Jon Sprunk - Shadow's master

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Caim hunched over his hands. With the Eregoths and the Northmen riding all around him, there wasn't much he could say. At this point, does it really matter if they think I'm insane? Probably not, but he wasn't ready to go down that route, as much as it might tickle Kit.

“I don't like these ones.” Kit straddled his horse's neck, which made the animal lift its head and snort. “They aren't like Egil. They're…different.”

“Like Soloroth's wildmen,” Caim whispered, so quiet he could hardly hear his own words. But Kit caught them.

“Exactly. So how are you planning to get out of this?”

He wished he knew.

Kit leaned in close. “You don't have a plan, do you? Caim, these men aren't fooling around. And their leader, that Wulfgrim, is deep-down ugly.”

He knew by her tone that Kit didn't mean physically repulsive. “I'm always careful.”

She shook her head. “Not careful enough by half. If you were, we'd be lying on a warm beach right now instead of trudging through this miserable ice-hell.”

He couldn't argue, but he knew in his gut that he'd still have come here, somehow. The pulling in his soul had begun so long ago, he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't felt it. Caim started to say something when the Northmen all whooped aloud, and the entire party advanced at a snow-churning canter. Small points of light appeared ahead, campfires shining between low, ice-covered tors. Tall men with spears waited for them. They shouted something, and Wulfgrim replied with a lusty yell. The riders cheered.

The camp consisted of thirty-some round tents of stitched hide scattered around half a dozen fire pits. A trampled area between two long hills served as the pasture. The Northmen hobbled their steeds to spikes and unloaded them, leaving the animals to stand in the cold. The supplies were opened, and their contents passed around. Kettles and pans appeared, and food was cooking in short order. As Caim dismounted, a young Northman with a scraggly yellow beard came to take their horses. Malig started to growl something until Dray slapped him on the shoulder.

“Southlanders!” Wulfgrim waved them over as he sat by a fire. “You are my guests!”

Caim looked to the others and nodded, and they made their way over to the leader. There was no place to sit except in the snow. Caim eased down onto his cloak. Wulfgrim took off his helm and laid it beside him. The lion head crowning the headpiece was gigantic; the beast must have been as big as a pony. The chieftain rummaged a tarnished silver cup out of a sack and poured into it some milky drink from a huge skin bladder. After a healthy dose, he passed it to Dray, who sniffed it and then took a swig.

“You.” Wulfgrim pointed at Caim. The long scar down his cheek glowed angry red in the firelight. More scars marked his powerful arms. “Why are you here? Southlanders do not come to the wastes. Maybe trade down by the mountains, but not so far north.”

Caim waited to take his turn with the drink before he spoke, and almost choked on the thick, clotted stuff that filled his mouth.

“Buffalo milk,” Wulfgrim said as Caim struggled to swallow it. “Mixed with mare's blood.”

Caim passed it on to Aemon. Despite its nasty taste, the liquor heated his insides and made his hands tingle. “We've sold our swords all across the Southlands, as you call them. We came north to find better sport.”

Wulfgrim refilled his cup. “More sport? Ulfric, come hear these southerners who speak of war as if it's a game.”

A big Northman glanced over from another fire, blood wetting his beard as he chewed on a half-cooked hunk of meat. “Tal hundr skyrf na vurd.

Wulfgrim laughed. “He says you look like a pack of hairless dogs.”

“A dog, am I?” Malig asked, loud enough to be heard throughout the camp.

Malig started reaching for his axe, but Caim yanked his arm down and hissed, “Keep quiet. This isn't a country fair.”

The chieftain chuckled and took another deep gulp. “Do not mind Ulfric. He lost his heart to a Southland beauty some years ago and misses her still.”

A woman came over with spits of steaming meat for each of them. Kit sniffed it and shrugged, which Caim took to mean it wasn't poisoned or carrying some infection. He noted there weren't many females with the tribe, and even the young ones looked hard-used. He saw why when a Northman at another fire grabbed a woman passing by and threw her down on the cold ground. He climbed on top of her without preamble and began pumping away. None of the other Northmen paid much mind to their grunting, although Malig watched with a wide grin. “I could do with a piece of that.”

Dray flicked a piece of gristle into the fire. “Watch out, Mal. These she-lions are like to bite off your member and cook it in a stew.”

Caim glanced at their host, but Wulfgrim grinned, revealing horizontal furrows carved into the fronts of his teeth. The others set to their meals with gusto, but Caim took small bites of the tough meat. When the milk-skin came around again, he passed it without drinking. Aemon, too, was abstaining, and he didn't touch his food. At least someone is keeping his head on straight.

When he finished his meal, Caim wiped his greasy fingers on his pants. “Wulfgrim, why do you war on the Bear tribe?”

Wulfgrim spat a mouthful of liquor into the fire, making the flames sizzle. “The Night swallow their souls, every last one of them. We war, yes. We kill every one we find. Austrivegr bjern foera hel!”

Caim didn't understand the last part, but the other Northmen responded with laughter and catcalls.

“A blood feud,” Dray said with a belch as he lowered the bladder from his mouth.

“Aye.” Wulfgrim patted the axe by his side. “When my father was chieftain, our lands could not be crossed in a week's time on horseback. The other tribes feared to test our steel. Then came the Dark. The sky turned black, and the Fates fixed us with an evil weird. Now the Bear tribe rules over the wastes.” He tossed a hunk of gristle into the fire.

Caim considered the Northman over the flames. He wasn't as simple as Kit had made him out to be. Caim could understand Wulfgrim's fight to preserve the power and dignity of his people. “If we go north,” he said, “will we encounter more of these Bear tribesmen?”

Wulfgrim's eyes were slits through the smoke. His lips were thick and red amid the greasy curls of his beard. “Aye. They have grown strong under the Dark One's wing, but that will not protect them when we come.”

Caim frowned. Keegan's father, Hagan, had mentioned a dark lord of the north. And then there was the man he'd seen in Sybelle's vision. But before he could ask more, Wulfgrim stood up. He towered over them like a primeval giant. “Sleep. In the morning we will talk more.”

And then he walked away into the gloom.

Malig clucked his tongue. “He's a little off, eh?”

“You could say that,” Dray said as he accepted the bladder back. “But fuck, these Wastelanders make good firemead. You taste that little something in there? Maybe cloves. We should get their recipe.” He squirted another long gulp into his mouth.

Caim leaned forward. “Are you three clear-headed enough to think?”

Aemon looked up from the campfire. “I haven't touched a drop.”

“I know, but you've been in a fog since we left that last town. I need you here.” Caim's gaze wandered across the tents and other fires. “I don't know what they're planning to do with us, so keep your wits about you and your weapons at hand. We'll sleep in shifts. If anything happens, stay together and try to get to the horses. Aemon, you have first watch.”

Dray eyed the bladder. “Hey, what if they poisoned the milk?”

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