“A dog, am I?” Malig asked, loud enough to be heard throughout the camp.
Malig started reaching for his axe, but Caim yanked his arm down and hissed, “Keep quiet. This isn't a country fair.”
The chieftain chuckled and took another deep gulp. “Do not mind Ulfric. He lost his heart to a Southland beauty some years ago and misses her still.”
A woman came over with spits of steaming meat for each of them. Kit sniffed it and shrugged, which Caim took to mean it wasn't poisoned or carrying some infection. He noted there weren't many females with the tribe, and even the young ones looked hard-used. He saw why when a Northman at another fire grabbed a woman passing by and threw her down on the cold ground. He climbed on top of her without preamble and began pumping away. None of the other Northmen paid much mind to their grunting, although Malig watched with a wide grin. “I could do with a piece of that.”
Dray flicked a piece of gristle into the fire. “Watch out, Mal. These she-lions are like to bite off your member and cook it in a stew.”
Caim glanced at their host, but Wulfgrim grinned, revealing horizontal furrows carved into the fronts of his teeth. The others set to their meals with gusto, but Caim took small bites of the tough meat. When the milk-skin came around again, he passed it without drinking. Aemon, too, was abstaining, and he didn't touch his food.
When he finished his meal, Caim wiped his greasy fingers on his pants. “Wulfgrim, why do you war on the Bear tribe?”
Wulfgrim spat a mouthful of liquor into the fire, making the flames sizzle. “The Night swallow their souls, every last one of them. We war, yes. We kill every one we find.
Caim didn't understand the last part, but the other Northmen responded with laughter and catcalls.
“A blood feud,” Dray said with a belch as he lowered the bladder from his mouth.
“Aye.” Wulfgrim patted the axe by his side. “When my father was chieftain, our lands could not be crossed in a week's time on horseback. The other tribes feared to test our steel. Then came the Dark. The sky turned black, and the Fates fixed us with an evil weird. Now the Bear tribe rules over the wastes.” He tossed a hunk of gristle into the fire.
Caim considered the Northman over the flames. He wasn't as simple as Kit had made him out to be. Caim could understand Wulfgrim's fight to preserve the power and dignity of his people. “If we go north,” he said, “will we encounter more of these Bear tribesmen?”
Wulfgrim's eyes were slits through the smoke. His lips were thick and red amid the greasy curls of his beard. “Aye. They have grown strong under the Dark One's wing, but that will not protect them when we come.”
Caim frowned. Keegan's father, Hagan, had mentioned a dark lord of the north. And then there was the man he'd seen in Sybelle's vision. But before he could ask more, Wulfgrim stood up. He towered over them like a primeval giant. “Sleep. In the morning we will talk more.”
And then he walked away into the gloom.
Malig clucked his tongue. “He's a little off, eh?”
“You could say that,” Dray said as he accepted the bladder back. “But fuck, these Wastelanders make good firemead. You taste that little something in there? Maybe cloves. We should get their recipe.” He squirted another long gulp into his mouth.
Caim leaned forward. “Are you three clear-headed enough to think?”
Aemon looked up from the campfire. “I haven't touched a drop.”
“I know, but you've been in a fog since we left that last town. I need you here.” Caim's gaze wandered across the tents and other fires. “I don't know what they're planning to do with us, so keep your wits about you and your weapons at hand. We'll sleep in shifts. If anything happens, stay together and try to get to the horses. Aemon, you have first watch.”
Dray eyed the bladder. “Hey, what if they poisoned the milk?”
Caim pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and lay down in the snow. The homebrew had left a nasty aftertaste in his mouth. “Then die quietly so the rest of us can get some sleep.”
While the others settled down, tossing muffled insults back and forth, Aemon scuttled over to Caim. “What do you think happened to Egil?”
“I hope he was smart enough to get far away from here.”
Aemon glanced beyond the fire, out onto the frozen plains. “Yeah.”
Caim wanted to close his eyes, but a sense of unease had settled in his chest, and it refused to let him be. These Northmen looked like ordinary men, but something vicious lurked behind their eyes. Something inhuman.
Kit appeared on top of him. For a moment, Caim could have sworn he felt her weight pressing down on him in a surprising-and very enjoyable-way. But then the sensation was gone and she was floating over him, a small frown flattening her lips. “What are you going to do, Caim?”
Unsure what she meant, he didn't answer. Kit laid her head on his chest, sending electric tingles through his body. “Is it ever going to be just the two of us again?”
The urge to hold her close washed over Caim. His hands started to reach up, but then fell back by his sides. Through the ethereal halo of her hair he saw the stars twinkling. “I don't know,” he whispered into her hair.
He closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire. When he opened them again, she was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
Familiar scents greeted Balaam as he stepped from the portal-thistle and white oleander, lacquer and ebonwood, a faint remnant of her favorite incense. He was home.
He entered through the parlor where a fire crackled in the wide hearth. The warmth felt good after four days spent out in the wilds, sleeping under the open sky as he tracked his quarry. But there had been no sign of the scion since Liovard, and the failure ate at him.
Balaam stopped at his bedchamber, thinking to change into something clean, but the echo of dripping water drew him down the hallway. The bathing room was lit with candles, small and large, sitting on the shelves and the floor. Their wavering flames threw shadows across the amber tile. Sweet-smelling steam rose from the water, cut through by the acrid scent of burning lotus.
Dorcas sat in the bath. Her breasts, still firm and buoyant, pointed toward the ceiling as she reclined, eyes closed, in the arms of the servant girl who washed her with a bristled brush. Her face glowed like polished glass, framed in a tumble of silky black hair. Every time he saw her, it was like the first time again. Balaam watched from the doorway as his wife leaned over the burning brazier beside the tub and inhaled the fragrant smoke. Her eyes gleamed with a blue tinge as she looked up. “Balaam. How long have you been lurking there?”
The servant girl, Anora, looked over, but did not stop her ministrations. Balaam folded his arms and tried not to look at the narcotic gray haze spilling from the brazier. “I just arrived.”
Dorcas laughed. It was a smooth, throaty laugh. Once, it would have set his blood on fire. “Come join us. You look a fright.”
“I'm fine.”
“Anora, undress my husband.”
Small waves washed against the sides of the tub as the girl stood up. She was also nude, her pale skin glistening in the candlelight. Balaam held up a hand to halt her. His wife's eyes swam with amusement. He could feel her gaze following him as he walked back down the hallway.
Balaam was sitting in his favorite chair near the fire, holding a half-filled glass of Illmynish wine and enjoying the heat, when Dorcas entered. She had wrapped herself in an ivory silk robe. Her wet hair cascaded over her shoulders. She sat down on a low divan near his feet. “You look tired. When was the last time you fed?”
He waved the question away. He hadn't felt the urge to feed in more than a sennight. Not since leaving Liovard.
“Anora!” she called over her shoulder.
“Dorcas, that's not necessary.”
