Page 56 of Blood of Ancients

I received no cheers for my deed. Everyone was too quiet and dour, trying to conserve their energy for the trek ahead.

Trond said, “Atta boy,” and slapped me on the back with a half-smile.

It was the most I was going to get.

Everyone pulled out their remnants of hard tack and started chewing as the fire sizzled around us and flickered to life. I tucked my sleeve over my wound, the slice already scarring and iced over from the cold.

The warmth of the fire was relieving, yet it only brought me back to thoughts of Ravinica.

Our scouting unit rested for an hour. I managed to close my eyes with my head drooped forward. I listened to every slight rustle around me—every shift in the breeze and movement of the Huscarls. Waiting. Silently watching.

The daggers never came. When the fire was sputtering out, we were ready to go again.

“How’s the leg, Grayon?” I asked.

He grunted to me as he stood with Argyle’s help, flashing me a deadly stare before wandering off.

Two seconds later, Argyle’s voice carried on the wind as he followed his comrade. “How’s the leg, lout?”

I rolled my eyes at the repeated question. Grayon did not like me, and I wasn’t making any friends by challenging his ability to walk in the torrential storm.

“I’ll live, asshole,” Grayon told his leader. “Fire helped.”

Trond sidled up beside me, leaving the third male Huscarl and the two women behind us, which I did not like.

“Don’t worry about old Grayon,” Trond said.

“I’m not.”

“He’s a mean son of a bitch.”

“You all are.”

Trond laughed. His chest wheezed as he took a shallow breath in the knee-high snow next to me. We bowed our heads and continued forward against the slanting pelt of white coming at us. “Right you are, redhair.”

My body felt heavy and dreary, like a vacuum had sucked the energy out of me. It had, in a way, with my bloodrending. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry on. It felt my legs were starting to atrophy and seize from the freeze.

“Don’t worry, lad, we’re almost there,” Trond said.

I knew that. I’d been to the elven encampment. But I didn’t want him knowing that, no matter how friendly he seemed at the moment.

The friendliest smiles often carry the sharpest blades.

“You’ll get to rest once we’re at the portal,” he continued.

Trond liked to talk because it kept his mind off the chill. It made sense, even if I ended up being the backboard for him to throw his words against. I rarely had an answer for him, and he had learned over the past three nights to just keep jabbering.

It wasn’t like I could run away. I could have tried, but being out herealonewas the only thing worse than being out here with enemies.

“We’ll relieve the other crew and take their cabin.”

I blinked over at him. “Cabin?”

Trond nodded, his white-flaked beard shaking. “There’s some leftover dwellings from the elves there. Much warmer than this shite. Much easier to light a fire, no blood required.”

He smiled.

“That’s what we’re doing, then. Relieving the other scouts?” I asked.

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