Chapter Fourteen: Obedience School

Cushing didn’t want to hurt the wolves. He had grown heated and irrational when he had lost Tes, but now he was cooling off, letting his blade do his thinking as he parried and slashed back against Kurliger’s teeth and claws. They were only doing what they were meant to do; you couldn’t hold it against a shark just for it being a shark.

On the other hand, a wise man didn’t let the shark do what it does best while you were in the water just because that was its nature. He resolved to stay true to his mission, help monsters, and not kill them mindlessly. He had just gone into steroidal Conan because Tes was missing. For all he knew, she had run off and hidden somewhere or was fighting her own battles without any help from them. He had to pay attention to the fight at hand and worry about his friend later, or they would all die.

His biggest disadvantage, at the moment, was the damned status ailment Clackhissis had inadvertently hit him with. He was certain that it was the reason that the wolves appeared so quickly. What he needed to do was establish some sort of dominance over Kurliger. His mind raced as he ducked a paw swipe and rolled away from a set of jaws that clacked together inches from his head. He let his muscle memory do its thing, and his sword flashed upwards, burning the tip of the beast’s nose. The wolf backed off and gave him some breathing space as it licked its nostrils in an effort to quell the pain.

Cushing considered everything he’d ever seen about dogs on those stupid reality shows he’d watched as a kid with his mother. They had said there were things you could do to establish who was boss, including who ate first, the man or the dog. His plan involved the dire wolf going hungry, which was no help. Another was to always be in a position that gave you the high ground. That went without saying in a fight. Keep the sun at your back and hold the high ground. Josey Wales had taught him that. On reflex, he spit in deference to the man.

Another way to establish dominance was to stay calm and maintain control. At the moment,, he couldn’t follow any of those memes that said Keep Calm and . . . advice; calm was the furthest thing his heart had in mind. He could keep calm, and Fuego, as his favorite Tee had advised, but that would be a last resort. The others were all equally useless such as don’t hand out treats. Treats? He was the treat. Setting the pace when walking was just as pointless. Right now, he and the giant doggie were in a ballet of death and blood. The only pace they could expect was a frantic one.

Then he started thinking of other people’s ideas, people who knew what they were doing. He had to exhibit alpha behavior. He could stare the wolf down, tap it under the chin, or grab it by the ears. He supposed that he could try the staredown, but his best uppercut, if it landed, would do little more than annoy Kurliger, and grabbing his ears was also out of the question, as those methods put him too close to the chompers of death.

The one he liked but seemed impossible was attempting what was called an Alpha roll. That would entail, no pun intended, him pinning the great lupine to the ground on its side, its feet away from the Game Warden, one hand on the scruff of the neck holding the head down and the other on its groin. Cushing didn’t exactly relish the idea of grabbing the wolf’s junk but accepted that sometimes a man covered in filth, bile, vomit, and blood must do what he can to stay alive. He just hoped that Clackhissis didn’t see him do it. He would never live it down. He could just hear the new name she would give him, Cushing Groingrabber, and he sheepishly realized that he was more concerned about getting a stupid nickname than getting killed.

^^

Clackhissis would have been sweating buckets if she were humanoid. She had carefully used her legs to leap incessantly onto or away from several wolves since she’d launched that first wolf. She had managed to bite to and inject enough venom into them to paralyze them, but that was all she’d had time for because she hadn’t been able to finish them off or even feed a smidgen from their frozen bodies. She was feeling the effects of having lost all the food she had eaten earlier and the frenetic pace she had been under once the attack truly started. It was taking a toll on her.

Naturally, as soon as she had that thought, a Status ailment hit her.

^^

Underfed (Level 3): Health Point and Essence Regeneration reduced by 30%; Stealth 25% more difficult

^^

She had lost sight of Cushing and had only seen Hyde twice. Tes was a lost cause in the spider’s mind. She was already a casualty, and they would mourn her later. She found it odd that it stressed her to think like that during a battle. She had lost hundreds of brood mates and never considered their loss; now she found herself embroiled in a life-and-death situation, and she could not stop thinking of the kobold.

