Chapter 10 Threk
THREK
The world is gone.
It does not fade. It is stolen.
One moment, I see the path, the trees, the elf-scent on the wind.
The next, there is only white. A screaming, roaring white that is not sight. It is a force. It is a sound that is a wall.
The wind howls. It is not the moan of a normal wind. It is a shriek. A monster made of ice and rage, it tears at my hide. It bites at the new, open wounds on my shoulder and my side, a thousand needles of glass and pain.
I roar back at it. A challenge.
The cold is an annoyance to me. My hide is thick. I am built for the mountain.
But she is not.
I turn. I can barely see her. She is a smudge of brown and gray, five feet away.
Betty.
I know her name. It is a good sound. It is the cool, crisp water in my mind.
She is shivering. A violent, bone-rattling shake that I can see even through the white. She stumbles, her small, fur-wrapped feet catching in the new, deep snow. Her face, the snow-skin I know, is not her color. It is a bad white. A dead white. Her lips are blue.
A new feeling. It is not the red haze. It is not hate.
It is cold. A cold fear that spreads from my chest, colder than the wind.
The wind is the enemy. The cold is the blade at her throat.
She will die.
She will stop. She will freeze. She will leave me.
The rage comes back. Not the dark magic. A deeper rage. A clean rage. It is my ferocity. It is rage against the storm. Against the world that is trying to steal her from me.
I sniff the air. The wind steals the scent, tears it from my nose. It burns.
I try again. Deeper.
There.
Worgs. The hot, musk-stink of them. They are hunting in the storm. They are far. Miles. Downwind.
They are not the threat. Not now.
The threat is the air. The threat is time.
Betty stumbles again. She falls to her knees. She is weak. Fragile.
No.
I move. I grab her.
She makes a small, high sound of fear as my claws—my killing claws—wrap around her. I am gentle. I am so gentle it hurts. But I am fast.
I lift her.
She is nothing. She is a leaf. A bundle of furs and fear.
I pull her against my chest. The wound in my chest aches in protest. I shield her with my arm. My body is a wall against the screaming white.
She is so small. Her head tucks under my chin.
I can feel her shivering against me. Good. She is alive.
Now, move.
I am blind. The world around me has disappeared.
I close my eyes. Sight is a lie.
Suddenly, I smell something.
The elves hideout. I smell the rock. Granite. Iron. Cold stone. It is that way.
I move. I am a mountain walking through a storm. The wind slams into my back, trying to push me, to break me. I stand. I plant my feet. I push forward.
My free hand—my clawed hand—is out. I am feeling. Searching.
Snow. Ice. Tree.
ROCK.
My claws scrape against stone. Yes.
The rock is a wall. A ridge.
Shelter. It must have shelter.
I turn my back to the wind, my chest—and Betty—pressed against the stone. The wind howls, louder this time.
I move along the wall. One step. Two. My hand searches. Scrapes. Finds nothing.
My wounds burn. The cold is a new fire.
Betty... her shivering is less.
No.
That is bad. That is death.
Fear makes me angry. Rage makes me strong.
I roar into the storm. I WILL NOT LET YOU HAVE HER.
I search. Faster. My claws scrape and tear at the rock.
Snow... ice...
A hole then a crack. A darkness in the white.
My hand finds an opening. It is low. It is small.
I put my face near it.
Air. The air inside is still. It does not scream. It smells like damp earth and stone. It smells safe.
I grunt. Good.
I lower myself. I crouch.
I push her. Gently. Gently. "In," I growl. The word is a sound ripped from my throat.
She understands. She tumbles into the darkness, a small, soft shape.
She is safe.
Now, me.
I turn. I crouch. I try to enter the hole.
Stuck.
My shoulders. I am too wide. The rock bites into me.
The red haze... it flickers. Smash. Break. Destroy.
No. No. Not the den.
I turn sideways. I push.
My wounded shoulder screams as it grinds against the rock. Pain. White-hot.
Good.
I push harder.
Scrape. Tear. Rip.
I am through.
No. I am stuck.
I am stuck in the entrance.
I cannot go in. I cannot get out.
The wind screams at my back. It hits me. It tears at my hide. It fills my wounds with ice.
...But in front of me?
In the darkness?
It is still. It is quiet.
I am the door.
I am the wall.
This is good. Nothing can get in. The wind cannot get in. The Worgs cannot get in.
I hear her.
A gasp. A shaking breath.
Her scent fills the small, dark space. Snow. Berries. Fear.
I have done it.
I am a living wall of muscle and hide between her and death.
She is safe.
She is warm.
Mine.
I feel a movement. A small, trembling sound in the dark.
A touch.
Her body. Her small, fragile body.
She huddles against my back.
Her head... her face... rests in the middle of my back, between my shoulder blades. Her hands clutch my hide.
Warmth.
Her life. Against me.
A new sound. It starts in my chest. Deep. Low. It is not a growl.
It is a rumble.
It vibrates through me. Into her.
Mine.