Book One: The Bite Of The Elder

Twenty-Five: Úlfhéðinn

Hiding from the hunters had proven to be easier than anticipated due to the number of rogues. The Hunters and the Alexaviers strayed from each other for the most part, so the werewolves were able to fight alongside them, not that it mattered to Evan. Whether the Grosvenors knew he was a werewolf or not didn't matter to him anymore, not after seeing a rogue tackle Midnight and almost bite his arm off. The battlefield was gruesome, but principally, no one had died yet. It might have been to the fact that there were many supernatural beings among the Alexaviers. Evan didn't know nor was he concerned about any rationalization or logistics while he placed his primary focus on keeping Midnight and himself alive. The heavy scent of blood and viscera clung to the air along with the spicy that was also bitter with magic and the wet dog odor was revoltingly conspicuous to even a human. It was a horrific sight to behold as the pile of rogue bodies increased as more were killed. Unfortunately, that didn't mean the amount of rogues attacking them decreased. They had massively miscalculated the size of the rogue pack and were now facing the backlash of it as they were overwhelmed. 

    When fighting one rogue, the technique was to first slow them down and then go for the kill. Since rogues lacked all sense of self-preservation, lost in the bloodlust, it was dangerous to fight them like a regular werewolf. Rogues charged at full speed with every intent to kill, which is why slowing them down first was essential. It was easier to focus when a nine-foot-tall werewolf wasn't running at you at full speed. When fighting a group of rogues, they followed the same principle of attacking all at once, but they came from all different directions in order to disorient their victim. It was much harder to slow them all at once when you were trapped in the middle.

    The hunters had already known this, but Evan had learned it the hard way as he was attacked from all directions. The rogues tended to leave other werewolves alone for the most part as long as they hadn't deemed said werewolf dangerous. Unfortunately for Evan, the rogues had deemed him to be very dangerous and with good reasoning.

    In Old Norse mythology, there were these powerful warriors said to have battled in a trance-like fury, and perhaps they were the ones that most people pictured Vikings to look like, but in reality, their height mainly ranged around five foot and six inches, barely taller than the Saxons. The berserkers were terrifying, and rightfully so because in many ways, they acted much like rogues. However, there was a specific type of berserker that seemed to be more relevant to the situation. They were called Úlfhéðnar, they were wolf warriors that wore wolf skins specifically. The term could have been perfectly applied to the werewolf for it was the most immaculate way to describe how Evan was in battle. He had been in plenty of fights before and even fought an Elder during his first full moon despite barely making it out alive. It all paled in comparison to how he was now. Something primal in him had awakened a warrior inside of him nobody knew he had. It was ruthless and assertive as he dodged anticipated expected attacks from his oppressors and cut through tough werewolf hides with his long claws. He hadn't felt this murderous since his first full moon when the first signs of aggression began to show and altering his personality into a twisted temperamental version of himself.