Page 67 of Blood of Wolves

“Far from us, hopefully,” Erik said, and he could watch the heaviness of his tone settle like a dark cloak over everyone around the fire.

A rustle of feathers announced Él’s return; she fell like a shadow against the hot-coal glow of the sunset, alighting on Leif’s shoulder and nibbling at his ear. He reached to stroke the bird on the breast with the backs of his fingers, and frowned into the fire. “I don’t understand why the Sels would wait,” he mused. “Mother’s letter said they dropped anchor in the harbor and then just – sat there. Why not move on the palace before our return?”

Edda, quiet until now, lowered the wine flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was raspy from drink, and from fatigue, eyes a little glassy with it. “Maybe they don’t expect us to return at all.”

A chilling thought, one that left the back of Erik’s neck prickling.

“Who knows why the Sels do what they do?” Birger said with the air of a man not wanting to dwell on bleak possibilities. “They fuck their sisters, for gods’ sakes.”

Askr snorted. “Hopefully their sisters don’t look like mine.”

That managed to earn a thin smile from Edda.

But Erik’s skin wascrawling, now. Something waswrong. The familiar, unwanted sense of someone watching him hit with a physical force.

A breath later, Él lifted her head and let out a short, sharp cry of alarm.

“What–” Birger started.

“The horses!” someone cried from another fire. “Gods, they’re–”

A long, mournful howl punctuated the sun’s last wink before it disappeared over the horizon, and plunged them all into a landscape of blue and black shadows.

Erik stood and turned, hand already on his sword hilt, and was met by a low, rumbling growl.

Wolves.

The hawk shrieked as she took flight from Leif’s shoulder.

“I need a torch!” Erik roared. He stepped forward, drew his sword, and swung at the dark shape lunging toward him.

The sword whistled through empty space. The wolf, dark and sinister against the gloaming, dodged at the last second, firelight catching on the ivory gleam of wet fangs.

“Wolves! Wolves!” the cry went up through camp.

The one Erik had missed skirted around him, down low along the ground. He turned with it, so that its silhouette was stamped bold against the fire; he was dimly aware of the others lurching to their feet, eyes wide, hands fumbling at sword belts.

The wolf crouched, readying itself for another leap.

Erik lifted his sword–

And Leif took a swing at it from behind.

The wolf whirled, faster than seemed possible, jaws snapping with an audible click.

Erik hamstrung it with one harsh slice.

It yelped and collapsed forward, right at the edge of the fire; logs shifted and sparks billowed upward into the night. Half-crippled, the beast dragged itself along on its front paws, still snarling and snapping. The glow of its eyes was only the fire…probably…but it was a wild, furious glint like nothing Erik had ever seen on a wild animal. Was it sick? Gone mad?

Leif lifted his sword overhead in both hands, and brought it down with all his might. Blood sprayed from the wolf’s throat as its neck was all but severed, and it fell at last, twitching and dying, while blood poured black across the snow.

“By the gods!” Askr roared. “Since when do wolves do this?”

Birger kicked the dying one over onto its side, to reveal a thick coat, and a solid body. “When they’re hungry, which this one isn’t.”

All around them, the camp was in chaos. A horse galloped past, screaming, trailing part of a ragged picket line. Men shouted. Fire danced, as men leaped over blazing logs, chased by beasts; as torches were lifted, and thrown. Everywhere there was snarling, growling: more wolves at once than Erik had ever known to travel in a pack. An impossible number.

With a war cry, Oddmarr leaped away from the fire, blade flashing.

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