The Howl of the Blood Wolf: The Sword of Saint Georgas Book 5

By Robert Davis

The Carpathian Mountains are locked in a harsh winter. The icy wind known as the crivat has blanketed the land in snow and a pack of bloodthirsty wolves, led by an elusive master-vampire, roam the countryside, preying upon isolated communities.

Vampire-hunter Anders Draculescu has been hunting the pack for months. Now, riding to the air of a band of travelers whose carriage has become lost in the snow, he finds that the hunter has become the hunted.

Forced into an uneasy alliance with a beautiful highway robber, he and his apprentice must find a way to survive not only the freezing conditions, but a relentless onslaught from an enemy that is as savage as he is cunning.

And with the temperature getting colder by the hour, time is not on their side...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Davis
• Release date: Oct 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005706289

Robert Davis

Robert lives in Hermiston Oregon with his wife and two dogs. While driving truck for a local farming company many thoughts would stream through his mind until he decided to write them down. Using his cell phone he texted hundreds of poems with sunrise and local scenery pictures to his wife and friends. The practice continued until it was suggested he put them into a book. The cell phone camera proved unreliable to reproduction but the poems became a lifeline to many as he was impressed to write the simply events of daily living in a small farming community.

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The Howl of the Blood Wolf

The Sword of St Georgas: Book 5

by Robert Davis

This Smashwords edition: Copyright © Robert Davis 2022.

All rights reserved.

Originally published in The Vampires of Carpathia by Swordworks. Copyright © Robert Davis 2012.

The right of Robert Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, countries, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual entities, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1 – The Dead of Winter

The wind blew icily through the forest, blowing the hoar frost from the boughs of the pine trees. It was late in the evening and the sun, cloaked behind thick clouds the color of fresh bruises, gave only a wan and yellowish light that scarcely penetrated the shade of the trees.

Snow covered the road, but the route was still negotiable and a solitary horse-drawn carriage travelled the winding track, its wheels slithering in the icy conditions. The driver, wrapped in a thick black cloak, shouted and cracked his whip at the horses, recklessly urging them to go faster.

Inside, swaddled in thick blankets, sat four passengers: two women and two men, one of them a foreigner. He turned to his travelling companion and said in English: ‘What the Devil does this man think he’s doing? This is no weather to be racing along at a pace like this.’

His friend, a local man, was round of physique and stout in contrast to the Englishman’s tall and slender frame. He had a kindly face with a thick black beard, and he peered intelligently through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘He is frightened,’ he explained. ‘It will be dark soon.’

‘All the more reason for him to slow down then, I should think,’ the Englishman replied with a haughty sniff.

His friend laughed indulgently. ‘There are worse things to be afraid of than ice on the road, Lindsey. The people in these parts are superstitious. They still believe that the living dead rise from their graves after sunset and drink the blood of the living.’

The Englishmen gave a derisive snort and turned to stare out of the window at the passing trees. ‘I hope you’re not trying to frighten me,’ he said seriously. ‘You of all people should know that I am made of sterner stuff than that.’

‘No, of course not old chap!’ his friend replied in Carpathian. ‘But what better way to stir the heart and warm the blood than with a little sense of the macabre, eh my dear?’

This last was addressed to the young woman who sat opposite him. She was fair-haired and quite beautiful, with strong cheekbones and a delicate mouth. Earlier, she had been introduced as Aurica, and she was travelling with her aunt, Floarea: a formidable-looking woman who looked like she could crack walnuts in her fists.

‘I confess that I am quite fond of a good ghost story.’ Aurica replied with a courteous smile. ‘Do you read Elizabeth Gaskell, Mr Allanson. She is English, I believe.’

Aware that he was being spoken too, the Englishman, Lindsey, pulled his attention away from the window and favored the girl with a smile. ‘She is,’ he agreed. ‘But I prefer Dickens myself.’

The carriage lurched as it hit a bump in the road. Lindsey cursed under his breath and banged furiously on the carriage roof. ‘Steady on there, driver! We’d like to arrive in one piece.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘I don’t know how you can put up with this,