Every of Maisara’s Chaplain-Captain’s left the room once the meeting was concluded. Each one was grim faced, each one swore loyalty to Maisara, not to the White Pantheon. Fortia tapped the table. “Preparations are always necessary Fortia”. Maisara said.
“We can do better.” Fortia replied.
East. East, away from pack master. Too many. Too many swords. Too many sects. Too many hunters. Golthus panted, his fur matted with sweat as he leaped over another fallen tree. The frozen dirt cracked from the impact of his hooves.
Today. Tomorrow. Maybe in two days, he would die. They would catch him. It was impossible to outrun the bladeriders: hunt or be hunted, kill or be killed. He could kill one. Two. Not sixty. They started slowing down behind him. Not good. East. East, away from pack master. Golthus picked up a small stone from the ground, his arm tensed, his chest rippled, his goat-legs cracked the ground again as his arm cut the air like a whip. A sword split the stone in two.
Spears pierced where he had just stunned. He turned his head to keep track of the small figures in the sky. They were still following. Good. East. Further east, further from pack master. There was a river ahead, he descended to all fours, strained himself and pounced like a leopard looking for prey. The air was scary. The air was not his domain. Beasts were of the ground. A sword sliced his arm. He landed on the other side of the river.
Blood was not good. Blood attracted predators. Golthus did not care. He turned again. Sixty still. Good. They were all following him. He roared a taunt into the air and smashed through bush and bramble. A sword cut the air ahead of him. He grabbed the handle, jumped, spun and threw it back. Miss. Not good.
Further and further Golthus ran. Further east. Further away from pack-master. She had to stay alive. Pack master was pack master. Golthus could be replaced. Pack master could not. The bladeriders started to narrow the distance. Golthus roared at the cut. Blood could be replaced, but slowly. Too slowly.
Spears cascaded through the air. His hairs stood up, his ears whisked and he rolled to the side. A metal pole lodged itself into the ground where he had stood. Spear was better than sword, easier to handle. Sword grips were too small: weapons for the young. He tore it out the ground.
A mountain. A cave. A ravine. Good. He knew this area. It was far east. Far away from pack master. Cave was bad though. Cave meant underground, that was a tomb. Mountain was slow to scale. Ravine? Ravine then.
Twenty swords arced above him. Twenty more. Then a hundred. A thousand. Wall. Prison. He knew this. Bladeriders wanted information. He roared again: taunt. His breathing became heavier, he dropped like a cat, the spear still held in one hand. Men descended from the sky. Face to face? Pride. Mistake.
Golthus ran. Not east. At them.
“Where is the Queen Beast?” One man shouted. Golthus roared a laugh. Tell them? Break pack-loyalty? Joke. His mind went dull as the smell of blood filled his nose. Blood. His blood. He cut through the pain, twisted and launched himself at the man on the ground. Blue robes. His spear did not hit the blue robes. It twisted and danced out of his hand. A sword impaled his hand to the ground. Then his leg. He roared again. Blue robes advanced. “Where is she? I promise to make your end quick.”
“He will not speak. We are wasting time reasoning with him.” Red robes spoke.
“She’ll appear eventually. Her horde is too large to hide.” Yellow robes. Golthus roared at them again.
“Someone shut him up!” From behind him. Chest. Hurt. Cold. Steel. Golthus roared until his breathe gave out. They did not understand. Laughter. Too far east now. Too far from pack master. They would not catch pack master now.