Panic flared, cold and sharp, but Alaric's battle-honed instincts surged immediately, suppressing Lunrik's fear. Caught between the main Ashfang force below and the scouting party closing in on the ridge – a classic pincer movement, even if unintentional on the Ashfangs' part. Retreat down the exposed glacier slope was suicide. Fighting the entire patrol head-on was likely fatal.
"Split!" Lunrik snapped, the command sharp, decisive. "Draw them apart! Use the terrain!" He didn't wait for Kaelith's agreement, trusting her instincts to understand the desperate tactic. He shoved her towards a narrow ice defile leading further along the ridge, away from the main camp's line of sight but deeper into the broken ice fields. "Go! I'll lead these ones off!"
Kaelith hesitated for only a fraction of a second, her eyes meeting his, understanding the grim necessity. She gave a curt nod, drew her knife, and sprinted into the ice defile, disappearing from view. Her role: survive, evade, hopefully circle back or create a secondary diversion later.
Lunrik took a deep breath, gritting his teeth against the throb in his ankle, and deliberately broke cover, scrambling conspicuously towards the approaching Ashfang scouts, making himself an obvious target. He let out a sharp, challenging Dravenwolf cry – a sound calculated to draw attention, marking him as lone prey.
It worked. Howls of savage excitement erupted from the ridge line as the five Ashfang scouts spotted him. They abandoned their cautious spread formation and charged directly towards him, eager for the kill, their heavy crinos forms thundering across the ice, claws extended, jaws slavering. Five against one. Injured omega against battle-hardened Ashfang. The odds were abysmal.
Lunrik didn't stand his ground. He turned and fled, but not back towards the main camp or the sheer drop-off. He ran deeper into the labyrinthine pressure ridges and ice formations that littered this section of the glacier, forcing the Ashfang to pursue him through treacherous, broken terrain where their numbers might be less effective, where ambush and misdirection were possible.
He ran with desperate, calculated bursts of speed, using his lighter frame and agility to navigate narrow gaps and leap over small crevasses the heavier Ashfang had to blunder around. He glanced back – they were gaining, their longer strides eating up the distance, but they were also being forced into single file in some sections, losing their pack advantage.
He ducked behind a towering ice pinnacle just as the lead Ashfang lunged, claws tearing through the air where he'd been moments before. Lunrik didn't stop. He scrambled around the pinnacle, spotted a narrow ice bridge spanning a deep, shadowed fissure, and sprinted across it. He knew it was risky – the bridge looked fragile – but it was the only path immediately available that might slow his pursuers.
He made it across just as the lead Ashfang, a hulking brute with mangy brown fur and jagged scars across its muzzle, reached the near side. The werewolf hesitated for a second, eyeing the narrow bridge suspiciously, then roared and charged onto it, confident in its strength.
Lunrik didn't wait to see if the bridge held. He kept running, deeper into the maze of ice. He heard a tremendous crack echo behind him, followed by a surprised yelp and then a long, fading howl as the ice bridge gave way, plunging the lead Ashfang into the depths of the crevasse.
One down. Four to go.
The remaining four Ashfang snarled in fury, momentarily halted by the crevasse. They wouldn't be deterred for long; they would find a way around. Lunrik used the precious seconds bought by the collapsing bridge to put more distance between them, pushing his aching body relentlessly.
He ducked into another narrow passage between two leaning walls of blue ice. He needed a better plan than just running. He needed to turn the tables, use the environment, fight smart, not just hard. Alaric's tactical mind raced, assessing angles, shadows, potential traps.
He spotted it – a large, seemingly solid snowdrift piled high against one wall of the ice passage, likely formed by wind eddies. But beneath the surface snow, he sensed a slight instability, a hollowness. Perhaps an air pocket, or the entrance to a smaller ice cave beneath the drift.
He slowed deliberately, letting the Ashfang gain slightly, hearing their heavy breathing, their enraged snarls closing in behind him. He reached the snowdrift, then spun around abruptly, facing his pursuers, adopting a defiant, cornered stance, knife held ready.
The four remaining Ashfang burst into the narrow passage, spreading out slightly, blocking the exit, snarling in triumph. They saw him cornered, injured, seemingly ready for a final, futile stand. Perfect.
"Nowhere left to run, little Dravenwolf!" one sneered, saliva dripping from its jaws. "Grakkus will reward us for your pelt!"
They began to advance slowly, savoring the moment, anticipating the easy kill.
Lunrik waited until the closest one was almost upon him. Then, instead of fighting, he threw himself backwards, into the snowdrift, driving his shoulder hard against the section he suspected was hollow.
The surface crust gave way with a muffled whoosh. He tumbled backwards into darkness, landing hard on an icy slope hidden beneath the snow, sliding several feet down into a small, dark ice pocket or shallow cave.
