Chapter 103: Ruins Of EmberSphire
He listened; the sound of celebration was no more, and the new sound was sharper, threaded with fear—a cold knot formed in his stomach.
"The raiders are here again?" Talywn said, his tone revealing his fear.
The Raiders were thieves and scavengers, wolf-kind who lived in forgotten lands. They would attack small packs, steal their food, treasures, tools, and sometimes livestock. They were destructive.
Ever since Lycanthria signed the protection deal with some neighboring packs, the Raiders had stopped coming.
Faelan moved to the window to check, but the night air that hit him was wrong. It didn’t just carry smoke but had a sickly smell of decay and rot. This was not the scent of the raiders he knew.
"These are not raiders," He said to Talywn.
Talywn didn’t waste time asking questions. As Faelan rushed out of the study, he followed immediately. Faelan’s senses sharpened as he stepped into the hallway. When he reached the door and stepped outside, the smell hit him harder.
His expression hardened as he reached the courtyard and saw the pack members’ faces masked with fear. They had grabbed whatever was at hand, carved knives, wooden axes, shovels.
Before Faelan could say anything else, they heard heavy footsteps. The frantic neighing of horses. Shouts in a harsh, unfamiliar tone. Dark figures poured in. They were armored in mismatched leather and rusted metal. Many of them mounted, others running on foot. Their movements were fast and aggressive. They did not hesitate.
When they all saw the intruders, they were not ragged, half-starved figures of raiders. Some were wolves. Some were forbidden creatures. Their bodies are warped as if the shifting process had been interrupted midway. Elongated limbs covered in patchy, matted fur. Their hands are clawed, too long to be human, too stubby to be wolf. Their faces are distorted, snouts jutting but never fully formed, with jagged, broken teeth. Their eyes, some tar black, some crimson, held a hungry gleam in the firelight. They looked like something dead but pretending to be alive.
"Who are these creatures?"
"Where did they come from?"
"Are we going to die?"
"These are not raiders. They are wanderers!" Faelan answered.
Terror replaced their curiosity.
A man in an overall black cloak covering his face at the front raised his arm, bringing the army to a stop. He was the commander. He shouted an order, "Attack. Burn it. Capture the young wolves alive!"
They crashed into Emberspire like a wave of violence. The wanderers lunged forward. They did not fight; they butchered the members of Emberspire. Houses were set on fire without a second thought. Doors were kicked in. Anyone who stood in their way was cut down.
Faelan drew his weapon and raised his voice. "Defend the pack! Protect the children! Do not let them take anyone alive!"
A handful of older wolves and a few sobered younger men rallied to Faelan, forming a shaky line in front of the oak house where many of the children and women had fled. They held tools and a few proper swords.
Faelan took a wooden axe from against the wall. "We protect our families!"
The wanderers saw the knot of resistance and flowed towards it. One man swung a hammer towards a wanderer, who ducked under it and drove it into the man’s side. Two soldiers slashed an elder into two with their swords. A spear point took another man at his throat, blood pooling quickly. Two soldiers cornered a young female wolf near the well. They ripped her dress, her screams were short, cut off as one clamped a hand over her mouth while the other had his manhood buried in her in no time. Another group has found ale stores and were drinking straight from the barrels, laughing as they watched the violence.
Near the bonfire, a wanderer was struggling with a child about 10 years old. The wanderer’s mouth was near the child’s neck, not biting but inhaling deeply as if sucking air from his lungs. The child’s struggles weakened, his skin turning grey and waxy before he went limp. The wanderer dropped the small body and looked for another.
Near one of the burning houses, three wanderers dragged a screaming woman away while another held her husband down and stabbed him when he tried to fight. A mother who wanted to shield her little daughter from a wanderer was cut down before she could take three steps. Soon, they reached the oak house. Children cried, and people shouted for help that never came. They threw more fire onto the thatched roof of many storehouses and homes. Some of the wanderers did not even bother killing first. They laughed as they hurt their victims. Others went from house to house searching for young wolves; those who resisted were injured but not killed.
"The general wants the boys alive. The rest are not important!" One of them shouted.
The fight became brutal, bloody, and ugly.
A Wanderer soldier charged at Faelan. Faelan killed him, but another took his place immediately, and he ripped off the head. He cut down two wanderers at once. An elder fell beside him, a spear driving into his left eyeball. Another lost an arm and collapsed, screaming in agony.
Around him, pack members were fighting with farming tools, old weapons, and bare hands. They were not prepared for this. They were outnumbered. The Wanderers were trained soldiers. They moved in groups. They covered each other. They showed no mercy.
Faelan could see, even as he fought, that they could never win. If they had managed to step within the walls of the pack, they definitely would have killed the Lycanthria guards at the gate.
He felt rage and helplessness at the same time.
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Inside the old farm warehouse, Astrid was sitting on a haystack. He had been staying there since Dorianne left him. After the exchange of words with Dorianne, he had lost interest in the whole celebration. And the farmhouse was quiet and far enough that he did not have to talk to anyone.
