Fortifying the Pass of Worr Croa

The pass narrows beside the castle road, wind combing the grass flat. Ahead, the burned dwelling is only a smoke-stain now. Then the brush at the treeline bursts apart.

Three wolves explode out of it, muzzles slick, eyes milky with madness, driving straight for Druk and the column with no fear at all.

The Stranger steps out from the grass line, broad-shouldered and calm beside the smoking ruin, a metal rim tied to his pack. He keeps his distance, but he watches the wolves like he knows their kind.

Bruk shifts to the side, Roggo tightens his grip, and Druk has only a breath before the closest wolf lunges at his chest.

Druk swings on the wolf’s leap, meeting it midair with a brutal hammer stroke.

The blow crushes the charge aside, and the wolf tumbles hard into the grass, yelping through bloodless shock.

The other two wolves skid and snap at the opening, circling lower now, rabid and fast.

One wolf slides in through the gap, jaws wide for Druk’s leg as the grass whips flat around their feet.

Druk whips the hammer down in a short, ruthless arc. The wolf undercuts itself on the strike and folds into the grass with a sharp, stunned skid.

Its momentum dies at Druk’s feet. The circle breaks for a breath, and the torn brush rustles as the next two wolves hesitate, snarling low.

Roggo steps in from the side, spear haft lifting to guard the gap while the Stranger stays planted near the smoke-stain, watching for the next rush.

Druk swings for the lunging wolf’s head and shoulder line. The hammer catches clean, turning the bite aside in a dull thud and driving the beast off balance.

The wolf spills sideways, claws raking furrows through the flattened grass. The battered pack recoils, and one wolf snaps its muzzle toward the dropped meat sack near Bruk.

Druk drives the hammer through the last wolf’s rush. The blow lands hard across its shoulder and skull line, and the beast is thrown flat into the grass, stunned into stillness.

The pack’s charge breaks. One wolf whines and pulls back from the meat sack, ears pinning as the bait loses its grip on the fight.

The Stranger lowers his hand beside the smoke-blackened brush, eyes fixed on the fallen wolf and the dropped bundle near Bruk.

Wind combs the flattened grass around Druk’s boots as the wounded wolf lies motionless and the other two hesitate at the edge of the ring.

Druk stoops, snatches up the metal rim from the grass, and straightens without breaking stride. Bruk keeps the bait between himself and the wary wolves, while Roggo eases a half step closer behind Druk.

Druk plants his feet in the trampled grass and thrusts a hand toward the last standing wolf.

Blue-white lightning cracks out from his palm, blasting the wolf square in the chest and hurling it back into the wind-swept ring.

The animal jerks once, then lies still. The other two hold back at the edge of the grass, ears flat, no longer pressing the attack.