ground, the breath blasted from her, and the bow flung
from her hand.
Guarinn saw the wolf first. The sight of it – eyes redly
blazing, fangs gleaming – triggered instinct. In the very
moment the wolf leaped, the dwarf snatched his throwing
axe from his belt – and tumbled over the edge of
nightmare.
*****
The wolf smelled fear and loved it – the scent of easy
prey. He sensed no threat in the smaller male, standing
motionless; nor was the young female – struggling for
breath, fighting to rise from the ground – any danger.
These he could ignore for now. But the third, the bigger
male . . . from him came the fiery scent of a pack-
defender. He was the danger and the threat.
*****
The wolf hurtled past Una. Choking on the sudden,
cold rush of air, she heard the impact of bodies – the wolf
snarling and Roulant’s grunt of shock and pain.
And she saw Guarinn standing still as stone, his
throwing axe gripped in a nerveless hand.
“Guarinn!” she cried, clawing at the ground in desperate
search of the bow. “Help him!”
Guarinn never moved . . . and she found the bow,
string-broken, useless. Roulant screamed, a raging curse
turned to pain as the wolf’s fangs tore at his shoulder. The
cry of pain became a chant – her name, gasped over and
over in the staggering rhythm of his ragged breathing as
he struggled with the beast.
Una gained her feet, running. She flung herself at the
wolf’s back, dagger in hand. Clinging to the writhing
beast’s neck, choking on the smell of blood, she struck
wildly. Poorly. Hurting, but not killing.
The wolf heaved up.
“Guarinn! Help me! The wolf is killing him!”
The beast twisted sharply, and threw her off. Its fangs
dripped frothy red, and behind it, Roulant lurched to his
feet, gasping his terrible chant. The wolf turned, leaped at
him. Una didn’t know which of them screamed, man or
wolf. The sound of it tore through the night, a wild
howling.
*****
Guarinn Hammerfell stood at the center of a
maelstrom of wild moaning and screaming. GUARINN!
HELP HIM! Hands clawed at him, shreds of livid flesh
falling away to expose bones as white and brittle as ice.
THE WOLF IS KILLING HIM! Hollow voices accused
him, and the foul names – child-killer! murderer! faithless
friend! – turned the ice-mist filling his lungs to poison.
A wind rose to pound at him, tear at him, with such
violence that even the dead hands, shedding tattered flesh,
rattling bones, fell away before it. Howling, screaming,
deafening wind.
ROULANT! Familiar with everyone who haunted this
nightmare realm, Guarinn knew that name had no
business being spoken here. He snatched at it, clutched it
tight for a lifeline. He was choking, fighting for air,
falling . . . and staggering on the deer trail, his axe
clenched tight in his fist.
The wolf lunged again at Roulant, leaping for his throat.
In the only instant of sanity he might get before the dead
snatched him back into the Spoiler’s trap, Guarinn sighted,
threw, and didn’t miss.
The wolf fell to the ground, its spine severed. Hard
and dark, the beast’s eyes held Guarinn for a long moment.
Then they softened, and the night filled up with silence.
The dying wolf became man. A moment, the man had,
and he used it to speak. Only whispered words, barely
heard.
“Roulant… are you hurt?”
Roulant ignored the question. “Thorne! You’re . ..
dying! No, Thorne. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!
You said…”
Thorne smiled, shifting his gaze to Guarinn.
“You,” Thorne said. “Old friend, you knew I wouldn’t
survive, didn’t you?”
Guarinn heard grieving, Una and Roulant, one
sobbing softly in shock and the aftermath of terror, the
other offering comfort in the face of his own astonished
grief.
“And you killed the wolf. Knowing.” Thorne closed
his eyes. “Thank you.”
Guarinn lifted his friend’s hand and held it, very
gently, close against his heart until he felt the last pulse,
and some time longer after that.
*****
Limping, leaning on Una for support, Roulant knelt
beside his friends, the living and the dead.