The Way of the Beast

***

  A booming roar of wild rage suddenly erupted in the camp, a sound unlike anything Halivik had ever heard. It was immediately followed by a pained yelp of a cur. Surprised, the hungry beasts on him ceased their attacks and turned to the unexpected noises. The two curs formerly at his throat were slammed into by a third. All were sent sprawling, kicking up leaves as their bodies tumbled.

  Weak and confused, Halivik turned his head to the beasts. Two of the wood curs were getting to their feet, their legs shaky and unsure. The third cur lay unmoving near the front of the sled, its head twisted backwards.

  The torn and bloody hunter was trying to make sense of the new situation. Propping himself on his right elbow, he looked out in front of him. A small man was just receiving the leaping charge of another cur. With surprising speed, the short newcomer swatted the animal out of the air. It smashed into the ground with a grunt and tumbled away.

  Halivik looked at the man; his eyes widened as his mouth fell open. Was that... Stenhelt?

  The person he saw couldn't be his boy. It was Sten, and yet it wasn't. He looked bigger, fully filling out the second-hand rabbit vest that his older brother had outgrown. His arms were thicker, dark from coarse body hair. Normally deep brown eyes looked a lighter color. Strands of Sten's shaggy black hair hung low, making his face looked distorted with feral wrath.

  Taking a wide stance, Stenhelt held his arms wide in defiance of the four curs warily circling him. He then let loose another bellow of rage, louder than his body seemed capable of making. All but one of the predators instinctively shied back a few steps. The last was too brave - or more likely too hungry - for its own good.

  The lone wood cur feigned a charge at Sten's flank, but came too close. Halivik watched his son-turned-savage whip out a hand and clamped it on the animal's long snout with an iron grip. Before the cur could attempt to wiggle free or bite at the fingers holding it, Sten grabbed a fistful of its mane with his other hand and lifted it off the ground as he spun.

  With a growl from deep in his chest, the wild boy displayed strength that belied even his new size and propelled the helpless animal into the tree behind him. The bone-crunching impact made Halivik flinch. The animal slumped lifelessly against the trunk.

  Stenhelt whirled back to face the remaining wood curs. Their morale was broken; they had already begun to hastily retreat from the encounter and their superior opponent. Unable to move, Halivik could only watch as his son set off with a burst of amazing speed to chase after the remaining pack. He tried to call out for Sten, but only produced a scratchy groan.

  The pain of many wounds started to come in waves of growing intensity. The bloodstained hunter cradled his mauled left arm to his chest with his right arm, which was bloody as well, and laid his head back onto the cold, leaf-strewn ground. Wet heat pumped from his left knee and calf, the sensation mingling with the searing agony of ripped flesh.

  The morning clouds above had begun to part, revealing a brilliant blue. Halivik stared up, hazily wondering if it would be the last sky he would see.