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

The Mouth Of Hek

Reia watched the mule train and half the cohort disappear into the ice fog with Roanstrike spearheading the soldiers. Her stomach rolled to watch them go.

She wanted to be the one heading back. Instead, she was forced to weather the cold looks of the men left behind. To endure Fagan's black nose and even blacker looks, knowing she had no allies in her cohort. Even after a fortnight, his nose was still askew—a constant reminder to her and those who supported him.

And then there was the added torture of feeling like a trapped fly as the outland's silent maw slowly closed in around her. Something was off with this place. The last thing she needed was for the cohort to split up.

Yet despite her wants, the freight carts were loaded with nixrath ore. A pall fell over the remaining cohort who watched the others withdraw into the mist. The mules strained at their collars, the traces taught as bowstrings. Their load was nothing to the mournful weight overshadowing the minefields.

Notwithstanding all the times she'd locked horns with Roanstrike the last two weeks, her throat tightened to see him fading from view.

He'd pulled her aside only moments ago and, without preamble, told her to watch her back. At first, she'd thought it a threat, but his face had been grim and he'd shot a troubled glare over her shoulder. He wasn't threatening her. He was warning her.

"What do you mean?" she'd asked, the hairs on her nape stiff. But she knew. She didn't need to hear the whispers. Not when she was confronted daily by speaking looks and abrupt silences whenever she drew near.

His gaze shifted back to meet hers, mouth tight beneath that unruly mustache coated in ice. "I mean what I say, Prefect. Keep alert...and try to make some fucking friends while I'm gone. If you want the men to warm to you, thaw up a bit."

How could she thaw up when her belly was filled with ice? "Roanstrike—"

"I mean it." He'd held her gaze a moment longer, one brow edging minutely upward. "Out here is where honor goes to die and men become wolves." He backed away. "Just watch your back. In a fortnight we'll return with fresh supplies." Then, before she could say anything else, he'd bellowed orders and the cohort had split in two.

Now, as she stood watching the bleak horizon, she felt more alone than ever before. As much as Roanstrike challenged and needled her, his absence was a far more insidious thing.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes pinning Fagan eating gruel by the fireside. He was throwing scraps at Matilda. The other tracker had departed with Roanstrike. Though she wished it otherwise, she'd been left with the worst of the two trackers. After Basil's birth, Matilda still wasn't fit enough for the trek home.

He glanced up at Reia as though he could feel her watching him. She forced herself not to look away even though his wormy glares unnerved her. At length, he finally turned away and she expelled a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. But the fact that he was first to look away was hardly a victory. Not with the grin making his face obscene. It curdled her blood to see it.

"Prefect!"

She turned to see Vestor striding toward her, his face coated in an unhealthy sheen. The first blade seemed agitated and his expression instantly lanced her with dread. "What is it," she asked as he reached her.

"We found another one," he said, his throat raspy. And then he turned away, his chest rattling with a wet cough. A cough that seemed to be getting steadily worse.

"Another body?" Her chest tightened. She didn't need to ask where.

Vestor nodded, catching his breath. He told her anyway. "South zone."