They writhed inside him, hissing and clawing, furious at their confinement. They tasted blood in the air. They sensed Circe's fear. They wanted out.
Ragnar did not deny them.
The shadows spilled free the moment his boots hit the ground, slithering and curling around him like living smoke, forming a shifting shield that breathed and pulsed with his rage. He shut the carriage door behind him and lifted his gaze.
The footman lay slumped across the driver's perch. An arrow jutted from the side of his neck, blood pouring freely down his chest, soaking into the seat beneath him. The horses reared and snorted in terror, eyes wild, held in place only by a fallen tree blocking the road ahead.
Just as Ragnar had suspected, they were surrounded.
Ten riders circled the carriage, weapons drawn. One held a bow already raised, arrow cocked and aimed.
The shadows moved fast before the arrow was fired.
