Winterskin (Book One of Wrath & Winter)

Past to Present: Part Two

Once I get passed seven, I stop counting the days that I haven't seen him. And my heart hates me for it.

Two weeks into our training at the guardhouse, Hagen announces something that makes all seven of us groan. Though for me, coupled with that groan, is a painful squeeze in my chest.

"Go home, younglings. Take these sacks and pack like you're chaperoning all the way to the Poudourac." Rucksacks about the size and length of Jod, a youngling about the size of an ancient oak, are thrown to us. Some of us catch it. Some of us (see: Jod) must toss his pastry into a ravine to catch his sack.

The part that makes my heart clench: "Eastpost has reported sightings of Scyllah in the forest. Being that in two weeks you younglings will be journeying through the forest on your own, now is the perfect time to learn the lay of the Black. How the terrain shifts under your feet when you take a stance. How the arc of your ax must be shortened if you don't want your blade wasted in the trunk of a tree." She clapped, "Today, you are given leave. Tomorrow, before the sun rises, I expect to see you all ready to depart on the outskirts." Her eyes snapped to me, "The farms. If anyone doesn't know where they are, ask Maeva."

Chuckles surrounded me, laughter that's more forced than funny.

"Get to it!" she clapped again.

Scyllah.

They've reported sightings of Scyllah.

That phrase haunts me from the grocer, to the blacksmith, and all the way back home. I may not have seen Elisedd in weeks, but that doesn't mean the shieldsiblings living on the outskirts, at the high watchtower in the east, haven't seen him. Or, his people.

What could he be doing out there?

I scrub my hand over my face as I enter Gram's cabin and drop my weighed down rucksack near the cloak hooks. She's left something cooking in the pot hanging over the hearth, but I've got no stomach for it. Thankfully, Maddy and Eva are long gone. Probably picking herbs with Gram in the hopes of selling something rare they miraculously find.

Gram. Gram's been in and out of the forest. Speaking to Her, telling Her what's going on in my life. Wouldn't she have told me if Elisedd's people were creeping through the woods? If one vamp already assaulted me, wouldn't she have come face to face with another as well? Or, were they as rare as wild hemlock in winter?

There was no way for me to know. Vamps haven't spewed from the woods in centuries and I wasn't a walking bestiary. Somebody—Gram most like—had to know the truth.

But why would Hagen lie about Scyllah in the woods? Why would Eastpost?

Morning pursued the night relentlessly until purple splotched across the sky and nightingales sang their last, squeaking, song. Rucksack on my back, fur-lined cloak thrown over, I trekked out to the outskirts. Two younglings followed me, apparently not knowing where the outlying farms were.

"Hey, Maeva," the red-headed youngling with a jester's smile, Noel, tapped me on the shoulder, "you've fought a vamp. Think it's any different from killing a knife-ear?"

The insult made me bristle. Made me think immediately of Elisedd—down, bloodied, hovered over by my fellow younglings with saliva dripping from their hackled jowls.

"Doesn't matter." I grunted, the farms within reach. A tall, pillar-like, silhouette standing on the misty horizon. Hagen. Had to be.

I picked up the pace.

"They're just as fast, right? But they don't drink blood."

"They don't fight, neither. That's what my Da says." The one with a horse pendant dangling from his throat said.

"Ah—so if they don't even pick up weapons, it'll be easy!"

"You would kill someone in cold blood?" I spat back at him.

There's a little whisper of silence. I know I've said the wrong thing, but I stick to it. What's uttered can't be swallowed back up. Ma taught me that.

"They poison wells. Burn down cities. Taint crops and cattle." Noel snorted, "Cold blood is too good for em."

"Good riddance." The other spat, passing me. Clipping my shoulder with his. "Jarl calls them terrorists, and that's exactly what they are."

Terrorists.

I could refute it—I know one personally and he is definitely not any of those things—but saying such a thing could end in Gram's home being raided. The girls shackled and Gram burned for what the Guard would undoubtedly find.

So, I remained silent.

Meeting the outskirts, Hagen looked us up and down. Then, peered out at the mist ensconcing the black forest beyond. Baate Noir.

"Look," she said, jutting her chin toward something out in the distance. Something that pierced the fog with fire and glinting light, "they see something out there. And—"

The ground shook. Quaked as if an army of massive boulders rolled from the mountains, only to pockmark the land below.