Blood of Wolves Read Online Free Page A

stood nearest the lodge doors, one of which was stained with several dozen bloody smears, dripping dark fingers toward the bottom edge. Kern did not miss the glance that shot from him to Reave and back again.
    â€œâ€™Bout time, Wolf-Eye.”
    Drawing his knife in answer, Kern sliced quickly and cleanly across his palm, then sheathed the blade. He held Cul’s gaze while letting a small pool of blood well up in his hand, then slapped it forward to smear the door, letting it mingle with the blood of Clan Gaud.
    The last, apparently, as Cul quickly used his own knife to cut the leather bindings that held the door in place. Both Cul and Reave lifted it off the pivots to lay it flat inside the hall, over a pair of benches.
    That was it. Their clan chieftain was dead. Burok Bear-slayer would be dressed, then stitched into a hide sack and laid out on the lodge door. On this he would eventually be carried east and then north, to be buried at the feet of the Eiglophians in the Field of the Chiefs, alongside the other great Cimmerian chieftains, in sight of Ben Morgh and the House of Crom.
    But who would lead that passage, and when, was the decision for the new clan chieftain. Who would be selected that day.
    The way in which Cul and Reave stared at one another, waiting for Burok to be prepared, Kern had no doubt their minds were already on the Challenge.
    Â 
    BY NOON, EVERYONE had prepared.
    Again the entire village turned out, this time to witness the selection of their new chieftain. Every clan and village had its own custom, but common to most the selection of a new clan head was an event to be celebrated. Different from their solemn procession that morning, the Gaudic folk were louder now, even boisterous. They chatted. Some made sideline bets—for favors or chores or on their honor come summer. On a warmer day, or in better times, a keg of ale would have been broken open. Instead, they made do with mint leaves steeped in boiled water and twice-baked bread that had survived the wet and cold months of a Conall Valley winter.
    Chewing the tough crust with little enthusiasm and less pleasure, Kern waited to see what the day brought.
    Reave arrived in kilt and boots and not much else to ward off the clammy touch of fog, which persisted past morning. No cloak to snag or tangle with. Only a thick matting of dark hair dressing his chest and his back. The sword scar he’d taken the year before, raiding one of the southern tribes, stood out waxy and pink across his right shoulder. He still wore the large hoop earrings in both ears, as Kern had suggested. They reminded people that Reave had fought Vanir raiders, and survived, while Cul had only chased off a few scouts.
    A few people cheered his arrival. More sent dark looks.
    The majority of the village went about their own betting and boasting.
    Kern met Reave near the Challenge Circle, an arena staked out with poles festooned with somber strips cut from bloodstained cloths and a bearskin from Burok’s deathbed. He clasped his friend’s right hand between both of his.
    â€œDaol will be on the other side,” he told the larger man. “He’ll step in late, and try to wrestle one of Cul’s supporters out of the circle.”
    Reave grunted, and blew a long draw of frosted breath out through clenched teeth.
    â€œExpect the Tall-Wood brothers to come for you early. They work well as a team.” The previous summer, in fact, they had outwrestled every match the village could put together.
    A nod. And another grunt.
    â€œBy Crom, Reave, will you listen to me?” Kern grabbed his friend by the elbow, turning him around. “Cul’s people are going to work together against you. You have to think faster than them.”
    â€œThinking’s nay my strong suit,” the large man admitted. He punched Kern hard on the outside of the shoulder. “You think for me, Kern. I’ll handle the Tall-Woods.”
    Blowing out an exasperated