Son of Hawktooth tracked his quarry through the darkening forest. His loping, wolf-like gait carried him swiftly across the soft layer of pine needles. He raised his muzzle and sniffed the air. The man was close. He could smell the acrid stink of fear on him. This was going to be easy.
An arrow caught Son of Hawktooth high in the shoulder, eliciting a yelp of pain. Fifty yards away, his quarry was already nocking another arrow.
Son of Hawktooth launched himself at him. Another arrow pierced his chest. He descended on the man like a whirlwind of steel, teeth and horns.
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