He takes a step toward me... and stumbles.
He groans, a deep, pained sound, and his hand goes to his leg.
My eyes drop.
The Worg bite. It's not a cut. It is a mangled, raw, pulsing crater in his thigh. The blood is not running. It is pumping.
He looks at me, then at the gray, hostile horizon, and lets out a low, pained growl.
He is hurt. Badly. And we are in the middle of nowhere.
13
THREK
Pain is a white-hot fire, a star of agony that blooms in my thigh from the Worg bite. It is deep. Another, sharp pain burns in my shoulder from the other Worg.
But it is a good pain.
The red haze from the battle sings in my blood. It is not the elven magic, not the screaming, confused rage I usually feel. This was my rage. A clean rage. A hunter’s rage.
The world is red and white and gray. The stench of blood is thick.
I won.
I turn. My leg screams in protest and it buckles.
I stumble. The world tilts, a vortex of white snow and black rock.
No.
I plant my feet. I endure the pain. I look.
Betty.
She is there, by the rockfall. She is safe.
Her pale skin is white as the snow. Her bright blue eyes are wide. Her scent… it is thick with fear, but she is unharmed. She is alive.
That is all. That is everything.
The victory is for her.
The red haze begins to fade. The song in my blood goes quiet.
And the cold returns.
It is a new enemy. It bites at my new, open wounds. It bites at her.
She shivers. Her lips are blue.
Fragile.
We cannot stay here. The smell of blood is a beacon. It will bring more Worgs. Or it will bring the elves.
We must move. We need shelter.
I force my mind to clear. The pain makes it hard.
