Kain watched the mass of black fur and impending death charge toward him. The other six hunters stood like weathered stones against a rising tide. The wolves' paws, heavy as the hooves of chaos, tore at the ancient earth, displacing soil and sun-scorched grass in a frenzy of madness comparable to a disastrous typhoon. The air already stank of desperation—a thick, cloying musk of wet fur and the copper tang of fear. High above, panicked crows and various birds screamed from the skeletal branches of the trees, alerting the world that havoc was on the march.
A voice in the back of Kain's head, thin and reedy with terror, berated him. It told him that what he was doing was a fool's errand, a suicide pact made in the heat of a moment. It screamed at him to drop the heavy flint spear, to turn his back on his kin, and to run until his lungs burned and his legs failed, just to save his own miserable skin. But as quickly as the voice began its poisonous whisper, Kain silenced it with a mental blow.
He had already made up his mind. He would stay by his father. He would fight. What kind of man would he be to turn and run now, leaving his tribe men to fend for themselves. He asked himself this question, but it was a question he already knew the answer to. The mere thought of being remotely comparable to him—the man who had come before, the one whose shadow still haunted Kain's dreams—made the contents of his empty stomach churn. His gorge rose, threatening to spill out and say hello to the blood-stained grass.
No. He was going to fight. He was nothing like him, and if the gods were merciful—if they even existed in this brutal, orange-tinted world—he would never be.
The wolves were almost upon them now, a wall of midnight muscle and red eyes. Kain shifted his weight, feeling the grit of the earth beneath his calloused feet. He readied his spear, the obsidian tip glinting with a hungry, dark light, and prepared for the onslaught.
He stole a quick glance to either side to gauge the resolve of his companions. Other than Flea, whose knees knocked together like dry bones in a windstorm, they all seemed like they were rearing to fight. Their faces were masks of primal aggression, teeth bared in a mimicry of the beasts they faced. The sudden, earth-shaking bark of one of the monstrous dogs snapped Kain out of his reverie and pulled him back to the impending wave of teeth.
"Ready!" his father's voice boomed, a command that seemed to anchor the very air. The hunters dropped into their defensive stances, a wall of wood and stone.
Then, the world exploded into violence.
A wolf the size of two men leaped from the pack, its body eclipsing the sun for a terrifying second. It launched itself directly at Flea, its ravenous snout dripping with frothing strings of drool. Its fangs, as long as a man's forearm, were set to tear the young hunter's throat open before he could even scream.
Before it could reach the boy, Tone intervened. As one of the largest members of the tribe, Tone was a mountain of bronze skin and scarred muscle. Kain was always amazed at the distance the man could cover in such a small amount of time; with one thunderous stomp that sent a tremor through the dirt, Tone was already barreling into the wolf's path. The beast's jaw was wide, a cavern of rot and ivory ready to take off Tone's head, but the big man was faster. He rammed his spear through the beast's open mouth, the stone head shearing through the soft palate and burying itself deep within the braincase. Tone didn't even wait for the beast to stop its death-throes before he kicked the writhing corpse off his weapon.
"Tone, thanks! I—" Flea began, his voice cracking with relief.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll stab before you think, kid!" Tone snapped, his eyes never leaving the treeline. "You keep that spear up, or you lay down and die right now. Pick one!"
If Flea wanted to respond, the opportunity was stolen from him. Another wolf pounced over Tone's shoulder, crashing into Flea before he could regain his bearings. Kain surged forward to assist, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He managed a single step before a blur of black fur to his left tried to intercept his life.
The beast was a second shy of clasping its vicious snout around his neck, but Kain's instincts—honed by years of narrow escapes—took over. He ducked, the snap of the wolf's jaws echoing in his ear like a dry branch breaking. As he went down, he rolled through the dust, desperate to keep his throat intact.
He scrambled to his feet, but he wasn't alone. Two of them were circling him now, their low growls vibrating in his very marrow. He spared a frantic glance toward the others. None were in a better position. They were all embattled, submerged in a sea of fur and claws. His father was a whirlwind of strikes, but even he was being pushed back toward the carcass they were supposed to protect. Flea was still struggling on the ground with the wolf on top of him, and by the looks of the desperate, flailing movements, it wouldn't be long before the boy made a fatal mistake.
If Kain had any chance of saving the boy, he was going to have to make short work of the threats currently in his way. He didn't know exactly how he would do it—his hands were shaking, and the cold shadow of his past was whispering for him to fail—but he had to try.
