to be here all night.”
“Thanks,” said Berkhilda, sounding genuinely pleased. “In truth, you would probably know me better as the daughter of Lazar Vintul.”
“You must take after your mother,” said Murith, raising a brow. “What are you doing with this bunch Berkhilda?”
“I am helping Ragnar hunt down Cinder,”
“Who is Cinder exactly?”
“He, or she, is the one responsible for Delilah’s death,” I said.
“Cinder is a rebel among my people,” said Berkhilda. “Or rather was, a long time ago. He was killed. Now other rebels use the name Cinder to stir up discontent. The often pretend to be the one, true Cinder until they are dragged out into the light.”
“I followed leads to Cliffshadow and the Jetties, Murith,” I said. “This Cinder has been amassing an army and raising funds. This goes far beyond vengeance for a lost friend. Something is stirring in the shadows.”
“Something is always stirring in the shadows in this city Ragnar,” grumbled Murith.
“Cinder killed your squad and I could use your help, old friend,” I said.
“Fine. Are you willing to go out with me and check to see if any of my men made it?”
I nodded. I did not bother arguing with Murith about her wounds. She was bound by duty and Murith never shirks.
“I will go,” said Berkhilda. “We still have a little time before dawn comes.”
“Lead on, watch Sargent,” I said.