Page 79

He landed hard on the far slope, and the mud was even slicker and wetter than it looked. He skidded down, caught himself by a protruding root, and gritted his teeth as he sank down to his ankles, but clawed his way upward. There was a whole network of roots for handholds, and then toeholds, once he was high enough. The mud threatened to suck his boots off his feet, but his muscles were bunching and clenching, pushing, pulling him upward, adrenaline and wolf-strength powering him up, and up, and up, until he was clawing his way up over the top and onto flat, dry ground.

A curse, and a thump, and the sucking sound of wet mud pulling at feet proved that Ragnar had followed him successfully, and was climbing in his wake.

Leif stood, and took off running, letting his nose guide him forward. He smelled his wolves – familiar and musky – and blood. A scent that left his own blood boiling; left his nails pricking at his palms, and his teeth tingling as they lengthened. He wanted to shift…but he didn’t know what sort of threat he was running toward. Didn’t know–

Ah.

Men.

Their first sign of civilization in this wood, and it was accompanied by bloodshed and violence.

The crash of underbrush behind him heralded Ragnar at his heels, and he lengthened his stride, sucking in deep lungfuls of air and growling them back out.

He ducked a branch, leaped a stand of bushes, and arrived upon a chaotic scene.

Blood slicked the forest floor, glittering crimson in the dappled sunlight. One of his wolves, Harald, lay flat on his side, ribs heaving as he fought for breath, whining and blood-splashed, while another, Vidar, stood over him, head tucked, hackles raised, teeth bared as he snarled at a human dressed in drab browns and grays, a bloodied sword held across his front. A second human stood behind the first, clean sword raised up over his shoulder, braced for attack. The first had dark hair, the second gold, and their postures mimicked that of the wolves in every way, down to the bared teeth.

Leif growled, and four pairs of eyes swung his way.

The brown-haired man didn’t look the part of any Southerner Leif had ever seen. He wore his hair long, parted in the middle and wavy down over his shoulders. A scruff of untrimmed beard stubble lined his jaw, and his clothes were nothing like the finery Oliver and Tessa had arrived wearing. A commoner, then; perhaps a woodsman.

The man behind him, however, was dressed similarly, but bore the clean-shaven cheeks, artfully tousled blond hair, and bright complexion of a finely-bred lordling. A gilded, taller, stronger Oliver, down to the blue eyes.

Vidar’s ears flicked back, and he whined at Leif in unhappy question.

Leif extended a hand toward him.Hold. Stand down. He didn’t kneel to examine Harald, as he wanted to; kept his gaze locked with the dark-haired man. The one with the blood-wet sword. His gaze had gone wide, and wary, and his stance shifted, so his sword tip swung Leif’s direction.

“Who might you be?” he asked. And: “Are these your dogs?” His tone was very calm, and his gaze very aggressive, as it traveled over Leif’s muddied Northern clothes, his bare, gold-ringed arms.

Ragnar arrived behind him, with a snap of twigs and rustle of leaves. Leif felt the heat of his breath on the bare skin of his shoulder as he snarled at the men. “He’s the one who’s going to rip you limb from limb if you make another move on one of ours.”

(Oursagain.Ours, ours, ours.)

“Stop,” Leif told him, and forced the growl out of his throat. Forced himself to stand upright, rather than in the bent-kneed half-pounce he’d adopted on instinct. He drew himself up to his full height, and spread his hands to show that they were empty. To the men: “These are my wolves.” He dropped his growl-laced wolf-voice, the one that had felt like a costume originally, but which had become his normal way of speaking as of late. Pulled on his Prince Voice, which was the one that felt costume-like, now. “I’ll ask you not to slash at them with your sword. Anymore.” He made a show of glancing toward Harald: still breathing, still alive; skinwalkers could heal from all but the most mortal of wounds, or so Ragnar had said, but Harald didn’t look good at the moment. “How badly have you injured him?”

The dark-haired man scowled. “They came running right at us out of the forest. Theyattackedus.”

Leif scowled right back, gratified by the way the man swayed backward the barest fraction. “I don’t see any blood on you.”

The man started to answer–

And Vidar shifted into his man-shape.

Where a snarling wolf had stood moments before, there now crouched a hulking young lad with tightly-braided brown hair, and various necklaces strung with animal teeth and claws. Leaves and blood were caught in his short beard, and his hands were shaped like claws, his nails long, black, and sharp.

The blond man gave a shout of surprise and toppled backward onto his bum in the dirt.

The dark-haired man’s head whipped around, his eyes bugged, and he murmured, “Holy gods! Skin changers!”

Eyes white-rimmed with panic, Vidar turned to Leif and said, “Alpha, they surprised us. They’d covered their scents with deer musk, and we were on top of them before we knew they were there, we were–”

Two sounds reached Leif, back-to-back, overlapping, both from behind him. First was the soft, but distinct twang of a loosed bowstring.

The second was the thump of impact; of an arrowhead piercing flesh, deafening amidst the shush of competing breaths and the crackle of stepped-on leaves.

Leif was already turning before he heard Ragnar’s startled grunt; had his arms up, and caught him as Ragnar toppled forward, his eyes wide, his lips parted on a gasp.

Leif got an arm around his waist, and guided his head down onto his shoulder with his other hand, his own heart knocking, a growl building in his throat.