Shhh.
Then he turns, flattening his massive, wounded body against the rock face. He becomes a wall of gray-green stone, his bulk a living shield in front of me, hiding me from the path.
And then I hear it.
Creak-squeak.
The sound of wet leather armor, straining in the cold.
The sound of metal. Not the rough iron of a raider's axe. The sharp, clean sound of steel.
My blood turns to ice. My breath stops behind the wall of his hand.
They appear.
Three of them.
Dark Elves.
They walk down the path, graceful and silent as death. They are tall, slender, and so beautiful it hurts to look at them. It is the beauty of a predator, of a perfectly-made weapon. They wear armor of gleaming, black steel, fashioned to look like an insect’s carapace. Long, white hair, pale as bone, is braided down their backs.
My body is a single, screaming nerve. They are here. They are here. The fire, the screams, my mother... Gods.
"The trail is cold," one of them says. His voice is music, a cold, clear, perfect chime. "The Urog is wounded. It cannot have gone far."
The second one sneers. "Lord Larda is impatient. He wants his pet." The word is a whip-crack, an insult. "And the human female."
My stomach plummets.
They are hunting me, too. Why? Didn’t they left him for dead?
I can feel Threk. His body, pressed against the rock, is vibrating. The growl in his chest is a low, subsonic thrum ofpure, unadulterated hatred. It is a sound that I feel in my bones, in my teeth.
He is a coiled spring. He is a bomb. He is fighting every primal instinct in his body, fighting the red haze, fighting the urge to lunge and tear them apart.
He is staying still.
For me.
The elves stop. They are so close. Twenty paces, no more. The leader, his face a perfect, cruel mask, lifts his head and sniffs the air.
My heart stops. I am going to be sick. Does he smell me? Does he smell the blood?
Threk’s hand presses harder against my mouth.
"The wind is from the north," the elf says, his musical voice full of disgust. "It carries nothing but the stench of that human filth-pit. They went west, toward the pass. Come. We will find it, and Lord Larda will have his prize."
They move on.
They glide down the path, three black, beautiful monsters, and disappear into the trees.
Silence follows.
I am trembling so hard my teeth ache. I am drowning in Threk’s hand, breathing in his scent.
He does not move. Not for a count of ten. Not for a count of fifty. He waits, a statue of patient, controlled fury, until the last clink of their armor is swallowed by the wind.
Slowly, he pulls his hand away from my mouth.
