Gamble King Chapter 17. Tooth and Claw

Huff... huff... huff...

Max's breath tore from his lungs in ragged bursts, visible as white clouds in the frigid air. Each exhale felt like it was being ripped from his chest, each inhale like swallowing fire. Beneath him, Flash's powerful muscles bunched and released in a relentless rhythm, hooves pounding the snow-packed earth with thunderous urgency.

The wolf moved like smoke through the trees, dragging Henrik by his coat. His screams cut through the forest—high, terrified wails that sliced into Max's ears like physical pain.

"Faster!" Max urged, though Flash was already giving everything. The warhorse's coat had darkened with sweat despite the cold, steam rising from his flanks as he crashed through the underbrush.

They were gaining, but slowly. Too slowly.

The wolf darted between trees with supernatural agility, changing direction in ways that forced Flash to brake hard and pivot, costing precious seconds. It knew these woods. It was playing with them.

Henrik's screams grew weaker. Not good.

Max nocked an arrow, trying to steady his aim despite the bone-jarring gallop. Seventy yards. Moving target. Through trees. Wind gusting from the north.

Nearly impossible.

He released anyway.

The arrow whipped through the forest, slicing between two pines before shattering against a trunk as the wolf veered right at the last possible second.

"Bastard," Max hissed, the word lost in his labored breathing.

The forest grew denser. Tree trunks loomed like sentinels, branches reaching like clawed hands. Flash slowed, forced to navigate terrain that threatened to snap his legs if he misjudged a single step.

The wolf, unburdened by such concerns, was pulling ahead.

Henrik's screams stopped.

The sudden silence hit Max like a physical blow.

"No, no, no," he muttered, spurring Flash forward.

They burst into a small clearing, snow trampled and bloodied. A child's boot lay discarded near a fallen log. The wolf was gone. Henrik was gone.

Only the blood remained, splashed across the snow in violent arcs.

Flash paced nervously, ears flicking. His nostrils flared, testing the air.

Max turned in the saddle, scanning the trees. Nothing moved.

Then he heard it—a soft whimpering. Not the wolf. A child.

Following the sound, Max spotted a small form huddled against a boulder at the clearing's edge. Henrik. Still alive.

Max slid from the saddle, arrow nocked, and approached cautiously. His eyes never stopped scanning the treeline. The wolf was here, somewhere. Watching. Waiting.

"Henrik," he called softly. "I'm going to get you out of here."

The boy's face lifted. Tear-streaked, blood-smeared, eyes wild with terror.

"M'leg," Henrik sobbed. "It bit m'leg."

Max risked a glance down and felt his stomach lurch. The wolf hadn't just bitten the boy's leg. It had torn it off just below the knee. The stump was a mess of shredded flesh and splintered bone, blood pumping steadily into the snow.

Too much blood.

Max kept moving forward, every sense screaming danger. This was wrong. Where was the wolf? Why leave its prey alive?

The answer hit him the same moment Flash whinnied a warning.

Ambush.

Max spun just as something massive detached from the shadow of a massive pine. The alpha wolf had circled behind him, using the boy as bait. It launched itself through the air, a gray blur of muscle and teeth aimed directly at Max's throat.

Time slowed.

Flash reared, hooves slashing at the air. The movement placed the horse between Max and the wolf, throwing off the predator's trajectory by mere inches.

Without Flash's intervention, Max would already be dead.

Instead, he had just enough time to pivot, raising his bow in one fluid motion. The alpha was at the apex of its leap, suspended in air, jaws open to reveal teeth designed for one purpose: tearing flesh from bone.

Max fired.

The arrow took the wolf directly in its right eye.

The beast didn't go down.

It howled—a sound of pure rage that seemed to shake the very trees—and crashed to the ground in a spray of snow. Blood poured from its ruined eye socket, but the massive creature was far from finished. It shook its head violently, spattering blood and vitreous across the white ground, then fixed its remaining eye on Max.

There was something almost human in that gaze. Something that understood what Max had done to it. Something that wanted revenge.

Max reached for another arrow, fingers scrabbling at his quiver.

One left. Just one.

"Shit," he breathed.

The wolf circled slowly, its movements deliberate now. Gone was the frenzied hunter. This was calculation. It was sizing him up, looking for weakness. The blood-matted fur around its wounded eye had already frozen into crimson ice crystals.

Max stood his ground, positioning himself between the predator and Henrik. The boy's sobbing had quieted to a series of hitching breaths as shock took hold.

