Chapter Two Amund
Be the predator or become the prey, I remind myself.
It was Father’s first—and hardest—lesson.
If I allow myself to forget it, I’m as good as dead.
In the Wilds, only the strongest survive.
Cold wind whips through the unforgiving landscape as our horses clop along.
Father and I scan sporadic patches of grass for some sign of our quarry.
Instead, I spot a rib cage. A skull.
Bones litter the Wilds. Human bones.
The skull crumbles like chalk beneath my horse’s hooves as we continue ahead.
Father warned me that many hunters are killed before they can return from the hunt.
Other bones belong to outsiders who ventured too close to Skallagrim, ignorant of its dangers.
The beasts protect our school from the outside world, but we must protect Skallagrim from them.
Sunlight spears through the far-off mountains.
Sunrise is at 7:50, so it must be past eight.
We’ve been tracking this injured wolf all night.
Now that day is breaking, the wolves will soon retire.
I envy them. As exhausted as I am, I know better than to hope Father will call off the hunt and return to Skallagrim empty-handed.
Thank the gods it’s not a bear.
There. I halt my horse and slide down.
The beast’s paw print is much larger than my boot.
I kneel and test the soil with a fingertip—still fresh.
We’re close. I climb back on my horse quickly.
Father moves into position beside me, his dark leather armor in sharp contrast to his pale horse.
He gives a quick nod as he readies his silver blade.
We are no mere predators.
We are hunters.
We move swiftly through the Wilds, the sound of our horses’ hooves the only noise as we advance. In nature, quiet like this can mean only one thing: An apex predator is nearby. Raising his fist, Father stills.
A pack of massive wolves travels together in the distance, flashes of fur against the stark landscape.
Too many to take on. There must be at least seven of them.
These are no ordinary beasts. Berserkir are bigger than their animal counterparts.
Their teeth are twice as large and their bite force far more powerful.
Most weapons can’t harm them. Our hunting knives are strengthened with runes and honed from silver.
It’s the only thing that can pierce their thick hides.
We steady our horses, waiting for the pack to pass. Even the strongest hunter like Father would stand no chance against a pack of berserkir. We pick them off one at a time by laying traps and snares throughout the Wilds, then finish them off after they’re injured.
There is no honor in our hunt.
Staring out at the harsh wilderness, I try to rid myself of my guilt, but cannot.
In the warmer months, these fields will be carpeted by purple flowers.
Lupine is one of few weaknesses the beasts have, so we sowed the Wilds full of it years ago.
Lupine may look beautiful, but it’s toxic.
If ingested by berserkir, it can cause labored breathing.
Convulsions. Blindness. Death. Even inhaling the flower’s scent directly is enough to cause dizziness and fainting.
So we grind its petals into thick paste to cover our traps, and collect its concentrated extract to turn into a spray. I already know what Father would say: It does not matter how you do it, so long as you best your enemy. To him, there is no greater enemy than the berserkir.
Once the last of the pack disappears, I glance at my father. He waves me forward, and we continue our pursuit of the wolf who escaped our trap. My body aches from riding all night, but there’s no time for rest. Not on a hunt. As we advance, I notice something on a patch of grass. Blood.
Our prey is close.
Sure enough, my horse blows out a nervous snort. The injured wolf limps over the ridge. One of his legs is a bloody stump. He gnawed his own paw off to escape our trap. I know, because his paw is still stuck in its metal jaws outside Skallagrim.
I reach over my shoulder and free my bow.
Arrows rattle in their quiver, betraying our presence. Shit.
The wolf stills.
Its large head swivels as it surveys the Wilds, but it hasn’t detected us. Yet. The leather armor we wear must be working. It not only protects us but also suppresses our scent so we can conceal ourselves from their heightened sense of smell.
