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“Got something here,” Visca said, patting the bundle in her lap. It moved, something inside making a tiny squeak.
Cirri was blinking tears away furiously, her face turned to the side, but even she looked at the bundle with curiosity.
“Found it in the back of a barn. The rest were… y’know. But this one got lucky.” She peeled back the cloak, revealing a tiny, furry face, with big black eyes and a black nose against icy gray and white fur. “They were breeding Forian dogs. Quite literally.”
“A laika,” I said, frowning at the pup. “Used to be common around here decades ago.”
“Right.” Visca scratched the top of its head. “I wish I could say this felt like the main reason they chose Tristone, but I don’t think that’s it. But Hakkon clearly took exception. I think I’ll give it to the houndmaster in the keep, we could use another hunting dog.”
Miro’s mouth twisted. “Keep a Forian dog as a pet?”
“Might as well. Can’t bring myself to throw the poor lad back out in the snow, much as I dislike having anything of Forian make around. Look, he’s got a round little belly.”
My commander pulled the rest of the pup out, tickling what was indeed a very round belly. She handed it to Cirri, who cradled the little animal, stroking its back.
“What happened?” she asked, squinting at my wife’s hand.
Cirri’s face tightened, and I kept it simple. “Found a man in the woods. He killed himself. There was a warg body left.”
Visca clicked her teeth. “Out in the woods, eh? Against orders?”
I’m never going there again, Cirri signed sharply, clutching the pup tighter, and I translated for her.
“That’s my girl. The sooner you leave things alone, the sooner you live to a ripe old age and die peacefully in your sleep.” Visca stood up, dusting off her legs. “Right, back to it, then. Come on, Miro. They’re not going to bury themselves.”
Miro gave the pup a last look and followed her out, and Wyn exhaled, dropping the ladle in the cauldron.
“Well, now that we’re free of inquisitive ears—” She scowled at the tent flap, and I knew she meant Miro, not her wife. “Yes, I found anomalies.”
I exhaled slowly, fighting the churn of anger and sadness in my gut. “Where?”
“The barn was the ritual site. Visca’s going to set fire to it whole. Sloughed skin, nails and teeth… better to torch the lot.”
“How many?” I kept a hand on Cirri’s back as she tensed, though she still petted the pup in a mechanical way.
Wyn sat on the camp chair, smoothing her hair back, picking at a thread in her sleeve. “At least seven.”
“Gods.” I closed my eyes. Seven newborn wargs, born of a ritual of pain and suffering.
My people’s pain and suffering.
“They ate that poor thing’s littermates.” Wyn scowled at the pup. “Ate everyone else. This wasn’t random madness, it was a well-pla
Cirri handed me the pup so quickly I hadn’t even realized she’d already stood up before it was in my hands. She dashed outside, and I heard her being sick on the other side of the canvas wall.
“A moment, please.” I handed the sole survivor to Wyn and went after my wife.
She was wiping her mouth, half-crouched in the snow, her face sickly white. I’m sorry, she signed, and I held her up, took her in my arms.
“Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought you.” I stroked her from crown to spine, slow and soothing. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”
In the distance, there was a thump, a whoosh, and flames leapt above the treetops. A column of black smoke billowed into the air. The barn, the ritual site, soon to be so many smoldering embers.
Cirri looked up at me, her jaw set. What is this ritual?
“I don’t—”
Describe it. Now, please.
“Come back inside.” I managed to lead her back into the tent, out of sight of the burning barn, and resettled her on the chair. Wyn had set the pup in a supplies basket, and offered Cirri a beaten tin cup of tea.
“It’ll settle your stomach,” she said. “Drink up. Not one of us hasn’t turned our guts inside out after finding something like this. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Wyn’s no-nonsense nature seemed to help more than my apologies. Cirri drank, but she gave me an iron-hard stare over the rim of the cup.
“The ritual, then.” I swiveled an ear at a distant shout from Visca, but she was calling for more fuel. “Well.”
“It’s terrible,” Wyn said, scowling grimly as she prepared another cup.
“First, understand that none of us have seen it happen with the wargs.”
Cirri nodded, still drinking. The pup had ambled out of the basket, all wagging tail and bright eyes, and she scooped it into her lap one-handed.
“It… requires death, obviously.” I shifted uncomfortably, the heat of shame and guilt rising in me. The ritual… it was the last thing I wanted to speak of, something far too close to my own past. “A bad death. As much suffering as can be inflicted at once. Blood shed with hatred, tears shed in pain.”
Some of the empty shock had faded from her eyes, and she listened carefully.
“Those are requirements. Without the two, there can be no rebirth. The murder must be committed in a frenzy of rage, with no clear thought. I’ve heard the candidates starve themselves for weeks beforehand, so they’re hungry when the time comes.”
Cirri licked her lips, closed her eyes, and took a deep swallow of tea. She nodded for me to continue when she opened her eyes again.
“Then they must eat. When the blood and tears have been shed, they feed, and if Wargyr has deemed their offering of rage appropriate, they shed their own human skins.”
I knew her thinking look, that distant stare with her brow lightly furrowed.
“Is there something familiar in that?” Please, let her say no… but she had the book in her possession. It was only a matter of time before she translated enough runes to read about the fine details of my kind.
Cirri tilted her head, still petting the pup, and finally shook her head. Nothing definite, she said, her hands halting. But… perhaps something. I’ll dig deeper in the translations.
“See?” I forced myself to smile and squeezed her hand, warmed from the mug. Better by far than the icy, limp feeling she’d had earlier. “You can’t call yourself useless.”
She didn’t smile; she was still staring through the crack left by the door flap, still thinking. But is it going to help? she asked. What does it matter how they’re born, if we can’t stop them?
There was a question there was no answer to.
“It’ll help,” I told her firmly, and then the door opened. Visca poked her head in, soot added to the smears of blood on her face.
“We could use you, Bane,” she said grimly.
I nodded, and touched my wife one last time. Then left her here, on the outskirts of a defeated battlefield, to go bury the misery I’d caused.