Ghoulslayer

Chapter Nine The Hounds of Dinann

The war had been brutal but brief. King Galan had not expected the level of resistance, but he had expected the glorious devotion of his men. The Hounds of Dinann. What army, in all the realms, could hope to stand against such warriors? Never had he felt so alive. He was almost grateful for the uprising. To rise from his fur-strewn throne and take up his spear one last time. One final war. The Great Wolf had smiled on him.

The traitors had taken hold of an outlying keep, burning effigies and flying their colours from the walls in defiance of his rule, but King Galan could taste victory. He was days away from ending the rebellion and returning order to the entire kingdom. Loyal vassals from every corner of his empire had flocked to his banner when word of the rebellion spread. There were reports coming in from all the major engagements, describing victory after victory. By the time he reached the capital, there would barely be a rebel left to face him. He looked around as he rode towards the keep. Ranks of spearmen were arrayed around him, their golden torcs gleaming in the darkness, their breastplates flashing as they followed him to the gates. Behind them came serried legions of foot soldiers, their pennants flying and their voices raised in song as the sigil of the hound fluttered in the wind.

‘Surrender your arms!’ cried Galan as he stopped his horse near the shattered gates. ‘I am no tyrant. Handle yourselves with dignity and you can live. The battle is over. The Hounds of Dinann are not savages. There need be no slaughter.’

There was no reply. He could see figures rushing through the darkness up on the walls of the keep, readying their weapons and war machines for a final, desperate defence. He had expected no more, but he had fought the whole campaign with dignity and pride. He was no fool. He was old. He had not expected this last chance for glory, but now that it had been given to him he would show his men how a king should lead.

‘Very well,’ he called. ‘We have given them a chance to kneel and they have refused. They have turned their back on the Great Wolf.’

He raised his spear and pointed it at the keep. ‘Hounds of Dinann! Advance!’

There was an oceanic roar. His army surged past him, howling war cries and rattling spears on shields as they rushed forwards.

His men moved with such speed that they seemed to swarm up the walls with barely any need for ladders or hooks, washing over the battlements and pouring into the reeling defenders.

Howls and screams filled the night as King Galan rode towards the gates of the keep. He did not have to wait long before the doors flew open, revealing the victorious faces of his men as they drove the traitors back, washing the courtyard with blood and setting fire to the buildings inside the walls.

He strode over to one of the fallen defenders. The man was still alive, and as Galan offered him a helping hand he started to scream desperately, trying to drag his broken body away.

‘What are you?’ howled the man.

Galan frowned. It was a strange thing to say, even for a dying man. And it was not the first time he had been asked this question. ‘What am I?’ He laughed. ‘I am your king.’

The man would not stop screaming, and eventually, the sound started to infuriate Galan. This had happened several times during the campaign. Every time he offered his hand, giving the wounded a last chance to surrender, they panicked and shrieked at him. He stooped down and pressed his hand over the man’s mouth, trying to stifle his cries.

‘There’s no need for this,’ he said. ‘Lay down your weapons. Rejoin the Hounds.’

The man thrashed beneath him, blood flying everywhere.

Too much blood, realised Galan. He had a broken leg, but there were no cuts on him. Why was he bleeding?

The more Galan tried to calm him, the more the air filled with blood.

‘What are you?’ cried the man again, but Galan found it hard to concentrate and the voice grew distant.

The air turned crimson and Galan backed away, shaking his head, confused. As he stumbled away from the man, he realised how hungry he was. In fact, his craving seemed to have confused him. He’d imagined he was still on the battlefield, but hunger and exhaustion were playing tricks on him, throwing him back into the past. He laughed, realising he was already at the victory feast. He leant back in his chair and grabbed some meat from a platter on the table. It was so rare it was almost raw. Blood rushed down his chin as he ate, delighting in his well-earned appetite.