Page 10 of Blood Beneath the Snow (Blood & Souls Duology #1)

10

The sunrise in the east tinted the sky a perfect pink, matching the tip of Frode’s nose. My sword was strapped to my hip and a small bag of my clothes was hooked to my horse’s saddle.

I couldn’t decide if my pounding heartbeat was from excitement or lingering fear. Probably both.

When we headed south, into the city, I was confused. The war front was several hours’ journey in the other direction.

I turned to Erik, riding next to me. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t look at me when he responded. “The temple. We always go for a blessing before we leave for the front.”

I tried not to groan. Would Father let me stay outside and wait? Or would he insist I join them?

My stomach sank as the pillars of the temple appeared in front of me. The inside of my mouth tasted sour. I would rather face the Hellbringer alone in battle than be here.

Despite the enemy general’s claims that he would see me soon, he was nowhere to be found this morning. As we rode through the streets, my eyes searched every shadowed alley and concealed corner for any evidence of the man who’d been following me. But if he was watching, he’d found a hiding place I hadn’t thought to search.

I’d tossed and turned for the single hour of rest I’d had after returning from my visit with Freja, desperate to parse out why he’d been tracking me. The Hellbringer was an enigma—no one understood why he allowed the war to continue, why he didn’t simply kill us all and put a stop to it. Now I knew he spent his precious time following a godforsaken royal who meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

It didn’t make sense.

We came to a stop in front of the temple steps and my father instructed the servants to keep careful watch over the horses.

Inside, fires blazed on every wall, both for light and warmth. The priest at the front of the room saw me enter and inclined his head. I didn’t acknowledge him, moving forward to stand next to the rest of my family. The red embroidered eye on his forehead kept careful watch as he spoke to my father.

“Your daughter will be accompanying you?” the priest asked.

My father nodded. “She does not truly understand the war, like most of the godforsaken. I believe her experiences in the northern wastes will serve to change her feelings about the Holy Order of Priests and help her rethink her decision to compete in the Bloodshed Trials.”

My hands tightened into fists.

“Each of you may come forward to receive a blessing and a marking,” the priest said. My brothers moved toward him.

A small thrill replaced my resentment for a moment. I loved seeing my brothers in the traditional war paint of our ancestors, wearing it proudly into battle. It reminded me of victory. Bhorglid wasn’t perfect, but I would represent my forebearers as I made an attempt to change it for the better.

Callum and Arraya founded Bhorglid on the principle of the godtouched being superior because they were gifted magic by the gods. But for there to be a hierarchy in the first place, the godforsaken had been subjugated—the first of our kind forced to believe they were less-than. I considered them to be my true ancestors. I would don my war paint with hope of a future that past generations would be proud of.

Once, our ancestors had performed all religious rituals with the blood of animals, including applying the symbols they wore when preparing for battle. After a bad winter several generations back that killed most of the livestock, the priests of the time considered it more prudent to switch to paint instead of blood. I was glad for the change.

After Jac went to the front for the first time, he’d explained the changes made to the symbols themselves over time as well. I wished I remembered what he’d taught me.

Erik stepped forward first. The priest muttered something under his breath and then raised a brush to Erik’s forehead. When he finished and Erik turned to face me once more, I had to hold in a gasp at the bright red marking on his forehead.

There were two lines across each of his cheekbones and another two lines extended from either of his temples to form a point in the center of his forehead. He noticed me staring, and while Frode stepped forward, Erik leaned close to explain the markings.

“The ones on my cheeks are for leadership,” he said softly. “And the marks on my forehead are for strength. Those are the blessings the gods saw fit to give me today. When it’s your turn, you’ll receive your own.”

Frode stepped away from the priest with a line of dots across his forehead in a straight line. “Focus,” he explained in response to my curious thought. He rolled his eyes. “They give it to me every time.”

Did I truly believe the paint offered any additional power? No, not really. But perhaps the markings would one day symbolize peace between the godtouched and the godforsaken once more.

Jac received a line from the top of his forehead, over his nose, and to the base of his chin. Frode remained beside me, so he helped translate. “Perseverance,” he said. When I raised an eyebrow at the three jagged lines Bjorn was given on his forehead, I could hear the exasperation in Frode’s voice. “Power,” he grumbled. “That one is consistent, too.”

My father received two lines across his forehead; Frode explained they symbolized truth. I had to hold in a scoff at that. Then it was my turn. I stepped forward, wondering what the priests could possibly see fit to bless me with as I went to battle.

