Tara Runeweaver's Arc

Chapter 25 of 29

Inside the tent, the midwife pressed warm cloths to Tara's belly and worked her hands in slow circles. Outside, a long howl rose from the trees. Then another, closer. The white wolf had come. Tara heard the warband's boots stop in the snow. She heard their breath catch. A voice muttered the word sorcery. Through the tent flap she saw the bone arch of the gate against the dark. The wolf passed beneath it once, twice, then circled wide around the camp. Its paws had worn a track in the snow, a ring of crushed frost that glittered like crystal in the torchlight. Each pass tightened the men's faces. Each howl shook a hand on a spear. Bjorn stood where she had set him, gripping the tall warning post outside their tent, leather straps creaking under his fists. He did not leave his place. But his men were drifting toward their weapons. Tara felt the next pain rip through her and knew the wolf's song was making it worse for everyone. She caught the midwife's wrist. "Help me to the flap. Just the flap." The midwife held her up. Tara leaned into the cold air and lifted her open palm toward the moving shape between the bones of the gate. "He is mine," she said, loud enough for the closest warriors to hear. "He sings because I sing. Let him pass." The wolf stopped at the frost ring's edge. It looked at her. Then it lay down across the worn track and went quiet, head on its paws, guarding. The men lowered their hands. One by one they sat. Bjorn's knuckles eased on the post. Inside, the midwife laid Tara back on the furs and pressed again. Under her hands, slowly, the child began to turn.