Wytchfire (Book 1) by Michael Meyerhofer Page B

of fur and teeth and thin, yellow eyes. On his back now, he shoved and kicked with his feet, cracking his head and shoulders against Hráthbam’s trunks, trying to get away.
    The greatwolf was huge, the wagon too narrow. The beast tensed its great bulk and shoved its way after him, knocking weapons and provisions aside. Frantically, Rowen hacked with his shortsword. He stabbed at the eyes. The greatwolf took the cuts on its snout then went for his throat.
    Rowen stabbed again—this time, not at the yellow eyes but into the greatwolf’s lunging maw. He meant to drive the blade up into the beast’s brain, but his sword tip caught the wolf in the gums, just above its incisors. The greatwolf yelped and withdrew. Rowen tried to sit up. Is this blood mine, or his?
    Outside, Hráthbam was swearing in Soroccan over the unmistakable growl of a mad, wounded animal. Fearful, Rowen stuck his head out of the wagon’s canopy and saw Hráthbam, scimitar in hand, trying to fend off the injured beast.
    Before Rowen could act, the wagon lurched beneath him. He fell, knocked his head, then struggled to rise again. Right had broken free, leaving Left still tangled in the reins, yoked to the wagon hitch. Right dashed away, but Left whinnied in terror and tried to scramble free again, hooves flailing, jarring the wagon every which way.
    Rowen turned. Hráthbam stood ten feet away, turned sideways to make himself a smaller target, holding up the hem of his robes with his right hand to keep from tripping while his left hand whirled the scimitar in front of him. The merchant was playing it safe, only trying to keep the greatwolf at bay. Out here, on the open plains, the beast had all the room it needed to make full use of its ferocious strength and speed. But its mouth and snout bled from wounds dealt by Rowen’s shortsword—plus a few new cuts left by the crisp blur of Hráthbam’s scimitar. It still had an arrow in its shoulder, a crossbow bolt in its haunch. The wolf continued to bleed, growing weaker by the second, but remained formidable.
    And now, thanks to me, it’s being cautious. It circled Hráthbam with dreadful patience, snapping its bloody teeth. Hráthbam circled too, trying to keep his distance. Sweat poured down his face. He seemed to know better than to try the powerful, sweeping strike. A scimitar was made for swinging, not fencing. In the time it would take Hráthbam to recover from such a swing, the greatwolf could rip him in half. So the Soroccan lunged instead, answering the greatwolf’s snapping jaws with quick jabs of his own.
    “Locke, my excellent friend, perhaps you could lend some assistance here!”
    Rowen grasped the nearest weapon—a footman’s pike—and threw it.
    The beast yelped, twisting so fast that the pike tumbled from the wound and landed on the bloody grass. Rowen’s aim had been true, but the beast’s hide was tougher than a leather brigandine. It would take more than that to stop it. Still, for a moment, the greatwolf forgot about the Soroccan and focused on Rowen instead.
    No courage without fear... Rowen charged. He assailed the beast with everything he had, hacking with such intensity that the greatwolf recoiled. Then it leapt, jaws lunging.
    Instead of flesh, it met the wooden shield now strapped to Rowen’s left arm. The shield stopped the blow, but the force drove Rowen off his feet. All the breath exploded from his lungs.
    The greatwolf stalked after him. Stunned, Rowen raised the shield to protect himself. The beast’s paws slammed down, using its weight to pin the shield to Rowen’s chest. The greatwolf’s jaw loomed over him, trickling blood in Rowen’s face.
    “Aj thraci!” Hráthbam roared his battlecry and swung his mighty scimitar with both hands. The blade descended so fast that it made a sound like a cracking whip. The greatwolf’s flank, already wounded by Rowen’s pike, split open. Blood erupted from the wound. The greatwolf pivoted and opened Hráthbam’s thigh with