Edge of the Wild (The Drake Chronicles Book 2) by Lauren Gilley

Author:Lauren Gilley [Gilley, Lauren & Gilley, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HP Press
Published: 2021-03-17T18:30:00+00:00

~*~

They must have been waiting for three hours at this point. A man could march or ride or work all day in the grip of a Northern winter, and, if he had the North in his blood, and was properly dressed, he barely felt the cold.

Sitting still was another matter.

Their watch post was, in fact, an actual post: a small, round stone platform with a wooden, slate-tiled roof, set back in the trees, camouflaged them, and offered a view of three of the most-navigable game trails that snaked down like white ribbons from the upper hills. The gaps in the canopy offered enough moonlight that anyone traveling on foot through this part of the forest would have been impossible to miss.

Unless he was using magic, Erik’s brain supplied, unhelpfully.

Beside him, Leif didn’t shiver, but he shifted often, tugging at his cloak, working his hands open and closed inside his gloves.

Another gust of wind rattled the ice in the branches overhead – and brought with it a sound that no wind gust had ever made. The high, piercing cry came from far overhead; it was no hawk shriek.

Erik sat forward, trying to peer up past the edge of the roof. All he could see where snow-heavy branches and a wedge of clear, velvet sky.

The benches on which they were seated creaked as the rest of his party stirred.

“What was that?” someone hissed.

“Spotted cat,” someone else offered.

“Not a cat,” Erik said, gaze dropping to the forest around them. “Shh. Listen.”

The next sound to reach them was much closer, much more mundane, and definitely human. A cough. It went on for several seconds, and then cut off, after a low hiss. Voices traveled strangely amongst the trees, atop a bed of thick, fresh snow.

After a few moments of scanning, Erik spotted them: at the head of a game trail, three figures, moving at a jog, half-crouched, fur-wrapped boots all but silent on the snow. He saw the shadows and glittering tips of the spears they carried; saw backs and shoulders distorted and humped from the heaped-up layers of fur they wore. Their cloaks sported cowls dotted with two small, round ears, and protruding, fanged snouts: bear skulls. Beserkirs.

Erik gave no signal nor spoke no command; they’d agreed on their course of action ahead of time. He stood, and moved soundlessly across the platform, down its other side. Set off through the trees, keeping low, plastering himself to their trunks for cover. He heard Leif behind him, the soft crunch of deep snow, and knew that Magnus and Lars followed. He carried a horn at his hip, but he didn’t plan to use it. If he’d judged this right, he wouldn’t need to.

The game trail led down the hill in a serpentine pattern, a path the deer had carved over many years of tread, avoiding the larger rocks and protuberant roots, seeking the way of least resistance. Even jogging, it would take the men several minutes to make their way down it, long enough

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