Barrow of Winter by H.M. Long

Author:H.M. Long [Long, H.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags:  
Publisher: Titan Books

TWENTY-ONE

My world narrows to the point of my spear and the beast in the swirling steam. It’s huge and lean, white and gray with black facial markings and bare, snarling teeth.

The night itself seems to contract, trapping the pack and I in a fragment of time—immobile and rife with impending violence.

The charging wolf feints, snapping toward my legs and darting to the side before I can land a blow. Another immediately leaps for my shoulder. I slam it aside with my spear, hard wood impacting with fur and muscle with a thud and yelp. I hear a splash as it skitters out of sight in the fog, followed by a second yelp and a hiss of steam.

“Kygga!” I shout, enraged and terrified at his abandonment. But my body does not freeze—Hessa trained me too well for that. Another wolf comes in and I unfold with a snap, stabbing the spear into the creature’s chest.

For one blurred instant I’m sure the blow landed. I feel the resistance of hide and muscle and bone then—air.

The wolf rounds me and snaps at my back. I spin with it, a second too slow, and feel a jaw clamp onto the flesh of my side. Teeth pierce my thick clothing.

I scream. I drive my elbows down at the wolf’s face but it’s still moving, snarling and jerking as it drags me to the ground. I stagger, a second cry of frustration and panic clawing out of me.

Another wolf lands on my chest. My breath leaves me, but my muscles still react. I catch its jaws on my forearm and knock its head to the side. I roll, desperate to protect my throat, belly, and face.

I press down with my hands and knees and try to lunge back to my feet, only to find myself bowled over again. The world blackens for an instant then I blink—once, twice. My lashes feel thick and my eyes burn. They’re clotted with blood and slush, and I’m on my stomach again. In my hand, my spear has retreated to a short knife.

I feel the horrible weight of paws, the pain of wounds and crushed flesh, of jaws dragging me across the clattering rock and bright, cold streaks of snow. I slash blindly.

Blood hits my face in a second, spurting tide. Teeth and claws leave my limbs as the wolves scatter and I try to breathe, but there’s blood in my mouth.

I stagger upright, spitting and wiping my face, trying to prepare for the next attack. None comes.

Through eyes rimmed with scarlet and slush, I survey the carnage. The wolf whose throat I cut lies nearby, twitching and bleeding. It’s no threat, but more eyes flash in the mist and discontented, anxious canine sounds surround me—yips and howls and growls and whines. The rest of the pack linger, waiting for an opening. Waiting for me to tire.

“Kygga, you bastard!” I wheeze, unable to conceal the panic in my voice. “Where are you?”

Quiet falls, interrupted only by grumbling yips and burble of water.

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