Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden

wild wolves, at least until he knew there was another path out. If he blocked their escape, they would surely attack him as savagely as any other prey.
    He smiled at the thought, certain in his own strength and speed. Risk was a clean thing, he’d discovered, one part of the world that could still give him joy, where all elsewas sickness and grief. In danger, he was all white bone, without the weight of flesh. He welcomed it.
    It was dark between the walls of stone, so that the light ahead was almost painfully bright. Edward strode as fast as he could, until the sound of fighting and yelping grew as loud as a battle. He broke into a run as the path widened and then skidded to a halt as it opened into a bowl, no more than forty yards across. He risked a brief look upwards, seeing no spot where he might climb out. Just a few paces from him was a huge, rolling pack of wolves, howling and snapping at the hound they had brought to bay. It barked in turn at them, the sound lost in their cacophony. The wolves had backed the animal up against the far wall and left no gap for it to escape.
    They knew a man stood behind them. Edward could see that in the glances they threw at him. Lesser members of the pack ducked their heads in fear at his odour of unwashed sweat. Three young males turned to face him, driven to barking, jerking frenzy as they lunged toward and away, stiff-legged and huge-eyed.
    Edward felt beads of fresh perspiration running down his face. He had expected a small pack, six or perhaps a dozen. Instead, more than thirty wolves ranged about, all thin-waisted, yellow-toothed killers. He had been standing there in the cold for just a few heartbeats and they were still reacting to him.
    The dog they had run down was a black-and-white brute, Edward saw that much; some sort of hunter’s mastiff, with the sense to stay close to the wall. It was trapped in that place and the pack would surely have killed it if he had not come. He knew they still might.
    Edward looked up as something flickered above him,on the edge of the canyon walls. The bowl in the ground was no more than six or seven yards deep at his first guess, twenty feet or so. It had a regular look that made him think of the work of men rather than some ancient river’s course. There were still Roman rings and stones left to be found in the forests; he’d seen them. The bowl had that feel.
    Edward thought he might see a shepherd boy and feared the sight of a soldier. He did not expect a young woman to rear up amidst the bracken and ivy. He stood open-mouthed as she clung to the root of a stunted rowan bush, peering into the bowl. She raised her right arm and Edward saw she carried a stone as large as an apple. She seemed to sense his gaze and looked across, apparently astonished to see a bearded warrior standing there in wolfskins and armour.
    ‘Get away there!’ she shouted, throwing the stone hard into the midst of the pack. It struck one of the smaller bitches, so that she gave a great jerk and squeal, snapping at herself in confusion.
    Edward’s heart sank as he saw the woman raise her arm again. He could see she was intent on saving her dog, but the result … He felt the acid of anger rising. He was in armour and he had his cloak and a sword his father had given him. He drew the long blade as more stones smacked and skipped amongst the wolves. They yelped and darted away under that torment, forgetting their prey. In an instant, all they wanted was to escape.
    There was a man in their way. Edward sensed the mood change as the biggest ones turned and glared. A big male loped towards him to challenge, thick-furred and wide at the shoulder. Edward swallowed, but he was eighteen yearsold and his own senses kindled to heat. His sword had been made especially for him, with a tapering spine of steel that ran the three-foot length of the blade. It was too heavy for most men to use well, but it could withstand the force of his blows. He held it as if the weight was