Chapter 11: The Duel

Sorcha ran down the lodge steps with her robe still half tied.

Her father caught her at the edge of the field.

"Stay with us," he said. "The rules are the rules. Nobody who is not a challenger may step on the grass."

"He's hurt, Papa."

"I know."

"He's hurt, and nobody here knows."

"I know, Sorcha." His voice was low. "Watch."

She watched.

The Moot Speaker raised her hand, and the field went quiet.

"Alpha to Alpha, to the surrender," she said. "Begin."

The Alpha of Ironwood shifted first.

Bones cracked, and fur rippled over his shoulders. In a breath, a great gray wolf stood on the grass with its lips peeled back from long teeth.

Brogan shifted a heartbeat later.

His wolf was black and huge, taller at the shoulder than the gray, and the pack of Blackmere let out a low growl of pride.

For the first few moments it looked like a fair fight.

The black wolf took the gray's charge on its shoulder, spun, and sank its teeth into a hind leg.

The gray howled, wrenched free, and came back low.

They hit each other chest to chest, rolled and tore up the turf.

Then Brogan slowed.

Sorcha saw it before anyone else did, because she was watching only him.

His left foreleg buckled on a turn, and the gray went in under it and raked him open from shoulder to ribs.

Blood ran down black fur.

A shocked sound went through the field.

"No," Sorcha said.

The gray wolf bore down on him, pinning him to the dirt, and jaws closed on the side of the black wolf's neck.

Brogan twisted. He bit and kicked and could not get out.

"Get up," Sorcha whispered. "Get up, get up."

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