Blood of Wolves Read Online Free

immediately, tightening against the chill. He felt it most in his groin, behind the knees, and in his armpits. Grabbing his Cimmerian kilt—the heaviest one, dyed red with tribal sworls stitched into it and trimmed with the shaggy hide of a mountain ram—he wrapped it about him from abdomen to knees, belting it in place with a wide strap of leather and brassy gold buckle. Fur-trimmed boots yanked on next. Then a tattered leather poncho—lighter than his winter cloak, adequate for stomping around the village.
    Also, when he took a swing at the person pounding his door, he wouldn’t care if it got damaged.
    Balling one hand into a meaty fist, he pounded his side of the door, once, in warning, then slid back the thin crossbar holding the ramshackle entry closed.
    Yanking the door inward, he stepped forward and glared into Reave’s brushy, black beard.
    His friend stood a full hand’s spread taller and had the shoulders of an ox; with his fur cloak wrapped about him, warding off the chill, at a distance he could easily be mistaken for one of Cimmeria’s great black bears. He wore two gold hoops, taken off a Vanir raider he’d killed, one in each ear. His eyes were pale blue, like ice frozen over still ponds, yet they reflected more emotion than the usual Cimmerian bothered to show.
    Now, Reave looked sorrowful, which was an uncertain expression on the Gaudic giant. One he was not used to wearing. Anger and annoyance fitted him better. Or laughter, around lodge fires and drinking games.
    Kern could only think of one thing to bring Reave at his door so early.
    Burok Bear-slayer.
    He glanced down at Reave’s hand, the one not held up to pound further for Kern’s attention, and saw blood drying on thick fingers. And there were other villagers straggling by on the muddied, frozen path behind Reave, their forms little more than shadows in the dim light and the thin curtain of frosted fog draped across the village, all heading toward the lodge.
    â€œLast night?” Kern asked.
    Reave nodded silently.
    Waving Reave ahead of him, Kern reached back into his cramped hut, grabbed a thin belt with a long knife sheathed in its scabbard. He strapped this on as he walked, settling it lower than his kilt belt and angling the knife over his left leg for easy reach. He caught up as the larger man waited for a trio of hobbled cattle to shuffle across the frozen path, released early from huts or homes where they had provided warmth through the night.
    Cattle were wealth to the clan in more ways than milk and meat. Kern did not care for the way their bones showed so plainly under their hides.
    â€œDaol went for his da,” Reave said, finally breaking his silence as they began walking again. His voice was a deep rumble, as if it had been dredged up from great depths. “Cul roused most of the village. Saw you weren’t ’round yet.”
    Of course Cul was beating down doors. The right doors. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time on me.”
    Reave only shrugged.
    Too late to make a difference regardless. At a quick glance, Kern saw the entire village had to be awake and gathered out front of the lodge. Men, women, and children. The elderly. Even Old Finn was up, hobbling forward on the forked branch he used as a crutch when his gout was bad. All were bundled in their cloaks and warmest blankets, standing a silent vigil, their breath rising above them in a halo of steam. A baby began to fuss, but was silenced when its mother pinched shut its nose, forcing it to choose between crying and breathing. Wailing babes had no place there.
    Daol had already shoved his way toward the front with his father, Hydallan, who wore the peaked rabbit-fur hat his son had made him and so was easy to spot in the crowd of silhouettes. Reave bulled his way forward as well. Several villagers stepped aside for the strapping clansman. A few others, noticing Kern in his wake, shuffled away farther still.
    Cul