The Ashfang roared in surprise and confusion, momentarily baffled by his disappearance. The one closest to the drift lunged forward, peering into the hole Lunrik had created.
That was the moment Lunrik had gambled on. From his position just inside the hidden ice pocket, looking up, he saw the werewolf silhouetted against the light from the passage. He lashed out blindly with his knife, aiming upwards towards the exposed throat.
The blade struck true. The Ashfang choked, a wet, gurgling sound, clutching at its neck as dark blood spurted. It staggered back, collapsing onto the ice, twitching.
Two down. Three remaining.
The other three Ashfang howled in fury, realizing the trap. They hesitated for a crucial second, unsure whether to charge into the dark hole after him or try to flank the snowdrift.
Lunrik didn't give them time to decide. He scrambled deeper into the narrow ice pocket – it wasn't a cave, more like a deep cavity beneath the drift – finding purchase on the icy slope. He could hear the remaining Ashfang snarling just outside the opening, probing cautiously.
He needed another advantage. His eyes darted around the confined, dark space. His hand brushed against something hard, metallic, half-buried in the snow at the back of the pocket. He pulled it free. The energy rifle. He'd dropped it when he fell into the snowdrift.
He grabbed it, his heart pounding. It had malfunctioned before, but maybe… maybe the impact had jarred something? Or maybe simple desperation would work where calm attempts had failed? He pointed the alien weapon towards the opening where the shadow of the nearest Ashfang head peered cautiously inwards. He found the smooth indentation that served as a trigger and squeezed with all his might, pouring every ounce of desperate intent into the action.
This time, something happened. Not a blast of blue energy, but a blinding flash of white light erupted from the rifle's muzzle, accompanied by a deafening sonic crack. The recoil slammed Lunrik hard against the back wall of the ice pocket, knocking the wind out of him again.
A high-pitched howl of agony and terror came from just outside the opening, followed by frantic scrabbling sounds. The rifle hadn't fired a projectile, but seemed to have unleashed a concussive sonic burst combined with an intense strobe effect. Disorienting. Painful.
Lunrik pushed himself up, ears ringing, vision swimming from the flash. He peered cautiously out of the hole. One Ashfang lay on the ice, writhing, clutching its head, temporarily blinded and stunned by the blast. The other two were staggering back, shaking their heads, clearly disoriented and spooked by the unexpected technological weapon.
Now. His chance.
Lunrik burst out of the snowdrift, ignoring the pain in his ankle, ignoring the ringing in his ears. He lunged past the writhing, stunned Ashfang and charged directly at the two disoriented ones.
He slammed his shoulder into the nearest one, using his momentum to knock it off balance on the slick ice. As it stumbled, he drove his knife hard into the side of its neck, aiming for the carotid artery. It went down with a choked gasp.
Three down. One stunned. One remaining.
The last Ashfang, less affected by the sonic blast, roared and charged Lunrik, recovering its aggressive momentum. Lunrik met the charge head-on, dropping low, letting the werewolf's momentum carry it partially over him. As it passed, he twisted, bringing his knife up in a vicious arc, slicing deep into its exposed underbelly.
The werewolf howled, crashing heavily onto the ice beyond him, trying to rise, clutching at the devastating wound. Lunrik didn't give it the chance. He scrambled forward and plunged his knife into its heart, ending its struggles.
Four down. One stunned.
He turned slowly towards the last Ashfang, still writhing on the ice, recovering from the sonic blast. Lunrik approached cautiously, knife held ready. The Ashfang blinked, its vision clearing, saw Lunrik standing over it, saw its fallen packmates. Pure terror replaced the earlier aggression in its eyes. It whimpered, trying to scramble away.
Lunrik hesitated for only a heartbeat. Alaric's ghost whispered: Finish it. No witnesses. Secure the area. Lunrik's own exhaustion and revulsion argued against more killing. But leaving an Ashfang alive to report back to Grakkus, potentially describing him and his strange weapon… it was too risky.
With grim resolve, he stepped forward and ended the last scout's life quickly, clinically.
Silence descended, broken only by Lunrik's harsh breathing and the relentless howl of the wind. He stood amidst the carnage, blood steaming on the ice, the alien rifle lying inert nearby. He had survived. Five Ashfang warriors, dispatched through a combination of luck, desperation, environmental exploitation, and the unexpected functionality of the damaged hunter weapon.
He leaned heavily against an ice wall, reaction setting in, his body trembling violently. He looked down at his blood-soaked knife, then at the strange rifle. He had won this skirmish, but the cost felt high, the violence necessary yet sickening.
He needed to find Kaelith. He needed to get clear before the main Ashfang force below realized their patrol wasn't reporting back. He retrieved the energy rifle again – it felt heavier now, stained by its unexpected use – and forced his protesting body to move, stumbling away from the site of the fight, deeper into the maze of ice, searching for any sign of his companion, alone again in the vast, hostile wilderness of the glacier.