It staggered. The carriage driver — a man with more courage than I had credited — charged in with his sword, driving the blade into the wolf's flank. It howled. I reloaded. Five seconds. The fifth wolf was already running — fleeing, its survival instincts overriding its hunger. I raised the pistol and fired. The bullet caught it in the hindquarter, and it tumbled, its legs broken, its body skidding across the dirt.
The sixth wolf fled. I let it go. Five rounds, five kills. The driver stood over the last one, his sword bloody, his chest heaving, his face pale.
'His skill — the lord's skill with that weapon — I have never seen anything like it. The speed. The accuracy. The way he moved — like a dancer — like a killer — this is not the useless lord I was told about. This is — what is he—'
I reloaded the pistol. Tucked it away. Turned toward the carriage.
The driver bowed. Deeply. The kind of bow that said 'I will never question you again.'
