East of the Sun

Chapter 8

Rute cringed at the bone aching blasts pelting their way across the city streets. Even beneath his layer of fur the cold found him. Darkness settled its heavy blanket upon Skrattafell, turning buildings and alleys into black pits. Unlike many cities of the world, there were no street torches in Skrattafell, no poor bugger wanted to be stuck outside at night keeping them lit.

Of course he was outside at night, since he insisted on walking the woman...Bryn, to her dwelling. He flinched physically at the embarrassment he faced there. Once, he thought he had come to terms with the curse. But the desire to taste her soft lips, to sample the first carnal pleasure he could allow himself in centuries...Bah! He was a fool. Of course she wouldn't kiss him, he hardly resembled a man. He stopped to run a hand through his hair, then growled at himself. He had squelched that habit in the first hundred years of the curse. The woman had completely upset his equilibrium. Had set off desires he had no business..desiring. Not until he solved his problem and completed his escape. Even then, after he accomplished his goals, his only choice was to hide himself far from Alviora...alone.

"But you are not fated to be alone."

Rute spun at the sudden emergence of the ancient voice. In the eves of the building next to him, on the wall towering over the street, the withered crone sat. Her knees drawn up to her chest, a walking stick rose from her ancient fingers, up into the black sky, imitating the silhouette of a long dead tree. Instinct warned him that she was dangerous, no normal old woman should be able to sneak up on him like that. And she still did not have a detectable scent.

He glowered in her direction.

"You, Rute Asgeir, are going to enjoy inn mátki munr."

The great passion? True love? Rute snorted in spite of himself.

"Go away old woman. I do not wish to listen to such nonsense."

A chuckle filtered down from the crone's spot. "Nonsense? Is that what you fear from me? I think not."

"Who are you?" he growled, his anger rising. This was no time for games. He needed to get out of Skrattafell before any more of those priests found him. He wasn't about to use magic, so they wouldn't be able to track him that way, but his form was rather conspicuous.

"Temper Rute, isn't that what got you into this situation to begin with?"

He blinked. "How did you—know," he began, but the old woman had vanished. Only scattered snowfall remained. Somehow she had slipped away. Worse, while distracted by her inanity, a new scent surrounded him. A smell reminiscent of the attack he faced several hours before. It held a ting of smoke and herbs that would forever be unique to this newest generation of prison guards. The keepers of the barrier, the priests of the Moon Goddess.

And they hunted him. He didn't have to be a scholar to know that they blamed him for the disaster at the mill. As his time in this realm passed he was less and less likely to be shoved back through a portal, and more and more likely to be killed on sight.

As if a clue from his thoughts had given him away, a bolt whizzed past his neck. So close he heard the breath of wind from it's passing, he felt the tips of the fur that stood at his throat tingle.

A thud of his heart slammed against his ribs. Instinctively he dropped into a crouch, his hands—paws—on the stone street, his muscles tensed for battle. Only darkness and snow were visible, the curling swirls deceptive in their beauty. Hiding the danger of the bitter cold, as well as his enemies.

They were there, he could smell them, but he could not spot where they cowered in the shadows.

He had little to fear from one crossbow bolt. The curse that he fought so hard to be rid of thickened his hide and muscles until only an expertly placed shot could penetrate and do damage. Still, getting hit hurt, and a group of bolts had a much greater chance of causing him real harm.