The elk's eyes narrowed as it wheeled away from Tulori Leufroy and the fallen Serge Otker to dash east, toward the trail that would lead into tangled, dense underbrush that was certain to slow the men on horses who pursued it so relentlessly.
It just had to make it past one of those men, and then, just as the rapids had stripped the hounds from its flanks, the forest itself would become the snare that restrained these last few hunters.
When the elk turned toward the narrow trail, there was no hesitation in its eyes. It lowered its head once again, aiming fourteen spears of bone at the last obstacle in its path and charged.
Reynold was ready.
The Aleese heir had watched the elk's charge from his position in the trees with the coiled stillness of a man who had spent years in terrain far more dangerous than a Lothian hunting preserve. When the bull broke east and drove for the game trail, Reynold didn't retreat. He advanced.
