More than a dozen wild wolves were already flying toward them. They had caught the scent of fresh flesh and blood in the camp and were nearly mad with hunger.
Through the long snow season, these wild wolves could only fill their bellies with scraps of pitifully little food. Sometimes, they even had to devour the old and wounded members of their own pack just to barely survive the unbearable hunger of the snow season. So when the summer wind swept away the snow along the edges of the Odin Icefield, there was only one thought in the wolves' minds—eat, eat like mad!
The three scouts Vik had sent out were sprinting toward the camp, but no matter how fast they ran, they were no match for these wolves driven mad by hunger. More than a dozen wild wolves let out deep growls and, in the blink of an eye, reached the three scouts' backs. One male wolf opened its jaws wide and viciously bit down at the neck of the last scout.
"Get down!" Vik's voice came from afar.
The three scouts swiftly dropped flat, rolling forward again and again with the momentum of their mad dash. In the night, the twang of bowstrings was painfully sharp. Bolts from dozens of heavy crossbows shot forth, striking the wild wolves—each as strong as a bull—with deadly accuracy.
The powerful bolts pierced the starving wolves' bodies and violently hurled their charging forms backward. The wolves let out shrill, miserable howls. The bolts had penetrated their vital points, and bodies weakened to the brink by the snow season could not withstand such blood loss. Life rapidly drained from them.
A black mass of starving wolves surged forward. They did not bother pursuing the three scouting sentries, instead pouncing at once on their