The blood of the first Crag Wolf stained the rough leather of Aris's tunic, hot against his chest. He stood his ground next to Doran's pike-wall, his breath puffing white in the cold air, his Westvale short sword dripping scarlet.
The two remaining wolves were experienced hunters. They did not charge blindly. They circled, low to the ground, recognizing that the human children had killed their alpha. They were seeking a break in the Triangle Formation.
"They're waiting for the exhaustion," Aris muttered, his eyes locked on the lead wolf's movements. "Don't move, Doran. Not an inch."
The wolves simultaneously feinted, one snapping at Doran's knee, the other darting toward Aris's flank.
Aris acted instantly. He did not chase the feint. He yelled a wordless, guttural sound and thrust his short sword straight up, aiming for the air above the second wolf's back. The wolf instinctively ducked, dodging the sword, which was exactly what Aris wanted.
By ducking, the wolf was forced directly into the wide, heavy sweep of Doran's pike shaft.
THWACK!
Doran slammed the heavy wood against the wolf's ribs, a sound of heavy impact that clearly broke bone. The wolf let out a pained, high-pitched yelp and staggered.
The third wolf, witnessing the tactical cohesion that had just shattered its pack mate, immediately broke the engagement. It vanished into the pines with the intelligence of a true predator, choosing survival over vengeance.
Aris rushed to the injured wolf, plunging his sword into its skull to end the fight cleanly.
Silence descended, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing.
Aris stood over the body of the wolf, his chest heaving, his senses still alight with adrenaline. He had survived. He had killed with purpose, not just to live, but to protect.
Doran dropped the pike, falling onto his knees. His large hands were shaking uncontrollably, stained with wolf blood and gore.
"I hurt them, Aris," Doran whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "They were just... hungry."
"They were a threat," Aris corrected, though his voice was gentler now. He knelt beside his friend. "They were going to eat our resources and then eat us. They made a calculation. We made a better one."
Aris didn't let him dwell. He was a survivor, not a psychiatrist. "Get up. We take the kill. We move. Now."
They quickly secured the two large wolf carcasses and the goat, hauling their staggering load back to The Sledge. The sheer volume of high-quality meat was a massive boost to their supplies, a treasure won in blood.
They returned to the wagon to find Mira
frantically tending to the mules, Tova sitting guard with a frightened look, and Lenn pacing nervously, the leather ledger clutched to his chest.
"We have fresh kill," Aris announced, throwing the meat onto the ground. "Lenn, start fire preparation. We need to preserve this quickly."
Lenn, however, didn't move toward the fire.
"Aris," Lenn said, his voice unusually high-pitched and strained. "We have to leave. Now."
"We just secured three hundred pounds of meat, Lenn," Aris snapped, pulling out his knife. "We are not leaving this behind."
"It doesn't matter!" Lenn cried, thrusting the supply ledger at Aris. "I spent the last hour cross-referencing the patrol schedules with the old Forward Scout Post (FSP) supply logs in this book. I found it!"
Lenn tapped a small, faded entry. "This location, this gorge—it's near an old FSP waypoint that the military hasn't officially decommissioned due to the war chaos.
They haven't sent supplies in months, but the log says a standard, heavily armed Northwatch Scout Patrol—two dozen men, not penal legion—is scheduled to pass through this gorge sometime today on a 'routine survey'."
Aris's eyes narrowed as he quickly processed the data. A standard Scout Patrol would be professional soldiers, highly disciplined, and certainly not sympathetic to two slave children driving a stolen supply wagon. They would recognize the wagon, execute the boys, and seize the supplies.
"How long until they arrive?" Aris demanded.
Lenn, shaking, looked at the position of the sun. "They departed their last known point this morning. If they hold their standard march pace—the pace I calculated in the mines—they will be here in less than two hours. Maybe ninety minutes."
"Ninety minutes," Aris muttered, scanning the gorge—a death trap with no easy escape route for a heavy wagon.
He looked at the bounty of fresh meat, the exhausted mules, and his four frightened friends. They had fought the wild and won, only to be immediately cornered by the war they had tried to flee.
"We cannot outrun a mounted patrol on these trails," Aris stated. "We have too much cargo."
"Then we abandon the wagon," Tova pleaded. "We take the essentials and run! We can carry the ledger and some meat!"
"No," Aris said, his eyes hard. "We do not abandon our assets. This wagon, the mules—they are our only hope for long-term survival. We move into the wilderness to escape the war. Now the war has found our position. We have to make it unfindable."
He looked at the two large, still-warm Crag Wolf carcasses they had dragged back. A cold, dangerous calculation clicked into place in his mind.
"We fight," Aris said, grabbing his sword and Doran's pike. "But we don't fight men. We fight their perception."
"What are you talking about?" Doran asked, hoisting his pike defensively.
"Lenn," Aris commanded. "Does the ledger say anything about this sector being near a known Crag Wolf territory?"
"Yes," Lenn confirmed, consulting the book. "It's an active danger zone. The official warning is in the appendix: 'Avoid after dark'."
Aris smiled, a chilling, humorless expression.
"Perfect," he said. "We don't leave this gorge. We make it look like we were never here. We make it look like the wolves were here first."