He stands on the jut of stone and peers outwards, into the gap between the trees and out where the black sky meets the ground.
He must always watch. This is what he was told to do, from moonrise to moonset, to stumble exhaustedly into sleep in the daytime. Silent and unmoving and ever-watching: to be the warning. To be the lookout.
The approach will come from below and ahead. He knows this. He fixes his eyes on the horizon.
The sounds behind him--sounds of hoofbeats and claws and snapping teeth--grow louder still. They have been growing louder for nights and nights.
He trembles and peers; afraid to blink, unwilling to turn away. He has a duty, and he does it. The approach will come from ahead.
The sound of salivating jaws closes in. His knees shake; tears stream down his face, matting the fur into dark trails. The stink of them is thick now. His gut clenches with certainty and his ears lay flat to his head. The rims of his eyes show white around the unwavering glow of his stare.
He feels their breathing. He strains to see.
He watches, watches, watches. They are just behind him, now. And for the first time, he closes his eyes: just long enough to swallow a gulping, steadying breath.