Bound to The Enemy of My Mate
During a break, Carric took a long drink from a waterskin, his eyes on Thane.
“Is it true,” Carric asked, the question blunt, “that wolves can smell frost coming?”
Thane paused, a timber brace in his hands. He could smell the man’s lingering suspicion, like old blood. But underneath it, curiosity. A need to understand.
“Yes,” Thane said. “The air changes. Carries the scent of frozen earth from higher up the mountain. Like a warning.”
“How far off?”
Thane lifted his head, nostrils flaring as he sampled the wind. “Two days. Maybe less. We need to hurry.”