The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

DEATH

The small town soon disappears into the darkness of the night. Greystar, stretched as far as he can, runs faster than the wind. He senses Mora’s urgency; it seems as if he is just as worried. She recalls the ride in the carriage took a few hours at a slow walking pace; with Greystar moving like a ghost in the night, it should only take half an hour. She carefully unclips her helmet and pulls it over her head. She worries for her friends, for her country, for Sceadu, about the unnecessary deaths of the unknowingly controlled Alumenian army, that Jackson will not reach them in time-but most of all, she worries that she will never again see Rick.Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.

The sounds of battle, metal on metal, metal on bone, screams and cries of rage cut through the silent black night when they draw near. She barely manages to slow Greystar down, forcing him into a quick trot. The forests that encompass the road butting up to the Meadow are littered with dark lumps; by the dim moonlight she can barely distinguish the dead bodies everywhere, across the path, mixed into the trees, haphazardly strewn, the warmth of life already melted away as they now lie cold with the passage of time. The air is thick with the iron stench of blood seeping into the earth.

Greystar halts suddenly, rearing up with an angry whiny; two men with raised swords stop her on the road. She has never seen them before but knows from their largely muscled bodies donned in black with worn leather armor and almost glowing green eyes that they are border wardens.

“Who goes there!” Demands a deep, harsh voice.

Mora gets Greystar to calm down, though he angrily paws at the dirt; her voice is firm and confident, commanding their compliance even though deep down her heart races and anxiety eats away at her insides, “I am Queen Namora of Derven. Please, lower your swords and let me pass. My militia is on their way by this road-they will be here in a few hours.”

The larger of the two men steps closer, taking in her entire stature; seeing the tall helmet crown on her head, he sheathes his sword, “My apologies, Queen Namora. Queen Sheynne and Advisor Kelvin are just ahead.” He steps to the side, as does the other guard, to let her pass, “We will send someone to meet up with your militia and hasten their arrival.”

Greystar huffs at them before trotting forward; he comes to a reluctant halt next to Advisor Kelvin, who sits atop a large black steed, his attention focused on the Meadow before him. He barely glances at Mora when she speaks, “Where is Prince Varicken?”

Shaking his head, his keen eyes are still on the battle, “Out there somewhere-I lost sight of him after the ambush.”

“What happened?” She demands.

“We barely had notice that King Irron was preparing to invade Sceadu; word got out quickly and we made it here. I gave the command to hide in the woods-as soon as his soldiers set foot on Sceaduian land, we slaughtered them. It was quick and clean, they didn’t stand a chance.” He shifts angrily in his saddle.

Queen Sheynne’s voice comes drifting from his other side, though smooth the words are laced with venom, “Unfortunately it was barely a quarter of his army. As soon as the first wave was down, a second moved forward and our men ran out to meet them in the Meadow.”

Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness quite well and with the moonlight, she can discern most of what is going on. On the far side of the Meadow she sees roughly half of the second wave of Alumenian soldiers; though they are dressed in gold, in the darkness it shines a dull white. They are barely being held off by a line of Geofen men protecting their King, his teal colored armor appearing grey.

Laid out before her are clusters of Sceaduian men, donned in all black. The large men fight against the Alumenians, their rage evident through their angry cries. Though they are brutally effective in their tactics, throwing punches as much as using their swords, their fighting style seems unrefined when compared with the precision and synchronized movements of the men in white. The Alumenians move with a chilling grace, each unit fighting as a single force against their foes; it is all the Sceaduians can do to hold them at bay.

In the distance, across the public road Mora can make out two men on top of horses surrounded by a large group of dull white soldiers standing at the ready; her blood boils within her, knowing that Irron is within her sights but unobtainable. Her sharp eyes scan the field, desperately searching for Rick and their cluster of friends; she knows she must kill Irron but she needs a competent group around her in order to reach him. As the seconds tick by into minutes, more and more bodies drop to the ground and no longer rise. Adrenaline courses through her, her fire burning hot inside of her to the point where her hands start to tremble and sweat against the leather of the reins. It takes all she has to try to plan her attack wisely, instead of throwing caution to the wind and rushing into battle.

The faint change in the darkness, the gradual lightening of the night as the moon makes it sullen path across the sky is the only cue of the passing of time. Merely hours before dawn, the brightening of its approach makes it easier for her to see the horror before her. Now able to distinguish the colors, a chill crawls down her spine as she sees the hundreds of men left fighting on the field-a clear majority of them are in gold.

The men in teal seem to be struggling their best to stave off exhaustion, each swinging and thrashing now with the sole intention to kill; though they took out the line that was descending on the Geofen King-King Wallace-so that they could fight alongside their allies in black, another wave of gold appeared in front of them as Irron’s third line of soldiers advanced to the fight. No matter how many Alumenians they cut down, more step over the dead bodies to continue the attack. The Sceaduian screams of rage almost echo across the field, their ferocity and indignation reminds her of the stories of her ancestors, before Derven learned to control their anger with selflessness. She watches their brutish tactics slowly descend into savagery, as weapons are lost or broken, creatures of the darkness give into their animalistic disposition and start using their hands, fists crushing faces, necks snapped like wood, arms almost ripped clean from bodies by sheer rage.

A startled cry catches in her throat when she spots Prince Philip in his teal armor, roughly half way between her and Irron. A golden man fiercely stabs him in the leg, causing the Prince to crash down into to the ground. Mora restrains the urge to run to his aid, as she knows she will not make it in time and also that once she enters the battle, she will never retreat. She feels her body tense when the attacker raises his sword high above his head, tip aimed at Philip’s torso; bracing herself to watch the death of the Prince, she is stunned when the Alumenian is cut down from behind. As the gold clad body staggers to the side, one swift swipe of Dell’s sword decapitates the man. Eric quickly rushes to Philip’s side, leaning over to place his mouth on the wound. Though she knows exactly what he is doing, she worries that the Prince will not. As the thought occurs to her, she frantically glances up and sees Irron observing the same scene from his station on the other side of the public road. He sits up tensely on his horse, when Prince Philip rises to his feet, being flanked by the three Wardens as they make their way back to a larger group of Sceaduian men.

Irron gives no verbal command-even if he did, there would be no way that his men could hear it-instead, she watches on in horror as a dozen soldiers in gold descend upon the group. Eric is quickly separated but instead of being killed, he is disarmed and dragged by four men across the battle field, away from his kinsmen. Mora’s eyes grow wide when the Warden is brought before Irron. The King dismounts, shouting at Eric; the Warden struggles before he is brought down to his knees, his hands hastily held behind his back. Eric tries to get free but a man grabs a handful of his hair and pulls his head back while another soldier slices his own arm open, letting the blood flow into the Warden’s mouth.

Her heart sinks when Eric stops struggling; he rises to his feet of his own volition. Irron removes his useless arm from his cloak, threading it through the shirt and tearing off the bandage to expose bare damaged flesh. The Warden willingly leans forward, pressing his lips to the wound. In moments, Irron flexes his sword arm, stretching and rolling it out. The cold smile that crosses his lips is visible; he points his hand out towards King Wallace and without hesitation, Eric heads in that direction.

Before she can react, she is startled by Kelvin’s battle cry, “Sceduians-drink!” His command is repeated by others across the field.

“No!” She screams out in horror when she sees them follow his command, throats behind slashed and blood flowing into the mouths of those wearing black.