. . .

It is a good throw. It is worthy of a champion. It spears into the beast, cuts it, brings it down; the great wasp flutters, twists, falls, reorients itself amidst the branches.

Vaenwode is already scrambling down the tree. He is cold with fear.

The wasp reaches him, wounded, seconds after Vaenwode’s feet touch ground; Vaenwode almost twists his ankle in his hurry to retreat. The beast is dragging itself towards him in a rage. It is frothing, its jaws are snapping at him, and its eyes are sentient and burning red.

Its blood is calling to its kindred. The air is growing loud.

He takes his short sword. He lifts it high. “You are a wonder,” Vaenwode says.

<< . . .

“You are a wonder” >>