Blood oozed from a gaping wound in the creature’s throat, looking as though talons had ripped it apart.
The rest of the carcass remained untouched.
“The body is cold, but the pelt is still soft. Whatever killed it left the meat to rot.”
Njáll nodded, his face twisting as he inspected the stag, noting no other signs of violence.
This was not the clean kill of a bear seeking winter fat, nor the strategic work of a wolf pack securing a meal for their kits.
It had been senseless and wasteful.
A warning.
The soft coat brushed under his fingers as he ran his hand over the beast’s side. A foreign chill clung to its body. His jaw ached from how hard he clenched his teeth. This was the third report in as many days of slain animals with the meat left to spoil and the pelts wasted.
“A wolf kills to eat. A man kills for warmth. This… This is neither.”
A discontented grunt spilled from Erik, his eyes narrowed on the dead stag, bleeding into the tilled dirt.
Njáll rose, the urge to return to his kona no longer a desire, but a deafening, insistent need.
Wayward thoughts plagued him, ones of starving hounds ripping from their chains to feast. He refused to believe this was the work of the draugar. If Hel wished to let her armies loose, the signs would be irrefutable. Njáll cursed under his breath, snarling and ignoring Erik’s questioning stare.
“We continue our patrol. We are looking for a creature driven by something other than need.”
Erik bowed his head, his broad shoulders straining his leathers as he scanned the leaf litter for any signs of tracks.
Sticks crunched under their steps as they moved westward toward the high stone cliffs that marked the boundary of their lands.
The vegetation grew sparse, replaced by jagged rock and granite slabs covered in mossy overgrowth.
The air shifted, and the temperature dropped abruptly, plunging them into a biting chill that had no business existing in the peak of the warm season.
Njáll’s breath misted, his fingers stiff from how tightly he gripped his weapon. The cold persisted, bypassing his wool cloak and infesting every fiber of his being.
“Jarl,” Erik said, the words catching. “Do you feel that? It bites like the deep frost of winter.”
Grunting in response, Njáll mostly ignored him, his eyes fixed on a massive stone near the trail.
A slab that usually burned in the midday sun.
Now, however, a thin sheen of frost coated the glittering granite.
Brittle ice clung to the shadows of the rock face. Njáll’s hand hovered over the frozen sheen, an unnatural hum vibrating from under the icicles.
The chill came from the grave, from Hel. This was not a territorial dispute or foreigners trespassing on their lands. The veil had thinned enough to allow vestiges of the draugar to linger.
Blood roared in his ears, drowning out Erik’s racing breaths. Njáll moved past the frost, his gaze tracing the stone’s rugged surface.
Three massive gouges shimmered under the ice, carved into the rock face.
Saliva turned to ash in his mouth.
The scratches were too clean, too deliberate, looking faintly of chains dragging over the stone. A pungent odor carried in with the breeze, and Njáll refused to acknowledge it.
His chest rose and fell as he tried to anchor himself to Elara’s memory. He poured his will into the thought of her golden light, and slowly, the unnatural chill dissipated, leaving behind only the soft, familiar scent of pine.
Slowly, his eyes opened, the muddled hues of the forest coming into focus.
