Desa started to smile, but it faltered. “What do we tell her?” she asked. “When Ros-Crana notices it missing?”
He was already walking away from the building, with its stench of disease and lingering death. “Get Ehmish and Finn out of that cellar. Set a tent if needs be. Find the others, Reave. Tell them to gear up and pack heavy. Everyone meets at the lodge tonight. Everyone is on the march tomorrow.”
Then he stopped and half turned back toward the others. His golden eyes searched every face, looking for any hesitation. Any question. He found none.
“You tell her I have it,” he said.
3
ROS-CRANA SUSPECTED KERN’S return before she ever visited the infirmary lodge. Even in a village of decent size, as Callaugh was, it didn’t take long for different rumors of the wolf-eyed man—a Ymirish!—to find its chieftain.
And when she saw Reave talking with Desagrena, she knew for certain.
Reave sat on a three-legged camp stool next to a pair of recently pitched tents, stripped naked to his waist. An old, waxy sword scar crossed his right shoulder and trailed down into a thick tangle of chest hair. He gnawed on a strip of dried beef while Desa stood behind him and used a sharp dagger to hack away rough handfuls of his long, curly hair, tidying it up at shoulder length. His face was flushed pink and healthy, where it showed above his brushy beard, and his hair was still damp.
Desagrena had tied her own hair back into a ponytail, except for a wisp or two that stuck to her forehead. The two spoke in low tones, careful of others who walked past, following them with suspicious eyes.
Always strangers, even when surrounded by friends—those were Kern’s warriors. His wolves.
Her approach was direct. Two warrior bodyguards of Reave’s large size followed behind her, swords always naked in their hands as they watched their chieftain’s back. She waved them away, however, as she walked up to speak with the two valleymen. These two were allies, if not friends.
And distant kin, at least in Reave’s case, if not allies. She had spotted long ago a resemblance in the deep lines of his face, his craggy brow, that told of shared blood. She had not been surprised to learn that his mother had been taken in a raid against Clan Conarch. And there was something in his glacial, pale blue eyes, the way he focused so intently on one thing at a time, that reminded her of Narach, her brother.
It counted for little, all things considered, but better than nothing.
Ros-Crana carried a war sword tied across her back and a spear in hand as she walked up. Just as she had as war leader. Before her brother’s death. She saw Reave had already truce-bonded his own greatsword, a courtesy Kern insisted upon from his people. It leaned up against the entrance to one of the tents, a thin cord of leather tying it into the sheath.
She was not required to reciprocate. But she did reverse her spear and ground the head out of respect, and some small pleasure, at seeing the large man again alive. It was a pleasure that came very rarely in the last year.
“You made it back?” she asked, when neither of them offered her greeting. “All?”
Reave lowered the beef strip. Swallowed. “We did. And there are Vanir who wish they could say the same about many of their number.”
She had already counted an extra earring on his left ear, which fit with reports that Kern and his small crew had run into more raiders. A few dozen, total, some said. Dozens at a time, said others. Kern Wolf-Eye had become a favorite for fireside tales and village scuttlebutt. His every move was watched by many and often exaggerated to the point of not-believing.
Except she had already seen Kern do amazing things and was often ready to err on the side of the fantastic.
“Where is he?” she asked.
But the large man merely shrugged. Desagrena’s mouth was a thin, hard line. “He’ll be found when he wants to be found.”
Most other times, their cautious loyalty to the outcast leader would be admirable. But now Ros-Crana wanted answers. She reversed her spear, raising the blue-iron tip overhead. She had come to them at no casual expense of her time. She would not be treated rudely. One swipe. One thrust. Her bodyguards would be down on them before Reave could loose his greatsword. Probably.
All friends, she reminded herself. Allies. At least.
“He left no other message?”
“Sure and he did.” Reave took a bite. Chewed. “Said to tell you that he had it.”
Both of them obviously expected her to ask what “it” was. The desire was written on Desa’s face. Reave didn’t take as much delight in his terse report. In fact, it was as if he’d delivered a specific message and now was content to be done with her.
Ros-Crana nodded, understanding them better than they likely thought, and turned her back on the two, gaze set on the gates to her palisade. She already knew the only thing “it” could be. And after seeing Reave, cleaned up after several weeks hard travel, there were only a handful of places she was likely to find Kern Wolf-Eye as well.