Forward or
backward, it could not now recall. It regained its feet and struggled
on. All bearing and sense of direction lost, it suddenly found itself
confronted by a steep incline, rising darkly from the soft blur of
white. Too young to know genuine despair, and too far gone to think
otherwise, it began to climb. It sensed light, or warmth, or something
ahead. All reason and strength slipped away as the world became level
again, and it staggered forward unthinking, nothing more than a moth
drawn by flame.
Something unyielding blocked its path, and now it smelled food. It
scratched feebly and let out a mournful growl. Then all sense faded,
and if fell into the drifting snow.
*
Sylviana heard a scratching sound at the door, then something that
sounded as if the night itself had been given bitter voice. Akar was
not with them, and the only image stark enough to penetrate her malaise,
and therefore seem real to her, said that it was the wolf, wounded and
probably dying. She went shaking to the door, worked free the bolt, and
thrust it open. There she saw something large and unfamiliar, heard
(whether in reality or delirium) something akin to a vicious growl: the
voice given teeth. She took a step back, and screamed.
It was perhaps the one sound which could have roused him.
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