“You damn fool!” Aran swore savagely at Derek, his voice rising in fury with each word. “You bloody, stupid, arrogant fool! What do you say now? What bloody words of wisdom are you going to spout at us before we all die?”
“Aran,” said Brian softly, his mouth so dry he could barely speak, “you’re not helping…”
Sturm was to Brian’s left. Sturm stood tall and steadfast, his sword point unwavering, his gaze fixed on the wolves. He was talking, but only to himself, the words low and barely audible. Brian realized Sturm was praying, asking for Paladine to aid them, commending their souls to the god.
Brian wished in sudden agony that he believed in a god—any god! That he was not staring into a hideous, eternally silent, eternally empty void. That the pain and the terror held some meaning, that his life held some meaning. That his death would have some value. That he had not found love at last only to lose it in an icy cave on some pointless venture. A bitter taste flooded his mouth. The gods might have returned, but too late for him.
“Brightblade, be silent,” said Derek, his voice rasping. “All of you, silence.”
He was the cool, calm commander, the leader in charge of the situation, a courageous example, an inspiration to his men as described in the Measure. If he had doubts, he wasn’t giving in to them. He believed in something, Brian thought. Derek believed in Derek, and he couldn’t understand why they didn’t believe in him as well. He expects us to die believing in him, Brian suddenly realized. That struck him as funny, and he gave a crackle of bitter laughter that brought another sharp rebuke from Derek.
“Pay attention!”
“To what?” Aran raved. “To the fact that we’re going to die horribly, torn apart by wild beasts, our bones hauled off to be gnawed in some den—”
“Shut up!” Derek shouted furiously. “All of you, shut up!’
According to the Measure, the leader never shouted, never lost his calm demeanor, never wavered or doubted, never showed fear…
Snowflakes fell into Brian’s eyelashes. He blinked them away rapidly, keeping his gaze fixed on the wolves. As if acting on some unheard signal, the wolves suddenly came at them in a rush.
Sturm gave a great roar of defiance and swung his sword in a slashing arc. A huge white wolf fell at his feet, blood welling from a wound in its neck.
Another wolf came bounding at Brian, snarling, fangs glistening. It suddenly sailed sideways, its body skidding on the ice. Brian saw, as it slid past him, an arrow sticking out of its ribs. A second arrow took another wolf in midair, felling it. Brian had no time to wonder or to look around. An enormous wolf galloped over the snow, charging at him. Brian tried to hit it with the blade of his sword, but the wolf, launching itself into the air, leaped on top of him. Huge paws thudded into his chest. The wolf’s weight bore Brian to the ground. His sword flew out of his gloved hands and went spinning away over the ice.
The wolf’s breath was hot on his face, smelling of rotting meat. Yellow teeth slashed his flesh. Saliva, now red with blood—his blood—splashed over him. The wolf had him pinned. He pummeled it with his hands, to no avail. The wolf sank its fangs into Brian’s neck, and he screamed. He knew he screamed, but, horribly, there was no sound except gurgling. The wolf savaged his neck, ready to rip out his throat. Then it gave a hideous yelp and tumbled or was kicked off him. Brian looked up to see Sturm yank his sword out of the wolf’s flank.
Sturm bent over him. Brian could barely see him in the falling snow.
Sturm gripped Brian’s hand, held it fast, even as he stabbed and slashed with his sword, fending off more wolves.
“I’ll get up in a minute,” Brian meant to tell him. “I’ll help you fight. I just have to… catch my breath…”
Brian held onto Sturm’s hand and tried to breathe, but no breath would come.
He held Sturm’s hand and the snow fell and the flakes were cold upon his lips and… he let go…
Laurana saw Brian fall. She saw Sturm bending over him, still fighting, trying to keep the wolves from attacking him. A wolf leaped on Sturm’s shoulders. With an enormous effort, he rose up, heaving the beast off him. The wolf landed on its back. Sturm drove his sword into its belly, and the beast yelped and snapped in pain, feet flailing in the air.
Aran fought expertly. His sword was slippery-wet with blood, and bodies lay about his feet. The wolves fell back, eyeing him, then several ganged up to bring him down. One dashed in behind him, digging its sharp fangs through his leather boot, sinking deep into his ankle, severing the tendon. Aran stumbled and the wolves leapt on him, snarling and growling, ripping and tearing. Aran cried out, shouting for help. Sturm could do nothing, could not come to his aid. A wolf had hold of the sleeve of his sword arm and was trying to drag him off-balance. Sturm beat at it with his fist, trying to force the jaws loose.
Laurana heard Aran’s cries and turned to look. “Flint, go help him!” she shouted.
Flint looked at her, frowning, doubtful, not wanting to leave her.
“Go!” she said urgently.
Flint cast her an agonized glance, then ran to Aran’s aid. The dwarf descended on the attacking wolves, coming at them from behind. Flint roared and hacked, and his axe was soon red with gore. The wolves, maddened with the smell of fresh blood, paid him little heed. They continued their assault on Aran, who had ceased to struggle. One wolf died with its teeth still clamped in Aran’s flesh.
Flint dragged the carcass off Aran, then stood over the knight’s body, fending off the wolves.
“Reorx aid me!” Flint cried, swinging his axe and the steel, covered with blood, flared red in the tunnel light. The wolves did not like the light and kept clear, but they continued to eye him.
“Aran?” Derek cried, half-turning. But he was fighting his own battle and could not see what had happened.
Flint glanced down at Aran, buried beneath wolf carcasses, but he dared not take his attention from the wolves. “Tas,” Flint yelled. “I need you! Over here! See to Aran,” he ordered as Tas came dashing up.
Tasslehoff frantically shoved and kicked aside the bloody bodies until he found Aran. The knight’s eyes were wide open and unblinking as the snowflakes fell into them. Half his face had been torn off. Blood pooled and froze on the ice beneath him.
“Oh, Flint!” Tas cried, choking in dismay.
Flint glanced over his shoulder.
“Reorx walk with him,” he said gruffly.
Tas yelled a warning, and Flint turned, swinging his axe as more wolves descended on them.
Sturm put his back to Derek’s, to keep the wolves from taking them down from behind as they had Aran. The two men stood in a circle of bodies. Some of the wolves, wounded, whimpered and tried futilely to stand. Others lay still. The ice was red with gore. The knights’ swords were slippery with blood that ran down the blade and gummed up the hilt. They were sweating beneath the fur coats. Their breath came fast and frosted their mustaches and eyebrows. The wolves watched, waiting for an opening. Every so often, an arrow would fly through the darkness and take down another, but by now Gilthanas was running low on arrows, and he had to make every shot tell.
“Aran?” Derek asked harshly, gasping for breath.
“Dead,” said Sturm, breathing hard.
That was all. Derek did not ask about Brian. Derek knew the answer. At one point, he had almost fallen over his friend’s body. The wolves closed in again.
Flint was on the defensive, battling for his life. He no longer roared; he had to save his breath. A wolf leaped at him. He swung his axe and missed, and the beast was on him, bowling him over. Tasslehoff jumped on the wolf’s back. Tas had gone into a sort of kender fury, screaming taunts that had no effect, for the wolves couldn’t possibly understand or care. Riding the beast, Tas stabbed the wolf in the neck, stabbed it again and again and again with all the strength in his small arm until it toppled over and lay dead.