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Behind and above him another wolf roared. That
challenge was followed swiftly by deadly snarling and then
a shocked scream of pain. So horrible was the sound that
Tanis could not tell if it had come from the lungs of man or
beast.
Sturm! Coppery, musty, the stench of fresh blood filled
the air. Tanis scrambled to his feet. The storm wind blinded
him, tore at him. He couldn't see!
Though he'd always wielded his blade well in practice
bouts with a confidence seldom disappointed, Sturm had
only blooded his sword once and that against a human
opponent whose moves could, to some extent, be gauged.
Could he have gone against a wolf who would charge in
under a sword's reach with the desperation of a predator
starving?
Sliding in the freezing snow, Tanis ran to where he
imagined the scent of blood was strongest. He crashed to
his knees and, cursing, regained his feet.
"Sturm!" he howled. He thought in that moment that no
blizzard wind could sound a cry as desolate. "Sturm!
Where are you?"
Tanis found him sitting in the snow, bending over
drawn up knees. The second wolf lay sprawled behind him,
its head nearly severed from its neck. Beside it, slick with
rapidly congealing blood, lay Sturm's sword
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