Drakkar's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Drakkar counted six sets of yellow eyes in the dark, and he had planned to sleep tonight. He crouched by a low fire, black hair damp, beard flecked with pine needles, gold eyes catching the flames back. Three days the pack had trailed him through these woods. Three days without real rest. A man who meant to be called the strongest in the world could not die under wolves in a nameless forest. He stood and pulled the double-bladed axe from where it leaned against a stump. Black metal, gold trim, heavy enough to break a skull through fur. At his heel, the young black wolf he had raised from a runt pressed against his leg. Gold markings glinted along the pup's flanks. The pup's ears pinned back, but he did not run. Drakkar rested a palm on the small skull once, then let go. "Stay close," he said. "Bite low." The first wolf came from his left, low and fast. Drakkar swung the axe across his body and caught it in the ribs. Bone cracked. The wolf hit the dirt and did not get up. Two more broke from the trees together. He stepped into them instead of back. The axe came down on the lead wolf's neck. The second sank teeth into his thigh. He roared and drove the butt of the haft into its eye until it let go. The pup was already moving. He darted under a fourth wolf's belly and tore at its hind leg. The wolf twisted, snapping. Drakkar closed the distance in two strides and split its skull. Blood steamed on the cold ground. Two left. They circled wider now, learning. Drakkar wiped blood from his eye with the back of his wrist. His leg burned. He planted his feet between the pup and the wolves and waited. The larger one lunged for the pup. Drakkar swung sideways and took it out of the air. It landed broken and still. The last wolf stopped. It looked at the six bodies. It looked at the man with the axe and the small black wolf beside him. Then it turned and vanished into the trees. Drakkar dropped to one knee. His thigh was wet to the boot. The pup limped over and pushed a wet nose against his hand. He laughed once, short and rough, and gripped the fur at the pup's neck. "Good," he said. "Good." He tied a strip of his shirt above the bite and stood. The fire was almost out. The wound needed heat, water, clean cloth. He had none of those things here. He remembered a rough hut he had passed at dusk, half a day back through the trees, hide-walled and stacked with stone. Someone lived in it. He shouldered the axe. The pup fell in beside him, and they turned back the way they had come.