Blood of Wolves by Loren Coleman Page A

small group fractured. “You’ve got no business with the likes of him.”
    â€œOscur was my friend. He saved my life by pushing me on ahead. I can hunt, and I can scout. And I go with Kern Wolf-Eye!”
    Vengeance wasn’t what Kern was looking for, and began to say as much. Reave, of all people, stopped him with a shake of his head. “Better short help than no help,” he said of the youth.
    â€œWould you call me ‘short help’ as well, Reave Ox-heart?” Desagrena, stepping away from the fire. Her mocking tone made it sound like Reave might be the child. One of the men reached out for her—Morne—but she slapped his hand away with a stinging blow. “No woman should be left with the Vanir. Better to kill Maev than let her be taken.”
    At a loss, Reave could only shake his head again. “Soon we’ll be outnumbering the Vanir.”
    Not quite. No others stepped forward, and from the suspicious and even hateful eyes that chased out from the fireside, none would. Cul was left with seven strong backs, though Morne had a wounded shoulder. Enough to get Burok north. Maybe. If he borrowed more heavily from the village. And its stores.
    â€œWe’ll take a wood hatchet,” Kern said, speaking to Reave but more for Cul’s benefit. Giving him some warning and room to object. Any fight that broke out between the two camps would only leave both sides too hurt to accomplish anything.
    â€œFlint and stone and a handful of tinder. Our own bedrolls and skins.” He shook his own. Empty. Well, snowmelt served almost as well. “We’ll take enough food for one good meal. We run down the raiders, and recover our own stores, or we die trying.”
    By Kern’s taking such a small bite out of what was left, Cul would not have to raid so heavily into the village stockpile. More lives might be spared.
    Not that Cul appeared ready to accept anything like a compromise. His hands clenched, no doubt itching for the cord-wound hilt of his sword. But not even the chieftain could compel clansfolk to stay against their will. He knew he didn’t have the steel behind him—not anymore—to prevent the others from taking more, should they demand it.
    â€œTake it and be damned,” he growled. “Follow this whelped creature from your village?” He glared at the other man, dark gaze challenging Kern. “You are night-born, Wolf-Eye, and you’ll be the death of them all. Take your spoils and chase off after the rest of the raiders, then. But don’t you ever cross my path again.” He ground each word between clenched teeth. “Not ever.”
    Kern knew enough to take a victory, however marginal, when he could. He nodded. The others set to collecting their own gear quickly. Ehmish brought Kern his bedroll. He slipped his improvised sling over one shoulder and carried the battle-axe in his other hand, gripping it at the balance point of the haft.
    He couldn’t help putting in a word of support for the rest of his lost village. “Do right by them, Cul. Do right by Burok.”
    â€œWinter take you, Wolf-Eye! I’ve never done otherwise.”
    Perhaps. To Kern, it hardly should matter anymore. He breathed deep, tasting the warm flavor of the burning greenwood and the crisp freshness of the night air both. The firelight danced around the clearing, casting shadows into the craggy faces of those who stood or crouched, watching him as they might a dangerous animal stalking the edge of the flames. He shuffled back slowly, never dropping his lupine gaze until he had stepped far enough away from the fire to taste it no longer. Only a light scent remained, burned down into his poncho and cloak, clinging to his frost blond hair.
    Then he turned and trotted into the darkness with the others stringing along behind.
    â€œHow long to camp?” Reave asked, moving up on Kern’s side.
    â€œNo camp. The Vanir won’t get caught