Tales of the Wolf: Book 01 - The Coming of the Wolf Read Free Page A

at his friend. “Do you really need to ask?”
    The dwarf spit in the dirt. “Now don’t get cocky ya pup! We all miss sometimes.”
    “Miss? A blind gnome could’ve shot better than you!”
    Laughing off the insult, the dwarf removed his bolt and decocked the crossbow. “Well, at least we’ll have meat for the next few weeks.”
    Moving up the ridge together, the friends were preparing to harvest the reward of their hunt when the sounds of battle reached their ears and all thoughts of roasted boar fled from the two companions. Without a word, the hunter restrung his bow while the dwarf pulled forth his warhammer and readied his shield. Moving cautiously to the edge of the rocks, the companions peered down the other side at the ravine.
    A small stream ran through this section of the Highlands and the remnants of a camp could be seen on the far side. The tents were ripped and flapped aimlessly in the ever present wind.
    Seven pale green skinned humanoids with protruding tusks rummaged through the camp remains. Goblins, the scavenger race of Terreth. Ugly, cruel and thoroughly evil, a goblin’s only redeeming feature was their total lack of courage.
    Several bodies could be seen scattered across the ravine but the hunter’s attention was drawn to the three black wolves, slowly circling a pair of injured warriors that were standing back to back with swords drawn.
    The hunter made several hand gestures to his dwarven partner who nodded his head before moving off to the far side of the rocks. Screened by shrubs, the hunter edged forward to a more advantageous position.
    Dressed in thick silver and black timberwolf furs with the hollowed out wolf’s head acting as a helmet, the tall man was virtually invisible. He blended into his surroundings as if he was more a creature of the forest than a civilized man.
    Lifting his head, the hunter took several deep breaths. The musty odor of blood and sweat mingled with the smoky scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. For the moment, he ignored the goblins and studied the wolves.
    They were beautiful creatures; solid black with strong, husky torsos and long graceful legs, capable of carrying them easily, five leagues a day. However, the hunter could tell by their scent that these wolves were not what they appeared to be. They were renegade lycanthrope warriors of the Black Wolf pack in their full wolf form.
    These butchers were responsible for the deaths of his family and the complete destruction of his village. He felt the surge of adrenaline as his anger rose. In his mind’s eye he could still picture the smiling faces of the Black Wolf warriors as they destroyed his village, killing his family and friends.
    Closing his eyes, the hunter forced himself to calm down but it was hard, bitterly hard. Experience had taught him that angry men make mistakes. A true warrior would never let his anger get the best of him and was more like a good blade; cold, hard and deadly.
    Taking a few breaths, he drew forth three more goose feathered arrows and laid them flat on the rocky soil, within easy reach. Once again the hunter lifted his head to check the condition of the wind, smiling as he felt the cold breeze on the front of his face. It was still coming from the north.
    ‘Good,’ he thought, ‘I’m still downwind.’
    Standing slowly, the hunter raised his bow. There was a slight creak from the mighty horn bow as it strained against the pull of the bowstring. The hunter’s arms bulged with the strength needed to draw back the powerful weapon. With a smooth and graceful draw, he placed his right hand to his cheek, breathing slow and regular, eyes slightly closed, nostrils flared, he sighted down the arrow shaft at his prey.
    There was a brief whoosh of air as the hunter released his first shot. The release was smooth and flawless. It seemed more like the arrow leapt from the bow, rather than being shot. Before the first missile had reached its target, the hunter grabbed the second