Page 68 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Forty-One

“How much farther, Caleb?” Harland panted against the sweat and exhaustion of their travel.

He’d dedicated decades to mental and physical discipline, but he’d never spent a week on foot trudging through the snow.

Each new step took on the weight and effort of twenty.

Each time he lifted his foot and punched it down only to sink into the mountainside exacerbated their struggles.

Still, the cold was different here. Whether the Frozen Straits had been cursed by a malevolent deity, he’d never know, but once they’d anchored their ship and set off into the forest, the temperatures began to climb.

It was still the depths of northern winter, but no longer were they in the arctic tundra. Between the clean furs, free of whatever invisibility magic had stained his clothes from the castle, and the constant movement, sweat glistened on their brows.

Harland waited expectantly for the first mate to turn and answer. The fae ahead guided them past a deeply red tree large enough for three men to wrap around. It seemed as though the trunks swelled the deeper into the forest they went.

“It doesn’t work like that, sir,” Caleb said over his shoulder.

“But surely, you must feel it growing stronger or weaker. There has to be something…”

Caleb shook his head. “I’m not a tracker or a seeker, not in the way you’re thinking. I navigate. I can point us to our intended location, and we will not miss. But it could be over this hill or six weeks’ travel from here, sir. I have no insight beyond that.”

“Well,” Harland grunted, “that’s a damn shame.”

They carried on until the last gray hour of day.

They unrolled the canvas packs they’d taken from the ship’s supply stores before Harland had horrified the first mate by telling the crew to go home.

Harland had promised him that once they’d found what they were looking for, they’d be able to travel faster than any skiff over ice.

Whether they’d walk through a door or ride out on a winged beast, Ophir was a manifester.

Her imagination was the only limit to what she could accomplish.

Game was plentiful in the Unclaimed Wilds, but he was grateful they didn’t have to hunt.

He was sick of the dense, nutty brown bread in their satchels, the slabs of aged, salted meat, and the dried apples lining the bottoms of their bags.

He was quite certain that he never wanted to see a white rind of salty, earthy cheese again.

Still, they were mentally and physically exhausted.

Caleb was with him on a wild goose chase.

Though he was grateful for the first mate’s company and skill, he seriously questioned the man’s judgment.

He wondered if anyone could have strutted onto the boat in the wake of that night’s chaos and been handed the role of leadership.

“You really think the princess is still alive?” Caleb asked. The fire they’d built between them smoked as the pine leaves caught and turned to ash.

“Wouldn’t you know?” Harland asked, frowning.

“No, sir.” Caleb looked frustrated as he answered. “Like I said, I’m not a tracker in the way you might want. I’ll lead us to her, but I may very well be leading us to her bones or to whatever remains of the princess in the stomach of some animal.”

Harland chuckled lightly, which drew a look of concern.

“Sir?”

“It’s nothing,” Harland said, a small smile on his lips.

“But you underestimate her. No animal could best her.” He’d once been so afraid for Ophir’s safety.

He’d run into fires for her night after night when terrors had haunted her.

He’d tried to protect her from the world.

He would have given his life to save her.

Little had he known that she was the most fearsome creature on the continent.

There was no beast that would find its match in Ophir, unless the monster’s name was Dwyn.

“Pardon me for saying, sir, but you speak like a man in love.”

His heart ached at the words. Was he as transparent as he was foolish?

Love made people do wonderful, terrible, foolish things.

If only he’d been wiser, he would have known how to love her better.

It was a conviction he’d never dream to have returned.

In his wildest fantasies, his only hope was to make amends for the pain he’d caused.

A pop to the south of their camp drew their eyes to a dark space between trees.

They’d chosen a flattened area between mountains and pitched their tents among the fallen logs.

The forest floor was barren, the overhead canopy of leaves too broad and dense to have allowed bushes and brambles any chance for survival.

The pressing silence offered only by a carpeting of snow should have been the only sound.

A twig snapped, and Caleb nearly jumped out of his skin.

“What do you think it is?” he whispered.

Harland shook his head. “We’re fine,” he said, but his voice was unconvincing. “Wild animals would be scared off by our fire, not drawn to it.”

“Even bears?” Caleb asked in a hushed tone.

