The black, Arlik, was fastest at him, leaping for him even before its claws had touched the pit floor. He ducked and lurched forward under the flying shadow, slashing wildly with his blade. He missed. Instead felt claws catch his shoulder as the beast careered on, skidding into the side of the pit. The other two were close behind the first, slamming him flat. He glimpsed wicked-sharp fangs, felt claws scrabble for purchase against his chest in their eagerness to seize his throat. He stabbed up, cut out, nearly blind with fear. There was a yelp of pain. His stomach and chest were bleeding. The noise was deafening, the pit magnifying the storm of sound being hurled down into it.

He rolled, hearing the slather of jaws and tasting the fetor of wolf breath. Momentum carried the beasts past him, and for a second he had respite to struggle to his feet before they changed direction to attack again.

He ground his boots into the mud though there was little grip to be had. The white wolf had a streak of red across its chest. Erlan grimaced with satisfaction, at last feeling the fire of the Watcher’s blood in him, welcoming it now, revelling in it, feeling strong in its cruelty and fury. Three pairs of pitiless eyes glared at him. They hesitated. Perhaps they smelled on him something they didn’t understand. Something to fear.

‘Come on, you ancient ones!’ he screamed in a voice of savage joy. Death was here. He would ride it with demon’s wings.

He ran at the white wolf but all three leaped to meet him. He slashed down, left and right, inflicting wounds, and for an instant the black and grey were gone. Only the white faced him. He threw himself under its snapping jaws, seizing its throat, squeezing, stamping his legs to drive the beast back. The white head thrashed, claws scraped viciously, carving furrows of flesh out of his chest – but still he drove forward, tipping the animal over its hind legs, and then they fell together into the quagmire, his fist pumping the sacred blade into the white fur again and again. Blood gushed scarlet over his face, filling his screaming mouth – but he knew the white wolf was finished.

Tangra was dead.

A gasp rose above him then wild cackles and yells. He flopped onto his back, smearing the blood from his eyes only in time to see a dark shadow above him. He took a blow to his chest, knocking the wind from him. He fought back, pounding blindly with his left fist, his right arm pinned and fangs slashing at his skull. His right arm was burning hot, he felt his fingers losing their grip on the sacred knife. Then the grey muzzle appeared above him, too. Everything was moving slowly. So slow. . . He would die now. . . Die. That was all.