Free The Pack by Tom Pow Page B

Tender hard up against the bars.
    Tender realized that the only thing between the bars and him walking out of there to a celebratory meat bone was that black dog that seemed to hate him so much. Tender began to feel the same hatred, opening his huge jaws, angling his head to try to take a lump out of Hunger when he was up close.
    â€œGood,” said Red Dog. “Good. Very, very, very good. I think we’re ready to rumble.” He signalled to the weasel, the door was opened and Tender, with his ambling gait, ran into the cage.
    It was then that Hunger’s appetite for the fight seemed to desert him. Whenever Tender came for him, he found space. Tender only had one move and he knew he could wait for it to bear blood. It was just a matter of time. Red Dog, ooh-ing and ah-ing, his nose almost to the bars, shared Tender’s optimism.
    Still, Tender’s panting had become more noticeable, as he turned and turned again, tracking Hunger’s flowing movement round the very rim of the cage. Every so often Tender hurled himself at the spot where his opponent should have been, only to ring against the bars. A couple of times his jaws clamped around Hunger’s coat, leaving him with a mouthful of hair. This encouraged him; surely, just a question of time.
    Hunger appeared to be tiring. More and more frequently, Tender was launching these nearly-there attacks. Red Dog cheered. The boy soldiers cheered. To see his champion victorious again would make Red Dog happy; possibly make him overlook the few small things that could lead someone to The Mount—wipe the slate clean.
    But they were all watching a different fight to the one Bradley saw. In his, a slow, old fighter was being suckered into close exchanges by a faster opponent. At first, up close, Hunger could get a sense of Tender’s mass, a feel for his mobility. Later, a counterattack could be launched. And that was the way of it, when Tender lunged in one more time, his jaws closing—oh, so close—on Hunger’s rump. Red Dog’s face cracked open with anticipation. But before he could cheer, Hunger had spun around and snapped twice—two rapier bites—across Tender’s head.
    Only scalp wounds, yet blood poured down Tender’s forehead, blinding him as, enraged and panting, he set off in pursuit again. But the noise of the crowd dulled his hearing, as the smell of his own blood veiled his sense of smell. His jaws hanging open, he felt as if he were chasing a ghost.
    Now Hunger could attack relentlessly. Still careful to avoid the killer jaws—nothing now would be sweeter to Tender than to lock his jaws on Hunger’s neck—he made darting runs at Tender, each time drawing blood—from a shoulder, from a back leg, from Tender’s one good ear.
    Tender stood now, drenched in blood, disheartened, in the centre of the cage, as Hunger, knowing that his work was done, circled him, emitting small, victorious growls.
    â€œOhhh,” groaned Red Dog, “it’s done, it’s done. Someone pull that beast out.”
    A pole was thrust against Hunger to hold him off, as the door was opened and Tender called out. Gratefully, Tender turned his back on Hunger and, trailing blood, left the cage.
    â€œTake him away,” said Red Dog, sounding both disappointed and disgusted. Then he immediately brightened. “Because, because, ladies and gentlemen, Red Dog, the only one— once met, never forgotten; once crossed, better you were never begotten —Red Dog has a new champion: Hunger, the black wolf!”
    The children cheered, as they knew to do, and Bradley caught a glimpse of Skreech. A smile flickered on his lips, a real smile that vanished when Bradley mouthed at him, “Hunger, my friend.”
    Unable to see, but only to hear the cheering and the growling, the fight had been a draining experience for Victor. He sat in his rags, scratching himself.
    â€œVictor,” Bradley shouted. “Hunger