None of them spoke. They glanced worriedly about, all lost in their own thoughts, each fighting an individual battle against a feeling of rising dread. If an attack came, they’d never survive, so exhausted were they from their long, strenuous march. The hope they would reach safety had vanished this morning.
“We’ve got three more days, maybe two, before we reach the stronghold,” Tom said quietly when they rested next to a small pool of water. “At this speed, three is more likely.”
Jack could see the fatigue in his weathered face.
“We’re so close,” Tom lamented.
Tom’s wife had died on the same day as Manny, Jack knew. Most if not all those who’d survived had lost at least one loved one. Carrie had lost her older brother; Jonu her two children. Jack’s parents had died the year before the raid, but he’d always had Manny.
“We’ll make it,” Carrie said.
Jack wanted to believe her. In fact, at this moment, there was nothing he wanted more. He wanted to be strong for her and tell her that he’d be there to help her and the others—that he’d protect her, all of them, from harm. But the place that held that belief in him was nearly empty. He cast his eyes down and didn’t speak for the rest of the day as the group sought refuge deeper in the mountains. His thoughts circled around Manny and what he could have done—what he’d failed to do—to protect him.
It wasn’t until after they’d settled down for the night that the howling began.
The wolf had picked up the scent of the cloaked ones a few days past. They smelled of death and decay, of festering rage. He circled around them and stayed downwind, careful not to get too close, vigilant to remain hidden from their scouts. He saw their curved blades and remembered the slain bodies in the boy’s village. But the way they moved, swift and fearless and as one group, recalled another memory from even further back: the memory of life as a cub with his pack. Following the leader without question, unified and complete as a group, he’d felt utterly whole.
During the last few months, he’d longed for the companionship and trust of the pack. His natural instinct to protect others lay buried deep below his need to survive on his own. But as much as he yearned for the safety of companions, he also sensed the danger that wafted from the group he was tracking—their willingness to take life, without mercy; simply for the pleasure of taking it.
A few hours ago, he’d passed the two scouts who moved a mile ahead of the rest. Now he made his way deeper into the mountains, following the small creek as it flowed over smooth rocks.
He spotted a few small fish. He was hungry and looking for the best place in the water to snatch them from, when he saw the boy. A female was with him. The humans weren’t cubs anymore but they were still young. The female stood at the center of a basin, spear in hand. She was quick and caught one fish after another in a short time. The wolf admired her stealth and swiftness.
His instinct told him to retreat, to leave and find a different hunting ground. But he only stepped backward into the brush until he was certain he couldn’t be seen. From there, he watched. He knew the scouts of the cloaked ones were close and feared they’d fall upon the boy and the others during the night. When the boy and his companion left, the wolf followed them until they reached their group’s camp. When night fell, he doubled back toward the creek, looking for the cloaked scouts.
When he was halfway down the mountain, he saw the first one. The cloaked figure moved up the narrow, silvery path toward him. Then the wolf saw the second scout. That one was farther down in the valley, moving away from them and in the opposite direction, most likely to guide the rest of the hunters to their quarry.
The wolf didn’t think. He didn’t calculate the value of his own life versus the boy’s. He moved as a fast, gray shadow darting across the dark landscape. When the first scout became aware of him, it was too late. The human grabbed for his sword but the wolf jumped, his fangs clamping shut around the side of the man’s neck first. The scout fell, already dead before his body touched the ground. His companion fled.
The wolf sped toward the creek and crossed it in two leaps. The second scout was a fast runner, but the wolf gained quickly on him. He’d never been a strong sprinter, but no prey could outrun him over distance. The wolf saw the cloak’s silhouette move in the wind as the scout ran toward a copse of small trees in the distance.
Until now, the wolf had used the rocks to stay hidden from his target, but now he stepped into the open, where he could move more quickly. The moon shone bright in the night sky, illuminating the land around him. In long strides, the wolf leapt after the running man. Farther down the path, a group of cloaked ones started toward him, swords in hand. The wolf knew he’d reach the scout before his comrades could, but it would be a close race after all.
The scout stopped and turned, drawing his sword. The wolf slowed, baring his teeth, one weapon challenging another. His head low, the first scout’s blood still crimson on his muzzle, he circled his second target warily. If he didn’t attack soon, the wolf knew, he’d be overwhelmed when the other humans arrived.
The scout smiled, a hunter certain of his prey’s fate. The wolf heard the others coming and growled as he retreated, then turned and disappeared into the night. By the time the other cloaked ones arrived, the wolf was gone.
He watched them from afar as they gave up the search for him and made camp for the night. A few slept on the ground with their swords close, but most stood in pairs at the perimeter, their backs to one another, holding watch. Low to the ground, the wolf crept toward them. He’d watched them hide two traps in the grass before, but the night was his ally, and for a few more hours he’d be invisible to them, a shadow at best. He wouldn’t let them get to the boy.
He quietly approached the two guards who kept watch to the east. They spoke quietly to each other. If not for that, they might have heard him.
He jumped, his jaws open, his fangs ripping into the first man’s sword arm. The second scrambled, fumbling for his sword leaning against the rock, but the wolf was too fast. The man threw his hands over his face as a last defense against the onslaught of sharp teeth ripping into his forearms and hands.
The wolf disappeared before the others, alarmed by the screams of the two watchmen, arrived. He heard shouts behind him as he slunk low in the darkness, once again beyond their vision.
There were eight cloaked ones left. One kindled a fire. Two brought driftwood and the dried remnants of a dwarf tree. The flames licked upward into the night, creating a circle of orange light around the men who gathered within its warmth, their backs toward the heat, their eyes watching the shrouded land beyond.
The wolf knew he wouldn’t be able to attack now and live. The light was too bright for him to move among them unseen. His eyes found the horizon, where night would soon surrender to dawn. He hoped the dead one he’d left near the boy’s camp would be enough warning. He hoped the boy’s pack would be gone. He hoped he’d bought them enough time. And with only the boy’s image in his head, he stepped forward into the circle of firelight.
Jack and the others had reached the mountain pass that evening—the narrow road that would lead them to the stronghold and safety. Their camp lay behind a cluster of rocks near a small spring.
They were weary of walking. Their feet were blistered and raw, and they needed to rest. Jonu tended to the children, and Tom organized the watch schedule for the night. Jack sat next to Carrie, who used her knife to divide the last of the fish.