Slowly, I reach for an arrow. My fingers find rough fletching. I slip the arrow free and nock it. Blowing out a steadying breath, I line up my shot. Straight toward the unsuspecting wolf, fur illuminated by early morning light—
The injured wolf notices me, and our gazes lock across the vast distance.
I hesitate, staring into his glowing yellow eyes.
My arrow is aimed at a creature who was once human. For an instant, the questions I never allow myself to ask resurface. Who was this wolf? Did I ever pass him in the halls? Sit across from him in class? Eat beside him in the dining hall?
Whoever the wolf was before doesn’t matter. He’s nothing more than an animal now, all instinct and survival. There is no humanity left in him. My arm strains from drawing the string back for this long.
The wolf remains still, staring at me, despite the arrow aimed at him.
He looks as exhausted as I feel. For the briefest moment, I think I understand the animal.
He’s tired of running, bloody and injured.
Or maybe he realizes that no matter how far he runs, or how fast, his life was always going to end here, at the tip of my arrow.
Father’s gaze is fixed on me as mine is fixed on the animal. I feel him assessing everything I’m doing, his judgment sharper than any snare. If I cannot live up to his expectations, it’s no different from stumbling into a snap trap, but I will lose more than my foot.
“In the hunt, it is us or them,” he warns. But Father is who I fear most, not the beast. The threat in his voice is what finally makes me release the bowstring.
The arrow flies.
I don’t miss.
As a hunter, the kindest thing I can do is give a quick, clean kill. End their suffering before it begins. I sling my bow around my back. It’s done. As we ride toward where the wolf lies crumpled, I look over to Father for his approval.
I find none.
“You hesitated, Amund.”
Like I hesitated to help my brother. Shame burns through me. I grip my reins tight enough to strangle. My mouth closes. Opens. But I know better than to argue with Father. Anything I say is an excuse, and he hates excuses more than failure.
“It won’t happen again,” I tell him.
When we finally reach our prey, I feel a sharp stab of guilt. As I climb off my horse, my limbs feel heavy. I kneel beside the lifeless wolf, running a hand over his fur. Its softness always surprises me. I’m sorry, I silently offer to the animal, even though it’s far too late.
We may call ourselves hunters, but sometimes I feel more like a killer. Like I lose more of my humanity with each hunt. Am I really so different from these beasts? Not for the first time, I wish there was another way to live.
I glance up—and freeze.
A pair of small, bright yellow eyes peeks out from a dirt burrow nearby. Not just one. Many. My guilt multiplies with each pair I see. The wolf I killed must have been their father. Now I’ve torn their family apart.
“What’s taking so long?” Father and his horse loom over us, their shadows covering me and the wolf.
I reach for my arrow, pretending I didn’t see the pups.
They’re berserkir, but they’re still young.
Unlike their parents, they haven’t lived as wild animals for long.
They were likely born in wolf form, and I don’t know if they even could become human.
I’m not sure that would be enough to stop Father from killing them anyway.
It’s not a chance I’m willing to take.
I pry the arrow from the animal’s side and return it to my quiver.
The pups must be why the wolf was so desperate to survive.
Not for itself but for its young. I think of my own family.
Awful realization grips me. Is that why the wolf allowed me my shot?
Rather than lead us any closer to the pups, the wolf stopped running, knowing we would return to Skallagrim once we had our kill.
Father’s voice is barbed as he adds, “Hesitating again?”
“Of course not.”
I heft the heavy wolf over my horse, but the weight of Father’s disappointment is even heavier.
The ride back is somber but quick. The return trip is the most uncertain.
The most dangerous. Carrying one of their pack can go two ways: The berserkir see us as a threat and hang back, or they decide to avenge their fallen pack member.
Which is why we take horses on our hunts, to increase speed and minimize risk.
Or try to, I think as my horse steps over another spine.
Quick paws pad after us.
Three, four, maybe five wolves, but they sound small and are clumsy in their pursuit.
Probably the pups I caught sight of earlier.
They must be too young to know to avoid us.
