Wytchfire (Book 1) by Michael Meyerhofer

Rowen wondered if this was the first time the merchant had ever even left Sorocco. He considered asking the merchant about the legendary World Tree that supposedly grew at the heart of the Wytchforest, but if Hráthbam had not heard of it, he would only have to tell the story himself—and he knew nothing but vague mentions since no one he knew had ever gotten close enough to the Wytchforest to see it.
    The two continued until sundown then camped next to a stream. Rowen volunteered to tend the horses while Hráthbam prepared a Soroccan meal of heavily spiced vegetables and rice that was delicious but made Rowen sweat as though he’d spent all day in the tilting yards.
    Hráthbam questioned whether or not they should stand guard but seemed none too interested in fulfilling that task himself. Well, I’m the guard . While Hráthbam slept in the wagon, Rowen stood watch, resting with his back to the campfire, sword in hand. He heard the howl of distant wolves—including one deeper, ominous howl that must have been a greatwolf. He tensed but trusted the fire would keep wild animals away.
    The next day, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, Hráthbam invited him to sleep in the wagon while he drove the horses. Rowen accepted but slept little, unable to get used to the jostling of the wagon wheels over the rough road. Then, late in the afternoon, Hráthbam pulled the wagon to a stop and shouted for Rowen to join him.
    Rowen hurried to the front of the wagon. He followed the man’s gaze to the plains ahead of them. His own eyes widened.
    “Gods!” Rowen’s hand flew for his sword.
    “Is that what I think it is?” Hráthbam asked. He held the reins to Left and Right with one hand. His other hand rested on his scimitar.
    Rowen nodded grimly. “A greatwolf. Big one, too!”
    “Looks like I’m seeing a regular wolf through a spyglass! We do not have such beasts on Sorocco.” Hráthbam sounded fearful. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that it isn’t hungry.”
    “Greatwolves are always hungry.” Rowen watched the greatwolf stare at them. Instead of charging, it approached very slowly, cautiously, its yellow eyes unblinking.
    “Perhaps I should turn the wagon around. Do you think we could outrun it?”
    Rowen glanced at Left and Right. The horses could smell what lay ahead of them and were pawing the ground and twisting, jostling the wagon. Rowen shook his head. “We’ll have to try and scare it off.” Which might be easier said than done .
    He moved his hand away from his shortsword. Without waiting to ask permission, Rowen hurried into the back of the wagon. He grabbed the closest crossbow and passed it up to Hráthbam, along with a quiver of bolts. He was about to grab the second crossbow for himself when his eyes fell on the Queshi composite bow instead.
    Made from fused bone and wood that took the better part of a year to cure, Queshi bows were short but incredibly powerful. Rowen had seen them send arrows through wooden shields and chain mail with ease. He had only a moment to inspect this one, but it appeared to be serviceable. He took it along with a quiver of solid, well-fletched arrows and rejoined Hráthbam at the front of the wagon.
    The Soroccan merchant had already risen from his seat. He looked nervous, but his hands were steady as he spanned his crossbow and nocked a bolt. He held the reins of Left and Right under his boot. Lifting the crossbow to shoulder height, he tucked the weapon against his shoulder and sighted down the shaft.
    “Don’t fire yet,” Rowen advised. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the damn thing will leave us alone!” He drew an arrow from his quiver as he spoke, fit the arrow to his bowstring, and gave the composite bow a long test pull. He liked the smoothness of its draw, the raw power tensed at his fingertips. He relaxed the bowstring without loosing the arrow. For now, they would wait.
    The greatwolf had not yet made up its mind. Thirty feet away, turned sideways, it