The priest was silent for a long time before he finally spoke again. The scythe in his hand glinted in the flickering firelight. He leaned forward, his voice practically a whisper. “The gods are most disappointed in you, Princess,” he said.

I stiffened. “Are you going to bless me or not?”

The priest shook his head but put his paintbrush to my face. The paint was cold and sticky. He drew two lines on my face, each diagonal, intersecting to form an X across the bridge of my nose.

I froze. I didn’t understand many of the symbols the godtouched claimed, especially those involved in the temple ceremonies, but this was one I knew intimately.

I turned to face my brothers. Frode had paled. Jac looked at his shoes. Bjorn burst into gleeful laughter and my father turned away, striding out the doors.

Death. The X on my face meant I’d been chosen by Aloisa, goddess of the soul. Marked to die, like the symbol was a target for my enemies.

I turned back to the priest. “You disgust me,” I spat. “If Aloisa sees fit to claim me, I will do anything I must to stay alive.”

“I only repeat what the gods tell me,” the priest said.

“Liar,” I said. “You use the gods for your own gain.”

Frode grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.”

He pulled me out the door, into the cold again. The wind swept up the strands of hair falling from my tight braid, obscuring my vision slightly. A storm was coming in. I mounted my horse, trying not to think about the paint on my face.

Frode leaned over to me from where he sat on his own horse. “Take the paint off,” he said. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Not if you don’t want it to.”

I shook my head. “No. It stays. If they’re damning me, I want the whole world to see it.”

Frode sighed. “Come on, then. Let’s catch up with the others.”

I heard the screams and explosions before the front line came into view.

The mountains towered above us, jagged like monstrous teeth covered in snow, and with every blast the whole world shook.

Eyes wide, I turned to Frode. Is this it?

He nodded, mouth set in a grim line, and pulled a flask out of his saddlebag. I watched him tip his head back and drain the entire container in one swig. “They’re mid-battle, through the canyon pass.”

A man I’d never seen before pulled his horse up to ride next to mine and I jumped at the sight. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place the big nose turned up at the end and the brown hair with a white streak through it. “You ready for this?” he asked.

My expression clearly showed everything going through my head. The man laughed and shook his head until his hair transformed to red, facial features familiar again. Jac had already taken another form to prepare for battle. “Makes me less conspicuous,” he explained. “Be ready for anything; it’s only a matter of time before we run into some Kryllians. They’ll see you as easy prey if they recognize you.”

Another explosion echoed through the canyon pass and the mountains themselves shuddered, snow threatening to topple into an avalanche at any moment. I set my jaw and dragged my sword from its sheath. Would there be time to dismount and get my feet under me before I was forced to parry an inevitable blow? I’d never regretted more not mastering a ranged weapon.

My father, brothers, and the rest of our group slid helmets over their faces. I copied them, wishing mine didn’t block out my peripheral vision.

“Ready your—”

Before my father could finish his sentence, someone let out a wild cry. Figures cloaked in black emerged from ahead on the trail, brandishing weapons I’d never seen before. Cruel blades curved and glimmered in the snowy sunlight.

Crouched in the middle of the canyon pass was a masked figure I recognized. A carved wooden helmet covered his whole head. The leering smile of a predator’s skull unearthed a feeling I’d never had before, even when I’d seen him in the streets of the city. There, he’d been frightening but out of place, like a boy dressed as a monster. Now, there was no doubt in my mind what he would do to achieve his goals.

This is what it feels like to be prey.

As the thought struck me, I remembered the Hellbringer’s promise from this morning, before the dawn broke.

Fear overtook each of my limbs and I went stiff. Was this it? Was he finally going to strike me down? Were we going to die before we reached the front lines?

We’d walked straight into an ambush.

My father swore. I heard Erik muttering a prayer to the gods under his breath. Jac nudged his horse in front of mine, his bow and arrow drawn.

Frode leaned over the side of his horse and vomited his breakfast into the snow.

My father screamed at his men to charge, and the horses galloped toward the ambush, soldiers with their weapons drawn. I watched the Hellbringer stand and tilt his head.

Panic wrapped its cold hands around my throat. In one glance, the Hellbringer could annihilate everyone here. The entire royal family would be gone and Kryllian would have the freedom to waltz in and take Bhorglid, killing anyone who opposed their reign.

