The fear: the shock of it. A man does not attack thus, as if he cares nothing for his own safety. A man does not challenge thus, without cold iron. These eyes are wrong; they seem to welcome death. Why is the man unafraid? Does he think to take my place? Mine? I am not old yet, I am still strong…. I will kill him, stinking in his nakedness, I will rend him…. And yet, the fear. This is not a man, but another like myself, and he comes to take what is mine….

Knife slashed, fingers gripped long hair, the stick, he had dropped the stick, quickly now, dodge beneath, roll, spring, grab the stick and lunge before those teeth close again, perhaps on the neck or the exposed groin. Quick now. Screaming defiance, Eyvind thrust upward with all his strength. The stake drove true, and hot blood gushed over his face. The wolf thrashed and twisted, its gut impaled on the shaft of wood. The claws scrabbled for purchase on the rock and there was an eldritch whine of agony. The others, silent in their circle, watched narrow-eyed, shivering. The owl called again, remote and sorrowful. The wolf twisted its head back, snapping at Eyvind’s arm, its eyes fierce with outrage. It was valiant; it fought to wrench the stake from his grasp, and finish him with its dying strength.

Brave…yes brave…but you will not have what is mine. Pierce me with your long tooth, would you? I fight on; I fight you until the moment…until the moment when all turns to shadow….

The wolf bucked and pulled; the stick slid from Eyvind’s grasp, leaving a palm full of splinters. The creature turned, dragging the stake under its belly. Its mouth dripped blood, its bared teeth shone red in the moonlight. Out on the rocks, the others waited: wolves, or men, or something which was in between, some manifestation of moonlight and blood and darkness. Eyvind’s hands were cold, so cold now he could hardly feel his fingers where they still clutched the little knife that had once carved a token for a girl. One chance. There was still enough strength in the beast to finish him. Those eyes did not speak surrender; but Eyvind would win. He must.

You are nothing. You have no tribe, no place, you have no weapon but those you borrow. Your body is as naked and weak as a cub new-whelped. You are nothing. Do not think to take my place, for you can never be what I am.

The wolf growled deep and flattened its ears. Even so had Grip the dog once looked as the boy, Somerled, walked by him.

Eyvind opened his hand and let the knife fall to the rocks. The little sound of it echoed away across the hillside into the night. It seemed all drew breath; and then there was silence. The wolf gathered its last strength to spring.