Crimson blotches had sunk into the soil, mixing with torn cloth—his coat. The same one he had used to cover the newborn against the cold. Now, it was soaked through with blood, the fabric slashed and nearly buried beneath the horror. Jagged slivers of bone pierced through it, and he staggered.
He only made it a step or two before doubling over and vomiting onto the ground. The bitter taste in his throat did nothing to dull the icy dread that crept through his chest.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stumbled backward, his head shaking, his lips whispering disbelief. He had to alert the others—Rydan needed to know. Turning abruptly, he broke into a sprint, the sound of his own panicked breathing pounding in his ears as he raced back toward the camp.
He burst into the clearing, yelling frantically, voice cracked and hoarse:
“Wild wolves! There were wild wolves in our lands!”
Murmurs broke out instantly among the warriors. Confusion rippled through them. Some looked skeptical. Others glanced at each other with disbelief.
“Wild wolves?” one scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “Seriously? Here? That doesn’t happen.”