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

Silverbane

It had to be now. Today. A storm was coming, its chill breath foreshadowed the darkness to come. The pass would close any moment, he'd wasted too much time here. By jaw or by claw, Bayne would be on the right side of that wall of ice by first light tomorrow. With or without his bargaining tool.

But it was more than just the coming storm thickening the air. More than the festering wound of his mountain, bleeding silverbane into the air like a noxious fume. An unnatural stillness infected this valley today. Every bird and beast felt it, too. And they'd had the sense to turn tail. Unlike the little vixen and her silver-grubbing horde below.

Silverbane was nothing to a mowrath. It might blunt their senses somewhat, prolong the inevitable, but it was no deterrent to mature mowraths. And, at last, they were stirring awake. He relished what that meant. After all, he'd been the one to plant them here long ago.

Except, he'd hoped to be long gone by now. For all his patience, the silver fox kept eluding him. If he wanted her, he had to get to her before the mowraths did.

The wild thrash of his pulse filled his ears. He locked eyes with Saska, jerking his head towards the valley. They had one shot to get this right.

Saska bounded over, her tail low and ears back. Blunt, unwargish ears and fur unlike his kith. All a constant reminder of what she was. An outsider. But a useful one.

Her tongue flicked uncertainly over her nose. But she understood. She was the only one who could get close enough. With all the silverbane fouling the air, the three males were at a great disadvantage. Saska's blood was impure. Invulnerable to silver poisoning.

Now or never. His glare shifted back to the fox.

She was distracted, unprotected, and, for once, in the perfect place. Half her horde had departed at first light and, of those that remained, half smelled sick. But all would be dead in minutes.

The south side of the camp was the quieter and the silverbane ache was fainter there. Not that it bothered Saska. All that water in the pit—that wound—lessened the effect of the silverbane. The north side was, however, nigh unbearable even from this distance.

His ears fell back as a bell rent the air. It spurred Saska into a lope down the jagged rocks, her tail whipping as she balanced and leaped. She was a lithe creature, her fur tinged reddish brown. She didn't fit into the landscape at all. Not like the rest of the Ruinik's Hek wargs with their gray and white pelts.

Even the silver fox matched his mountain more than the small warga. The thought irritated him, his jaw clenching.

The seconds flicked palpable down his spine, the countdown like a scratching ache.

Far below, men were crawling out of the ground like insects, their leathers sodden and black. Rot followed them up from the depths, rising like steam in the cold.

He sensed Forx tensing beside him and he turned to see what the other two wargs were glaring at.

Adrenaline zipped through his muscles as he watched a mowrath drag it's roots from the ice to peer, as though with eyes, down from its rocky perch. More and more mowraths began uncoiling themselves. Readying for action.

Forx let loose a wary growl, his fur rolling up along his spine. A natural reaction of one predator to another. But the mowraths ignored them—there was easier prey to be snatched.

Mangart's fretful eyes tracked Saska's descent.

Bayne shifted on his feet. His claws flexed restlessly, glare darting between the fox and Saska.

The warga was silent as a cat, her paws invisible to the stalking mowraths. Like he'd taught her. She was quick and nimble—he'd giver her that.

The human camp was like a hive of discordance and noise—a beacon of vibration and smells. It was they that'd roused death from the ice.