“My eyes heal, Kern Wolf-Eye. You are a shadow today. By month’s end, I’ll know you again on sight. Sláine Longtooth would not wait, but I will no longer exist on the generosity of Clan Callaugh. Outcast.”
Kern did not need to take a poll of his warriors. There weren’t any he knew of who had not formed at least a base of respect for Gard Foehammer when he’d been the protector and champion of Clan Cruaidh. And all of them, as well, had known the burn of being cast out or casting themselves out away from their clan and homes.
And for that, he would give Gard the same chance as any.
“You keep up. Or you will be left behind.”
He started to turn away, but Gard stepped forward, trailing one hand along the horse’s flank and laying the other on Kern’s arm. “And the Aquilonians?” the warrior asked, reminding Kern of their request.
If the horsemen had asked out of convenience or out of carelessness, he would have refused them. But it had meant something to them, to know that Kern and his warriors had stood for their kin against Vanir raiders. More, apparently, than the fact that Kern had come against Grimnir and lived.
He nodded. A curt dip of his head.
“But if the horses fall lame, we’ll butcher them for meat and move on without trouble,” he said, speaking to Gard rather than the cavalry officer. As if he were putting the wounded clansman in charge. Which he was. “Make sure they understand that.”
It was the Aquilonian who answered. “I understand, Wolf-Eye.”
Kern ignored him. Found Daol and Hydallan then, and with a glance sent them to scout the southern trails out of Callaugh Glen. Ehmish adjusted his pack and set out after. Then Ashul and Aodh and Wallach Graybeard. Old Finn after them, in a hobbling trot.
The others staggered off at their own pace.
“Make sure they understand, we march from sun’s rise to set.”
“I can hear you, Kern.”
Of course they did. But they were also outsiders. Not of any clan. And Kern trusted them not at all.
Which was what he wanted Gard Foehammer to understand.
“I will tell them,” Gard said. Then slapped the side of the tall beast and set off after the others with his pike as a walking staff and his head constantly turning from one side to another, picking substance from shadows.
Kern did not wait to see if the horsemen followed or not. Short sword belted at his side and his bedroll wrapped up into a traveling sling, tied with a length of short rope, he moved off as well. And a tight knot formed around him as Nahud’r and Reave and Desagrena packed up around him.
He didn’t look back once, in fact, until reaching the crest of the hillside trail leading up and out of the bowl-shaped glen. And then it wasn’t to see if the horsemen followed or not, though they did. He saw them picking their way slowly up the trail, letting the horses meander at their own pace. And back behind them, he saw a few people still waiting. Still watching. Daol’s woman. A couple of others.
But no final glimpse of Ros-Crana.
Just as well. He was quit with the northwest territories. And the chances of his ever seeing her again were slim. His days of clan and kin were behind him now. So he turned his attention southward, to the trail and what they would find ahead.
And his wolves slipped away from Callaugh Glen.
7
THE HOWLS BEGAN near false twilight, as rain-swollen clouds turned greenish black, and the easterly winds picked up, piling the hard cloud cover against the western edge of the Teeth, and Ben Morgh.
Five days.
Five days slogging through mud with only a rare sight of the dire wolf. Tracks in the rain-softened earth. A blur of silver-gray against spring’s fresh green and occasional blood spoor where the animal had made a fresh kill. Though at night, for those who looked, Frostpaw could be found skulking at the far edge of the campsite, bright, golden eyes reflecting back the cooking fire. Drawn by the light, and the green smoke, and the scent of cooking meat.
Kern always looked.
By then even the horses had grown less skittish with having a predator so near, the horsemen soothing their animals with practiced ease. Only Valerus, the Aquilonian Kern had helped save, bothered to remark on it one night.
“It has never attacked you?” he asked. Glancing back over his shoulder, searching for the firelit eyes as if worried the dire wolf would be creeping up at his back. “Or your—” He stopped, remembering the Cimmerians were no horsemen. “Any of you?”
Kern slowly chewed on a sliver of rabbit meat, drawing out the taste to trick his stomach into believing he had eaten more than his small ration of meat. Moving hard and fast, Daol did not have much time to track and to hunt. The group would stretch their supplies to last as long as possible.