Larkspur did not know war, but he knew battle as well as he knew his faith. Since his birth, the man had fought to survive—and he had done so and prospered. Lowering his center of gravity, elbows bending, the wolf held his ground. The coyotes began to move, and Lark watched as the girl with the sword approached him. Every step she took intensified the whispering voice from the can tah, and the D’Angelo listened. His eyes turned hazy, but they never left the coyote as she neared him. Her smile spoke to him more loudly then the singing sword, and it was only then he moved.
Without a sound, the large wolf ran at her. He opened his mouth and snapped, but his throw was wide and did not aim for her in any particular fashion. Rather, as he passed, he used his weight and slammed into her lithe legs, seeking to throw her off balance. That sword was the most dangerous part of the girl, and Larkspur had no intention of facing it head on. He passed her, turned, and once more dropped to an almost playful bow. There was no noise, no snarl, only the orange Jack-O-Lantern eyes and a toothy grin.
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