Page 94 of Blood of Wolves

Fight, that voice had said, the one that wasn’t a voice at all, but a low growl that she could somehow understand. Where had that come from? Who had it been?

A hand grabbed the back of her collar and dragged her roughly to her feet.

“Take a nap later,” Estrid snapped. “If you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Right.” Tessa shook off the last of vision, that ghostly fringe of blue that lingered at the edges of her consciousness.

She had to brace her foot on the dead man to gain enough leverage to pull her sword loose.

~*~

Rune had a moment to thinkshit, and then the creature struck. It crouched, fangs bared, growling low in its throat, blue eyes uncannily familiar. Rune could have sworn it was smiling, and then leaped at him, higher and springier in its stride than any wolf he’d seen before.

Time seemed to slow. Rune’s horse shied with a scream, and he dropped the reins, kicked his feet free, and rolled off as the animal bolted out from under him. The last time wolves had attacked him while mounted, he’d ended up at the bottom of a ravine with a dying horse.

He landed on his knees in the snow with a bone-rattling jolt, one that traveled all the way up his torso and pulsed in his healing stab wound. The wolf sailed over him, skidded, and then whirled, no pretense of a smile evident now in its vicious snarl.

Rune got one foot under him, braced himself, and lifted his sword, as ready as he could be. He was aware of chaos around him – horses bolting and snorting, men falling, other beasts snarling, gliding across the snow like wraiths – but he was caught in the impossible blue gaze of the wolf before him. He expected a rush – but instead the wolf lowered its head, shielded its throat, and circled him.

Rune got to his feet, and turned with it. Behind him, someone screamed, but he couldn’t focus on that. Could only concentrate on all the ways this wolf didn’t seem like a wolf at all: the eyes, for one. Too knowing, the pupils too round. Its size, for another: it came up to the middle of Rune’s chest, larger in every dimension than it should have been, and densely muscled in midwinter, when it should have been lean and ribby, holding out for spring. Its coat was shaggy, and tawny, more gold than brown. It was–

Lunging at him.

Rune brought his sword up – for a blow that never landed. A second wolf, pale gold, slammed into the first from the side, and the two rolled end over end, snarling and snapping at each other, ivory fangs flashing.

They were rabid. Worse, they were cursed. They must have been.

Rune watched them battle, standing stupidly, sword forgotten. They rolled, and when the second wolf ended up on top, it sank its fangs in the first wolf’s throat.

All the other wolves froze. They turned toward the confrontation, some with bloodied muzzles, all of them going silent, staring. Most of Rune’s men staggered to their feet. A few groaned; one lay still.

Rune fought to catch his breath, heaving and sweat-slick from adrenaline.

The pale wolf tightened its hold, the wolf beneath him yelped, and then they…changed.

It happened so quickly, so oddly, that Rune couldn’t make sense of the transformation. A ripple, a shimmer, a stretch, a shrink, and then he wasn’t staring at wolves, but at men, one pinned beneath the other. Damp, tawny hair splayed across the snow, and paler gold hung draped over strong shoulders. Velvet and wool over boiled leather and old, well-worn fur.

The wolf – the man – on top lifted his head, lips and short beard dripping blood, and turned to Rune, shifting a hand to hold his opponent by the throat.

Leif. It was Leif.

And under him, Ragnar.

Rune blinked, and then blinked some more. “What?” His voice was barely audible, a whisper snatched by the breeze.

But Leif heard him, because Leif was…He didn’t know what Leif was. Except his brother. And Ragnar, beneath him, was struggling to throw him off.

Leif bared too-long fangs at him and snarled, the sound wholly lupine. The muscles in his arm flexed as he tightened his grip; Ragnar’s eyes bugged, and he subsided with a whine.

The growl tapered off. “Rune,” Leif said, turning back to him, voice rougher than it had ever been. “What are you doing outside the walls?”

What…wait…he was outside the walls? He…

He shook his head. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d fallen through the ruined floor, and gone pelting down to the stables, gathering soldiers as he went. Maybe he hadn’t actually done any of that; maybe, when the boulder struck the ramparts, he’d hit his head, and this was all a dream; or he was dead, actually, and this was some sort of test on his way to the Halls of his Ancestors.

“Rune!”

“Oh.” He jumped. “I was–” Gods, his brother was awolf. Shapeshifter, skinwalker, whatever. “I was. The trebuchets.” He pointed farther down the ridge, struggling to get his thoughts in order.

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