How insufferable!

High above the hunters and nigh-invisible in the boughs of the ancient yew, Threewolf scowled down at the seven fools. For the first time, he heard the voices of the men who meant to behead him with his own ears.

The skulls were a touch too much, Threewolf rued.

He’d hoped the sight of their dead predecessors might show the hunters the error of their ways, but the harbinger missed the mark. He’d heaved that horrid haversack of sun-bleached skulls down the mountain for nothing. What a waste of effort and arrows!

This Flinzer was right. Instead of showing off, Threewolf should have simply shot him. It was still an option. As Cocker belittled his archery, Threewolf unslung his bow and nocked an arrow.

But which? Who should fall?

The graybeard was the obvious choice. Flinzer had his back to Threewolf and wouldn’t know what hit him until the arrow was through his throat. Without him, the others would be lost. Slay one, save six. Simple enough. But as Threewolf drew a bead, Flinzer scratched the back of his neck.

Keenly, Threewolf recalled the fey moment in the foothills. The man had the knack. It was never wise to try an old man who remained in a young man’s game.

Excuses, he scolded himself.

Threewolf let down his shot. There was more to it, something sad and endearing about Flinzer. Despite the many misfortunes along the way, he stayed sanguine. When his men fell to pieces, Flinzer deftly wove them back together. It felt a waste to snipe a man like that so unceremoniously. Perhaps he ought to save Flinzer for last, single combat, sword to sword.

Threewolf grimaced in self-reproach. There were no bards in these trees. A showdown would go unsung. The wisest move was to put an arrow through Flinzer, but he could not find the will. With a sigh, he turned his aim to the grouser.

Cocker’s voice grated from fifty yards away. His gestures were grandiose as he badmouthed Threewolf’s bowmanship. There was every reason to shoot him, but if the complainer was slain, morale might improve. Better to let him gripe on.

Threewolf picked out shots on the other five men. The axeman was out, the brute a bit too big to stop with a single shot. Likewise, the one with impressive scars had seen plenty of suffering. He might shrug off a shaft or two. The moonlight lovers were out. Shoot one and the other would vow revenge. The last option was Whent.

he little man with his bruised eye and ego was as close as the hunters could claim to a woodsman, but nothing to boast about. Not once had Whent found a trace Threewolf hadn’t meant for him to find. Threewolf couldn’t bring himself to shoot such a useful idiot.

They mean to kill you, Threewolf reminded himself. Still, the anger would not kindle. He put his arrow away. The false track failed to entice the bounty hunters to the western trail. A shout rang from the north.

“FOUND SOMETHING!”

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Threewolf recognized his mistake at once. He’d stashed his haversack in a hollow tamarack to the north. It was well off the trail, but Whent was getting better, or Threewolf was wearing down. It had to happen eventually. The hunters reoriented north and set off toward Hoularoun Valley. Now, he truly had to kill them.

One more trick. Then, the end, Threewolf promised himself.

With three deep breaths, he opened himself to the sullen gray sky, the mournful wind, and the whispered roar of the forest. A thousand, thousand things tied together to make this land. Rodeff Semalot was only one shivering strand of the great web.

A fat squirrel huddled in a knothole below, worried Threewolf might be after his acorn cache. An unconcerned crown eagle watched from her aerie, fluffed above her three precious eggs. A mated pair of foxes skulked under the holly briar, alarmed at the unfamiliar scent of men. In her den, a pregnant bear rode the ulden wheel of dreams, deep in hibernation. None of these beasts would drive away seven men who were determined to die.

A favor, Threewolf willed. He pulled a strip of dried venison from his pouch. He’d meant to have it for lunch.

High in the aerie, a regal crown of golden feathers piqued with interest. Food was crucial, but the queen was loath to leave her eggs unguarded.

Only for a moment. One quick wing-over. Don’t fly too low, they may shoot.

The harrier scoffed at the thought such lowly creatures could reach her. As the eagle took wing, Threewolf peered out through her eyes. It hurt, as if his own eyes had swollen in his skull to the size of fists. The world unfolded forcefully. Her peripheral vision was double his, and her acuity was obscene. The eagle could see the individual needles of pines or the trembling whiskers of a vole a thousand paces away. She found a thermal and soared.

The treetops fell away, and Threewolf’s breath caught. It was all so small to the queen of the sky. Her cry rang across the forest, calling out to her mate. All that she could see was hers. No lesser raptor would dare impinge upon a crown eagle’s territory. Even crag condors and great snowy owls kept their own counsel while the eagle and her mate were awake.

With ease, she found the bumbling train of bounty hunters. They marched hard, bound for wolf country. Threewolf felt a stab of regret. His friends might suffer for his ill-conceived leniency.

A little farther out, he urged. The eagle obliged, feeling smug from the bipedal awe that bled across their bond. His world was so small compared to hers. How heartbreaking to soar upon her wings, to gaze through her incomparable eyes. What a sorry lot, to be chained to the land all his life!

Buoyed by admiration, the crown eagle flew a wider circuit. The bounty hunters were headed downhill, toward Whitebite Run. In any another season, Threewolf might have relied on the adders to bite at least one of the intruders. This late in the year, the serpents were asleep in their burrows, curled around clutches of opalescent eggs.

Even the swift-running river was frozen over. The bounty hunters would be on thin ice as they crossed. Threewolf could beat them there and start shooting once they were mid-river. He could pick them to pieces. It would waste all his pains to spare them, but they were too close to home.

“I tried, Lill,” Threewolf muttered. The words meant nothing to the raptor, but she could appreciate his regret. For an odd moment, he was the rare recipient of an eagle’s empathy.

You may return, he urged. He felt concern for her eggs welling. As the eagle banked back, her sharp eyes spotted a shift in the woods north of Whitebite Run. A great disturbance rustled through the dense firs and shook the bare branches of denuded poplars.

What luck! It was Threewolf’s first time seeing the phenomenon from above, but he instantly knew what it was.

Another chance.

The eagle dropped in a heart-stopping dive and swooped to perch beside him. The golden feathers of her crown pointed high with pride.

Thank you! Threewolf beamed. He surrendered his lunch and, on second thought, handed over his dinner as well. The eagle snatched the venison from his hand and winged back to her aerie. He would go hungry, but the queen surely deserved her reward. It was a cold year to raise three eggs.