PATIENCE BREEDS FORTUNE. Prodis scurried out onto the deck that ringed the inn. He could hear the captain of the Corvairians behind him. A grin spread across his sun-battered face. This is where it turned around. Finally.

The hunter spared only a glance for the soldier’s animals. There were twelve of them, all hitched outside the common room. One of the soldiers in his glittering plate was rubbing them down, and he glared at Prodis over the tall back of one of the warhorses. They were royal breeds, no doubt, as tall at the shoulder as most men, and nearly as broad. They were as bound in muscle as the men themselves, each of them a four-legged killer with a demon’s eyes. Prodis hurried on, thinking of another with demon’s eyes: Ludin, the man who’d come near to humiliating him.

Yes, the gambler had his earnings from the last hunt, and then some, but it wouldn’t matter after tonight. All those fools hatching their schemes and whetting their little blades would be as dust under his heel once he showed Athos and his soldiers his captive. The quarry he’d hardly dared think of, for fear of losing it somehow.

Prodis was a superstitious man. What hunter wasn’t? The world was alive with signs to read. The west wind carried ill omen and news of death; the east wind brought fortune and opportunity. The river by one moon was swollen and angry, but by another languid and soft. He read much into the tracks of the beasts he hunted, and so he did of the world he walked through.

Tonight, by the full moon, Prodis saw a chance to reverse his fortunes. The arrival of the Corvairians so soon after Ludin had swept away his coins and made a fool of him? That was a sign he could not ignore. They were here for him, for the gray-eyed savage he had chained up in the cage.

Hopefully, the wretch was still alive. If not, no matter… the bounty made no mention of a pulse.

The thud of their boots was like heavy judgment on the boards behind him as he hurried around the inn’s broad flank and down into the dusty street.

He’d wipe that smug look off Ludin’s face. He’d have whichever woman he wanted, and maybe another. And a bath. A hot bath for all three of them, perfumed with some Luathi oil. And the wine would be endless.

Akale’s ashes, thought Prodis, coming just short of rubbing his hands together… he would live like a king!

His cart was hauled up next to the inn’s small stable. Few travelers had horses, for the animals were expensive and bothersome. Prodis knew that well. Yet, he had one such animal himself, enough to pull the two-wheeled cart he used to haul pelt and carcass.

The Corvarians were catching up now. They walked like soldiers, with purpose. He picked up his pace and whistled, a single, long note that ended on a trill. But then he stopped short.

“What’s wrong, man?” Epsanius Athos’s growl was half an accusation.

“My dog,” answered Prodis. He gave the call again and waited. “Where in the black hells is Cloudy?”

“I didn’t come to see your fucking dog,” the captain snarled. “Show me the savage!”

Prodis glanced around again, but of Cloudy, there was no sign. Athos gave him a rough shove forward.

“What if someone…”

“I don’t care,” said Athos.

Putting his chin to his chest, Prodis hurried to the cart. Better not to think about Cloudy. He was a good dog, but timorous at the best of times. And since they’d picked up Prodis’ captive, the dog had been particularly skittish.

After tonight, he could buy a bolder hound. A war beast, perhaps, trained by a general’s own men.

His great gray blanket, which often doubled as a tent, was thrown over the back of the cart. It stuck up oddly, but no stranger than any trader who covered crate and barrel. In Nourim, it was a common enough sight. Prodis hauled the blanket aside and dumped it unceremoniously beside the cart.

A cage was set up in the back of the cart. It was a clever design, built for him by a Troich he’d traveled with some years ago. A hunter he was, but the quarry did not particularly matter to a man such as Prodis. Wolf, boar, beast, or man. Dead or alive. Didn’t matter to him, so long as he got paid. He’d even joined gangs hunting the tall bears that prowled out of the mountains.

A dark form was curled up on the floor of the cage. At this, Prodis smiled broadly. He’d had some fear, surely, that the cage would be empty. That he’d be made a fool of twice in one night. But no, there the savage lay, sleeping like a babe.

Or perhaps not sleeping. Cold eyes gleamed in his filthy, savage face.

“I found him three days ago,” Prodis said, looking to Espanius Athos knowingly. “He was starving, I think.”

The Corvarian stepped up to the side of the cart. In the shadow of the stable, he was little more than a black specter. His men stood behind him, looking idle and bored, but Prodis could feel their tension the way he could see a stag about to spring. The hidden coil in their hearts, ready to draw steel at a moment’s notice. Not like the other soldiers in Nourim.

Epsanius stared for a long while and said nothing. The silence ground at Prodis. Silence meant the wild, the vast solitude of hunting and trapping on his own.

