Free Blood of Wolves by Loren Coleman Page B

keep moving.
    He hefted his shield up to cover one shoulder, and gestured with his sword ahead. “Now let’s go tell him.”

7
    THE SURVIVORS HAD used weighty evergreen branches to sweep away most of the snow from within a small circle of trees. Those branches now crackled with forced enthusiasm on a medium-sized blaze set in the clearing’s center, throwing angry, short-lived sparks into the night and piling up pungent smoke that tasted both warm and salty.
    Kern squatted outside of the fire’s warmth, barely within the flickering pale of its light. He wore his tattered poncho and winter cloak again, having recovered his castoffs after the battle. Broadsword strapped across his back. An abandoned war axe resting head down on the ground in front of him and both of his large hands wrapped tightly about the handle. Uncertain and angry gazes—at times both at once—always found him waiting. He might not be part of the clan any longer—once cast out, never returned—but he wasn’t going to be easily run off either.
    Though Cul looked ready to try at a moment’s notice.
    Cul’s proud chin had a nasty cut slicing up toward the right corner of his mouth, and his hair, matted with blood, stuck against one side of his head. He paced with relentless energy and had a feral rage kindled in his eyes, matching the fire in intensity. The warrior in him no doubt wanted to chase after the raiders. The chieftain knew his duties better. And his debts.
    â€œShare the fire, Wolf-Eye.” His voice was little better than a harsh growl. “You’ve earned that, at least.”
    As any stranger would, who lent aid to the clan.
    â€œThat, ’n’ more,” Reave groused. The hulking giant and one of the women dug through what was left of the stores. His sword lay within an arm’s reach, still bared and bloodstained.
    Kern remained where he was, the rogue on the outside of the pack. He wanted no illusions in the way. And he didn’t want some of these men at his back, either.
    Twelve left. Twelve of the twenty who had started out from Gaud. He looked at the nearby sled, with Burok’s body still waiting for its final rest at the Field of the Chiefs. Three more bodies lay stretched out on the cold ground next to the old chieftain. Jurga, one of Cul’s most stalwart men. Oscur and Agh, both old enough to make the journey but too young to have stood against seasoned Vanir. Three dead, and four others missing.
    And one exiled.
    â€œWell?” Morne finally asked of Reave and Desagrena. He held a wad of bloodstained cloth against the wound in his shoulder.
    Kern had already weighed the stores by eye, measuring them against the day’s journey ahead to get up to the northern valley. And home. There wasn’t enough. At least five packs had disappeared, along with the four missing. Along with Daol and Maev!
    â€œSix, maybe eight days,” Desa told them all, returning to the fire, shouldering her way between two of the men. She had a lithe body, not as hardy as most Cimmerians, but was known to be lightning quick and full of a summer storm’s fury when angry.
    â€œNot enough,” Cul said, stating the obvious. He rubbed at his jaw, winced. “Morne, you will run for Gaud at first light. Bring back Croag, and Hydallan. And more from the winter stores.”
    And starve another four or five clansfolk before winter finally broke and spring allowed for new foraging? Kern rocked himself to his feet, dragging the heavy war axe with him. “And what about Daol?” All they had found was a broken hunting bow and a raider with an arrow through his neck. “Maev and the others?”
    Cul stopped his pacing. “Weren’t you here, Kern? Vanir! Two dozen at least.”
    â€œSeemed like more,” Aodh said, hunched down on one side of the fire. He poked into the embers with a stick. A voice from the other side whispered, “Aye.”
    Two dozen