Chapter 69: Fang Wolf [2]

Rael crouched beside the Fang Wolf and forced his hand into the chest cavity until his fingers closed around the core. It came free with a wet pull, smaller than the spider’s and duller in color, but still usable. He stored it without lingering.

His gaze shifted to the place where the wolf had been feeding.

The trees around the kill site were marked. Not with one set of claws. With many. Pale grooves crossed darker, older scars. Some sat at shoulder height. Others reached higher, as if several animals had risen onto hind legs to claim the same trunks. Too many lines. Too many directions. The single wolf he had just killed could not have made them all.

Rael straightened. The short sword stayed in his hand.

A howl rose from somewhere to the east—long, low, and answered almost at once from the north. A third voice joined from farther back in the trees. The sounds were not random. They were locating each other. They were locating him.

Yellow eyes opened in the undergrowth.

They appeared in pairs, then in clusters, catching what little light reached the forest floor. Shapes followed the eyes: dark fur, heavy shoulders, the same oversized fangs he had already seen up close. The pack did not rush. They stepped into view one by one, closing a rough circle around the small clearing. Rael counted as they emerged. Ten. Eleven. Twelve, if he included the ones still half-hidden behind trunks.

He tightened his grip on the Ironfang.

A thin smile touched his mouth.

"So that’s why you weren’t afraid."

The dead wolf had fought like an animal that expected help. Now the help had arrived. The pack’s attention moved from the corpse at his feet to the human standing over it. Anger ran through them in a visible current—hackles lifting, lips peeling back from those long fangs, a low chorus of growls that overlapped until it became a single vibrating note. They wanted blood for the one already cooling in the leaves.

They still did not charge as one.

Instead they began to move. The circle rotated. Wolves changed places without breaking the ring, some drifting closer, others slipping behind trunks and reappearing at a new angle. Rael turned with them, sword tracking the nearest threat, then the next. They were testing the speed of his head, the width of his guard, the moment his weight shifted from one foot to the other. A pack that hunted together learned the prey before it committed.

The first attack came from the front.

A wolf exploded out of the ring in the same bursting lunge he had already survived once. Rael met it with a short, hard block. Steel caught claws. The impact shoved him back a step. He had no time to reset.

The second came from behind.

He heard the leaves tear an instant before the body arrived. He spun, bringing the blade around in a tight arc that was more deflection than cut. Claws raked past his shoulder close enough to scrape the Nightfall Armor. He felt the shock through the plates and kept turning, because the third was already coming from the left.

That one he met earlier. The sword cut across its muzzle and opened a deep line that sent it yelping sideways. Blood hit the ground. The opening lasted less than a breath.

The rest of the pack closed the distance at once.

They did not wait for him to finish the wounded animal. Two more rushed the space he had used to strike. Rael gave ground because standing still meant being taken from three directions at once. His boots slid over roots and torn earth. A jaw snapped shut where his calf had been. Another body slammed into his guard and drove him another two steps toward the trees at his back.

He understood the problem with ugly clarity.

Killing one wolf did not end the fight. The pack treated losses as fuel. Every animal he dropped only tightened the remaining ring.

"Dammit," he muttered. "Wolves don’t travel alone."

There was always another.

He changed the way he used the sword.

Wide, committed cuts were a luxury he no longer had. Each full swing left a window, and the pack had already shown they knew how to use windows. He shortened everything. The Blackthorn forms compressed into their smallest versions—half-steps, tight parries, cuts that traveled no farther than necessary to open hide or break a committing lunge. He stopped trying to kill with every motion and started trying to survive the next three seconds.

A wolf came in low. He met it with a descending chop that split the skull behind the eyes. The body dropped. Before it finished falling, another took its place from the right, fangs aimed at his sword arm. He turned the blade, let the animal’s own momentum carry it onto the edge, and shoved the corpse aside with his shoulder. Blood ran down the fuller and made the grip slick. He adjusted his fingers and kept moving.

The pack adapted as quickly as he did.

They began staggering their bursts. One feinted high while another drove at his legs. A third waited just outside the range of his turn, ready to take the opening created by the first two. Rael’s world narrowed to angles and timing. The forest beyond the circle ceased to exist. There was only fur, teeth, the wet sound of impact, and the growing burn in his shoulders.

He killed another.

It did not matter. The ring closed over the space the dead wolf left behind as if the animal had never been there. Twelve had become fewer, but not few enough. The remaining wolves pressed harder, anger no longer mixed with caution. They had paid for information. Now they intended to spend it.

Rael’s expression settled into something flatter and more serious than the thin smile he had worn at the start.

Fighting one had been a lesson.

Fighting all of them was a different language.

He was still speaking it with a sword, still refusing to reach for fire or ice, still forcing the gap in his close combat to close under pressure that did not care whether he learned or died. The promise he had made to himself after Lila—not to lose what was his—felt very close and very thin. Right now what was his was the space inside the circle, the blade in his hand, and the next breath.

A wolf broke from the left. Another from the front. A third gathered itself behind a trunk for a leaping strike at his back. The pack had stopped testing. They had started the real hunt.

Rael set his feet, raised the short sword into the tightest guard he had, and waited for the next body to arrive.

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