Page 76 of Edge of the Wild

Erik sat forward, trying to peer up past the edge of the roof. All he could see where snow-heavy branches and a wedge of clear, velvet sky.

The benches on which they were seated creaked as the rest of his party stirred.

“What was that?” someone hissed.

“Spotted cat,” someone else offered.

“Not a cat,” Erik said, gaze dropping to the forest around them. “Shh. Listen.”

The next sound to reach them was much closer, much more mundane, and definitely human. A cough. It went on for several seconds, and then cut off, after a low hiss. Voices traveled strangely amongst the trees, atop a bed of thick, fresh snow.

After a few moments of scanning, Erik spotted them: at the head of a game trail, three figures, moving at a jog, half-crouched, fur-wrapped boots all but silent on the snow. He saw the shadows and glittering tips of the spears they carried; saw backs and shoulders distorted and humped from the heaped-up layers of fur they wore. Their cloaks sported cowls dotted with two small, round ears, and protruding, fanged snouts: bear skulls. Beserkirs.

Erik gave no signal nor spoke no command; they’d agreed on their course of action ahead of time. He stood, and moved soundlessly across the platform, down its other side. Set off through the trees, keeping low, plastering himself to their trunks for cover. He heard Leif behind him, the soft crunch of deep snow, and knew that Magnus and Lars followed. He carried a horn at his hip, but he didn’t plan to use it. If he’d judged this right, he wouldn’t need to.

The game trail led down the hill in a serpentine pattern, a path the deer had carved over many years of tread, avoiding the larger rocks and protuberant roots, seeking the way of least resistance. Even jogging, it would take the men several minutes to make their way down it, long enough for Erik’s group to reach the stream that bisected it, frozen and gleaming like spun glass in the dark.

Erik fetched up against a tree and waited, breath held, listening. The Beserkirs were coming.

On the other side of the path, his own back pressed to another tree, Leif met his gaze and nodded, his sword already drawn, held upright in both hands.

Erik reached over his shoulder to wrap fingers around the grip ofKrig, his father’s old sword; he loosened it in the scabbard, and waited, waited, counting his own heartbeats.

When he reached ten, he heard one of the Beserkirs say, “Hold on. I thought I heard–”

Erik whirled around the tree, drawing his sword in one long, practiced movement; the steel scraped against leather, a sharp, unmistakeable sound, but one that would reach his quarry too late. He’d stepped out behind the three men, and he didn’t bother slowing; caught the third in the side of the neck with his blade, and blood fountained out, black in the moonlight.

He didn’t scream; only choked and spluttered as he went to his knees. Erik pulled his blade – now black and steaming – free as the man fell forward onto his face, and was ready to parry the spear of the second one.

Erik stole one fast glimpse of the third man – just as Leif stepped out of his hiding place and ran him through – and then he sent the spear spinning through the air and off the path, and stayed the edge of his blade against the last man’s throat.

The man froze.

“On your knees.”

He folded down to them slowly, empty hands held out to the side, eyes rolling wide and white-rimmed in the shadow of his bear-skull cowl. Erik tipped his chin up with the tip of his sword, so the moonlight struck his painted face. Then he used the sword to push the cowl back around his neck, revealing a series of tight, bone-studded braids.

“Where are the rest of you?” Erik asked. “What sort of beast did you use to attack the Úlfheðnar?”

The man bared his teeth, a pale, wet gleam in the dark. He hissed, but said nothing.

“What sort of beast?” Erik repeated, pressing harder with the sword.

The high, piercing animal scream sounded again – much closer. Then a horn sounded: three sharp blasts of alarm.

The Beserkir hissed again – a hiss of laughter. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Erik slit his throat. As the body fell, he said, “Go. That’s Dagr. Watch for archers.”

The fastest way was also the most dangerous: the game trail.

“Erik, let me in front,” Magnus urged. He and Lars and their fellow guards carried round wooden shields studded with iron. He hefted it up, and took point, preceding their party.

Erik ground his teeth; he wanted to go faster, was having to shorten his stride. But he saw the wisdom of using the shield. Getting shot would only slow them further.

Sweat was sliding down his back and temples by the time they left the cover of the trees. They emerged into the clearing that Dagr was to have been guarding – and into a battle.

Erik brushed past Magnus, ignoring the gasp of his name and the pluck of fingers at his cloak. He needed to see.

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