“Come on.” Jac pulled the reins of my horse toward a grove of trees lining the edge of the canyon. “Get out of sight. Don’t let him see you.”

But my eyes fell on a body several meters away, lying slack in the snow. A horse snorted unhappily, breath fogging into the air, stomping hooves narrowly avoiding its prone rider. Frode.

“Wait.” I slid off my horse and took off through the chaos toward my brother, discarding my helmet.

The shriek of metal on metal was mostly above Frode on the trail, but a few of the Kryllian soldiers had made their way to his position. One raised his sword, swinging the blade toward my face. Jac swore and I watched as an arrow whizzed from behind me and skewered one of the soldiers through the eye. The man collapsed, another carcass in the snow.

“Thank you, Jac,” I whispered. The dead soldier’s blood stained the white powder, and through the chaos and screaming, a voice hummed a familiar tune—the same lullaby Frode had sung the past few days while he was drunk. I knelt in the snow next to Frode, wondering how he was managing to vocalize while he was unconscious, but forced the thought away as the battlefield noise escalated once more.

Wake up! I rolled him over and slapped him hard across the face.

His eyes flew open, snow matted in his lashes. “Get up, get up,” I muttered, tugging his arm. He pushed himself to his elbows and his eyes widened.

I turned with my sword in time to parry a blow from another Kryllian soldier. Our blades connected and a thrill rushed through me. Finally, finally , I would get to put some of my skills to use.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I lunged for a weak spot in his defenses—but the soldier was too fast, and with a sharp twist of his weapon my blade fell from my hand. I sprawled helpless on the ground next to Frode.

The soldier reached to grab me, and I scrambled backward in time for another arrow to land, this time skewering his neck through a small gap in his armor. He collapsed to the ground in front of us, his warm blood staining the snow. I looked away, refusing to watch the life leave his eyes.

Frode groaned and put his hand over his mouth. I didn’t want to think about hearing a dying man’s last thoughts, so I grabbed him with one hand and my sword with the other as I pulled him to his feet. “Get over here,” I growled, dragging him back toward where Jac waited in the trees.

A glance behind me confirmed we had the upper hand. Bjorn breathed fire, burning them all to a crisp, and Father’s flames licked over his great axe, charring anyone who came within reach of his blade. Erik crushed skulls in his bare hands.

The Hellbringer, however, had disappeared. I turned to Jac, who had shifted into his alternate form. “Where did the Hellbringer go?”

Jac pushed me aside to peer between the trees. “I don’t know,” he said, panic at the edge of his voice. “I didn’t see him go anywhere.”

Discarding my helmet, I moved over to Frode and pulled a blanket from one of my saddlebags. He was on his knees in the snow, hands over his ears, teeth chattering. I wrapped the blanket around him and patted him on the back.

“We should be safe here,” Jac said. “Frode can warn us if anyone is coming.”

“I don’t think he’s in the best mental state to read minds right now,” I said, glancing at Frode, who curled into the fetal position on the ground. “Climb a tree to give you a vantage point. I’ll stay with Frode. If anyone tries to attack us, it’ll be impossible for you not to hear it.”

Jac shifted his weight in the snow but finally nodded. As he grabbed the bottom branch of the nearest pine, he turned to point a finger at me. “Don’t you dare die,” he ordered.

I smirked as he ascended to the top.

Frode was shivering on the ground. “Are you okay?” I whispered, moving closer to help him sit up.

He shook his head, and I was surprised to see tear tracks on his face. Is it like this every time?

A solemn nod was his only reply.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “It should be over soon,” I murmured, pulling his helmet off to brush the snow out of his hair. He was paler than usual, and the few freckles that had stayed on his nose over the winter stood out. “We’re going to wait it out. Only a few more minutes.”

Hopefully. As long as they weren’t all dead at the Hellbringer’s hand. I shuddered at the thought of everyone lying slack-jawed in the canyon pass.

Frode made a strangled sort of noise and I was pulled back to the present. “What’s wrong?” I asked, examining him for injury.

Then I realized—he was laughing.

“You can’t stand to imagine them all dead out there,” he managed to say, “and yet you didn’t hesitate to invite yourself to the Trials. To war. Now is not the time to grow soft, Rev.”

I clenched my jaw and decided it would be better not to say anything. Then I heard the crunch of a footstep behind me.

Whirling, I pulled my sword from the sheath to point it straight at the Hellbringer.