Gaelinar backstepped for stability. A rock turned beneath his foot and he lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly to the boulder field. Fenrir snapped for Gaelinar's head. The Kensei scrambled desperately aside. In his blind haste, he misplaced a knee and toppled through one of the crevices between the boulders. A shower of pebbles followed Gaelinar through the crack. A single pained cry echoed up from below, mournful and final as a rabbit's death squeal. The sound froze Larson in mid-charge.
Fenrir swung its head up, as surprised as Larson. Slit-ted, red eyes measured the hundred feet of treacherous ground between them. Its jaws hinged open to a gaping smile, revealing teeth yellowed as old bone. Shaken by Gaelinar's certain death, Larson whirled and ran toward the cave. Howling in triumph, the wolf pursued.
A patch of marble-sized stones rolled beneath Larson's foot. He fell headlong. His nose struck rock, drawing blood, and he clambered to his feet without looking back. Another sprint for the cave mouth brought him crashing to the stone, gravel abrading his open hand and the fist which clutched his sword. As he rose, he risked a glance over one shoulder. Fenrir's paws were also slipping on the rocky ground, but it was narrowing the gap at a slow, steady trot.
Larson forced himself to slacken his own gait, timing each step to a heartbeat. He gained the entrance to the cave, and quickened his pace on the smoother surface of its floor. Moonlight slanted into the shaft, defining the outcroppings of wall and shallow puddles in the uneven surface of ground. He saw no stalagmites or holes, and the discovery encouraged him to break into a run. If the trap has any chance of success, Fenrir will have to be moving fast when he hits it. Sword clasped in his right hand, his left scraping the wall for orientation, Larson sprinted beyond the spear of moonlight into the darkness deeper in the cave.
Behind Larson, Fenrir's huge paws splashed through the stagnant water, revealing its ever-changing location like an alarm. The stable floor of the cave allowed Fenrir the traction it required. Each of its leaps covered the same distance as five of Larson's running steps.
Larson's fingers brushed empty air as he passed a cross corridor then met stone wall again. Moonlight glimmered ahead. Directly beside Larson, the rodlike shadow of the spear became visible in the center of the cave, then disappeared behind him. Larson darted for the back exit. He had just emerged into the pooled light of the opening, when he heard the crash of impact behind him. Wood clattered across stone. Fenrir loosed a shrill whimper, then all went still.
The exit was little more than a crack. Larson hunched to pass through, straining his hearing for some sound from Fenrir. He had seen men endure too much to believe a single spear could kill Fenrir instantly. Yet the quiet seemed to indicate otherwise. Maybe it caught the wolf just right, in the spinal cord or the heart. Curious, he turned and crept back into the black depths of the cave.
Larson was met by silence. He edged deeper into the cavern, groping for wall with his free hand. The broken end of the spear rolled beneath his foot. Larson stumbled, the sudden movement all that saved him from death. Fen-rir's jaws, aimed to gouge open Larson's abdomen, glanced instead from his hip. The force thrust Larson completely off balance. Tossed sideways, he crashed to the cave floor. The back of his head and one shoulder blade struck the wall. His sword jarred from his grip and fell, ringing, to the stone.
Larson's awareness blurred and spun. The wolf's hot breath stirred his collar. He made a frantic effort to rise, and a lion-sized paw clamped on his abdomen.
"Dare to move, elf, and I'll tear out your throat!" Fenrir's challenge echoed through the confines of the cave.
Larson sank back to the ground. The darkness seemed crushing, and his wits floundered through a haze as dense as water.
"Did you really believe I would fall for an ill-conceived toy of a trap designed for mortal wolves?''
"I'd hoped so." Larson talked to keep Fenrir occupied while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. His sword lay beyond his reach, its hilt submerged in a puddle. Gradually, sense seeped back into his numbed mind, and he berated himself with profanity. Fenrir set me up, and I walked into its trap like an ignorant ' 'fucking new guy. ''
Fenrir's eyes appeared flat and black beneath fur-hooded sockets. Its lowered muzzle hovered at Larson's neck. He could smell the foul odor of exhaled air as it spoke. "Then you're as stupid as your scheme. Did you forget I can read your thoughts? You might just as well have included me in its planning."
