Bisclavret

Chapter 1

"Faster," I urge my horse, leaning low over his neck.

His lungs heave like a bellows. Foam flecks the corners of his mouth. He can't last much longer at this pace, but his panic is a near-match for mine, and he heeds my command.

The full moon hangs low and pregnant above the tree line just ahead, casting long shadows over the road. We're galloping so fast that I can't tell if we're speeding toward one of those innocuous shadows or a hole that could break my horse's leg and spell our doom. I'm forced to trust my mount's sight, believe that he can distinguish between the two, leap or dodge if he must. All I have to do is hang on for dear life.

Around us, the darkness seethes. Howls rend the air. I look over one shoulder and then the next, searching for any sign of the wolves that dog our steps. Fur flashes in my periphery, and I spin toward it. There, just between the trees, something moves through the forest, keeping pace with us.

I choke back a fresh wave of fear and try to concentrate. All is not yet lost. I have three loaded pistols. If we go down, I'll put a bullet through my horse's head and one through my own. I'd rather die a quick death at my own hand than be torn to pieces while still alive.

Another chorus of howls rises from the trees. The gelding beneath me trumpets his terror and pulls at the reins. I let him have his lead. If he stumbles on this godforsaken country road, we'll both die, but if I keep him at a safer pace, the wolves might grow bold and pull me from the saddle before tearing into his belly – so we're likely dead either way. At least galloping flat out we have a chance. Not two miles ahead of us is salvation, the sole village in this wilderness of trees. If we manage to outpace the wolves and reach it, we'll be free. Safe.

A crash comes from my right. I pull a pistol and aim in that direction, searching for a target.

Show yourself, damn you.

If I can wound one of the pack, it might frighten off the rest. Or maybe the smell of blood will draw them to their fallen comrade instead. We've had a hard winter, and the wolves might be hungry enough to cannibalize one of their own.

As if in answer to my prayers, a beast bursts forth from the trees not a hundred yards ahead. My steed catches sight of it and balks, nearly throwing me, and I have to dig my heels into his sides to force him back into a gallop.

The wolf stops in the middle of the road, snarling at us as we run it down. An answering snarl curls my lips, rage replacing my fear. I brace myself and stand in the stirrups, my left hand gripping the reins, my right lifting to take aim. It costs me a few precious moments to acclimate to the rise and fall of my horse from this position, but I need to match my breathing to his motion if I have any hope of hitting my target.

Breathe in on the rise, out on the fall. In on the rise, out on the fall. Now shoot!

I pull the trigger. The bullet explodes from the pistol in a belch of smoke and fire. Its kickback sends my arm heavenward and nearly unseats me. My horse is trained for war, and he handles the sound of the small explosion better than I do, not even breaking stride. Gunfire, he's used to; the wolves are another matter entirely. No amount of training can keep a horse from reacting when one howls.

The figure in the road crumples, and I whoop in victory.

Take that, you bastard!

I drop back into the saddle and switch out my empty pistol for a loaded one, pausing to spit at the still-twitching animal as we skirt it. We round the next bend in the road a heartbeat later, and the trees part to reveal a glimpse of lights shining in the distance. The village.

"Thank God," I choke out, nearly sobbing in relief.

The howls cut off when I fired, but sounds of pursuit still echo through the night. Twigs snap. Paws pound the earth. I strain my ears, and I swear I can hear their ragged panting. Instead of converging on their fallen brother, they hunt me instead. It's unnatural, as if something more than starvation is driving them on.