Page 68 of Blood of Wolves

“Uncle, they’re everywhere!” Leif shouted over the din.

“I know.” Erik reached into the fire and snatched up a burning brand; the flames licked and crackled, throwing off sparks. “Stay vigilant.” And he set off at a jog toward the next fire.

There he found a group of Beserkirs standing with their backs to the flames, swinging at wolves who moved like wraiths, nothing but an unholy gleam of eye-shine, and a wet glimmer of fangs like knives.

These are no ordinary wolves, he thought with something akin to panic, before he clamped down on it and swung at one of the things from behind.

It dodged the blow, pivoting, rolling, and for a moment it seemed – no, but that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have seen the shape of a man there, for a brief flash. Only his imagination, as the wolf caught itself and hunkered down low, braced to leap at him.

“Uncle!”

He side-stepped, but not before somethingheavyclipped him in the shoulder. The snow was thick, and hampered his balance; Erik staggered and went down to one knee, sword lifting on instinct.

Two wolves faced off from him now, and as the fire swelled behind him – shouts of men, snarls of beasts, chaos, chaos – he got his first good look at what they were facing.

The wolf on the left was a fraction shorter, mottled gray-white with golden eyes, lips skinned back from fangs gone yellow with age and use. Just like every wolf he’d ever seen.

But the other…

The other was considerably larger, almost pony-size, with thick muscling in its shoulders and haunches. Its coat was shaggy and tawny gold, its eyes a striking, pale blue.Like Revna’s, he thought with a lurch.Like mine.

Like…

The wolf’s snarl shifted, its face seemed to blur – and then the beast was growing, changing impossibly.

Like Ragnar’s.

His cousin stood before him, arms bare to the cold, a mantle of pale wolf fur across his shoulders, blond hair in all its usual beaded, bone-strewn braids. He had a streak of blood across his cheek, in his short beard, and he was smirking down at Erik with blue eyes thatglowed.

The bedlam all around them melted to the periphery, and Erik could only stare, still and stupid.

Ragnar laughed, and his voice was half a growl, deep and inhuman, when he said, “Did you think your little Southern boy was the only one with magic? The old shamans have many tricks.”

Erik swallowed. “Clearly.” He surged to his feet, and struck.

But Ragnar crouched, blurred, and was a wolf again, lunging straight at his middle.

A flash to the side, and Leif’s sword struck just behind wolf-Ragnar’s shoulder. Ragnar yelped, tumbled to the side, and then was gone as a fresh wave of wolves crashed forward, all teeth and lolling pink tongues, growling like thunder.

Erik squared off and prepared to meet them, Leif settling in at his side.

“Was that–” Leif began.

“Yes. Fight now, questions later.”

They fought.

It was a mess of snarling, and squealing; of sweat soaking into the wool of their clothes, weighing at them; of steaming breath and flashing swords. Blood arced across the snow in black crescents, from men and wolves. Erik wound up back-to-back with Leif, their shoulders and elbows knocking as they swung, again and again. The wolves kept coming in waves and surges, organized, thinking, strategizing. Regular wolves were smart, yes, clever hunters and planners, but he’d never seen wolves behave in quite this way. In the melee, it became impossible to tell which were plain beasts, and which were skinwalkers.

Like Ragnar.

Holy gods, he would think, every few seconds, against his will. Even in the rush and crash of battle, amidst the war cries and screams of his people, and the low growling of wolves, his thoughts would flicker toward his cousin.

It was an old blood magic, skin walking. A spell bought at a heavy price. How long had he been this way? In the mountain caves of the Fangs? During the festival? Before? He thought of the night of the Yule Festival, Ragnar striding into the great hall like a king, candle flames bowing in the cold night breeze. Thought of the vicious claw marks on the dead men they’d found in the forest. He’d blamed those deaths on Percy, mind-controlled and compelled to do violence.

But wolves had claws, too.

Erik swung – and staggered forward when his sword whistled through empty air. The wolf who’d been coming toward him flitted back away from the firelight, vanishing like a wraith into the darkness. A howl rose above their encampment, high and shivering, touched with the scream of a man.

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