It was different with Cushing. From what he had told her, after a battle such as this, he would be able to come back. His death would not be a “permadeath,” as he had put it so eloquently. His rebirth might result in being hundreds of miles away if she understood the entire process. Tes, however, played in a world where a single misstep meant never seeing the next moment, or any other moment, ever again.

She returned her thoughts to the conflict around her. Two wolves were down, one she suspected was dead, and the Alpha still faced the Game Warden. That meant there were at least six more of them out there, and again, she cursed her lack of vibrational sensitivity. If it were still in working order, Clackhisis would know how many there were and their exact locations.

Her eight eyes worked overtime, gathering everything she could about her surroundings. She counted four wolves skirting her in a twenty-foot radius and could see Cushing staring down the Alpha or at least trying to do so. That left two unaccounted for, and that placed them skulking behind the tree, waiting to strike when she wasn’t ready. The others would then act like mosquitos, running in and out and nipping her exposed areas as the two main fighters kept her occupied. It was a standard predatorial maneuver, but one that worked well. Make the prey focus where you want them to, skirmish enough to let them get distracted, and then hit and run them until they left themselves exposed, and then go in for the kill. It was the death of a thousand tiny bites. Knowing this helped. Having eight eyes made it easier to see the others when they darted in at her. Keeping two in front of her was their mistake.

The spider held her ground as the wolves prepared themselves, rotating slightly every little bit to let them know she was watching. Now that she had calmed down and gotten Tes off her mind, she had settled into being herself, her old self, the one who hunted and was not stalked as prey. Kurliger might have been the Prime among his pack, but it was she who was the true Alpha. She was the Alpha no matter where she went, and it was high time she proved it. Her fangs oozed venom. Her claws rent steel armor, and her magic . . .

As she had expected, two snarling wolves rounded the tree and bounded toward her with low growls in their throats. However, her eyes were not centered on them. No, in this instance, she trusted her legs to tell her of their approach. Her eyes were trained on the outliers. They were the real danger. They were the ones that would harry her to death if she let them. She calmly waited until a wolf, believing her attention to be elsewhere, darted in from the left. Clackhissis cast her Impact Webbing on the two wolves before her, snaring them in its inky cords, and then side vaulted towards the incoming lupine.

It wasn’t a difficult jump, and on a normal day, she would have performed it without even noticing an effort, but after days of marching and lacking nutrients to sustain her, she could feel the anchor of fatigue in her legs. Her aim was perfect, and she landed on its back so perfectly positioned it would have made an Olympic gymnast jealous. She’d been suffering the hunger status ailment ever since she’d blurted. Idly, she pulled up her current status ailments with a thought.

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Current Status ailments

Worn-out: Attacks suffer a -10%Damage Reduction; Skill Strength reduced by 25%

Desperate for a drink: Health, Vitality, and Essence Regeneration are all reduced by 25%

Ravenous): Health and Vitality Regeneration reduced by 30%; Stealth 25% more difficult

Effects do stack.

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She was so intent that she did not notice a great flare of light go off behind her but rather only saw a vital area at the base of the wolf’s skull that was perfect for her fangs. Her whole body drove forward, and she thrust her venomous daggers into delicate fur-covered flesh. The dire wolf gave a yelp of both pain and surprise, gave another laniary yip, and skidded across the earth with a satisfying thud.

Clackhissis did not hesitate. She had practiced her follow-up move so many times it was an automatic reflex. Her legs coiled and sprang from the envenomed canine onto the nearest of the hapless wolves held by her silken mesh. Two quick bites later, she was back on the ground, looking for the last three wolves. She cast a wary eye for Cushing and saw the enormous lupine monster rake a paw across Cushing’s leather breastplate. The spider was about to hurry to her friend’s aide but once more found herself in the company of wolves.

