Shroud of Darkness
by Gregory J. Glanz
With the first angry growl that had echoed from
the pens came the first prickling of his skin, the ample tuft
of hair on his nape standing up as the tingle ran down his
spine and roughshod through his guts, almost loosened his
bladder. It wasn’t the mayhem of the pony-sized wolves
doing battle, nor the panic of the orcs when a worg
escaped. It wasn’t even the first orc body the worg flung at
his feet, its throat torn free and splayed beside him like
some bloody vermin. It was as if a strange breath hissed
across his neck where no one could be, crouched and
hidden in a dark alcove.
For long moments he had been mesmerized by the
mayhem, watched in avid glee as the crazed worg tore
through orc warriors. As the battle moved closer, he’d
shrunk further into his crevice, mildly horrified at the
scene, to be sure. But with each cringing inch, the shadows
around him seemed to further answer his call, to wrap
around him like a cloak. He had seen then that torchlight
did not penetrate his pitch, but merely softened its edges
and disappeared into the dark gulf which he had, in his
fear, apparently conjured. It was only when he had drawn
both daggers and leapt atop the worg’s exposed back, the
shadows dissipating, that the prickling had ceased.
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