Larson said nothing. He slid his hand to a pocket of his britches, counting on the darkness to hide the movement from Fenrir. Keep talking, you hairy moron. This isn't over yet.
"The Kensei's dead. Compared to you, he's lucky."
Larson's fingers inched toward Silme's rankstone, and he did not allow himself to dwell too long on Fenrir's words. The wolf's been wrong before. I won't believe in Gaelinar's death until I see the corpse.
Fenrir's toenails jabbed the skin over Larson's stomach. "You'll pay for my father's murder. I'm going to eat you, piece by bloody piece, and let you watch yourself bleed to death."
Larson's hand closed over the sapphire. Despite his predicament, he found himself considering Fenrir's threat. Bleeding is not the worst way to die; I've heard it's relatively painless. Though I doubt the same applies to being eaten alive.
"I think I'll start with a leg." Fenrir tensed to strike.
Deprived of the precious minutes he needed for strategy, Larson wrenched the sapphire. Cloth tore, and the linen of the pocket flapped open, spilling Baldur's trinket to the ground. The sudden violent movement caused Fenrir to pause for the moment it took Larson to slam the rankstone into its face.
Fierce blue light blazed at the impact. Fenrir reared backward in astonishment, and Larson claimed the seconds surprise gained him. Clutching the sapphire in a bloodless fist, he lurched free of Fenrir's loosened paw and ran for the exit. The aftereffects of the flash superimposed stars and streaks of color across the darkness. He made a grab for his sword as he passed. His fingertips jammed against rock, stabbing pain into his knuckles.
His palm curled through water. The wet leather of the hilt touched calluses. Ignoring the throb of his injured hand, he delayed to grip the sword before continuing his mad rush for the patch of moonlight ahead.
Fenrir's teeth seized the back of Larson's cloak. A quick jerk nearly pulled him off his feet. Larson reeled backward, regained equilibrium, and dove for the opening. For an instant, he hovered in air. Then the cloak tore, and Larson jolted forward. He sailed through the crack, skidding across the surface of rock, arms clamped protectively over his head, hands tightened to death grips about the sword and sapphire. Stones caught on his tunic, jerking him to a halt.
For a long moment, he lay there, staring at the cliffs before him and listening to Fenrir snuffling at the exit. The crack was too small for the wolf-god to slip through, a provision Larson suspected Gaelinar had purposefully arranged when he chose the cave. Gaelinar! He may be alive and in need of my help. The thought mobilized Larson. He leaped to his feet. The Kensei's scream had sounded convincingly terminal, almost animal. But, before he could abandon his companion, Larson had to be sure. Tucking the sapphire into another pocket, he ran toward the boulder field.
Larson had passed only halfway around the outer side of the ledge which held the cave when Taziar's familiar voice sounded from up ahead. "Stupid as your murdered father, you overfed cur. Forgot about me, didn't you?"
Shadow? Larson broke into a gallop, soaked with sweat despite the cold. The many mad dashes had grown taxing; his chest heaved with each labored breath. He rounded the corner just in time to see Taziar hopping across precariously grounded stones with the agile grace of an acrobat. A moment later, Fenrir burst through the ill-shaped mouth of the cave. Its chest struck rope thin as a thread, and its momentum dislodged the meticulously placed notched sticks which held the snare in place. A coil of magical cord encircled Fenrir's neck like a hangman's noose. The wolfs charge snapped the line taut; the abrupt impact knocked it, choking, from its feet. Larson followed the glint of moonlight off the string to a peak above the cave. Under ordinary circumstances, he suspected Fenrir could shatter the restraining formation to pebbles. Now, the slightest motion would only serve to cinch the snare deeper into the wolf's throat.