It’s not exactly an eloquent warning, but it’s more than enough as we all know from the tales that crows precede a Myrkr. The cold fingers of fear swipe down my spine.
‘Rose, get back on Elska, now!’ Kyor yells.
For once, I obey his command without hesitation, and I hastily climb onto the wolf.
My mouth has gone dry and I shudder as all around us the forest comes alive with the discordant sound of cawing.
Crows. Just like Loch said.
A flock so dense it could cover the sun with their black wings.
Elska lurches into a run. Leaning forward, I clutch my hands so tightly into her fur that my mother’s ring digs into my skin.
Fucking folklore and fairy tales. Vätte. Myrkr. I’m done with the lot of them.
Behind me, Kyor draws his sword. His body is rigid against mine. ‘Keep moving, Els,’ he urges her.
Elska’s muscles bunch beneath us as she powers forward. Her ears flatten to her skull, and she lets out another low, rumbling growl that vibrates straight through my bones.
This isn’t like with the unbounded dire wolves, when the entire forest went silent. Instead, black-winged birds flock from the sky, their multitudinous shrieks and squawks sending out a warning to flee. And we’retrying.
The horses’ hooves thunder over the ground, their terrified snorts pealing through the air, on and on. Yet in my heart I already know the truth. We won’t be fast enough.
We are clustered together and back in the dense thicket of the forest when the temperature drops so sharply I feel it like a blade sliding between my ribs. Our breaths fog the air.
‘Rose!’ Benny warns. ‘Deep breaths.’
‘It’s not me!’ I call back. ‘The cold, it’s not me!’
‘Keep moving!’ Kyor shouts. ‘Don’t slow down!’
The command is easier said than done as the horses and riders struggle through the dense undergrowth. And as we push on, I try to ignore the biting cold that stings my fingers and face.
Maybe itisme, I hope.
And yet as a sound reverberates behind us – a sound that isn’t quite animal and isn’t quite human – all the hairs on my neck stand on end and I know there’s no more running.
They come out of the trees without warning, without a sound. No snarls. No groans. The only noises they make come from the rustling of leaves as they drag their feet towards us. I know I shouldn’t look. I should focus on getting the fuck out of here, but there’s something utterlyoffin the way they move. The way their limbs hang at their sides.
‘Rotting Ones!’ Loch cries, as if any of us were in doubt.
The shambling men are wrong in every way that matters. Not just the manner in which they walk. Their skin is mottled and stretched too tight over bone, displaying a crisscross of blackened veins, while their dull red eyes sit lifelessly in their sockets. Unseeing.
As I draw in a gasp, my throat chokes on the stench that fills the air.It isn’t hard to work out where they get their name – they don’t just look like they’re rotting, they smell like it, too.
Their chests do not rise and fall, I realise with increasing horror. Not just unseeing, but alsoundead.
‘Hate to say this, but they’re behind us, too.’ Caz’s voice trembles.
We’re surrounded, trapped. There’s no way out of this that doesn’t include a fight.
Kyor swears softly under his breath then raises his voice to speak to us all. ‘Don’t waste strikes. Cut off their hands and legs. They won’t react to pain, won’t stop no matter how severe the injury is. And they’re not after the horses – they’re after you. The only thing we can do is immobilise them. Donotlet them scratch or bite you.’
These aren’t the general instructions of a commander going into an unknown battle, I realise.
He’s fought them before. The realisation is like a hammer to my chest. With all the talk of Rottings, not once did he say, ‘Hey, I’ve come up against those guys a time or two.’
It’s another lie by omission, and yet again, I feel a fool.
