Chapter 8

A swarm of ghostly green lights drifted among the brush, and where they moved a pack of mottled, gaunt wolves followed.

They ringed the five of them at a cautious distance, not too close, not too far, baring white fangs and low-throated snarls, ready to spring.

By rough count there were twenty or so, calves in size but lean as sinew, a sight that put a chill under the skin.

The men tightened into a circle and drew their steel blades.

Roy found himself instinctively shielded at the center by four big men. Less than thirty feet away the wolves crouched, and he could taste the damp, rotting tang of meat on the cold wind. One pair of those eyes after another filled his vision with a hungry, animal cruelty he had never properly seen before.

Nothing in a story, no distant description, matched the shock of meeting predators up close.

His body began to tremble. These were not anesthetized beasts from a slaughterhouse. Their fangs and claws could shred human flesh with ease.

“Keep steady, they’re crafty!” One-Eyed Jack called, waving a torch to push the wolves back. The old seaman had the look of a man who’d faced plenty of fights; fear did not show on his face, only resolve.

Grok and the night watch were steady with sword in hand; they had seen blood before. Pussig the blacksmith leveled a fierce look at the surrounding wolves, blade resting at his right hip like a plowshare. His stance was a practiced one: spine straight, shoulders relaxed, left foot forward, right foot back at a forty-five degree angle. The Skellige-born man moved like someone trained in formal swordwork, his cuts disciplined and fluid.

Of them all, Roy looked worst. His face went pale and sweat ran along his temple.

“Follow my lead, move forward slowly. Don’t panic, don’t run.” Jack’s voice was calm and steady, and the group inched forward like a small fortified unit toward the graveyard.

They’d gone only a few steps when the wolves, provoked, erupted in sharp howls. The lead animals leapt as one.

“Get off!” Jack roared, lunging, his foot smashing into a wolf’s skull as his right hand carved a bright arc through the night, blade biting into a hind leg.

The attacker howled and limped back.

“You think old Jack is done for?” he spat, but the wolves learned fast and two of them closed in on him at once. They circled, baring teeth, testing.