Arthur Vance’s mind slipped into the black deep pit of nerve tiredness. Then, his physical body became an empty vessel tipping forward over the stone railing of the gatehouse.
He would have plunged twenty-five feet down onto the shattered cobblestones of the apron below had it not been for Grimm.
The Great Shadow Panther cleared the final flight of stone steps in a single, explosive bound. Grimm didn’t bark. With the razor-sharp hungry reflexes that had kept him alive in the slum kennels, his jaws snapped shut over the heavy leather collar of Arthur’s tactical coat.
Grimm dug his four carbon claws deep into the stone mortar of the low roof wall, his neck muscles corded like steel thick ship rope cables as he took the full weight of Arthur’s falling body. With a powerful, backward heave of his entire torso, Grimm hauled Arthur away from the edge. He dragged his limp tamer into the sheltered nook beneath the timber watchtower.
The hound right away collapsed beside Arthur, his massive black head resting across Arthur’s chest, his warm, rough tongue licking wildly at the dried blood caked around Arthur’s nose and lips. Every few seconds, Grimm let out a high-pitched, whimpering whine. A sound of deep, animal terror that was fully foreign to the apex dire-hound who had just decapitated an eighty-foot titan.