"Stay back," Max said, though whether he was talking to the wolf or Henrik, he wasn't sure.

Flash pawed at the snow behind him, whinnying nervously. The horse was more agitated than Max had ever seen him, tossing his head and shifting his weight as if ready to bolt.

Strange. Flash had faced down armed men without flinching. What about this wolf frightened him so badly?

Max didn't take his eyes off the alpha. He could feel Henrik huddled against his legs, the boy's small body trembling with shock and terror. The situation was rapidly deteriorating. Between the blood loss and the cold, the child wouldn't last much longer without help.

And the wolf knew it. It was waiting, conserving its strength, letting the cold do what teeth and claws hadn't finished.

The clearing had fallen eerily silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then something changed.

The wolf's demeanor shifted without warning. Its remaining eye widened. Its ears flattened against its skull. A whine escaped its throat—not of pain, but of fear.

The mighty beast, apex predator of the northern forests, began to tremble.

Flash's agitation reached a new peak. The warhorse backed away, nearly stumbling in his haste to put distance between himself and... what? Not the wolf. Something else.

The alpha was actually pissing itself now, urine staining the snow as it backed away, tail tucked between its legs, every line of its body screaming terror.

Max didn't question the gift. He raised his bow, lined up his final shot, and released.

The arrow struck the wolf directly in the throat, punching through fur, flesh, and bone to sever the spine at the base of the skull. The beast collapsed instantly, its legs going limp, its eye still wide with fear even as the light faded from it.

The number 4 above its head flickered once, then vanished.

[NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 11]

Max stood panting, bow still raised, staring at the fallen predator.

What in the hell had just happened?

He turned slowly, scanning the clearing for whatever had terrified the wolf.

There was nothing. Just the trees, the snow, the blood...

And a tiny white spider, suspended from a silken thread directly behind where he stood, hanging at eye level. It looked identical to the one he'd rescued from the hammer man two days ago—pure white with delicate legs that seemed almost translucent in the winter light.

Just a spider. Nothing that could possibly frighten a massive predator.

Yet as Max watched, the small arachnid reeled itself up its thread, vanishing into the branches above. The moment it disappeared, the oppressive silence lifted. Birds resumed their distant calls. The wind stirred the pine needles.

Flash calmed almost immediately, his frantic movements subsiding to occasional nervous shifts.

Something touched Max's leg, reminding him of more urgent matters. Henrik had slumped against him, unconscious now, his small face deathly pale. The bleeding from his severed leg had slowed to a trickle—not because it was healing, but because the boy had simply run out of blood to lose.

"Shit," Max hissed, scooping the child into his arms.

The boy weighed almost nothing—a fragile bundle of bones and cooling flesh. Max could feel the life draining out of him with each passing second.

He whistled sharply, and Flash trotted over, all previous fear forgotten. Max mounted quickly, cradling Henrik against his chest. The boy's small body frighteningly limp. Blood from the severed leg had soaked through Max's borrowed clothes, warm at first, now cooling rapidly in the air.

"Flash, go!"

Flash responded instantly, lunging into a full gallop. The forest blurred around them as they tore through the trees, branches whipping past inches from Max's face. He hunched over Henrik, shielding the child from the biting wind and low-hanging limbs.

"Henrik!" Max shouted above the thundering hooves. "Henrik, stay with me!"

The boy's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. His skin had taken on a waxy, bluish tint. His breathing came in shallow, irregular gasps.

Hypothermia. Blood loss. Shock. A lethal combination that was shutting down the child's body system by system.

Max shook him gently, then more firmly. "Henrik! Open your eyes!"

Nothing.

"Damn it, kid," Max muttered, pressing his fingers against the boy's neck. The pulse was there, but weak and thready. "Don't you die on me. Not after all this."

They burst from the tree line back onto the Miller farm. The scene had changed dramatically in the short time he'd been gone. The remaining wolves lay dead, scattered across the bloodied snow. Erik and Garrett stood among the carnage, weapons still drawn, scanning the tree line for further threats.

Edmund was helping Miller to his feet, the farmer sporting a nasty gash across his forearm.

A woman's scream pierced the air.

"HENRIK!"

The boy's mother sprinted across the yard, horrified as she spotted the small, bloodied bundle in Max's arms. She stumbled, nearly falling in her haste, then recovered and kept running.

"Get to the valley!" Edmund bellowed, pointing toward a small structure about half a mile distant. Smoke rose from its chimney, a thin gray column against the pale sky. "Go to Wulfric's place! NOW!"

