Rebecka Evertrue's Arc

Chapter 52 of 66

Rebecka dragged the three bodies off the coast road and into the ditch. She pulled her arrows free and wiped them on the woman's cloak. Four dead now on this road, counting the lamp-hut work. One rider left at the milestone with fresh horses. She meant to be there before he stopped waiting. She stepped back onto the road and the bow hummed low against her palm. Not a target lock. A warning she had learned to trust. The compass in her jacket warmed, then went hot. She pulled it out. Six dots moved fast up the coast road from the south. Not riders. The dots ran close to the ground and spread wide across the verge. Carrion wolves. The blood on the leaves had called them. She had killed too many in one place. She counted her arrows. Four. Not enough for six wolves and the milestone rider both. If she stayed here to fight, the last rider would hear the noise, mount, and be gone before she reached him. If she ran for the milestone, the wolves would pull her down on the open road. She stepped off the road into the birch and pressed her back to a trunk. She turned the wolf pendant at her throat between two fingers. Storm's grandfather had put a talisman like it on Storm's wrist the night he died. Storm had given hers to her the winter after her father passed. He had said only, "Call once. Don't call twice." She pressed the pendant to her mouth and said his name. The wolves crested the rise. Six of them, ribs showing, mouths black with old kill. The lead wolf caught her scent and turned into the birch. Something came down the ridge behind her fast and quiet. She did not turn. A black wolf the size of a horse broke past her shoulder and hit the lead carrion wolf in the throat. Storm Nightwolf took two of them before the pack understood what had come. Rebecka put arrows into two more. The last two ran south and did not stop. Storm stood over the bodies, red eyes on her, chest working. He did not shift back. He tipped his head once toward the coast road, north, toward the milestone. Go. "The rider," she said. "Fresh horses. He'll bolt when I show." Storm ran. She followed at the best pace her legs would give. She found the milestone in gray light. Storm had already been there. The rider lay in the grass with his throat opened. Two saddled horses stood tied to the post, calm, waiting for a signal that would not come. Storm was gone back up the ridge. Rebecka took the reins of the nearest horse. The coast-road network was closed. The quiver still hung at her back, four arrows lighter, and the ridge road home lay open.