Page 74 of The Sun He Buried

The creature catches his boot with both front paws, climbs to his knee, and buries its teeth above the leather.

The guard howls.

Every Skorvær in the yard goes rigid. Their fear comes through the glass anyway and up under my mask, sharp. The guard has a sword. His hand won’t go near it.

The Sanguir hangs from his leg and growls around a mouthful of him.

Ketill exhales through his nose. “That answers that.”

“Did the horns leave you uncertain?”

“I was hoping it was an ugly cat.”

The guard tries to shake it loose.

This proves unwise.

Six small spikes swing at the end of its club-tail and strike his other boot hard enough to turn him sideways. He hits the snow on one knee. The Sanguir keeps its teeth where it put them.

Solveih drops the edge of her cloak and runs after it.

She makes it two steps before her left boot slides.

Baldr catches her around the waist.

Naturally.

He puts her back on her feet, and she’s moving before his hands leave her.

“Snowpetal!”

Snowpetal.

The Sanguir’s growl deepens.

“No. Absolutely not.” Solveih kneels beside the guard and reaches for the animal. “He was helping us. You can’t eat people who carry the bags.”

The guard looks at her.

Ketill looks at me.

I give him nothing.

“Teeth out,” she tells it. “All of them.”

The Sanguir closes its eyes.

It’s refusing her.

I’ve watched generals attempt the same maneuver. They were less convincing.

Solveih braces one hand beneath its chest and cups the other around its jaw. “Snowpetal.”

The teeth release.

The guard crawls backward before standing. Blood darkens the top of his boot. Solveih gathers the Sanguir against her chest, checks his leg, apologizes three times, and scolds the creature between every apology.

“She’s never done that before,” she says.