The first wolf made its move. It sprinted low, aiming a ravenous snap at his right foot. Kain pulled back just in time, the teeth grazing his ankle, but the movement left him open. The second wolf capitalized on the distraction, leaping forward and tearing into his other leg. The pain of the fangs burying themselves deep within his calf was so sharp, so astounding, that his mind went blank for a pulsing second. He didn't even have time to properly register the agony before the beast jerked its head with such might that Kain was hoisted off his feet. He slammed onto his back, the breath leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
Looking up, the limitless, ocean-colored ceiling of the sky was quickly engulfed by the black shadow of the second wolf. It moved to show the world what the inside of his neck looked like.
The beast chomped at his throat. Kain, unable to bring his spear around in time, threw up his free arm to block the strike. For the second time that day, he felt the sickening sensation of fangs the size of fingers digging into his flesh. Unlike before, there was no time to ponder the pain. The wolf latched onto his forearm and began wailing its head around like a sick bull, trying to either tear the limb off or injure him enough so he wouldn't be able to stop it from ending him.
Kain's vision blurred. The world narrowed down to the smell of the wolf's foul breath and the sight of its red, unblinking eyes. He couldn't die here. He couldn't leave his father alone.
With the spear in his other hand, he brought the weapon up. He imagined driving it into the beast's heart. He visualized the spray of blood, the light leaving the wolf's eyes. But that was all it was—an image. The thought of actually taking a life again, of feeling that final shiver of a dying creature through the shaft of his weapon, made his resolve crumble. The spear wobbled in his hand, his fingers losing their grip as the trauma of his past surged up to paralyze him. The weapon fell, hitting the ground with a silent, pathetic clatter in the tall grass.
He was pinned. One wolf on his leg, one on his arm. He was being eaten alive, and he couldn't even bring himself to kill his killers. But not being able to kill wasn't the same as giving up.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, Kain pulled the wolf latched onto his arm toward him, dragging the beast's face closer to his own. With his other hand, he balled his fingers into a rigid spike and jammed them directly into the beast's eye socket. The wolf threw its head back, letting out a deafening whine of agony. Kain wasn't done. He couldn't kill it, but he could break it. He grabbed the wolf's head before it could retreat and bit its ear, tearing the gristle and fur clean off. The beast screamed, a sound that was almost human in its suffering, and bolted away into the brush.
Kain spat the foul-tasting ear from his mouth and lunged for his fallen spear. One down.
He turned his attention to the one still anchored to his leg. Like he did with the first, he pulled his leg toward his chest, forcing the beast into range. Instead of a killing blow to the chest, he rammed the butt of the spear into the dog's eye, then followed up with a frantic, jagged stab into the other socket. The wolf howled, a sound of pure darkness, and retreated, blinded and broken.
Kain didn't watch it go. He scrambled to his feet, his leg trailing blood, and ran toward Flea. The young hunter was pinned, the wolf's jaws closing in on his face. Kain swung his spear in a wide, horizontal arc, the obsidian edge slicing open the wolf's snout. The beast yelped and hopped off, providing the opening Flea needed. The boy didn't hesitate; he drove his spear upward through the wolf's throat, finally ending its life.
"Oh, freaking me... I thought I was dead. I was sure of it," Flea said, gasping for air. He stood with his hands on his knees, head hanging low, his chest heaving.
"Man, I have to tell you... if you didn't step in..."
The words died in Flea's mouth as he looked up and saw the state of Kain. He took in the shredded leather of Kain's leggings, the deep, weeping punctures in his arm, and the blood smeared across his face.
"My flipping stones... what did you do? Try to feed yourself to them?" Flea's voice rose with every word, his eyes wide with horror.
"It looks worse than it actually is," Kain lied. His leg was thumping with a rhythmic, hot pain, and his arm felt like it was being held in a fire.
"Man, that's not even kind of convincing! When we get back, we're going to have to get Magness to—"
"Flea, where did you last see Tone?" Kain interrupted, his voice tight.
"Ah... Tone? I don't know, I can't... no, wait! He was protecting the hunt. Yeah, that's where I last saw him," Flea said, nodding frantically.
"Good. Let's go. We need to find him."
"Wait, why? Kain, you're bleeding out!"
Kain ignore young man and made his way to the location of the kill.
"Damn it!" Flea cursed, but he followed.
On the way, Kain scanned the battlefield. The air was a haze of dust and fur. No one was dead yet, thank the gods, but the math of the fight was simple and cruel. They were vastly outnumbered. The hunters were tiring, their movements becoming heavy and slow, while the wolves seemed to draw strength from the scent of blood. The line was breaking. Grind was buried under three of the beasts, his spear snapping in the fray.
He realized with a sinking heart that they would give before the wolves did. At this rate, the tribe's best men would be nothing but slim pickings by sunset. He had to find a way to end this, fast.