--^

Cushing was dripping rivulets of salty water all over his body. The Taint of the Unclean clung to him like the smell of putrescine on a cadaver. The bits of gore and blood had infiltrated every fiber of his clothing; his body rejected the grime and had begun to overheat as his clogged pores struggled to flush the contaminates from his surface. Despite his life-and-death struggle, he wished he had some body spray to deflect the stench he was producing from his nostrils.

The Game Warden was quite proud of himself. He was doing better than just holding his own against the Grande Lobo and was certain he would have been able to kill the beast if that had been his goal. Kurliger seemed to recognize this fact and had begun to become wary of his flaming blade. Cushing had emulated some of the greatest swordsmen who’d ever lived, including Connor MacLeod, the Dread Pirate Roberts, Cyrano de Bergerac, MadMartigan, Beatrix Kiddo, and, of course, Darth Maul. Yeah, they were all from the movies, but the moves were legit, especially those of the Dread Pirate. The wolf didn’t know how to react when he told it that he wasn’t left-handed and had promptly slipped his sword into his right palm and thrust it forward with a flair only a true pirate could pull off.

Despite everything, Cushing found that he was having fun. This was a game world, and he was a freaking player. He should be allowed to smile, make some stupid references and just . . . freaking play. He wasn’t ignoring that Tes was missing or that Clackhissis was single-handedly taking on the rest of the pack herself. It was just that it was only in moments like this in the old world that Cushing had felt alive. No book or movie gave him the thrill of fighting a dragon or avoiding a trap as immersive gaming did, and he freaking loved movies. Horror might have been his preferred genre, but he had watched everything except snooty arthouse stuff and dry Oscar-contending dramas. His love of old-time action flicks with swordsmen in the lead had paid off in spades in DKO.

Kurliger seemed to recognize his swordplay skill and slowly backed away from the Game Warden’s dancing sword. Cushing took pride in knowing he was handling the wolf decently despite the adverse conditions that the Taint had placed upon him. The great wolf lunged at him; Cushing leaned back into a roughly Matrix-like bullet-dodging position, avoided the jaws, and snapped forward, driving his blade into the chest of the Alpha and then twisting the sword in a long arc before he stepped away. The smell of burnt hair filled the air, and the wolf whined in pain. Cushing flashed the cur a smile and gave a small bow, unable to resist quoting from one of the greatest duels ever put on screen. He channeled José Ferrer and let fly the best sword-fighting taunt he’d ever heard in his most growling Dire Wolf tongue:

Stolen novel; please report.

“Ho, for a rime!.. You are wolfy as whey—

You whine, you cower, you cringe, you… crawl!

Tac!—and I parry your last swipe away:

So may the turn of a hand force your fall

Life with its honey, death with its gall;

So may the turn of my fiery blade roam

Free, for a time, till the rimes recall,

Then, as I end the refrain, thrust home!”

He considered the effect of his words as he spoke. Yes, he did not doubt that he could have thrust home at that moment when those very words had passed his lips and killed Kurliger, but that was not his goal. He wanted to subdue the monster, and if that came from belittling it and carving a large “C” for Cushing onto its chest, then so be it. He’d toyed with carving a “Z" but wanted to leave his mark. C’s were more complicated to cut than a Z, anyway. They required real skill and finesse with a sword. The taunt was more about drawing the beast into a position for him to try to do an Alpha Roll, but so far, nothing he’d done had worked. It was time to step up his game.

Cushing backed up several feet, his sword arm downward and forearm facing the wolf so that it had an easy view of just how badass his fiery weapon was. He raised his eyes and gazed into those of Kurliger’s own. The battle of blade and claw was on hold for a moment; this now was a battle of wills. It was a stare-down for dominance. The first of them to blink or move in any way lost.

Kurliger’s black orbs locked onto those of the Game Warden in what seemed to be a psychic death grip. His peripheral vision told him that the lobo’s hackles were raised, and he would hear a throaty growl rumble through the air at him. Not to be outdone, Cushing gave the only audible response he could.

