Verena's Whistle: Varangian Descendants Book I by K. Panikian (top android ebook reader txt) 📕

out. He kicked snow on top of it next and the blaze continued. We watched it until the last of the black material burned up and the fire died.

I turned with a grin to Theo and Zasha, “You did it! That was amazing!” They high-fived and Zasha danced a little jig that ended with a booty shake.

“That was a pretty decent explosion for that small amount,” Julian noted. “How much do you think we need?”

“A lot less than I was initially thinking,” Theo agreed. “Maybe a two or three of the copper pots?”

“How long will that take?” I asked.

Zasha picked up a notebook off the back deck and flipped to the page before. “For this recipe, each batch will take two hours to create, then overnight to cool. So, if you want two more batches, in addition to what’s already in this pot, it will be ready in the morning.”

I nodded. “Okay, sounds good. You two get to work on that. You guys ready to go scouting?” I asked Owen and Julian.

WE decided that if we took the souvenir certificates that Dmitri passed along with the swords, we could conceivably argue our way out of trouble if anyone stopped us for carrying weapons in the open. So, Julian and Owen strapped on their new swords. I hung my nightingale knife around my neck again and put a crossbow and several quarrels in my backpack.

We took both snow machines and I rode behind Owen. This time, instead of following our normal ski trail to the crater site, we followed a different trail that would send us parallel to our regular route and then veer west to a high-altitude lake. Julian took the lead and while our sled followed, I scanned back and forth along both sides of the trail, looking for tracks or other signs of disturbances.

It was a cloudy day and the shadows cast by the trees made it difficult to differentiate depths in the snow. After a couple of miles, Julian stopped his sled and pulled off his helmet to talk to us. He pointed to a scorched bush on the left side of the trail.

“Kids with matches?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I answered slowly, “but probably not.” I pulled the crossbow from my backpack and loaded a bolt. “Do you see any tracks?” I asked.

“No,” Julian answered. “But the trail is all churned up.”

“Could be an azhdaya, or maybe a balachko,” I said.

“I remember an azhdaya is a two-headed dragon,” Owen said. “But what’s a balachko?”

“A three-headed giant,” I said. “One head spits fire and one head breathes cold wind.”

Owen blew out a breath. “Lots of heads all around. I don’t know which I prefer it to be.”

“Me either,” I answered and squeezed his waist. “Let’s keep following the trail,” I said to Julian, “but let me know if you see anything else.”

He nodded and started up his snow machine again. We made it all the way to the lake without seeing any more scorched areas. At the lake, we climbed off the sleds and looked around.

It was an incredibly beautiful vista. The ice on the lake was bluish white and where the sun peeked through the clouds, it glowed aquamarine. Craggy peaks rose behind it, gray and white with glacial fingers. A boulder-strewn creek of frothing white water dumped into the lake, creating an expanse of bright blue-green open water directly in front of us.

Next to the creek a bloody, brown carcass lay and a buzzard hopped in the snow.  We waded through the snow to take a closer look. A wolverine, maybe. Or a large polecat. Parts of it were charred and the rest looked gnawed to the bone. The tracks in the snow around it included the buzzard’s prints and also a large three-toed print, probably about the size of polar bear print, with distinctive claw points.

We stared at the scene for a moment and then all three of us moved at once. The men drew their swords and I lifted my crossbow. We ranged ourselves, each looking outwards, backs together, and scanned the expanse of snow surrounding us.

“I don’t see anything,” I said.

“Me either,” said Owen.

“Something’s in the lake,” said Julian.

I turned in that direction and saw bubbles in the lake water. A wedge shape broke the surface, then another, and then a scaly tail briefly popped out of the water before falling back in with a splash. The shapes went back under the surface and bubbles trailed in one direction and then another.

“Is it playing?” Owen asked.

“Or maybe hunting fish,” I answered.

We watched the lake.

“Irene’s journal said their heads are independent,” I reminded them. “And there are three of us. So, if two people occupy the heads, the third person can try and strike it.”

“We have no armor,” Julian reminded me. “What about the fire?”

“Try not to get hit in the face,” I answered. “Stop, drop, and roll in the snow.”

The azhdaya’s heads broke the surface again, this time with a grayling in one of its mouths. The other head turned in our direction. We froze. It was instinctual. We were prey and something with large teeth spotted us.

Julian was the first to break free of the paralysis. He said, “Owen and I have swords, we’ll take the heads. You shoot its body with as many bolts as you can.”

Owen and I both said okay and I snatched the rest of the bolts I’d stored in the backpack, dropped the pack in the snow, and fitted the bolts into my waistband. I pulled my long knife from around my neck and put it in my pocket.

Meanwhile, the azhdaya swam toward us and then, walking with an odd, weaving gait, clambered onto the icy beach.

It was large and wore a metal chain around each of its two necks with spikes that pointed inwards, like a prong collar for a dog. Even from a distance I could see the scar tissue where the spikes had dug into its necks over time. Its eyes, all four of them,