“So, what’d he do anyway?” Prodis said to break the silence. The Corvarian gestured one of his men over to inspect the savage. They conferred in hushed tones. Prodis couldn’t hear the exact words, but he heard skepticism and anger. He swallowed nervously. “Word is, he stole from the queen.”

“This is not the man we hunt.”

“What?” Prodis said. “Surely it is!”

“You think I’m a fool?” the captain snarled. “The one we hunt is not a starvling.”

“But he’s a savage!” Prodis pressed. “He speaks only a little Corvarian. Enough to beg for water and food. And he sings with the wolves.” He pinched his eyes shut, but the memory sprung to mind nonetheless. Of long, awful nights filled with the savage’s loathsome crooning. And the voices that answered.

“He is not our man.”

Prodis bit his disappointment back. “But surely, sirs, there is some bounty on him? He was harrying the farmers in the Lougim Hills westways. Stole their food and killed livestock. Took a daughter they said, though I didn’t find her.”

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“Then they should pay you for your trouble.”

The man in the cage sat up on one elbow. He sniffed in that awful, primitive way he had, and the moonlight caught and fixed in his eyes, inhuman and strange. “Blood,” the savage rasped.

Epsanius Athos gave him a look of disgust.

Despite himself, Prodis could not keep his anger contained. Balling his fists, he said, “But the farmers wouldn’t pay me for him. They wanted the wolves. Well. Soldiers had visited the farmers asking for a tall, gray-eyed savage. So I thought,” he finished, holding his palms up.

“Kill him, sell him, or free him,” Athos said. “It makes no difference to me.”

Black clouds slid over the hunter’s hope. No luck, after all. The gambler had all the luck, that slick bastard, and here was Prodis with his ass in the wind again. He opened his mouth, but at that moment a man crashed through the window of the inn and landed on the deck.

Athos and his men fell into fighters’ crouches in an instant. Prodis stiffened, his hand going to the knife tucked in his belt.

The man on the ground kicked weakly, clutching a black gauntleted hand to his throat. His gold cloak spread out like broken wings around him.

“Karth!” cried one of the soldiers. They hurried over to him.

The common room exploded with commotion and noise. Prodis could hear chairs and tables being toppled as people stormed for the door, trying to get away from what sounded like a sword fight. They were streaming pell-mell into the street: whores and men alike fled like the damned from the banks of the dark river, vanishing into the night.

That would draw more soldiers, he thought.

A wolf howl went up, sawing across the eerie quiet. All the dogs in the town began barking in response, raising a barbaric cacophony. They sounded terrified, like they were being skinned alive. A dim part of Prodis’ mind wondered if Cloudy’s voice was among those haunted cries.

“He’s here!” Athos snapped. “To arms!” Seven swords slithered against their leather sheaths. Prodis nearly cried out when he backed into the cart. A hand clamped over his mouth, cracked and filthy.

“Blood,” whispered a ragged voice in his ear.

Heavy steps foretold the approach of a massive figure around the corner of the inn. He was seven feet tall, at least, and half again as broad as any of the Corvairians. Sitting by the hearth, the giant had seemed like a great dark hill. Now he moved with a lion’s prowl, unhindered by the bulk of his muscle. He stepped off the deck and into the moonlight.

Prodis felt the hand over his mouth tighten as they caught full sight of him. The soldiers backed up a step.

They stood before a king, for what else could he be? The giant had the wild, noble features of a distant peak. His mouth was a broad line drawn across a rugged jaw, grizzled by a dark beard. His nose was a scarred slope, set between two fierce gray eyes that gleamed with flecks of gold almost as brightly as the ring on his forefinger. No savage’s trick, there. No moonlight captured: those eyes had a light of their own that made

Prodis’ blood run cold. He tossed a body to the ground before him: the man left to guard the horses.

At last, the giant spoke. He pointed his sword at Athos. “I tire of our game, Espanius Athos.”

“Ulrem the thief,” answered Epsanius. He alone among his men did not appear frightened, though he kept to his defensive crouch. “You show yourself at last.”

“And you eat your own lies, Athos. They taste not as sweet as your queen did, I think.” The soldiers spit curses, but the giant only laughed at their fire. “We both know I am no thief. She gave herself willingly.”

Athos growled. “Dog! Scum-eating—”

“Be quiet,” the giant said, and Athos bit off his curse. What little patience Ulrem possessed was gone now. Anger boiled in those golden eyes like a lightning storm, threatening untold fury. “Four days now I’ve waited for you. I knew you were close behind me. But no longer. Tonight we conclude our business, and then I will cross the river.”

“Bold words for a single sword,” said Athos.