“Ch ch ch, ah ah ah.” Cushing was a horror purist and would never use the Ki ki ki, ma ma ma wording from the Friday the 13th revisionist campaign that took place in the early two-thousands. No matter what sounds had been used for the movie’s soundtrack, they had been bent and distorted so much that even his pre-informed ears heard a Ch and an Ah sound. No one changed what he heard on the winds of Crystal Lake, not even the composer. The wolf seemed utterly unimpressed by his choice for their vocal skirmish. Perhaps, he thought, I should have gone with the Predator’s clicks instead.

Kurliger slowly raised a paw, and Cushing could see the muscles around the wolf’s eyes tense. Finally, it was readying a pounce! He’d broken the beast, and he somehow knew that the pack would feel that shift in power.

A moment later, Kurliger was sailing through the air, flying right at him like an arrow fired by a master archer. Images of the G’mork rushing at a hapless Atreyu from the NeverEnding Story flashed through his mind’s eye, and he snapped Dragon’s Breath before him, both hands on the hilt, and cried, “Nuke’em!”

The flames of the sword flared into a brilliant light that lit the area around them bright as day for half a mile’s radius, but only for a second. The conflagration that covered his blade died a second later, leaving him with a cold but a still razor-keen weapon in his hand. He knew that the eruption of light would dull the salamander’s flame for ten minutes and that he would not be able to replicate the maneuver again until the twenty-four-hour cooldown expired. Still, he figured it was worth using his “nuclear option.” The light blast wouldn’t affect the weapon’s wielder, so he was safe from its effects, and assumed that Clackhissis wouldn’t be bothered since she seemed to have some sort of spidey sense (literally) that let her know where her opponents were. Kurliger, on the other hand, had no such defenses from the overwhelming brilliance of Cushing’s weapon.

He sidestepped the wolf as it bolted to where he had just been standing and allowed an eerily cold Dragon’s Breath to cut a long but shallow line down the lupine’s right flank. The wolf let out a yelp and shook its head as if the motion would throw the blindness from its eyes. Kurliger circled to face him, eyes squinting, saliva dripping to the ground.

“Submit,” Cushing yelled, “I have no desire to do you any further harm.”

The wolf shook its head from side to side, its eyes glued to him. Cushing realized that maybe the old dog wasn’t as blind as he’d hoped. It still blinked and swiped a paw across its eyes, clearly trying to banish the flare-produced spots that danced before its eyes.

“Mercy? From one such as you, for me? A predator I, no cub nor elderly cur, stands before you. I am a hunter—the Alpha of this land. You are just prey, and you offer me pity? Mercy truly is for the weak. When I finally dine on them, I expect to find no essence in your bones. They will be as bland as you are feeble.” Kurliger’s speech had given him enough time for his eyes to clear, and Cushing realized that a second later than it would have been helpful to know.

It also chilled his bones when he realized how much the wolf sounded like Clackhissis. The two of them were definitely cut from the same cloth, freaking barbed adamantium razor-chainmail. That meant the dire wolf was hardcore, like a US Navy SEAL strapped with some C-4, and it was ready to go off without warning. The wolf, sensing his hesitation, lowered its head and crept forward. Cushing raised his sword in a vain attempt to look threatening and flashed a snarl back to the wolf.

“So, as you said, may the turn of a paw forestall!” Kurliger shot forward and swiped a massive clawed forefoot across Cushing’s chest before the man could even bring his blade to bear. The blow sent him sailing through the air as if he’d been fired from a slingshot. He landed forty feet away on his left side, rolled half a dozen times, and came to a stop on his back. He stared up at the sky, wondering how many of the stars he saw were real and how many were from the blow he had just taken.

