Not all the kingdoms are pleased with Bryn’s brother’s decision to allow magic in the Mirien,” Rangar said gruffly. “As the largest kingdom, the Mirien sets the tone for all the others moving forward.”
“Ruma and Zaradona, you mean,” Prince Anter said.
Rangar nodded. “And Dresel. Their spiritual beliefs are staunchly against magic. They’re dogmatic about it. If I had to guess, I’d say they were furious about King Mars’s decision.”
“Furious enough to create berserkir wolves?” Bryn asked.
The table remained silent.
She drew in an unsteady breath. “If that were so, why target the attack on the northern kingdoms instead of the Mirien, their primary enemy?”
“The Mirien is too powerful. Better to attack it from its borders than its capital.”
They continued to mull over the possibilities, and then after supper, Anter handed them torches and led them through a deep system of tunnels until they reached the pit where the berserkir wolf was being kept. He sent for their head mage, and while they waited, Bryn peeked into the pit. Her torch’s light cast a glow over dark gray fur that rose and fell into unnaturally deep slumber. She moved forward more to see the beast’s face, but her foot slipped on the slick rock.
Rangar caught her around the waist a second before she slipped. Gasping, she scrambled back. “Careful,” he breathed against her ear.
Footsteps sounded in the tunnel, and a tall woman appeared in flowing robes. She had neither hair, nor eyebrows, and the torchlight glistened on her bald head.
“This is our head caster, Mage Albia,” Anter said. “She is the one who put the beast to sleep.”
Bryn nodded, feeling the familiar tingle to her skin whenever strong magic was present. The mage signaled to two guards at the edge of the pit.
“Hoist the creature up,” Mage Albia commanded. “And chain it there to the wall.”
The two men climbed into the pit, wrapped a cloth under the enormous animal’s body, and climbed back up. It took their strength, Valenden’s and Anter’s, to raise the beast and drag it to the edge of the cave, where a guard fastened a chain around its neck.
Bryn couldn’t tear her eyes off the creature. This one looked even larger than the ones that had attacked them. Black tears stained the fur around its eyes. Its lips twitched in its sleep over giant incisors.
“Spectra ka daram,” Mage Albia said, tracing a hexmark shape in the air. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the wolf’s eye snapped open.
Chapter 20
BERSERKIR LEGENDS . . . the wolf in the pit . . . memory of orange biscuits . . . old suitors . . . a motive
Bryn gasped and scrambled back into Rangar’s protective arms. “It’s okay,” she breathed. “The wolf just startled me.”
The wolf attempted to push to its feet, but it seemed sluggish from the aftereffects of the sleeping spell. Thick drool rolled from its black tongue.
“Take caution,” Prince Anter advised. “We’ve woken it before. It’s a grumpy devil once the spell fully wears off.”
Though the beast was chained, Rangar moved to stand in front of Bryn as a precaution. Valenden drew his sword for good measure. The wolf’s lips curled back as it let out a low, rumbling growl. Its all-black eyes made it hard to gauge where the wolf was looking—or where it might lunge.
Suddenly, it lurched toward Rangar and Bryn, snapping its jaws. Bryn’s body went instantly on defense, ready to run or fight. But the chain tightened, holding it several feet from where they stood. Its snarls echoed throughout the cave as it relentlessly tried to attack.
“Those eyes,” Bryn muttered, clutching her dress’s neckline. “What would cause such a thing?”
“The tongue is black as well,” Lady Enis said. “There are wild animals with naturally black tongues, but I’ve never seen a wolf with one.”
The berserkir wolf’s vicious growls battered Bryn’s ears. The poor creature strained so hard against the chain that she feared it would suffocate itself. There was something truly unnatural about its bloodlust . . .
But what if it isn’t bloodlust?Bryn thought. The forest villager had suggested that the wolves’ attack on the nearby trapper’s family had seemed calculated, like trained hunting dogs.
“Enough,” Anter said sharply after watching the creature strain against the chain for a few minutes. “Mage Albia, if you will.”
“Spectra ka hypony,” the mage whispered, tracing a different hexmark in the air.
The wolf’s efforts grew strained until it slumped to the cave floor and eventually closed its eyes. Once it remained still, the two guards approached it to remove the chain and lower it back into the pit.