Max didn't waste time asking questions. He wheeled Flash around and spurred him toward the indicated house, leaving the woman's screams behind.

Flash seemed to understand the urgency. The warhorse found new reserves of energy, charging across the snow-covered field at a pace that threatened to unseat Max if he hadn't been gripping the saddle with his thighs.

Henrik's breathing grew more labored with each passing second. The stump of his leg had almost stopped bleeding entirely—not a good sign. The cold had constricted the blood vessels, but it was also pushing the boy deeper into shock.

"Stay with me," Max murmured, holding the child tighter against his chest, trying to share whatever warmth his own body could provide. "Almost there. Just hold on."

The small house loomed closer. It was built lower to the ground than the other structures in the valley, its roof steeper, its walls thicker. Smoke poured steadily from the chimney, suggesting a well-maintained fire within.

Max pulled Flash to a halt before the door, dismounting awkwardly with Henrik still clutched against him. The boy's head lolled back, face gray beneath the spatters of frozen blood.

Three strides took Max to the door. He kicked it with his boot, not even trying the handle.

"HELP!" he shouted, kicking again. "Open up!"

No response.

Max kicked harder, rattling the frame. "OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"

If Edmund had sent him here, there must be a reason. Someone who could help. A healer, maybe. Someone with the skills to save a child missing half a leg.

"WULFRIC!" Max bellowed, desperation making his voice crack.

The door swung inward abruptly, revealing a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that had seen too much suffering to be surprised by more. He wore a simple woolen tunic, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, hands stained with what looked like plant juices.

His eyes fell immediately to the child in Max's arms.

"Henrik," he breathed, shock flickering across his features before professional calm reasserted itself. "Inside. Now."

Max stepped into warmth so intense it felt like walking into a wall. The small house was a single room dominated by a large hearth that blazed with well-fed flames. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with a complex mixture of aromas—some pleasant, others medicinal and sharp.

A table stood near the fire, its surface covered with mortar and pestle, small clay pots, and various implements Max couldn't identify. Against one wall, a narrow bed waited, linens turned down.

"Put him there," Wulfric said, already moving to the table. "When?"

"Not long. The sun's barely moved since it happened," Max replied, laying Henrik gently on the bed. "Wolf attack. It... it tore his leg off."

Wulfric's hands moved, selecting items from the table and bringing them to the bedside. He cut away the boy's blood-soaked pant leg with a small knife, exposing the full horror of the injury.

"Hold him down," Wulfric ordered, uncorking a clay bottle.

"He's unconscious," Max pointed out.

"Not for long," Wulfric replied grimly.

He poured the bottle's contents directly onto the ragged stump. The liquid was clear but smelled strongly of alcohol and something else—something bitter and astringent. Henrik's body convulsed instantly, a strangled scream tearing from his throat as his eyes flew open, wild with pain and confusion.

Max pressed down on the boy's shoulders, holding him as gently as he could while still preventing him from thrashing.

"Easy," Max said, though he knew nothing about this was easy. "You're safe now."

Wulfric worked quickly, cleaning the wound with more of the stinging liquid, then applying a thick paste that smelled of honey and herbs. His hands moved with the confidence of someone who had performed this procedure many times before.

"The bone is splintered, but not shattered," he muttered, more to himself than to Max. "That's something."

He reached for a metal rod that had been heating in the fire. Max's stomach dropped when he realized what was coming.

"Hold him tighter," Wulfric instructed. "This will hurt him, but infection will kill him."

Max shifted his weight, using his body to pin Henrik more securely to the bed. The boy's eyes were open but unfocused, pupils dilated with shock and pain.

"I'm sorry," Max whispered.

Wulfric pressed the red-hot metal against the stump.

Henrik's scream was like nothing Max had ever heard—a sound that seemed to contain all the pain a small body could possibly endure. It cut off abruptly as the boy mercifully lost consciousness again, his body going limp beneath Max's hands.

The smell of burned flesh filled the small room, mixing with the herbs and smoke. Max swallowed hard against rising nausea.

Wulfric continued working, applying more of the paste to the now-cauterized wound, then wrapping it in clean linen bandages. His movements never faltered, his expression never changed. This was a man who had seen the worst the North could offer and learned to face it without flinching.

"Will he live?" Max asked when he trusted his voice again.

Wulfric looked up, meeting Max's eyes directly for the first time. "I'll do my best. But he's lost a lot of blood, and the cold..." He shook his head slightly. "In a moment, we'll know. Go now. I need space to work."