His head spun, his vision blurred a few times, and he swore that was the last time he’d ever quote Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac to a monster ever again. He was better off playing silent like Michael Myers or Jason Vorhees. They knew how to intimidate people and then murder them. Cyrano just wanted to kiss a girl.

Cushing rolled his head in the direction of the thuds that he heard approaching. He saw Kurliger rushing towards him, massive maw agape, readying to sever Cushing’s neck from his body. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. A smile forced itself onto his face. This was the moment he had been driving their fight towards. He hadn’t wanted to get into a prone position but realized that it was probably the only way he would maneuver the monster where he needed him to be.

Kurliger pounced, his head whipping low for the fatal bite. Cushing, praying to Kaali that his timing was right, swung his body over and kicked the wolf’s foreleg out from under it while barely avoiding his toothy strike. Without pause, he barrel-rolled onto the dire wolf, driving his feet into the canine’s neck while slipping his blade into a delicate area he had no desire to grab. He hoped the chilled cold steel resting on its groin would give the creature pause.

Cushing considered laying a Freddy Kruger line on the wolf, but all he could think of was, “I'm your boyfriend now, Nancy!” Somehow, considering the position of his sword, he didn’t feel that was appropriate. It might, he believed, instill a different kind of fear into the animal, though. He opted instead to go with a more traditional threat.

“I’m giving you one chance to submit, Muttley,” he let the edge of the blade taste flesh, but only paper cut deep. Cushing had no desire to spur the beast into a frenzy. “Either you submit to me now, or you’ll be howling soprano every time the moon shines. I believe in spaying or neutering my pets.”

Kurliger rocked as he struggled to rise, but Cushing’s heels were atop the wolf’s trachea, and each time he tried to get up, the Game Warden choked him with his boots. He also allowed his sword to sink a touch deeper into the wolf’s flesh to emphasize the beast’s plight.

“Keep moving around, and there’ll be a new type of twigs and berries in the forest tonight.” The timbre of his voice must have made the wolf take him seriously, as Kurliger immediately stopped moving. It gave out soft hacks as Cushing made certain to keep a firm boot on the monster’s throat. He might not want to kill the beast, but he also didn’t want to leave it an opening to snack on his legs just because it did not share his compunction against killing.

“Submit!” The Game Warden’s voice rang out into the darkness, and he could hear everything stop. The other wolves stopped yipping and growling. He could not hear the shaking of the limbs of the tree, nor did he keen a single stridulation from Clackhissis. The only sound that followed his command was the heavy breathing of Kurliger as he struggled to breathe. It was as if the entire world had stopped. Then the wolf gave a throaty reply.

“Never.”

Pain of an emotional nature flooded across the Game Warden’s face. Reluctantly, he slid Dragon’s Breath away from the wolf’s tender area, flipped the hilt around so that the blade faced him, and calmly thrust it under the wolf’s ribcage, driving Dragon’s Breath directly into the lupine heart. Kurliger had tried to move as soon as the sword was removed from his unmentionable place, but Cushing’s actions had been too fast for it to strike back.

A notification flashed across his eyes, and he saw the words Flawless Strike before he wiped it away. He had felt the life leave his foe the moment he’d struck its heart. It had been the last thing he’d wanted to do, and he had done everything in his power to keep things from getting to this sad conclusion. He would honor Kurliger’s memory. He had been a worthy foe and one true to his way of life. He had died a hunter, an alpha, not begging or submitting like a lesser creature would do. He wondered if Clackhissis would do the same as Kurliger and allow pride to keep her from living. Did she realize that a single defeat did not mean you were broken?

It was then that Cushing swore something changed in his sword. It wasn’t much, but something switched in his mind. It was a mental click like a switch had been thrown, but the sound resonated in his mind and his blade. He prayed he hadn’t done something to damage Dragon’s Breath. His mission was to advocate for monsters, not kill them. It didn’t help that his sword wasn’t burning when that happened. He cursed the timing of his blade, suddenly opting to do something.

