***
The big black alpha led the charge through the soft snow; three other wolves followed just behind it. Sten swatted the alpha away with a hard clout, not wanting to break the pack's morale by killing their leader first. Then two of the three wolves in the alpha's wake crashed into him; he spun his body with the attack, but still stumbled. The third charger ripped teeth along his thigh, tearing leather and flesh.
Sten raked thick claws through the neck of the wolf at his chest. The second wolf clamped onto his hand while the one that drew first blood leapt for his neck. He gripped the bottom jaw of the wolf on his hand, and then twisted; the attacker fell away with a yelp. The third wolf snapped at the side of his neck while its claws dug into him for purchase. Sten reached up, grabbed the snarling animal by the scruff of its neck, and flung it out over the steep rocky slope.
The day before, he had cut a number of short wooden spikes and wedged them into crevices of the plentiful rocks and boulders on the steep slope. He'd hoped that he could toss some wolves out of the fray to quickly lessen their numbers; if being thrown down onto rocks didn't kill them, the spikes would.
Before Sten could turn, the rest of the pack swarmed him. Knocked on his back, he still managed to reach out and gut a young wolf. Claws slashed Sten's face; his own blood blurred his vision in one eye. He kicked an unseen wolf at his feet, sending it tumbling through the snow. Fangs sank into his arm. Another wolf went for his throat; he bit down on its snout and yanked until a large chunk tore away. Hungry mouths bit and snapped at him. He ripped a wolf's throat open, and broke the front leg of another. Strong jaws bit his off-hand, severing part of his pinky finger.
Fueled by pain and rage, Sten let loose a deafening roar. The power of the primal bellow swayed trees and blew soft snow away from him. The wolves were likewise driven back as if struck, all of them momentarily stunned and stumbling to keep their feet under them. The roar thundered away as a wave of fury, echoing across the valley and through the forest.
With the urge of battle still boiling within him, Sten ignored the pain of his many wounds and got up into a crouch. Warily, the remaining wolves regrouped, still intent on their prize. Then the alpha and another came again. While he fended off the black wolf with a forearm, the other pack member came in from the side. Bracing himself, Sten grabbed the flanking wolf by one of its forelegs and spun. The animal was flung away and down the deadly slope.
The rest of the pack came again, joining their alpha. Sten was driven down to one knee from the ferocious onslaught, growling and attacking as much as the wolves around him. Teeth found the side of his neck. Something tore his scalp. A wolf went down, its ribcage torn open. Another yelped in pain when Sten's own fangs tore into its neck. Claws raked down his arm, opening a gushing wound. He continued to swing and grapple, splattering the wolves with his blood and their own. Snow turned to pink slush as the frenzied carnage continued.
Even with battle lust still upon him, Sten knew the blood loss from all of his wounds would quickly weaken him. It had to end soon. Ignoring the other sharp teeth and claws that came at him, he lunged out and clamped his hands on both sides of the snarling alpha's head. As it began to struggle, he wrenched the wolf's skull with a sudden, powerful twist. Sten heard and felt a grisly, satisfying pop. Neck broken, the big black wolf's body collapsed.
Still holding on to the dead alpha, Sten recklessly swung its body to and fro. Brushed back, the four remaining wolves hesitated. Courage shaken, one young wounded wolf fled down the valley's slope toward the lake. The other three reluctantly edged away and then turned to leave the way they came, back north along the open ridge.
Sten's ravaged legs gave out, and he slumped to the bloodstained snow. With a groan, he pushed himself up to rest on his hands and knees. Gasping for breath, he looked up and saw that one of the wolves had returned. Sten assumed it had seen or heard him fall, and came back to see if its would-be prey was weak enough to be finished after all. It was most likely correct; he couldn't get to his feet, and his arms were trembling, bloody messes of rips and punctures. He felt weak and chilly. His mind scrambled in vain for a way to force the hungry animal away.
As the wolf crept carefully closer, Sten's mind was a maelstrom of frustration, anger and panic. He'd prepared himself to face death, but didn't want it to be like this - prone, waiting for the end. Stronger than all of those emotions, though, was determination; the survival instinct that drove him. He swore to himself that, somehow, death would have to wait.
Suddenly aware of a vague swell of power somewhere deep inside himself, Sten willed it to the fore of his senses. He let the urge of his ancestral blood take control, making his heart pound even faster as the power surged. Unsure of his own actions, he reached out a bloody hand as if grasping for the wolf.
The hungry animal was less than three paces away and ready to pounce when the power of Sten's ancestral blood revealed its vague intent. Fingertips tingling with a rush of unseen energy, he felt his hand send out a nearly invisible, coiling tether that struck like a sword thrust into the wolf's chest. The tether did not retract as a stab would, though. It began siphoning, pulling out the life force of the wolf and feeding it to Sten. The stricken animal panicked and writhed, but could not pull away. In a few quick and intense moments, it was over. The wolf was dead.
Confused, Sten sat up on his knees and looked at his arms and hands. The terrible gash down a forearm that formerly gushed blood was closed. Likewise, his stumped pinky finger was healed over with a dark scab. He was still exhausted, weak, and in pain, but the essence of life he'd somehow taken from the wolf had ensured his survival.
Not wasting the small amount of renewed vigor, Sten hastily crawled over to his gear under the fir tree. Bow and full quiver in hand, he hurried back out to the scene of the battle and looked along the ridge for the wolves that had retreated and fled. The two were seen moving away along the ridge in an area free of foliage. They were injured, their gaits awkward and slow. On his knees, Sten released a carefully aimed arrow. A moment later, his bowstring thrummed again. Both targets were hit, and didn't stumble far before they collapsed.
Sten then turned toward the slope of the lake valley where the first lone wolf had run off. The evergreens were thick and shielded any movement from view. Not having the strength or inclination to track and give chase, he was content to let one wolf escape out of so many.
The tranquility of the early morning sun and the quiet winter forest belied the savage battle that had just taken place. No birds sang, no wind whispered through the trees. The only movement was the frosty plumes of Sten's labored breath.
Sitting on his heels and wiping the blood out of his eye, he looked at the bloody carnage around him. Eleven wolves lay dead or injured with serious wounds. The trampled snow was stained red between the bodies. Two more of the pack lay somewhere down the steep rocky hillside to the east, and the last two along the ridge to the north. At that moment, Sten felt heartsick for what he'd done, and for the death, pain and terror the pack might have inflicted on Duuvinhal again if he hadn't.
Pulling his flint knife, Sten went to each suffering wolf and finished them quickly. Completely spent and gritting his teeth in pain, he then crawled sluggishly back under the fir tree's boughs. He wiped what spittle he could muster onto his more painful wounds, and then curled into a ball and blacked out.