Page 92 of Of Rime and Ruin
His teeth graze my neck briefly, and then he straightens. “Thought so.”
With another squeeze of his legs, he pushes the snowbear faster. We pass several hunters, making our way to the front of the line. My snowbear plods through the snow, her shoulders shifting rhythmically beneath the shared saddle. My pussy aches from the overuse last night, sensitive where it rubs against my leathers, and I clench with each one of her steps.
This day will test me. The sooner we find the prey, the better.
We travel a kilometer in silence. Soon enough, the sun lifts above the mountains and pierces the sky with angry bursts of red and amber. I relax a little at the sight of the sun; like a familiar friend keeping me company.
The hunters fidget and scan the horizon, looking glum. I can understand why—there’s not much life out here. With a quick scan of my magic, I locate several lifeforms. A herd of woollygoats to the west and a few frostcats prowling the perimeter. We’re not the only ones after a meal.
Cyrene raises the hand signal, pointing with two quick flicks of her fingers.
“You’re up, Nahla,” Aethan whispers.
I take a deep breath and stir the magic in my stomach. With a soft song, I weave a spell and lift from my mortal frame. My mind spirals west, skimming the earth in search of life.Ten dozen woollygoats graze witlessly, their whiskered muzzles snuffling among bare patches of frozen reedgrass.
I raise my hand and signal to Cyrene, like we practiced. Three flicks means I’ve found them.
Gently, I penetrate their minds.Come.
The woollygoats lift their heads, swivel their ears, and look in my direction. One by one, they fall in line as my command takes hold. Their hooves shuffle across the snow, bringing them into view.
Cyrene notches her bow.
Aethan rummages in the saddle bags. For a moment, my concentration breaks. From the corner of my eye, I track his movements. A bow. With effortless grace, he strings his arrow and lifts the weapon into position. His forearm brushes my back, and his breath leaks cool on my neck.
My breath hitches, and my spell wavers.
The lead woollygoat spots us and tenses. It hesitates, hoof hanging in the air. Through the connection, I feel the leaking of its fear.
I need to focus. Dammit.
With a small change in my tune, I smooth its worries.Calm. You’re safe. Come here.
The leader tilts its head, dipping its broad antlers, then places its foot. The rest of the herd follows its lead. Soon enough, the herd prances into view. I project a happy image for them—warm sunshine, endless fields of dewy reedgrass. Ears forward, eyes wide with curiosity, they trot toward the waiting hunters.
A few more paces, and they’ll be in range.
Cyrene closes her fist. Arrows fly and meet their marks. Flesh squelches. Blood spurts. Several woollygoats collapse. My heart twists as each conscience goes dark, and bile sticks in my throat. At least they die happy this way.
I strengthen my spell, easing the fear of the remaining woollygoats.Come.
They march onward, stepping around their fallen comrades with stiff obedience. Their eyes glass over, entranced by the vision I project for them.
The hunters reload. Aethan tenses, then aims. Cyrene signals.
With a twang, Aethan releases his arrow. It spirals perfectly and embeds in the center of a woollygoat’s heart. A clean shot. The animal grunts and stumbles, planting face-first into blood-stained snow.
I cut the spell, and the remaining herd stops short before the waiting snowbears. Their eyes widen, showing the whites. Then they bolt. In a clatter of hooves and puff of snow, they race for their freedom.
“Let ’em go!” Cyrene shouts. She throws her head and whoops. When she turns toward me, her expression is bright. “That was so easy! Done in five minutes? That’s gotta be a new record.”
Aethan lowers the bow, resting it against his knee. “Impressive,” he rumbles. His voice is strained, like he’s got something caught in his throat.
I turn around to check his expression. His eyes are dark as midnight, and his mouth pulls into a tight line. His jaw flexes, and he swallows hard enough for me to hear it. He tucks the bow into the saddlebag.
“You killed it,” I say, shock obvious in my voice. Most royals own weapons for show. Like Winona’s heirloom sword collecting dust above her mantel. She’s used it once, with no level of expertise.
The king’s shot was nothing short of masterful.
