“Pull him
out,” he instructed, and Valgrind burrowed his head down into the snow. He
withdrew a moment later, hauling Rune out by the back of his tunic.
Rune
sputtered, and kicked, and swung his arms, and showered snow everywhere.
Valgrind
craned his neck around so Náli was face-to-face with Rune’s spitting, cursing,
red-cheeked visage. Close enough that Náli could slap him—which he did.
His hand left
a gratifying red mark behind, each finger distinct, and snapped Rune’s head to
the side. When he turned back, he no longer looked panicked, but, thankfully,
furious. Good: an angry man was a man who could take action. Fear and panic
were nothing but wasted effort.
“Shut up and
listen to me,” Náli said, not as himself, but as the Corpse Lord. His was a
laughable sort of authority, but by some miracle, Rune shut his gob and went
still in Valgrind’s grasp. “We can’t go after Tessa because Tessa’s not here.”
Rune blinked
at him, uncomprehending, and then scowled. He pointed toward the capital,
somewhere beyond the peaks. “Of course she’s not here. That Sel took her! Which
is why we need to give chase! Our drakes are faster than the big one,
and…what?” He broke off, frowning, when Náli shook his head. “You turn back if
you want to, coward, but that’s my wife! I’m going after her!”
Náli almost
slapped him again. He said, “That Sel opened a portal and took her through it.
We can’t go after her, because it’s not a matter of flying faster. She’s gone,
Rune. And we can’t follow.”
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