She cried out, and while Bart spun in a full circle on the snowy road, she clung to the saddle horn, barely keeping her seat.
One of the wolves crept low toward them, lips peeled back in a snarl. Bart whinnied and stamped, and Mistel hollered at the creature.
“Get away! Shoo!”
The wolves suddenly froze, ears flicking in the direction from which they’d come. The undergrowth rustled. Leaves shivered. Twigs snapped.
Please don’t let it be more wolves.
A heartbeat later, two riders burst from the trees. The wolves flinched at the sight and, with a snarl, wheeled and darted off in the opposite direction.
Mistel stroked Bart’s neck. The poor horse was trembling more than she was. “Easy,” she whispered. “Easy now.” Bart finally stilled, though his sides heaved and his ears pinned back.
“Identify yourself.” This from a striking, iron-forged figure with a face that had been carved for admiration. His wavy golden hair was partly tied back in a half-knot above his ears while the rest hung longer than her own.
Mercy. Could this be Avenis, the god of beauty, speaking to Mistel in the middle of a snowy prairie? She hoped she hadn’t frozen to death.
Beside the chiseled fortress of a man sat a bald, barrel-chested soldier with a bushy red beard so long and bright it nearly outshone Mistel’s own coppery locks.
She forced her best male voice as she uttered her own surname, which seemed an appropriate title for a man. “I’m called Wepp, cap’n.”
“Why are you following us, Master Wepp?” asked the god of beauty.
His accusation tugged her heart up into her throat, though she was relieved to see both wore Tsaftown uniforms. “I mean no harm, cap’n,” she said. “I’m headed to Tsaftown to visit my sister. Thought it’d be safer to ride in the wake of the formidable Five Hundred than take my chances on my own.”
“Who’s your sister?” Avenis asked.
“Joya Wepp,” Mistel said, quickly spinning the tale she’d planned on the long ride. “I suppose she no longer goes by Wepp, but she never gave me her new husband’s surname. Just said she married last fall, a man called Frix, and now they’re expecting their firstborn. Begged me to come visit, and when I heard the army was headed that way, seemed as good a time as any.”
The stocky man reached over his shoulder and patted a longbow strapped to his back. “You’re lucky we didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.”
Well! Mistel’s fingers tightened around the reins. “Indeed, I’m fortunate there, cap’n. And that you came along when you did. Them wolves looked hungry.”
“What he means,” Avenis said, “is that there’s been trouble in the area. Raiders.”
Mistel shivered at the word. “Och! I’m glad the two of you found me and not a pack of raiders. Not that I’ve anything to steal.”
“You have a horse,” the shorter man said. “And clothes on your back. These raiders are ruthless enough to strip a man to naught but his skin.”
Mistel’s mouth went dry. “Doubly glad to have met you both.”
“I’m Lysander Thane,” the beautiful man said. “This is Cerdic Ironblade.”
“Letsim Wepp,” Mistel said, turning her first name inside out. “But I go by Wepp.” That way, should someone call out “Wepp,” Mistel would at least be inclined to perk up and answer.
“You’re welcome to travel with the army, Master Wepp,” said Lysander Thane.
My, how that name sounded like a song.
“Thank you kindly, cap’n,” she said.
He clicked his tongue, and his large black horse trotted forward on the road. Master Ironblade followed, giving Mistel a thorough going-over with his eyes as he went.
“I’d stick very close,” he said. “A strong wind could fell the likes of you, and I’m not risking my neck to save your scrawny hide.”
Before Mistel could think to hold back, she gasped. Thankfully, the hunx was already riding away with Lysander Thane, so she glared at Ironblade’s bald head and nudged Bart after them.
Did travel with the army mean she could share their food and campfires? Two plus weeks into this escapade, Mistel’s empty stomach clawed at her ribs, her fingers stung with numbness, and every muscle ached from Bart’s hideous saddle and the nights spent curled on frozen ground with only her cloak for warmth. She hadn’t thought to pack a tent—or even a bedroll—and the farther north she traveled, the colder and more miserable the nights became.
