Captive Of The Warg, (Wargs of the Outland #2)

Copper Secrets

Reia's eyes darted over the towering mountains that soared all around them. Was it just her restless disquiet or...were they being watched? They were almost to the mine and the feeling intensified with each league covered.

The cold was a dulling pain, biting at her cheeks and lips. The others must've felt it too because nobody spoke much at all.

One of the mules brayed as it stumbled, its wooly pelt shaking precariously under its collar. She flinched, worried its belch of fright might lure a pack of wargs down from their hovels.

What of other monsters?

She raised a wary glance to the gray brume hovering above. She'd heard of aurog's snatching up beasts as large as horses. She misgave herself she could hear the flap of great leathery wings sailing somewhere behind the clouds. With an angry shiver, she forced her eyes ahead instead. They were all armored with nixrath, nothing dared touch them. Nothing hunted them beyond the whiteout. Only the shadows of the mountains could be seen as the blizzard shifted and swirled around the mule train.

She'd wanted to bring her charger. She'd wanted the extra safety of a mounted cohort, but there was nothing out here to sustain the burly warhorses. They had just enough feed to keep the mules strong enough to cart back the silver ore they planned to mine. Still and all, she felt vulnerable out here without her steed, prey to the sharp gazes she sensed ghosting up her spine. She hoped to Maeda it was just her overactive mind. But her inner ungulate was fearful and alert, eyes catching every movement in the snow.

Every shadow and shape, every unnatural silence that chased the birds away, was that giant warg. The burn of its yellow eyes still tingled along her flesh.

Her eyes never left the shifting snow as she knelt to scoop ice into her waterskin. Working fast, she pressed as much through the neck as would fit without pushing out any melted water. Then she stowed the waterskin between her fur coat and thick, woolen tunic. By the time they stopped to rest at midday, it would be melted enough to drink.

She stood up and dusted the snow off her gloves. Movement up ahead caught her notice. Roanstrike veered off to the left with the first blade, Vestor, close behind. She called the cohort to a halt and commanded Flak, the second blade, to keep alert. Then she jogged after the vanishing men, her cheeks tingling as though she'd been slapped. Worse, ignored. Disregarded. Something was afoot, yet the men excluded their Prefect.

When she reached them, she saw that the two dog trackers, as well as her third and fourth blades, were all huddled close, heads together. They were conferring with Roanstrike who crouched close to the ground, gimlet-eyed.

A stab of anger tightened her mouth as she reached them. She wanted to remind her blades, loudly, that Roanstrike wasn't their leader. She was. That he had their respect and she didn't was painfully obvious. Instead, she hardened her voice. "Why have we stopped?"

"Wolf tracks," Roanstrike muttered, shielding his eyes as he glanced up at her.

Cold snapped through her marrow as she hunkered beside him. She could barely see the prints, the snow was falling thick and fast. If they didn't reach the mine soon they'd have to make camp out here another night. But if she gave the order too soon, Roanstrike would shoot her speaking looks that left her in no doubt of how weak and soft he thought her. How inadequate. However, if she waited too long to call it a day they'd condemn her for unnecessary cruelty. The rigors of leadership were already chafing her nerves to shreds...and it was only the first week!

Roanstrike watched her carefully.

She was almost more aware of his glare than the vanishing tracks. "Are you sure these are wolf tracks?" she asked the tracker. The one who was master of the two male dogs. She loathed the other tracker, the one with the pregnant dog.