Page 97 of Blood of Wolves

Leif felt a smile split his face, and felt nothing at all like himself – yet more himself than he’d ever been. It was all mixed up in his head, the man he’d been, and the wolf he’d become, instinct warring with intelligence. It was…thrilling.

“Gods,” Ragnar panted. “Never would have bit you if I’d known you’d turn out so bloody strong.”

Leif squeezed until Ragnar choked. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,cousin.” He said it mockingly, growling. Then let up, just enough that Ragnar drew in a breath, and began to speak again.

Leif raised his free hand, cocked back a fist, and struck him as hard as he could in the temple. Ragnar’s eyes rolled back, and his body went slack.

Leif got to his feet, standing over him, one booted foot on his chest, and turned to regard the rest of the pack. All of them had shifted back into their human shapes, heads ducked, throats guarded, all of them smelling of fear, and doubt, and submission, all in the furs and bone-studded braids of the Úlfheðnar, wolf runes tattooed on their bare arms.

Úlfheðnar –wolf-shirts, Leif thought with a wild inner laugh. Wolf-shirts indeed. What other family secrets did he not know about?

He pushed a growl through his teeth, low, pulsing, carrying, just to watch them all flinch. “Will you mind me?” he asked. “Or will I have to kill you all?”

Slowly, one by one, they all sank to their knees in the snow, and showed their throats to him.

~*~

The wound in his side felt nearly fresh as Rune nocked, drew, and aimed. He pushed the pain down – just as he pushed down the ruin of his home, his worry over his betrothed and his mother, the stunning knowledge that his brother was an animal, now – and loosed. From his vantage point between two snow-covered gorse bushes at the peak of the ridge, he watched his arrow fly true, and straight, and bury itself in the eye of a Sel manning the nearest trebuchet. The soldiers headed for the breach in the wall wore the full, heavy gold plate of knights, but back here, manning the engines of war, maneuverability was more important than protection; these men wore mail hauberks, hammered steel pauldrons, and light helms without face plates. Their faces made the best targets.

Chaos ensued, down on the field, as the rest of the crew rushed to see what had befallen their compatriot.

Rune felled three more in the same manner.

And a shadow fell across the rest as a cloud plummeted from the sky straight toward the trebuchet.

Not a cloud, a drake. A white drake, horned, and winged, and tailed, wings belling out to slow it at the last moment, tail lashing, jaws opening as it roared, and blasted the trebuchet and its crew with great jets of blue flame.

Rune’s hands went slack on his bow. He stared, open-mouthed, trying to reconcile the sight before him. He’d seen drakes in books countless times, especially during childhood, when he’d loved the stories of magic and dragons and shamans and shifters better than the boring old history lessons Olaf forced on him. He’d pored over sketch after sketch of the cold-drakes they’d all thought long-extinct, wanting to ride one like the knights of faraway Drakewell, and the few brave, magic-blessed Northerners who’d tamed the ice-breathing dragons of his homeland.

He’d never thought to see one in the flesh. Never thought he’d witness firsthand a beast hovering above the ground, the beat of its great wings stirring up snow and toppling men, as it breathed a fire that turned to great jagged ice crystals, trapping everything it touched in layers of killing frost.

Then, with a start, he realized that someone was, in fact, riding this dragon. A figure in a plumed helmet tucked securely on a saddle atop the animal’s back.

Who…?

How…?

The drake shifted the angle of its wings, flapped hard, and pressed onward, blazing a trail of ice that glittered like gems in the glow of the setting sun.

~*~

A ballista on a two-wheeled cart swung up toward them, Oliver saw, before it and its operator, were caught in a bright sheet of ice. Percy roared, and roared, and blue flames poured from his jaws, and everywhere, men screamed, and fell back, and froze.

Oliver leaned low on Percy’s neck, reins loose, giving the drake his head, Oliver’s rage all the direction he needed. They carved a path through the Selesee ranks, and headed for the encampment, all its wide, canvas tents and streaming purple banners.

Something pinged off the side of Oliver’s helmet, a glancing blow. Before he could turn his head to search for the source, Percy tucked and rolled in midair, a graceful tumble that brought them up facing the opposite way.

Facing a row of archers.

“Take them,” Oliver growled, and Percy roared, and layered them in ice.

A shriek announced Kat and Valgrind’s arrival. A glance proved that Náli was white-faced and sweating, but still steady in the saddle, hands tight on the reins. He shouted over: “We closed up the wall with ice!”

Oliver nodded, and scanned the field before them. The Sels were falling back in clusters, an ordered retreat that grew more chaotic by the moment. Percy sent a pulse of warning through the bond before he flapped hard, swirling snow, and lifted them higher.

Kat followed, Náli’s swear snatched on the wind.

Oliver spotted another ballista, its crew readying it frantically.

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