Read The Sorcerer's Vengeance: Book 4 of the Sorcerer's Path for Free Online Page B

apparent agitation. “What’s up, Toron? You look fit to charge off and sink your axe into somebody.”
    “We were being watched—closely,” the minotaur replied without turning his head. “I got a scent of them when they got up and moved. I never did see them through this blasted fog.”
    “What do you make of em?”
    “Eislanders, I am almost certain of it. At least two were spying on us, which means there is likely at least ten men in their party,” Toron informed Zeb.
    A strong look of concern flashed across Zeb’s weathered features. “You have some knowledge of Eislanders then?”
    The minotaur nodded his large head, his horns swinging forward and back. “Aye, our two peoples often ply the same waters and run across each other as we raid our way along the northern isles. Eislanders often engage us to test their strength and battle prowess, as we are one of the few people that they respect as warriors. To take a minotaur’s horns in battle is one of their highest honors.”
    “Don’t sound like very good neighbors to me,” Zeb gruffly commented.
    “They are worthy adversaries,” Toron answered, bestowing the Eislanders one the highest praises a minotaur could give.
    “What do you think they will do?”
    Toron shook his head. “They will confront us but I cannot say when, only that it will likely be soon. Eislanders have less patience than even my people do. Whether they will open with words or axes is anyone’s guess. We are lucky not to be on their land or the answer would almost be certain and not to our good fortune. As it stands, I would give us an even chance of either supping with them or being buried by them within the next day or two.”
    The sailors-turned-hunters struck the camp and loaded the sleds before the fog burned fully away. By the time they were prepared to depart, the mists had dissipated enough to travel, its obscuring properties all but gone. They found signs of the Eislanders not far from their camp but their prints had been deliberately scoured away, probably by dragging heavy furs or canvas behind them. That by itself did nothing to prevent someone from following the track but it effectively made it impossible to judge their numbers. To complicate their ability to track them, several drag marks spilt out into differing directions a hundred yards away and Zeb had no desire to split up even if he were willing to follow the dangerous northerners.
    Zeb’s crew continued following the river as it veered sharply south. Evergreen trees began populating its banks and the animal life became more prosperous. Despite the increase of life and color, it would still take at least two days of hard traveling to reach anything that could be called a forest. The small trees that grew this far north were weak and twisted things, widely spread out or growing in small clusters of three and four.
    Fox, ptarmigans, and snowshoe hare became more abundant and as the morning moved on into afternoon, the number of furs and wrapped meat piled on the sleds was quickly becoming a legitimate load. It was perhaps two hours before dusk when Derran sprinted ahead and off to the party’s left, his snowshoes kicking up clumps of snow. The young sailor stopped a hundred feet or so away then waved furiously to the others.
    Zeb and the leading party veered to their left to see what had attracted his attention. When Zeb and the other three men approached, Derran was squatting down next to a series of prints nearly as large as those left by his snowshoes. The biggest difference was the pointed marks extending from front of the impressions, proof of the four to five-inch long claws of the ice bear.
    “What do ya make of those tracks, Farley?” Zeb asked their least competent sailor but undisputed master huntsman.
     The burley, wiry-haired, black-bearded man spit a gob of tobacco juice and saliva onto the ground as he crouched next to the track, making the only dirty brown spot in vast sheet of white for miles in