Page 39 of Heart of Winter
“Hm,” Oliver hummed, to keep from pointing out that they hadn’t had a lovely young woman along with them those other times.
As if sensing his thought, Erik glanced toward him, already-harsh face carved with shadows. “Nothing untoward has happened to your cousin. That I can swear to you. My nephews can be impulsive and reckless, but they would never dishonor her like that.”
“Well, that’s good to know. She’s only been killed and eaten by bears, then.”
Erik’s expression didn’t change, but Oliver could have sworn he saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Or maybe that was just the torchlight. “There ae worse things than bears in these forests,” he said, dryly, facing forward again. “Bears don’t hunt in packs.”
“…packs?”
“Oi!” Bjorn shouted ahead of them. He’d pulled his horse to a halt, and they reined up on either side of him.
The wavering torchlight illuminated a wide patch of thoroughly trampled snow. The regular tracks of four horses that they’d followed steadily gave way to a chaotic, churned up mess of tracks, and skid marks, the mud beneath the snow showing in wide gashes. At least, he hoped it was mud…
A gasp caught in his throat when he saw a hulking figure standing just beyond the reach of the light, something huge, and dark, its breath steaming like dragon smoke. Oh, gods, there really are bears…
Erik dismounted.
“What – what are you doing?” Oliver stuttered. “You can’t–”
But Erik strode forward, into the wrecked snow, and the beast moved toward him.
Oliver glanced wildly toward Bjorn. Some captain of the king’s guard! “You’re just going to let him–”
The beast stepped into the light, shadows sliding back from its face – it’s white-blazed face. A horse. It was a horse.
Bjorn let out a low, rough chuckle.
Erik caught the horse’s dangling reins and stroked its nose, its neck. Led it closer to their party, so that the torchlight illuminated the white crust of dried lather on the animal’s chest, and several deep gouges along its flank where the blood had dried black and shiny. The animal pressed its muzzle into the king’s chest and heaved a deep sigh; Oliver had the sense it was taking comfort in him, a frightened creature reassured by the king’s commanding presence.
Erik ran his gloved hand up a strong shoulder and touched the pommel of the saddle. “This doesn’t belong to either of the boys. This was Tessa or Hilda’s horse.”
It was an effort to swallow; an even greater one to keep his voice steady. “What made those marks on its side?”
Erik stepped farther back along the horse’s side, and fingered the gouges; the horse’s skin shivered beneath his touch, but it didn’t shy away. “Tree branches, I’d say. The spacing isn’t right for claws.”
“Oh. Right. Okay, well…”
Erik led the horse forward, and handed its reins off to Lars. Then he remounted his own horse. “The trails split up, here. Something spooked them, and they all bolted in all directions.”
“Gods.”
“We’ll find them,” Erik said, firmly.
They moved on, following the trail that led straight ahead, the one that offered the clearest path between tree trunks.
Finding the horse had sent a fresh, hot wave of panic through Oliver, warming him from the inside out, though the tremors had only gotten worse. “What – what could have spooked the horses that badly?”
“Do you truly want me to answer that?” Erik asked.
“No. I guess not.”
The forest was eerily quiet around them, the snow muffling the normal sorts of woodland sighs, and calls, and chirps that Oliver was familiar with back home. The snow crunched under the horse’s hooves, and the torches crackled. A low, far off thump had him twisting his head around, blinking against the dark.
“Snow falling,” Erik explained.
A strong gust funneled down the column, blowing Oliver’s hood back. As he tugged it up again, he saw that the snow was intensifying, the flakes fatter, more frequent, heavier on his lashes, as he tipped his head back and searched fruitlessly for the moon. “What if we don’t find them?” he said, mostly to himself.
“I won’t return until I’ve found them,” Erik said, and his tone brooked no arguments. The stern voice of a king – undercut by the worry of an uncle.