Max nodded, moving toward the door. As he stepped back outside, the bitter cold hit him like a physical blow after the intense heat of Wulfric's house.

Flash stood waiting, steam rising from his flanks in the frigid air. In the distance, Max could see figures running across the snow-covered field—Garrett, Erik, and a woman who could only be Henrik's mother, her skirts gathered in her hands as she sprinted toward her son.

"Where is he? Where's my boy?" she gasped, chest heaving.

Before Max could answer, the woman spotted the door to Wulfric's house. She lunged toward it.

"Henrik! HENRIK!"

She hammered on the door with both fists, her knuckles quickly turning raw. "Open this door! Give me back my son!"

Max stepped forward. "He's helping him. The healer is—"

"Healer?" She spun toward Max, eyes wild with fury and terror. "Is that what you think he is?"

Miller arrived then, limping across the snow with Edmund and the others close behind. He grabbed his wife by the shoulders.

"Katrin, stop. You know this is the only way."

She twisted in her husband's grip. "He's feeding our boy to his demons! I won't let him take another child!"

Max looked to Edmund, confusion washing over him. "Is he not a healer?"

Edmund wouldn't meet his eyes. The old man stared at the ground, jaw clenched tight.

Max was about to press further when a sound cut through the cold air—a voice coming from within the house. It started low, almost like humming, then rose in pitch until it wasn't a voice at all. It was something else. Something that scraped against Max's ears like rusted metal, making the hair on his arms stand on end.

Not human. Not human at all.

Flash whinnied nervously, pawing at the ground. The warhorse's ears flattened against his head, eyes rolling white with fear.

Light leaked from beneath Wulfric's door—not the warm yellow of firelight, but a cold, blue-white glow that pulsed in rhythm with the inhuman sounds.

"See?!" Katrin screamed, clawing at her husband's hands. "See what he does? He calls his creatures! He gives them our children!"

More people arrived, drawn by the commotion. They formed a loose circle around the house, faces grim but not surprised. They'd seen this before.

Two men stepped forward to help Miller restrain his wife.

"You mustn't go in there, Katrin," one said, his voice gentle but firm. "You mustn't see them. They'll mark you for it."

"Better to lose a leg than a soul," another muttered.

Max stood frozen, unsure what to do. The sounds from inside the house grew louder, layering over each other—clicks and hisses and something that might have been words in a language Max had never heard.

The blue light intensified, shooting through the cracks in the door frame. It cast the gathered farmers in a ghostly pallor, turning their faces alien and strange.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

The sounds cut off. The light vanished. The entire gathering went still, even Katrin's desperate struggles ceasing as if a spell had fallen over them all.

For several heartbeats, the only sound was the wind sighing through the pines.

The latch clicked. The door swung open.

Wulfric stood in the doorway, looking nothing like the controlled professional who had taken Henrik from Max's arms. His face was ashen with exhaustion, his beard damp with sweat despite the cold. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and a tremor ran through his hands as he gripped the doorframe for support.

Max hadn't realized how many people had gathered until that moment. Dozens of farmers stood watching, their breath fogging the air, their expressions a mix of fear, hope, resignation.

Wulfric's gaze found Katrin. He took a deep breath.

"The boy is safe."

Three simple words. Katrin sagged in her captors' arms, then surged forward as they released her. No one tried to stop her this time as she pushed past Wulfric into the house.

Her sob of relief told them everything. Henrik had survived.

Max found himself moving forward, peering through the doorway. The interior looked unchanged—the same herbs hanging from the rafters, the same fire crackling in the hearth. The blue light was gone as if it had never been.

Henrik lay on the bed, his face no longer the deathly gray it had been. Color had returned to his cheeks. His chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of natural sleep. The stump of his leg was neatly bandaged, no blood seeping through the clean linen.

Katrin knelt beside the bed, clutching her son's hand, weeping silently.

Wulfric slumped to a sitting position on his doorstep, head hanging between his shoulders. Sweat dripped from his face despite the biting cold.

"Thank you, Wulfric," Miller said, stepping forward to grip the man's shoulder. "We won't forget this."

Others approached, murmuring their own thanks. An old woman pressed a loaf of bread into his hands. A young man promised a quarter of his next hunt.

Max watched, bewildered. These people weren't afraid of Wulfric—or if they were, their fear was outweighed by gratitude.

"What happened in there?" Max asked Edmund, who had finally moved to stand beside him.

