Spawn of the Winds by Brian Lumley Page A

back to back. He blazed away with his rifle; I rested my pistol across my forearm as I carefully picked off my targets one by one.
    It was a sickening, bloody massacre—there could be no thrill in this wholesale taking of life. And no sooner had this thought occurred to me than the wolf-warriors broke off their attack, drawing back to their previous positions away from the plane and becoming lost in the madly blowing snow. Many riderless wolves trotted after the surviving party of mounted animals.
    â€œHold your fire!” I cried. “No point in wasting ammunition.” I looked around the interior of the aircraft. “Anyone hurt?”
    Grim faces turned in my direction. Thumbs up from Whitey; a cheerless grin from Jimmy. Tracy came to me and took hold or my arm. It suddenly dawned on me how cold the plane must be now—how cold Tracy must be.
    â€œTracy, I—”
    â€œIt’s all right, Hank,” she hushed me. “I’m fine.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    She nodded. “I was frightened at first—of the Russian, of those wolf-things—but now I’m fine. Just a bit cold.” She blew on her hands and thrust them deep into parka pockets. “Didn’t Jimmy say that there were two pistols?”
    Before I could answer her, Whitey called to me from the door. “Hank, they’re up to something. Come and have a look.”
    I went to the door and peered over his shoulder. The wind still moaned like a thousand demons in pain, like all the ghosts of the spaces between the spheres, rushing here and there and flinging up the snow in our faces. Between flurries I saw that Whitey was right; the Children of the Winds were definitely up to something. Having lost about twenty percent of their number, several of the remaining riders had now dismounted. I saw one of them call over a pair of riderless
animals and pull their great heads close—and in the next instant I understood.
    â€œThey’re going to send in the wolves alone!” I yelled.
    The words were barely out of my mouth when a great white shape came leaping up out of the flurrying snow to slam head and forelegs in through the open door. The huge wolf hung there for a moment, yellow eyes wild above snarling gnashing fangs, scrabbling at the rubber of the floor with massive paws before falling back outside. The sight of the thing had so petrified me that I hadn’t managed to get off a shot. Now I pulled myself together.
    Whitey had been thrown back from his position, the machine gun too, and as he struggled to get his weapon back into place a second wolf flew at the door. I almost had the door shut when the beast landed; its wild rush and weight jammed the door wide open on bent hinges, throwing me back.
    Yet another wolf leaped, sending the gun flying for a second time. The beast found a purchase with three of its great paws before I could start forward, ram my pistol in its ear and pull the trigger. The convulsing body fell back outside.
    Now Jimmy had come out of the nose to help Whitey with the big gun, at the same time firing his rifle with one hand, as if it were a pistol. A snarling mask with yellow eyes appeared, framed momentarily in the opening as forepaws gripped the lower sill—then one of the eyes turned red as I fired point-blank into that grinning wolf-face. Again the door was clear, and now there came a brief lull in which I quickly reloaded my spare magazines.
    But the lull was far too brief, for as Whitey finally got the machine gun back into position yet another wolf crashed into the opening of the door, scrabbling and snarling hideously as it fought to get inside. Both Jimmy and I fired simultaneously, and again a great white body toppled out of sight.
    Tracy suddenly yelled and Jimmy dived past me to pump off three rapid shots at a massive white head that was tearing with slavering jaws at the frame of the broken window in the nose. As the wolf howled and jerked back its