Page 95 of Blood of Wolves

Leifwas awolf.

He swallowed with difficulty, his throat dry and sticking. Felt around on his back, shocked to find his bow and quiver still in place after the tumble off his horse. “I’m going to shoot the soldiers manning them,” he said, steadier now, though his heart still thumped wildly. “And then disable them.”

Leif nodded, once. “Go, then.”

“But – but what aboutyou?”

Leif spared Ragnar a glare; blood seeped through his fingers. “I’ll be fine.”

“What about” – a darted glance to either side proved the wolves still held their positions, watching, waiting – “them?”

“They won’t do anything without their alpha’s approval,” Leif said, voice shifting lower, becoming less human, a rumbling growl. “And he’smine.”

Rune couldn’t hold back the shudder that gripped him.

“Rune.” Still a growl, still lupine. “Go.”

He went.

~*~

Revna’s arms were on fire. Her lungs were on fire. Everything was – save the palace around them, and that was something, because the last Sel she’d managed to fell had been carrying a satchel of what looked to be black powder.

“No one drop a torch!” she shouted; spun, twirled, ducked, struck, and spun again, heaving for breath.

She tripped on something, and flung out a hand to catch herself against the wall, beside the flickering heat of a cresset. A glance proved that it was an arm she’d tripped over, one attached to one of her men.

Damn it.

So far, she thought they’d managed to contain the Sels here in this hallway, though they’d been forced to give ground, even with the addition of reinforcements. Boys had arrived from the ramparts, young faces smudged with dirt, with soot. What was happening out there? She knew the great, thunderous crashes from overhead, the ones that sent silt and dust from the mortar between stones and timbers, had been nothing good. If she allowed her imagination to run wild with it, she would crumple. Her home – the rooms where she’d been born, and then birthed her sons in turn – laid to waste, chipped away one boulder-width at a time. And here were these gold bastards, with their powder, and their painted eyes, in herfucking home,fightingher,killingher people.

She saw red.

She dredged some last reserve of fight from deep within herself and stepped into the next swing. Her sword chimed against that of her enemy; the blades screeched together as his slid up toward her cross-guard. He was larger than her, stronger than her – but she was of the North. Of the old wolf blood, and he never saw the flash of movement as she switched her sword to a one-handed grip – nearly buckling beneath his pressing onslaught – drew her dagger, and jammed it up into the visor slit in his helmet. He didn’t scream, but made a low, wet sound, like a predator caught with an arrow, and fell back, blind and bleeding.

Beneath the crimson haze of fury, she was aware of her body burning, each limb pushed past its limit, but her blood was still up, and could sustain her a little longer, just a little longer, until all of them were dead.

She dropped low beneath a swing, and prepared to come up behind the man who’d delivered it. Caught a fleeting glimpse of the other girls – no, the women – still involved in this horrid, claustrophobic melee. Estrid and Hilda, sturdy, strong, quicksilver fast against the heavy, dragging plate of the Sels, and little Tessa, her cheek bruised and scratched, her eyes wild, but somehow still on her feet, still alive, turning aside strikes clumsily, but not falling. Later, if they survived, Revna would pull her close, hug her tight, and call her daughter, tell her how proud she was of her.

But not now. Now–

A searing pain, hot as a brand, bloomed on her arm. Her hand went nerveless, and her grip on her sword faltered, went one-handed. She brought it up anyway, all of her shaking, teeth gritted against a scream, as she spun, tripped – too slow, too tired, done – and staggered, trying to find a proper stance, trying in vain to get her left arm to respond.

The Sel in front of her was already wounded, his stance uneven, blood pearling in bright rivulets across his gold plate. He didn’t carry a sword, but a spiked mace, one he lifted, ready to strike.

I can’t, she thought with a pulse of fear.If he swings, he’ll kill me. She was used up. If she wanted to survive, she had to retreat.

Behind her, a high, feminine scream.

The girls.

If she retreated, he would mow her down, and then go for them.

I’m old enough. I’ve lived, and I’ve loved. I will go to the great feast halls of my fathers.

She lifted her sword in one shaking hand, managed to brace her feet apart on blood-slick flagstones, and prepared to meet her end bravely.

The Sel tipped his head – and with a quick flash, a blade lodged itself in the side of his neck, between helm and gorget. Metal squealed, blood fountained out against the wall, poured in a hot flood down the man’s armor, and he was dead before he hit the ground, felled like a tree that took down one of his comrades and pinned him to the floor.

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