(eng) Alan Burt Akers - Dray Prescot 33 by Werewolves of Kregen

Author:Werewolves of Kregen [Kregen, Werewolves of]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter twelve

“The dratted thing’s dead all right.”

Together we burst out beyond the edge of the shrubbery and stared across an open flowerbed area. The blood thumped around my body and I could feel my heart going nineteen to the dozen. The feel of the sword in my fist gave me some reassurance — some, by Krun, only some!

The werewolf appeared huge, menacing. The girl lay upon the path, sprawled, her white dress glimmering in that mothlike appearance in the random illumination.

As we raced up, the ganchark lifted his head. The muzzle gaped, sharp fangs yellow within the darkness. His eyes in that wolfish fashion burned red.

Seg skidded to a halt. His bow was in his fist.

Seg Segutorio, least of any Bowman of Loh, was not going to walk around in our present position without his famed Lohvian longbow. He drew, lifted, loosed in that lightning fast reflex that dazzles the eye.

Bending, I hurled myself forward under the shaft and to the side, keeping out of Seg’s line of sight.

Before I reached the werewolf and the girl three arrows sprouted from the thing’s breast.

It screeched hideously, pawing unavailingly at the shafts.

Then I was on it.

The dudinter blade smeared with ganjid slid into his belly. The blade ripped up, twisting brutally, tearing, bursting the thing’s heart.

It screamed and fell.

It fell on the girl.

I gave it a vicious kick, toppling it over on its side. The girl’s eyes were closed, there was blood on her skin through a long rent in the dress; but she still breathed.

Seg was with me.

We were both panting as though we’d run an enormous distance instead of the less than a hundred paces from the point where we’d first spotted the werewolf. Seg kicked the gray carcass. The hair hung lank and twisted, the vicious head lolled, the muzzle gaping, the tongue curled between those yellow fangs.

“We’ve done it!” said Seg. He whooped a breath. “May Erthyr be praised!”

“Aye,” I said. “By Zim-Zair, I really believe the thing is dead.”

“Oh, aye, my old dom. The dratted thing’s dead all right.”

In a hollering rush we were surrounded by guards. High-held torchlights illuminated the scene. The pooled blood shone crimson. I ripped out an intemperate order.

“Run for the needleman! Run for a puncture lady! The girl is sore hurt.”

More than one person ran off, and this pleased me.

We all stood in a ring with the torches streaming their orange hair above us. The light showed up every detail.

Some of us gasped. One or two screamed. Others cursed deep in their throats. Most of us, I was glad to see, stood looking stonily on.

The werewolf changed.

The evil metamorphosis that had gripped him slackened its hold now he was dead, loosening the bonds that chained him to the wolf form. The lank gray hair rippled and curled away. The hideous fanged muzzle shimmered as it changed, turning back into a man’s mouth and chin. The ears rounded and flattened. The whole form flowed and melted as a child’s chocolate doll melts in the sunshine upon the windowsill.

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