Harland casted a glance at their satchel of food.

He wasn’t sure how bears felt about fire, but if one was scouring the cliffs this late into the season, it would be starving.

It could have sensed their meats and cheeses from leagues away.

He wished he’d brought a bow, but he’d been fleeing the stadium and had scarcely had the wherewithal to return for winter gear.

All things considered, he counted himself fortunate to have a good sword.

Another sound came from the woods.

Not an animal, but a man.

“Sedit, don’t,” said the deep, male voice.

A low growl rippled between the trees. The sound felt like melted snow had been drizzled down Harland’s back. He tensed, hand on the hilt of his sword as he called out.

“Hello?”

“Please, Sedit!” The man’s voice came more loudly this time.

A new confusion filled Harland, tinged with an uncomfortable familiarity. There was a musical lilt to the dance of the man’s voice…almost as if he were…

“Tyr?” Harland called out.

“Ah, fuck,” Tyr said in the split second it took for the creature’s noises to turn into the snap of its maw. A frustrated shout, the crunch of snow underfoot, the break of a fallen branch, a cry from Caleb, and the bloodthirsty barking of a demonic hound flooded him in the time it took to blink.

Harland was on his feet as he sprang into action, ready for battle against the unknown shadow.

He rolled out of the way as the dark shape extended its talons for him.

He gasped against the glittering horror of eyes and teeth as it gnashed its maw inches from his face.

He unsheathed his sword scarcely in time to knock it from its lunge, but he barely nicked the animal.

Rather than act wounded, it was merely spurred on.

Infuriated by his blade, the creature pounced again.

The shouting of men behind him faded to noise as he squared off with the creature. Tyr was saying something while Caleb ran for his weapon. When the monster sprang the next time, it was not for Harland but for the first mate.

Caleb’s short sword was good for little more than threatening unruly crew members. It didn’t stand a chance against a hellhound. He lofted his weapon with both hands and brought it down as if he were chopping wood, but his timing was faulty. The creature had its teeth in his shoulders in a second.

Caleb screamed as jagged needles embedded themselves into his flesh, ripping free with the leather of his coat and a pound of fresh red fae meat.

The dog had its talons in Caleb’s chest as it forced him onto his back in the snow, but Harland was quick on his feet.

In two bounds, he was past the fire and brought his weapon onto the dog.

He was still vaguely aware of Tyr shouting—not at the demon this time but at him.

The demon whimpered in pain and fury as it was forced off his first mate and into the snow. When his blade came up, it was slick with the same black, viscous liquid that had coated it on the Straits. He raised his sword again only to cry out as a strong hand gripped his wrist.

Tyr may have been built, but Harland’s fae power was strength. He forced his arm down and watched the plea in Tyr’s eyes.

“Don’t fight him,” Tyr begged.

Harland gasped between Tyr and the demon. “What are you—”

“It’s Ophir’s dog!”

The memory hit him like a crack of thunder.

He remembered stumbling upon Dwyn’s sleeping form outside of a manor in Henares.

He’d crept up the stairs to see his beloved princess fighting with a dark-haired man from Sulgrave.

Beside her had been the amphibian-skinned monstrosity, part canine, part feline, that dripped with Caleb’s hot blood now.

Pain had lanced him as he’d been hit over the head with a blunt object, only to awaken the following day beside his tethered horse.

Ophir had been gone, and the Sulgrave fae had been nowhere to be seen.

Ophir’s manifested hound.

Tyr took several careful steps between Harland and the dog. “Sedit, stop,” he said, flattening his hands. Then to Harland, he said, “Put out your fire.”

“It’s the dead of winter,” Harland protested. “My man’s injured.”

“Fire aggravates him. Put it out.”

Harland growled, “Fire shouldn’t—”

“Put it out!”

Harland blinked at Tyr. The man had spoken to him as if he were his lord and master rather than someone who’d infiltrated the castle and brainwashed the princess. Then again, he had saved him…

Caleb groaned from where he’d slowly brought himself to his feet. If his gored shoulder hadn’t been evidence enough, the ashen pallor of his face would have let Harland know that something was seriously wrong.

“You put out the fire; I’ll help Caleb,” Harland said.

“No,” Tyr said cautiously, “I don’t think I should move.”