Stormbringer: Book 2 of the Wyrd

Fifteen

They crashed sometime just before the dawn. Figuratively speaking, even if Sigmund's dismount from Sleipnir's back had been less than elegant. He'd been lying on a damp mat of moldering leaves and spine-cracking roots when it'd occurred to him he'd brought absolutely nothing useful for a long hike across the country.

"Fuck."

They were in some creepy-ass forest. Full of gray, twisted trees more hung with beards of moss than leaves. A low mist rolled along the ground, roots winding and protruding and cracking through the halfhearted path and, all in all, Sigmund thought the placed looked like a film set for a particularly unsubtle horror movie. He half expected zombies or cannibals to come lurching out of the shadows.

If they did, he'd let them come. His ass ached. And his back. And his legs. And his balls. Fucking hors— er, quadrupedal sentient jötunn. Sigmund just wasn't a natural at riding, and this was a pretty tough introductory lesson.

"I didn't bring any gear." No copper sword, no battered buckler. No hemp rope or torch or mining pick. Not even a kitten. Just his phone, and wallet, and keys, for gods' sakes. Because obviously.

"I . . . um. I'm going to try and grab some sleep? If that's okay?" Sigmund peered up, as much as his aching bones would let him, just in time to see Sleipnir nod.

"Cool."

There didn't seem to be anywhere more comfortable to lie, so Sigmund wriggled until the minimum number of pointy objects were jutting into his back. Somewhere, down below the pain, his heart began to ache.

"Y'know, the last time I roughed it in the bush was with L— er, your mum." Back before Sigmund had Known-with-a-capital-K about Lain. Back before they'd been dating, even. When it'd just been Lain flirting, and Sigmund stumbling his way through the attentions, trying to figure out what they meant. What he wanted them to mean.

Then he'd fallen off a cliff, and Lain had saved him, and they'd had their first real heart-to-heart huddled on some rocks in the middle of the Járnviðr Bleed, while giant spiders lurked overhead. (Lain had only confessed to the spiders recently. Sigmund wished he'd never bothered.)

Sigmund hoped Lain was okay. Because Sleipnir was nice and all, but he wasn't Lain. Wouldn't throw himself down next to Sigmund on the ground, limbs spread out all over Sigmund's space, feathers tickling Sigmund's cheeks and nose. Lain, who smelled like loam and woodsmoke, and whose skin was warm and soft and crisscrossed with jagged scars and Jesus man that's Sleipnir's mother think about something else you perv.

Ahem. Right.

Sigmund opened his eyes. And if Sleipnir was standing some distance away, peering out into the forest, surely it was because he was, like, keeping a lookout. Not because he was horribly embarrassed by Sigmund's inappropriate thoughts.

Stupid Wyrdborn and their stupid mind-reading.

Cheeks flushing, Sigmund pulled off his glasses, rolled onto his side, and tried to get some sleep.

* * *

It was some really fucking uncomfortable sleep. But not nearly as uncomfortable as waking up to a face full of arrow.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Ekki hreyfa!" came a voice from somewhere behind the broadhead. Male, but, sans his glasses, the only other things Sigmund could make out in the blur were blobs of brown and gray.

"Um, hi?" His voice was thready, breath racing and heart hammering because holy fuck there was an arrow in his face and he could die, literally die, and, "I come in peace?"