If I try to scare them away, it will only alert Father to their presence.
Damn it. I reach for my canister of lupine spray.
Hopefully I won’t be forced to use it. So far, the pups seem to be hanging back. Observing. Uncertain what to do.
Father’s horse rears.
A massive berserkr cuts off our path, her head hanging low in warning. This must be the pups’ mother. Hackles raised, she snarls, bearing large, wicked teeth.
Her glowing eyes settle on me. On the dead wolf slung over my horse.
Father reacts first, sending a knife hurling toward her. But the wolf is already leaping into the air in a deadly arc—
Claws and teeth flash.
The wolf is on me in an instant. Her momentum knocks me off my horse. Hard. She lands on top of me, squeezing the breath from my lungs. On instinct, I throw my left arm against her throat. Her snapping jaws try—and fail—to reach my face.
Her mate’s body falls beside us, along with my quiver. Arrows spill over the ground and my spray can rolls as the wolf pins me with her massive paws. A low grunt of pain climbs my throat. I can feel my body being crushed by her weight.
Her strength—it’s overwhelming.
I grit my teeth. Nothing I haven’t faced before. My left arm screams in protest as I fight to fend her off. Father peers down at us but makes no move to help. With my free hand, I strain for my lupine spray instead of an arrow. Aluminum brushes my fingertip. Just out of reach.
The wolf’s jaws near my face.
Finally, I grasp the canister. Using my teeth, I pull the safety clip free. A cloud of lupine sprays her face in quick bursts.
The berserkr releases me with a sudden yelp. She retreats, tail tucked between her legs, eager to escape the concentrated cloud. The pups quickly follow their mother. I watch them flee, making no move to take more of their family.
Father climbs off his horse.
“The spray? Really?” he asks, standing over me. His eyes are hard. I can’t tell if his anger comes from concern or something else. “That’s meant for students, not wild berserkir. She wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you.”
If there’s one thing Father can’t stand, it’s berserkir. His hatred of them runs deep. He blames them for his brother Trygve’s death, and I’m convinced that’s why he has devoted himself to becoming such a ruthless hunter.
Father reaches out—
But not to me.
He grabs the dead wolf by the nape and lifts it as if it weighs nothing.
Berserkir aren’t the only ones with increased strength and heightened senses.
In order to kill them, the first hunters had to use seier, taking tonics to heighten their senses and covering their skin with runes to increase their strength.
Now we’re born with those abilities, making us their natural predators.
“The sun is already up.” As I climb to my feet, my arm protests, making me wince. “We should return to campus.”
Ignoring the pain, I take the wolf from Father to prove I still can.
Without it, we won’t be able to replenish our supplies—use its meat for fertilizer, make pelts from its fur, or turn its hide into leather armor. So I sling the berserkr’s body over my horse. The least I can do is not let his death be in vain.
That’s what I tell myself, over and over, on the ride back. The pups’ distant howls pierce my chest like a spear as Father rides ahead of me. As strong as our steeds are, the tremendous weight of the wolf’s body still slows my horse down.
Not that I mind. I’m already dreading our return.
Despite the protection offered by its iron gates, Skallagrim is as dangerous as the Wilds.
At least out here, I don’t have to dread accidentally running into my brother or mother, and what will happen if I do.
I don’t have to endure hateful growls whenever a berserkr student lays eyes on me, or hear their snarls of Murderer.
As hunters, we do more than pick off wild berserkir to prevent overpopulation and avoid exposure.
Skallagrim employs us to track them down all over the world and protect innocent people from their fury.
We are a reminder to all berserkir of what awaits if they lose their tenuous control over their wild power.
We hunters will always be close by, our weapons ready.
Skallagrim Academy appears on the horizon, shrouded by the early morning haze. Daylight turns the school’s worn stone buildings gray and grim. Its ancient towers stand like lonely sentinels, watching over the Wilds.
Our hunt is over. At least for now.