Free The Chimaera Regiment by Nathaniel Turner

They looked like… eyes.
    “Wolves!” Fornein hissed.
    “Don’t,” Brynjar said through clenched teeth, “run.” Slowly, he drew his sword. For a moment, they stood their ground, staring down the hunters. From what he could see, Doc estimated four or five in the pack. If he recalled correctly, wolves would not attack prey that stood its ground.
    But either he recalled incorrectly, or the early onset of winter had left the wolves hungry and desperate.
    The canines charged. The first lunged at Brynjar, who ran it through with his sword. The jig was up. Looking at those snarling yellow teeth, the youngsters lost their nerve. All three took to their heels and ran straight into the forest.
    Eager for the chase, the wolves skirted around the camp, leaving Brynjar and Fornein behind as they pursued the easier prey.
    Within moments, Doc was panting for breath. Night had well fallen, and there was a chill in the air that burned his lungs with each breath. Trees flew by him full tilt. He could see Hector and Bronwyn out of the corner of each eye. He could hear the growling and snapping of the wolves behind him, but he dared not look back.
    Then his foot caught an upturned root, and he fell with a yelp.
    He heard indistinct yelling. He tried to scramble to his feet, but only succeeded in twisting his ankle. He looked back to see it held tight by the tree, refusing to release him.
    He also saw a wolf rushing straight for him.
    He shut his eyes and hoped the end would be quick.
    But it did not come. The wolf yowled briefly and landed heavily beside him. He opened his eyes to see Hector standing over him, with his father’s hunting dagger bared. The two other wolves began to circle them, too hungry to be daunted.
    “Leave me!” Doc yelled at his friend. He had promised, sworn to Lord Aneirin that he would protect Hector. “I’ll hold them here!” he ordered. “You’re too important!”
    As Hector tried to face both wolves at the same time, he answered sharply, “I won’t rule a world where men leave their best friends to die.”
    The wolves had waited long enough. They charged again, one after the other. Hector gritted his teeth and faced the faster one. It snapped at his arm. He dodged back, drawing it close enough to stab his dagger deep into its neck. It howled and wrenched free of the blade, drawing out the wound. It fell away, whimpering.
    The other wolf never reached them. Brynjar came hurtling through the trees like Kyros’ thunderbolt. Both his swords were drawn, and both tore into the last attacker. Its whinging only lasted a moment.
    There was a long silence while the travelers caught their breath. Fornein stumbled through the trees, nearly falling atop them in his haste, but Brynjar caught him. Then the warrior turned on his young fellows.
    “I told you,” he reprimanded them, “not to run!”
    “That’s good advice,” someone called out.
    Hector spun and Doc tried to turn over to see the newcomer. He, like the troop with him, was dark-haired and fair-skinned, with the sort of musculature one expects from a seasoned hunter.
    Doc realized that one circle of threats had been replaced by another. The man who had spoken stepped forward, ostensibly the leader of the group. He gestured with his javelin toward Hector and Brynjar. “Lay down your weapons,” he ordered.
    “On whose authority?” Brynjar demanded. Fornein sheepishly tried to catch his gaze and warn him off, but to no avail.
    The man straightened his back a little. “I am Veither, of the Keldans,” he declared, “This is my hunting troop, and you are trespassing in our lands.” He gestured again, more menacingly. “So you will lay down your weapons and come with us.”
    When Hector and Brynjar continued to hesitate, Veither sneered. “Disobedience would be unwise,” he cautioned them, and motioned to one of his men. The troop pulled Bronwyn into their midst, javelins at her throat.
    Hector immediately laid his dagger on the ground. Veither