Page 9 of The Viking in the Vault
No…not a dog.
A massive, wolf-like creature with bright blue eyes, white fur streaked with that same blue, and a tail that wags uncontrollably. The kicker? This dog is roughly the size of a pony, and its head is bigger than mine. Canines the size of my thumbs frame its lolling tongue.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, panic momentarily giving way to bewilderment. I’ve seen this thing before, but only in books–they have descendants that are smaller and are commonly kept as pets on M’mir. We found one of its skeletons in a core that recently came into the archive. This thing…it’s old. “Is that a skarnhound?” I whisper.
“Skarnhound,” the Skoll confirms–so at least I know we have one shared word. He looks down at the dog, then, and says something else in his language. The skarnhound lets out a soft bark in response, as if they’re having a conversation. The creature’s cold black nose nudges my hand, teeth getting way too close, and I yelp again, trying to pull away.
“What is happening right now?” I mutter, my heart pounding so loudly I can barely think.
The Skoll shifts his grip, holding me closer. His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, the world…well, I don’t really know what happens. Looking into his eyes feels like falling into a pool of water, like I get lost for a second, gasping for air.
It’s nice, though? Which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.
Maybe it’s just the fact that I hit my head, but there’s something in his gaze–something intense and unyielding and frighteningly familiar–that operates on me like a sedative.
I’m suddenly very comfortable being held in his arms.
Better that than on the ground with the pony-sized dog, anyway.
At least I feel that way until the Skoll moves me, suddenly turning me upright with a hand firmly on my ass. He pulls my thighs up around his waist, directing me to loop my arms around his neck, and I find myself entangled with a complete stranger. “Um, excuse me!” I gasp, finding this way more intimate that I’m necessarily comfortable with.
The Skoll just grunts.
Then he keeps walking.
The skarnhound trots alongside him, its nose occasionally brushing against my foot as if he’s trying to get a good sniff before he eats me. We’re definitely still in the archive, but I have no idea where–and whoever this guy is, I doubt he’s supposed to be in the Eiskammer, let alone with a prehistoric canine companion. “Can you please stop so I can get a handle on where we are?” I ask, voice shaking. “I don’t know who you are or where you’re taking me, but I’m not okay with this! Put me down!”
He replies again in that incomprehensible language, a little more stern this time–as if I’m being an obstinate child who needs a talking to. I glare at him, and he glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
“You need to listen to me,” I snap, gesturing wildly toward the gold translator curled around my ear. “Do you have any idea what I’m saying? Translator? English?”
His brows furrow and he leans in slightly, his eyes narrowing as he peers at the device.
Then–to my complete horror–he snatches it off my ear.
“Hey!” I say. “Stop! What are you?—”
“Borean,” he growls.
Then he crushes it in his free hand.
I look from the destroyed translator back at him, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I know I’m overreacting, but that thing…it’s probably the most expensive thing I own.
“Do you…do you know how much I payed for that?” I whisper.
The Skoll barely spares the destroyed translator a second glance, his focus shifting back to me. “Borean,” he repeats, gesturing to the crumpled remains in his hand before tossing them to the ground like trash.
I gape at him, furious. “What the hell does that even mean? It’s not…it’s not Borean at all, it’s mine! I needed that!”
He doesn’t even flinch; just mutters something in his language and continues walking, his grip on me firm but not uncomfortable. The skarnhound lets out a low huff, its massive head turning toward me as if to say, Don’t bother.
I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. Okay, Elena, think. This guy doesn’t understand you, clearly has no respect for your personal space, and is dragging you deeper into the Eiskammer for reasons you can’t begin to guess. Oh, and his prehistoric pony-wolf seems far too interested in the way you smell.
I glance around, taking in the unfamiliar passageways. The lights flicker faintly, illuminating cracks in the ice and walls that seem more damaged than I remember. A constant hum reverberates through the space, likely the result of the failing systems Dr. Kallipso warned me about.
Wherever the Skoll is taking me, it’s deeper into the archive—and probably more dangerous.
“Okay,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “This is fine. Totally fine. I’m just being carried off by an enormous, prehistoric Skoll warrior and his pony-sized skarnhound. Completely normal day.”
