Page 172 of The Cradle of Ice

Not die at all.

Rhaif waved them on. “Then go already.”

With a deep pained breath, he followed behind the others. Kalder kept close to Floraan and Henna, as if instinctively protecting the youngest among them. Fenn wavered between keeping up with them and trying to help him.

Rhaif waved an arm.

Better one of us dying than all of us.

They continued along the wall. Ahead and to the right, Iskar burned, cloaked in smoke, ruddy with fires. Some of the pall was blown by the sea breeze and piled against the ice cliffs, offering some cover.

Rhaif heaved and huffed after the others. It felt as if his crutch were about to rip his shoulder out of its socket. With each step, he cursed everything around him. The crutch. The gods. The pickkyn that had hobbled him. His own stupidity. He saved his last and most heartfelt curse for the moon.

You couldn’t stay up there a little longer? Until I lived a long and uneventful life?

Still, somebody took pity on him. The others safely reached the door. He hobbled after them as they ducked inside. Kalder had the courtesy to wait, though it might be because the vargr was not keen on close spaces.

Either way, Rhaif huffed to the great beast, “Good boy.”

Then Fenn came retreating back out, followed quickly by Floraan and Henna.

Rhaif reached them as they all stumbled to a stop. The door swept wider. A cadre of warriors armed with tridents guarded the threshold. Behind them, he spotted Ularia and Berent. The Reef Farer’s face was one of confusion and anger. Ularia had decided on just fury. This group must have fled here, too, seeking refuge.

Ularia pointed at them. “You did this! You brought this ruin upon us!”

Rhaif couldn’t argue. She was right.

Fenn tried to placate her. “We only seek shelter. This enemy is as much yours as ours. We can help.”

She looked aghast, incredulous, her anger flaring even brighter. “The only way you can help is by dying.” She waved to the guardsmen. “Kill them. Maybe their bodies will appease those who came to hunt them.”

Rhaif waved for the others to back away.

The warriors hesitated.

Ularia growled her frustration. She clearly would not tolerate any such insolence. Not now, likely not ever. The arrival of their entire group days ago had upset a precarious balance of power. Her ambitions were shaken by all that had happened. She intended to regain her authority by any means necessary.

She shoved one of the warriors forward, to get them all moving. “Kill them! Or I’ll have your heads, too!”

The men strode after Rhaif and the others. They all frantically backpedaled. Henna tripped, sprawling on her side. Floraan lost her grip and fell, too. A warrior rushed forward, trident high—that was a mistake.

The child had a guardian.

Kalder lunged with a swiftness that the vargr seldom demonstrated. His speed was unnerving, reserved for hunting the deep Rimewood, for bringing down a fleet-footed buck. The vargr struck the man a glancing blow, ripping away his arm as he passed. The trident flew from the severed limb and impaled into the sand.

No warrior of the Crèche was prepared for a vargr, especially one fully unleashed and feral. Here was the heart of the beast that no one had ever tamed. Not Graylin, not Nyx. Kalder was a blur of savagery, a shadow with teeth. He crashed into the clutch of warriors before they could react. Throats were ripped, skulls crushed in jaws that broke the bones of bears, chests torn open by huge, hooked claws.

Two warriors made it back into the ice pen. The door slammed behind them. The scrape of a heavy bar could be heard over the screams of the dying. One last man survived. He threw aside his weapon and lifted his hands, begging in Panthean, dropping to his knees.

“Enough, Kalder!” Rhaif called to the vargr.

It was a wasted breath. Bloodlust deafened the beast. A reminder that Kalder truly heeded no man, just his nature.

The vargr leaped, fangs bared, and grabbed the warrior’s throat. He shook the man’s body wildly, wrenching it back and forth until the limbs went slack. Only then did he throw the dead weight against the door, letting all within know who the victor was.

Kalder turned to them with a snarl, his muzzle steeped in blood.

They backed away, giving the vargr space for that fire to ebb from his eyes.