Edmund sighed, his breath a white plume in the cold air. "Best not to ask questions you don't want answers to, lad." He nodded toward Henrik. "The boy will live. Sometimes that's all that matters."

Inside the house, Henrik's eyes fluttered open. He looked up at his mother, confused but alive.

Max glanced back at Flash, who had calmed now that the strange noises had stopped. The warhorse stood quietly, steam rising from his flanks, watching the gathered crowd with wary eyes.

***

Night settled over the valley, bringing with it a stillness that felt earned after the day's chaos. The torch flames outside the Miller farmhouse flickered in the light breeze, casting long shadows across trampled snow now frozen into uneven ridges.

Max tightened Flash's saddle straps, checking them twice for good measure. The warhorse stood patiently, recovered from the day's exertions and seemingly unbothered by the memory of whatever had frightened him at Wulfric's house.

"Ready to leave?" Garrett appeared at his side, leading his own mount. His face looked haggard in the torchlight, the events of the day etched into new lines around his eyes.

"More than ready," Max said, giving Flash a final pat before mounting.

Edmund emerged from the farmhouse, pulling his cloak tighter against the night chill. He looked smaller somehow, older, as if the day had stolen years from him.

"Tell your father to send men," he said without preamble. "We've needed protection for three moons now. Two children and a woman taken before Henrik. The wolves and other monsters grow bolder by the day."

Max nodded. "I'll speak to him as soon as I arrive."

"Not speak. Tell." Edmund's voice hardened. "We pay our taxes. We feed the entire goddamn castle. We deserve more than empty promises."

"You'll have guards by the week's end," Max said, meeting the old man's gaze directly. "You have my word."

Edmund studied him for a moment, then gave a curt nod, apparently satisfied. He turned without another word and disappeared back into the farmhouse.

Max and Garrett rode in silence through the darkened valley. The dirt path narrowed as they approached the Throat, moonlight turning the snow-dusted rocks silver on either side. Their horses' breath clouded before them, the only sound besides the steady clip of hooves against frozen ground.

Max's mind kept returning to the strange blue light beneath Wulfric's door, the inhuman sounds that had made his skin crawl. He'd seen many things since arriving in this world—magic, ancient artifacts, creatures that shouldn't exist—but something about what had happened in that small house disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

And then there was the spid–

"He's a mage," Garrett said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"What?" Max pulled himself from his thoughts, not quite catching the words.

Garrett glanced over. "Wulfric. He's a mage. You seemed curious about it."

"A mage," Max repeated, the pieces clicking into place. "A bound mage."

"Aye." Garrett nodded. "One of those who use creatures from the Unseen to cast their spells."

Max frowned. "That... actually makes sense."

"How could you not know?" Garrett gave him an odd look. "Was it not obvious enough?"

"I, uh—" Max fumbled for an explanation that wouldn't reveal his true origins. "With everything happening at once, I suppose I wasn't thinking straight."

"Hah." Garrett seemed to accept this. "Fair enough. Not every day you watch a man call on spirits to save a child's life."

Max nodded, relieved. He remembered Archmage Kellor's sneering tone whenever he mentioned bound mages, how he considered them inferior to those born with magic in their blood. Max had assumed it was mere academic snobbery. Now he understood better.

This shit was fucking creepy.

He tried to imagine how the scene might have played out if he'd brought Henrik to Kellor instead. The Archmage would have healed the boy with a wave of his hand, no doubt, clean and efficient. No otherworldly voices. No mysterious blue light. Just power flowing from one person to another.

The Throat widened as they emerged onto the main road, the castle visible in the distance, torch lights dotting its walls like earthbound stars. Max felt a tension he hadn't noticed leave his shoulders at the sight of those familiar stones.

"Home sweet home," Garrett said dryly. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink. Or five."

"I don't drink," Max replied simply.

Garrett laughed, then glanced over and caught Max's serious expression. His laughter died instantly.

"Oh. You're not joking." Garrett's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly smoothed his expression. "Good for you." He nodded once, firmly. "That's... that's honorable."

Max just shrugged, not elaborating further.

They rode through the castle gates side by side, the torches casting long shadows across the courtyard. As they handed their mounts to the stable boys, Max's thoughts turned to Tredor. Why hadn't his father sent protection to the valley? It made no sense. The farms were their primary food source during the harsh northern winters. Even the most incompetent lord would prioritize their security.

He'd tell Tredor immediately, though part of him wondered what explanation he'd receive. The North had many vulnerabilities, yes, but this one seemed too obvious to overlook.