The younger wolf twisted toward the rope with the obedience of fright—exactly the wrong motion. Predators read panic the way hunters read tracks. The instant he moved, the serpent responded.
The pit erupted. Mud and roots, clods and stones tore outward as the creature propelled itself with a speed that did violence to its bulk.
The younger rogue barely had time to scream. Jaws clamped around his leg with a force that lifted him clean off the ground; a sick crack of breaking bone echoed through the hollow.
Above, chaos broke: men stumbled backward, a boot skidded, weapons flashed and were then forgotten in the overwhelm of pulling back.
The serpent did not rush to end him. It wrapped instead, coil upon coil, its immense body tightening like a machine of old wood and living muscle around him.
