Page 69 of Blood of Wolves

Erik turned and found a silhouette limned by the moon-silvered stream off in the distance. The silhouette of a man…who dropped to all fours and became a wolf. Ragnar. Recalling his troops.

Wolves flowed black as smoke between the fires, too fast to catch, streamed across the white plain toward their alpha, and then were gone.

In the resulting quiet, Erik could hear the harsh rasp of his own panting breath, and murmured questions from the others. A few moans.

It was over. Erik felt like he’d been struck in the head, and didn’t know if he actually had, or if it was just shock.

He turned, blinking the sweat from his eyes, braced for the worst.

Askr still sat upright, his axe wet and black with blood. Edda stood behind him, sword equally blooded; a bruise was coming up on his face, and he stood listing to one side, but his gaze was wide and clear when Erik met it, and he nodded.

Birger lifted a hand from where he stood hunched over, using his sword as a walking stick. “I’m fine, lad,” he muttered, spat blood, and straightened. “Just getting too old for this.”

He dragged in a few more breaths, and felt his pulse slowing. He wasn’t so young himself, anymore, but he’d been rigorous in conditioning himself. He’d been in worse battles, by far, and suspected he would be again.

But–

“Where’s Leif?”

“Erik! Over here!”

He snatched a brand from the fire and leaped over dead wolves to get to Magnus and Lars – both scraped and exhausted, but whole – and the person kneeling on the snow that they supported between them.

No.

Leif lifted his head of his own power, squinting against the light, so that was something. His face was pale, and sweat-slick; lip busted and bleeding down his chin, into his beard. A nasty slice through one eyebrow would doubtless scar, but hadn’t taken his eye, thank the gods. Magnus supported one arm, Lars the other, and as Erik appeared, he managed to climb to his feet with their aid.

That was when Erik glimpsed the sheen of fresh blood on his side, at the narrowest part of his waist.

Just like that, his pulse was hammering again.

He reached forward, touching gently, and earned a hiss. He could see tears in Leif’s tunic, just above his jeweled belt; the blood was already drying in the cold, sticky as sap.

“How bad is it?”

Leif winced, but shook his head. “Surface, I think. It stings something fierce, but it’s a bite. I didn’t get run through.”

Carefully, Erik probed at torn cloth, finding a series of small holes, and bloody flesh beneath. Teeth marks.

“I’m fine, Uncle. Just need a wash and some bandages.” He offered a pained smile. “My arm hurts worse. I tore a muscle swinging at the bastards.”

“I don’t think it’s deep,” Magnus said. “We’ll get him patched up and he’ll be all right.”

Erik let out a deep breath that left the torch flame dancing. “You’re sure?”

Leif managed a truer smile. “Yeah. It’s not so bad.”

Erik’s knees trembled, and for one horrifying moment, he thought he might plop down on his backside in the snow. He straightened his legs, and held himself up.

“What were those things?” Lars asked. “Some looked normal, but some…” He shook his head, eyes white-rimmed in the torchlight.

“Skinwalkers,” Erik said, glancing over his shoulder. Above the leaping flames of their campfire, the plain stretched glistening and peaceful, the wolves long gone. “One of them was Ragnar.”

Magnus swore.

Leif said, “Did you get him?”

“No. And now he’s ahead of us.”

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