Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 150(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 150(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
It's a grim prospect. Real goddamn grim.
"Ing, no!" Kara cries suddenly.
I drop my hand to my ímun-laukr, whipping my head toward Ing, only to see him dart off after a rabbit. The rabbit hauls ass across the forest floor, fleeing for his life with the wolf snapping at his heels.
"Ing, stop!" Kara growls, command ringing in her voice.
The wolf reluctantly slows, allowing the rabbit to dart away. Kara rushes forward to meet him. I stride after her, reaching her in time to see her kneeling in a pile of leaves at Ing's side.
"You can't eat my friends, Ing," she says. "They have as much right to exist as you do."
Ing chuffs at her, rolling his eyes.
"Try fish," she says. "Or maybe one of the warriors can bring you something when we get back."
Ing rolls his eyes again, clearly not on board with this plan.
I chuckle, pulling a piece of jerky out of my pocket. "Here," I murmur, holding it out the wolf.
He leans forward to sniff it, and then gives me a disgruntled look.
"Don't look at me that way," I say, chuckling as I read the discontent in his eyes. "The Valkyrie make the rules, and our Valkyrie says we're not allowed to hunt and eat her friends. So we eat this instead."
Ing chuffs again before turning away, his tail swishing through the air. He grumbles once and then wanders off.
Kara looks up at me with wide eyes, fighting laughter.
"I don't even want to know what he said, princess," I mutter, shaking my head as I shove the jerky back into my pocket and hold a hand out toward her. "I can guess."
Her soft laughter echoes around us as I pull her to her feet.
It takes another hour before we near the spot where Ing says his pack ran into the varulv. By the time we arrive, no one is laughing. Our entire group is completely silent.
Ing grumbles and growls, pacing restlessly.
Kara is just as restless, anxiety written all over her face as she watches her four-legged friend.
"What's he saying?" I murmur to her.
"He's just remembering," she says softly. "There was a strange scent in the air, an enemy scent, but I don't think they understood exactly what it meant. I think they thought it had something to do with us, was something we brought into Valhalla. So they ignored it and kept going."
They weren't entirely wrong. The varulv are here because of us. They are something we brought into Valhalla. We just weren't aware they'd come.
"There's a clearing up ahead," she continues. "When they broke through the trees, they realized the enemy scent was all around them. They turned to go back, but it was already too late." She sighs sadly, her eyes locked on Ing. "Poor Ing."
I reach for her hand, twining our fingers together. She clings gratefully, leaning into me.
"How far is the clearing?" Marion asks her.
"I don't think it's far." She consults with Ing for a moment. "He says he could run there from here and not even feel as if he ran." Her brows wrinkle. "At least, I think that's what he meant."
"Right," Marion mutters. "So closeish."
Kara nods doubtfully.
Everyone subsides into silence as we follow behind the wolf. But within a few minutes, the trees begin to thin out. In fifteen, we see the clearing ahead.
No one says a word as we pick up the pace, hurrying toward it.
"Faen," Malachi snarls when we stop at the edge of the clearing. There was obviously a battle here. The grass is trampled. Small trees have been uprooted. Pools and splatters of blood stretch from one end of the clearing to the next.
But there are no bodies.
Kara sinks her hands into Ing's fur, offering comfort as he chuffs mournfully. Damrion, Dax, and I stride forward, leaving Malachi with Ing and the Valkyrie. We check every inch of the clearing. Dax even checks the woods on the other side.
Ing's packmates are gone.
And judging by the trial of bloody pawprints leading away into the trees, they weren't dragged or carried. They walked away.
"The varulv have turned the vargúlfr," Damrion says, his voice soft, almost mournful, as if a great tragedy has struck Valhalla. And I suppose it has. For millennia, the wolves have lived in peace, left alone save when called by Odin. And now, one of the last few touches the God of Gods left on the realms is slowly being eradicated, turned to the Dark without their consent.
That isn't tragic. It's apocalyptic.
"We need to warn every pack left inside Valhalla," Dax says. "They need to know what they're up against."
"Ja," Damrion agrees.
Neither looks particularly hopeful. How can they? Wolves fight with fangs and claws. They are the only weapons the vargúlfr have to defend themselves. And they're worse than useless against this enemy.
Like so much else, the vargúlfr are dying, hunted by the Forsaken. And there's not a damn thing they can do to help themselves.