Cushing decided he’d reflected enough and would worry about his beloved blade later. He needed to strike while everyone was still waiting to see what had happened. He slipped off the wolf’s corpse, rose to his full height, threw his head back, and howled. He was speaking in the language of the dire wolves, but any sapient creature nearby would only hear the anguish and the pain that the message transmitted. It was mournful and tinged with regret and lingered in the air for an eternity. Six howls responded in like. He could not see them but knew their heads were raised and eyes were shut in respect of their fallen leader. In the distance, he could also make out a spider’s purr fill the air.

He smiled. At least Clackhissis was still alive. That meant she’d probably managed to keep Hyde safe. She would never toss the boy to the wolves. He winced at the pun but knew he was right. She would have fought to keep him alive or died in the attempt.

That just left Tes.

^^

Pritt leaned against a tree and wiped the sweat from his brow. The heroes were not far from them now. His keen eyes could see them in the distance as they fought the wolves. His men were tired but not spent; still, it would be foolhardy to attack them now. They could take a little time and catch their breaths before performing a sneak attack. They could take a few minutes, catch their breath, and be refreshed enough to fight. They might even be able to hunker down behind them and wait until their guard was down. Catching the spider unawares might very well be impossible, he thought, but his men could hit them when the others were asleep or in dire need of a rest. Even the spider had to stop and recuperate periodically.

Their superior numbers of six against three had shifted to six against four. Pritt had not counted on them adding another member to their party, and while the ogre was big, he looked unskilled. He also looked young and tired. He would be more of a liability to them than he would to the Icthyoids. So, in the end, Pritt decided that the imbalance in numbers was still in their favor. One hundred squalling babies against one wolf was no challenge to the canine. One ogre cub could prove to be a small problem, but nothing that couldn’t be dealt with quickly and easily.

A cold certainty shrouded Pritt. He had taken a weapon without the knowledge of the great Kludge Orinnel. A sword that he prayed that he could keep if he was successful and was a weapon that surely rivaled the flaming sword of the gamer. It was a sword that Pritt firmly intended to plant between the ribs of the human.

That he would succeed in this mission was never in question. The only thing that rattled through his mind periodically was whether or not he would be taking Au Puch’s place when this was all over.

Pritt looked at his squad. Each and every one of them bore a look of hatred and determination. They wanted to kill their targets as much as he did. Sunder, a tall, willowy Icthyoid, was readying his bow. Sunder rarely spoke; if he did so, it was simply to acknowledge a command. He was one of the Icthyoid’s best scouts because he preferred to be alone. In spite of his antisocial tendencies, Sunder was an outstanding soldier and a man that Pritt could respect. He put his desires and needs below those of his god. So long as he was serving Lord Dagon, he was happy.

There was also Killick, a simple fighter carrying the complex chain weapon, Flinghook. The flinghook was a length of metal chain that reached an overall distance of eight feet. At one end was a razor-sharp fishing hook that extended out a foot before curving into its barbed point. The other end of the chain was a smooth ball about the size of a grapefruit. Killick carried the hook in his hand and wrapped the chain around his forearm with the ball left dangling in space. He was lightning fast with it and would sometimes leave the chain wrapped up to allow him to block with his arm or bludgeon his foe with it. Pritt's only issue with Killick was that he liked to hurt himself almost as much as he did others. Why apply violence to oneself when there were more than enough victims to go around? It seemed like a good waste of violence.

If he were honest Pritt did not know the rest of them. He had chosen them mainly for their professed skill with a sword and an eagerness to kill anything that Kludge Orinnel designated as offensive in the eyes of Lord Dagon. He had no doubts about their commitments or willingness to die for the glory of their dark god.

Pritt was not a betting man, but he doubted their confrontation would last more than two minutes. The bloodthirsty nature, coupled with a limitless religious fervor, made his men utterly fearless. There was an old Icthyoid that said, “In battle, the first to blink would never reopen their eyes.” His eyes, and those of his men, were wide open.