A Meddle of Wizards. Alexandra Rushe

celebrate.”

      By the time Mauric and Brefreton had bathed, Gertie had a meal warming by the fire. It wasn’t much—ham and cheese on toasted bread and dried apples—but Raine was ravenous. She wolfed down two sandwiches and eyed Brefreton’s uneaten portion.

      “Here.” He handed her the rest.

      “Thanks.” She bit into what was left of the sandwich. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry.”

      Plagued with persistent nausea, she’d never been much of an eater, and her lack of appetite had worried Mimsie no end. Junk food, whole food, comfort food, fast food, bland food—Mimsie had tried it all, but Raine found none of it appealing. These bits of stale brown bread and dried ham, however? Delicious. Appetite truly was the best sauce.

      “Fighting worgs is hungry work,” Brefreton said, watching her scarf down his portion.

      Raine swallowed the last of the sandwich and smothered a yawn. “I wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying not to get eaten.”

      “I wasn’t much use without my magic,” Brefreton confessed. “Gertie was rather spectacular, though.”

      Raine remembered Gertie’s forward roll down the worg’s throat with a shudder. “Yes, she was, but don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you kept Mauric from diving in after her.”

      “I did, didn’t I?” Brefreton’s expression brightened. “You’re being awfully pleasant. Does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

      “Let’s just say we’ve progressed from utter loathing to active dislike.”

      “Active dislike, huh? Say, that is an improvement.”

      “Enough yammering, you two,” Gertie said. “We can’t stay here forever with a dead worg in our laps. Our gooey friend is bound to attract scavengers. Mauric, go see about the weather.”

      “Yes, mor.”

      The warrior ambled out of the cave, returning shortly.

      “Snow’s stopped,” he announced.

      “Good.” Brefreton stretched out in the sand and propped his head in his hands. “Get some rest. We leave at first light.”

      “I’ll stand guard,” Mauric said.

      “We’ll take it in shifts.” Gertie paced in a circle like a big dog, then curled up next to the fire. “Wake me at midnight.”

      “Yes, mor.”

      Raine was exhausted from the adrenaline of the worg attack and her bath, and comfortably full. She crawled under a blanket and was asleep in an instant, too exhausted to care that she was snoozing a few feet away from a giant worm carcass.

      * * * *

      She woke the next morning lying spoon fashion next to the troll, her head resting on Gertie’s furry arm. Gertie made an excellent blanket, and she radiated heat. Asleep, the troll seemed more teddy bear than monster, her long eyelashes resting like big brown spiders upon her downy cheeks.

      The troll was snoring, her black lips quivering with each exhalation. Raine reached out to touch the tip of one of Gertie’s tusks.

      “Wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Mauric said. “There’s an old Finlaran saying. Let sleeping trolls lie. Gertie’s a dear, but she’s not a morning troll.”

      Raine snatched her hand back and carefully disentangled herself from the sleeping troll. Mauric and Brefreton were eating breakfast by the fire. The warrior had braided his pale hair into a single thick plait. A long-sleeved leather coat hugged his broad shoulders and fell below his knees. Split up the side for ease of movement, the coat gave him ready access to his sword. From the snow that dusted his hair and coat, she surmised that he’d already been outside. Brefreton still wore the shabby cloak, now minus a worg-sized chunk of cloth. His hair was brushed back and clubbed at the nape of his neck, and it gleamed like rubies in the firelight.

      She sat down between them and did her customary mental check for symptoms of her illness. There were none. No nausea or headache. No aches and pains. She felt good. No, she felt great, energetic and hungry. Again.

      Her tummy rumbled. “What’s to eat?”

      “Ham.” Brefreton held up a small stick with a piece of bread on it. “And toast. Or worg. We’ve worg aplenty.”

      “Tempting,” Raine said. “But I think I’ll take the ham.”

      Brefreton handed her a stick. “Thought you might.”

      She poked a chunk of bread on the branch and held it over the fire. When it was golden brown, she wrapped it around a piece of cold, salty ham, and took a bite.

      “Been meaning to ask you about something,” Mauric said. “You kept raving about crows when you were sick. Unnerving, I don’t mind telling you, and it made me wonder.”

      The sandwich in Raine’s hand tumbled to the cave floor as the old terror grabbed her with clammy hands. The huge dark shape on the river bridge . . . her mother’s horrified scream as Daddy swerved to miss the thing and slammed into the guard rail. The screech of metal as the guard rail gave way and the car toppled slowly into the water. The river rushing in, cold and relentless.

      Her parents had died that day. Raine had been four years old, and she’d had nightmares about bridges and dark water ever since.

      And crows. To this day, crows terrified the holy bejesus out of her.

      “Raine?” Mauric waved his hand in her face. “Why are you frightened of crows?”

      Raine forced her rigid muscles to relax. “No idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, not meeting his gaze. “So, how’s the weather? Has the storm passed?”

      Mauric gave her a searching look and shrugged. “Aye. The wind is up and blowing the snow around. Temperature’s dropping. Going to be a cold day.” He tossed her a heavy cloak. “Found this at the bottom of one of my packs—a present from one of my admirers. I’d forgotten all about it. It’s yours, if you like. I don’t wear it. Hinders my sword arm.”

      Raine stroked the luxurious fur lining with a trembling hand. “Thanks,” she murmured. “It looks warm.”

      Gertie rolled to her feet with a snort. “Wuzzat? I heard a noise.”

      “You heard yourself,” Brefreton said from the other side of the fire. “You snore.”

      “You are mistaken.” The troll glared at him. “Ladies don’t snore.”

      “Ladies may not snore, but lady trolls certainly do. Loud enough to rattle the rocks.”

      Raine left the wizards arguing and slipped behind the curtain. Closing her eyes, she breathed in and out to regain her composure. She was a grown woman, not a child to be frightened by a bad dream. When she was calm once more, she donned her underwear and pajamas. They were dry from the fire and smelled of smoke and Mauric’s soap. She threw the poncho back on, took down the rope and blanket, and carried them to Mauric. He folded them and stuffed them in one of the packs. Gertie, still groggy from sleep, sat on a stone and watched them break camp.

      They were ready to go in no time. Pausing at the entrance to the cave, Raine fastened Mauric’s cloak around her shoulders. It swallowed her whole but it was blissfully warm. She stepped outside, squinting in the watery dawn light. Her vision cleared and she gasped. A vast expanse of mountains surrounded them like a rumpled green and black carpet. To the east, snow glistened on the mountain tops and dusted the branches of the tall fir trees. To the west, the peaks were a purple smudge crowned by fading stars.

      The air shimmered and Tiny appeared on the narrow trail beside them. They were an odd group, her companions: a giant, two wizards—one a troll—and a young Viking god. The red-headed wizard and the strapping warrior stood together in quiet conference with the giant. The troll stood apart, her squat, powerful