“One is not so different from ten.” Ulrem propped his sword on his shoulder. It was a great sword, as long as his arm from shoulder to fingertip, and two hands broad at the base: a headsman’s sword. Most men would have struggled to wield such a thing, but it seemed a natural part of this deadly giant.

“The king wanted to skin you alive,” Athos spat. “But I convinced him that such a death was wasted on one such as you. Do you feel pain, you animal? No. It’s the crucifix for you. And then we’ll take you apart bit by bit, nailing your remains above the city gates for all to see. That will be your story.”

Ulrem grinned savagely, but the smile did not reach his golden eyes. Prodis gasped.

“Take him!” Athos barked. His men sprang to obey.

Two swept in from the left and right, high and low. The big man flowed like a mountain panther, parrying the higher blade and bringing his boot down impossibly fast on the other. It shattered under his heel, dragging the man down. He brought his knee up into the soldier’s face, crushing helmet against bone. The man screamed and spit black blood, reeling backward.

All hell broke loose.

The giant laid about them with his huge sword, driving the Corvairians back. Ulrem stalked after them, breaking apart the ring they tried to form. Prodis had never seen such a whirlwind of violence. In his youth, he had been pressed into battle… but nothing like this. Lines of men shouting from behind shields bristling with spears, and drunken charges, and sleepless nights spent shaking. But never such force, such focused death.

In heartbeats, two of the soldiers lay dead or dying in the dust. Prodis bit the filthy hand covering his mouth, eliciting an angry scream. It didn’t matter. He scrambled under the cart and back toward the barn.

The Corvairians backed up, regrouping. And then they came at Ulrem as one. Athos led the attack, thrusting with a snarl, forcing the giant to face him. The big man slapped the thrust aside, but it was a feint. He wheeled back, narrowly evading a slash aimed at his shoulder, snarling with the nearness of it.

A third blade caught him on the side, but his bearskin cloak blunted the blow. Ulrem lashed out with a fist, smashing the soldier with the pommel of his great blade and crushing the man’s helmet. He sat down hard in the dirt, stunned.

Athos caught Ulrem then, slicing across his chest, slashing his tunic and spilling blood. The giant clamped his free hand on the captain’s arm and threw Athos backward into the cart. It shuddered under the blow, and the savage howled with bloody glee. Ulrem might have killed Athos then, but the remaining soldier attacked, drawing him away.

Prodis had backed up as far as he dare go, but his foot was caught in the blanket he’d tossed aside. Athos caught sight of him. The captain’s eyes glittered with malice. “You! You knew! You were working with him!” He clawed for Prodis under the cart.

Panic seized the hunter. He snatched out his knife and planted it in Athos’ hand, pinning it to the ground. The captain roared in fury, and the hunter fled. He ran for the trees behind the barn.

A bright, animal scream of rage split the night, and it was only then that Prodis realized the dark was quiet. The dogs’ mad clamor was silent now. The hunter turned, cursing himself for not running until his legs gave out. But he had to know.

Athos had sunk Prodis’s dagger into Ulrem’s calf! The giant turned and brought his heel down on the captain’s chest, crushing the man’s arm. Hot tears streaked down Prodis’ cheeks, but for all the world he could not have run, so terrifying was the sight of Ulrem’s rage as he drew up before the last of the Corvairians. The wretch threw down his sword.

The giant balled his free hand into a fist. His huge sword rose until the point held, unwaveringly, at the soldier’s chest. “Go,” he growled. “Tell your cuckold king he has paid dearly enough for angering me. Our debt is settled.”

The soldier’s face was bloodless white. He took one cautious step back, and seeing that Ulrem did not pursue him, turned and scrambled away.

Epsanius Athos was working his way to his knees. He clutched his broken arm to his breastplate. Ulrem, no more than a silhouette against the gloom, planted a foot on his back and drove him back to the dust.

“Dog! Twice-cursed whoreson!” spat the captain, unable to free himself. “You think this ends here? Corvairia will not forget you!”

“No,” answered Ulrem. “But it will forget you.” He sank his blade into the captain’s back, silencing his struggling curses. The savage in the cart let out a long, mournful howl.

Prodis’ breath caught in his throat. Something moved in the trees behind him. He whirled. Two eyes shone in the dark through the shadowy undergrowth.

“Cloudy?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

A wolf slid out of the darkness, its white, wedge-shaped head lowered dangerously. Black lips bared deadly fangs, and let loose a snarl. Behind it came another, a black wolf with golden eyes, which threw back its head and offered a bloody song to the full moon.

Prodis screamed, all his resolve shattered and gone, and fled into the night.