Branwen took two swift steps and grasped the hilt of her knife, still jutting from between the ribs of her last victim. It would not come loose easily, so she pressed her foot down on the carcass and pulled to rip it free. She moved back to be near the others, her eyes flickering from wolf to wolf, from eye to gleaming eye. These were nothing like the half-starved, bony animals of winter; these wolves were large and well fed, powerfully muscled and filled with the courage of the pack. Their narrow shoulders came up to her waist, and from their bulk, she guessed that each one probably outweighed her. Formidable foes, indeed, especially in such numbers. They had killed five, taken them by surprise and from behind. But twenty-five? “Can you communicate with them?” Branwen asked Blodwedd. “Animal to animal? Tell them we are under Govannon’s protection!” “Owls do not speak with wolves, Warrior-Child,” hissed Blodwedd, and Branwen could hear terror in her voice. “You must escape.
