Page 78 of Blood of Wolves

“Nock!” Rune shouted, the cold stinging his throat, his lungs.

Nock, nock, nock, nock…

“Draw!”

Draw, draw, draw, draw…

“The scorpions are ready, captain,” someone murmured to Bjorn.

“Give the command. Take out the torches on the trebuchets.”

“Loose!”

It began with the snap of two-hundred bowstrings, and the whistle of two-hundreds arrows taking flight.

16

On the Road

Dawn broke cold and clear across the plain, as camp broke with a tired, necessary silence. Breakfast was dried meat and hard tack; the fires had been kept burning through the night, in case the wolves returned, but had burned down to smoking coals by the time the tents were struck. There had been only a few casualties, and those they left burning; there was no wood for a pyre, and no time to chop any. The corpses were wrapped in their cloaks, doused in oil; prayers were said, flints were struck, and the oily, black smoke rose tall as signal flares as they resumed travel once more.

Leif bit back a wince as he shifted in the saddle. Magnus had fashioned a sling for his bad arm, and he wore it now, while riding. He could get out of it and draw his sword should the need arise, but he saw the wisdom in keeping his arm still for now. The torn muscle pulsed and throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a strong pain, but a familiar one.

The wince was for the bite in his side.

Magnus had cleaned it as best he could with canteen water and a few dabs of heated spirits; it had stung, and Leif had hissed, and Magnus had chuckled and told him that was how he’d known it was working. The wounds hadn’t been deep, so they’d been smeared with salve and wrapped with several lengths of bandages around his waist. Good as new in no time, Magnus had said.

But…

Leif had been bitten by the palace dogs as a boy – a valuable lesson, Erik had always said.Don’t take something from a dog unless you’re sure of your place in their hierarchy. He knew what a bite felt like.

But this pain was deep, and visceral. It throbbed worse than his arm, a bright spark on every heartbeat, tugging at his whole torso. He found himself wanting to curl forward and hunch down in the saddle. Every time he straightened it was a small agony. He ground his teeth and looked between his horse’s ears, and concentrated on not letting the pain show. If a wound as small as this laid him low, how could he survive the battle to come?

“You all right there, your grace?”

Shit, he hadn’t even heard Magnus ride up alongside him. He forced himself tall in the saddle, bit back the whimper that threatened in the back of his throat, and managed a smile. “Fine. Only tired, I suppose.”

Magnus’s gaze narrowed a fraction, not fooled. “Arm hurtin’ you?”

“Yeah.” That was a safe admission. “I’ve not hurt myself that bad since that one festival where the pony dumped me across the start line.”

Magnus laughed, loud and far too bright for their circumstances. “Aye, I remember that. Your brother started shouting, ‘He’s dead! He’s dead!’ Poor thing thought you were a goner.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“How’s the bite feeling?”

He fought the urge to grimace. “A bit tender. But it’s fine.”

“Hm.” Magnus didn’t sound convinced. “Wish we’d had time to wrap it fresh this morning. You tell me if it starts hurting too bad, aye? We don’t want it getting putrid.”

“Right.”

Lars called something, several lengths ahead, and Magnus thankfully trotted off to ride alongside his brother.

But then a creak of saddle leather and the steady, huffed breaths of a warhorse signaled Erik’s arrival, as his mount fell into step beside Leif’s. Unlike Magnus, there was nothing convivial about his expression; no bark of laughter.

“How bad’s the pain?”

---