Blood of Wolves by Loren Coleman Page B

bedding down so close to people they raided. In case we do come after them. They’ll move through the night. So will we.”
    â€œWe can’t see well enough to run through the dark.”
    Kern glanced sidelong at his friend. Even under the fog-shrouded moon, he knew his eyes would be noticeable. “I can,” he reminded the other man.
    Reave hesitated, then nodded. “Right.” He shrugged aside the concern as if it had meant nothing. “A man could wish for a few torches to light, though.”
    Next in line, Desa overheard. “Wouldn’t if we could,” she pointed out. “If they spot us coming, we’re dead.”
    â€œWe’re dead anyway,” Reave muttered. Not that such dark thoughts kept him from falling into line behind Kern.
    Kern ducked a thin branch, which whipped at Reave’s face instead. Trotting along, he looked for the trampled snow that would lead them after the Vanir. See them coming . . . Something about that idea sparked a thought in Kern’s mind.
    It was something else for him to chew on, as his pack ran through the rest of the long night.

8
    MORNING BROUGHT BROKEN skies and an occasional glimpse of the sun, a welcome rest from the heavy overcast which usually socked in Conall Valley for the winter. A light breeze wandered around with very little interest. Crisp and fresh. Not the cold sweep that usually came down off the higher peaks. Optimistic thrushes and a few chuckers danced in the highest tree limbs, calling for spring, but still no new buds on the trees or new grass peeked up through the white blanket.
    Sunlight, when it was there, glittered against the frost-crusted snow like a thousand tiny jewels. It brightened the harsh landscape and stabbed daggers into the eyes of the Gaudic rescue party whenever they looked too far ahead.
    Head down. Eyes on the trail. Kern knew that to do otherwise risked snow blindness. Painful eye strain at the least. Still he shaded his brow more often than necessary to gaze ahead. Once he thought he caught glimpse of the dire wolf, still stalking his trail. Or a dire wolf, anyway. But he didn’t worry with so many blades at his side. Instead, he searched for any sign of a Vanir rear guard.
    Before the Vanir caught sign of them.
    North and east the trail led them. Perhaps a touch more east than north, but the raiders held a fairly straight line of march right up to the foot of the Snowy River country. The white-capped highlands loomed very close, standing above sheer cliffs like clouds settled permanently over the mountains. A steady trail to follow, heading north. Also home to Clan Galla, the mountain nomads of Cimmeria, with their wild, primitive living.
    The trail was fresh. By midday it showed signs that the raiders could not be far ahead. A quarter day? Less?
    The strength of Kern’s small group was beginning to wane, however, with lack of rest and food catching up with them while the raiders gorged on fresh horseflesh. Kern’s meager scraps had been passed out, and the last strip of hide between his teeth all but chewed down into tattered leather.
    Then the trail split into two.
    At the site of a new rest camp, next to a bloodstained clearing. Even Kern, who had seen a similar slaughter the day before, also worried first for the lives of the captured Gaudic clansfolk upon seeing the scarlet-slashed ground. No bodies to be found, though, after running off a few black crows who protested with raucous caws. Just the stink of animal offal and the metallic taste of blood and the ransacked carcass of another horse. This one so hastily butchered that the Vanir had left large chunks of meat on the discarded bones and good strips of flesh and fat.
    Did the raiders know they were pursued? Or were they merely wary of it?
    No time for a fire, and Kern wouldn’t risk the smoke being seen even if there were. The ravenous pack fell on the gibbets and shards of horseflesh left behind. The meat had a bitter,