The snarling wolf leapt past him and launched itself at the hugest of the three beasts, jaws snapping, claws scrabbling for a place to sink in. Sandor couldn't look away from it; it was a direwolf, there was no mistaking its size or the lithe power in its body.

His distraction cost him. The demon-thing he fought swung, and he parried too late; the blade bit into his arm and pulled, tearing muscle, and he roared in pain and frustration. Blood soaked his sleeve and he went into a frenzy, chopping at the monster and swinging the weight at its head, driving it back and keeping its blade away from his flesh.

It seemed distracted by the scent of his blood, and Sandor suddenly knew how to use that to his advantage. Dropping the useless false sword, he grabbed the creature's sword hand at the wrist and turned in, putting his back to it and bringing the weight down hard on its fingers. Momentarily stunned, its grip loosened, and Sandor used the momentum to pry the real sword from its paw.

He felt a moment of triumph before the creature growled loud in his ear, and sunk its many teeth into his shoulder.