Page 2 of Heart of the Wolf

Chapter one

Brielle

Sticks crunched under her leather boots as she trudged deeper into the forest. The morning frost had since thawed, leaving the grass glistening with dew.

Winter threatened. Brielle tossed her curls over her shoulder, tugging her cloak tighter, trying to stave off the growing chill in the air.

Gray clouds swirled above, darkening the sun and threatening with snow.

Fingertips grazed the frayed leather hilt on her hip, the material worn and uneven. A sigh rattled in her chest. Carrying the small sword was one of many things her father said a woman should never do.

A lady should never handle a weapon. A lady should never speak too loudly. A lady should never be so unkempt. Never. Never. Never. It was always the things she should never do. Unfortunately, Brielle was everything a lady shouldn’t be in her father’s eyes.

The woods were often quiet, save for the sounds of foxes skittering along the forest floor. Brielle was aware of the clans that encircled her village, not afraid, but aware. They were the reason she often found herself alone in the trees, foraging for herbs.

As the only healer in her village, it was her responsibility to care for its people, something she did with pride.

However, as of late, the burden weighed heavily on her.

People came to her with tears in their eyes as they begged her to save their child, or to ease the pain in their failing bodies.

She steeled her heart, working diligently with the little she had.

Brielle crafted her own salves, using an old recipe from the previous healer. Most of her time was spent in the surrounding forests, gathering yarrow for poultices, peppermint for aching stomachs, and willow bark. Willow trees were abundant, and they eased most common ailments.

Another item she relied on was wild garlic, but her supplies were running low. The potent vegetable was one of the few things she could find that helped with infected wounds.

It was a key ingredient in her salves.

She hoarded what she could, hiding small bundles of supplies. Soon, her father would come, taking anything he could find for their yearly offering. He always took more than what they could comfortably spare, insisting it ensured their safety from the clans.

Even at the expense of the lives of their own people.

Norse surrounded them, the threat of their presence looming like an oppressive shadow. However, the clan stayed true to their word, leaving their village untouched while they conquered everything around them. All because of the treaty her father negotiated more than a decade ago.

Before the first snow, they provided a winter’s worth of supplies. Among them, her salves and poultices and precious stores. So, not only did she have to gather enough supplies for her own people, but for the clan as well.

It did not take a seer to know what fate would befall them if they didn’t deliver the required items.

Winter approached faster than the previous year, and Brielle scrounged the forest, woefully unprepared for the early snowfall. She had enough supplies for her village, but not for the jarl, who would arrive in a week’s time.

For the last five years, a new jarl came. The first time he arrived in place of the previous silver-haired man, something cleaved through her chest, leaving an aching throb in its wake.

She watched from a distance, a tear streaking her cheek for some unknown reason.

Nails scratched along her arms, making blood pool at the surface. A series of intrusive thoughts murmured to her, telling her that something had happened to him, which was why he no longer came. A sadness throbbed behind her sternum at the image, not understanding why she cared.

The new jarl was slightly shorter than the first, his body thick with corded muscles. He spoke their tongue nearly as well as the first man, but slipped into Norse frequently, directing his men. Chestnut braids framed his tanned, scarred face.

Their language was beautiful, almost poetic in its intensity.

Brielle deciphered more words each time they visited.

Konungr was their leader, something akin to a king.

The man who came was his second, his jarl.

In their most recent visit the previous year, the jarl mentioned something about new beginnings under their Konungr.

The fear that brewed in her belly whenever she saw him and the war-painted warriors who came with him tempered the fascination she held for the braided man and his mysterious king.

Her childhood naivety had vanished, reminding her they cohabitated with an uneasy truce.

One that she didn’t doubt they would break the first time her village failed to comply.

Blood turned to ice in her veins at the silent threat in their presence. Where she worshipped one God, they had many. In Christianity, death was something to be feared. For them, it was something to be rejoiced in. The greatest honor one could be afforded was death in battle, feasting in Valhalla.

Every time they came, the Norse warriors murmured about it.

It intrigued Brielle, their lives, beliefs, and customs; all so different from her own.

She craved to know more, and after asking her father once about the Norsemen, she never did it again.

He scolded her, pinching her jaw until his nails bit into the skin, telling her never to speak of such things, that it dishonored God.

That it was the word of Satan, whispering sin into her ears, luring her into temptation.

Not one to be quelled, Brielle refrained from speaking about it again with him, using other outlets to find answers. Sometimes, through neighbors who kept her secret. But mostly by observing them each time they visited, absorbing as much information as she could with each winter.

Once in a while, she caught her gaze wandering, lingering on the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man from her youth.

He still visited her dreams, but not as frequently as he once had. She wondered if he called to her from Valhalla. If he experienced honor with death in battle. Her heart ached with the loss of something she never had and could not put a name to.

From the brief exchange she heard last year between her father and the jarl with dark braids, their king commanded all the surrounding clans.

The threat in his deep baritone was clear. It would not do to anger this Konungr; Brielle’s town would be wiped out in moments. The lucky ones would be killed, and the others would be taken as thralls. A cruel shiver shuddered along her spine.

If she could not gather more supplies, there would still be enough to meet the clan's demands. But what of them? Their people. Brielle would be unable to craft salves and poultices, and many people would succumb to illness during the dark days of the long night.

Shaking away the unwanted thoughts, she pushed her knotted curls to one side.

The threadbare wool of her dress snagged on a stick as she scavenged through her favorite spots.

Her stomach twisted, angry with her for giving her morning meal to a child who needed it more.

Ignoring the growing ache, Brielle worked well into the evening, filling her basket with bunches of yarrow, juniper, and chamomile.

A brilliant, yellow sun exploded beyond the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple, orange, and pale crimson. She enjoyed the changing of day to night; it was a simple pleasure she reveled in when she could.

Twigs snapped under heavy feet, shattering her quiet work. Brielle wrenched her head toward the sound, her heart hammering in her chest like a war drum. Two men circled her, pale and broad-chested. Far bigger and, no doubt, stronger than her.

Delicate fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword, drawing it. Saliva turned to ash in her mouth, her throat tightening until it was hard to breathe. Brielle was not a fighter; her father refused to train her, and the boys in her village sneered at her whenever she asked to practice with them.

So, she taught herself, stealing the blade in her hand. She frequented the woods alone; she needed some way to protect herself. Initially, she thought to guard herself from wolves and bears. How na?ve she had been. Wild animals would be the least of her worries.

Deep down, part of her wanted to be like the women she saw with the jarl. While unusual, two fierce women had joined the ranks of war-painted men the previous year. They were as inspiring as they were terrifying.

All the women in her village depended on their husbands or fathers, as if by design. Subservient to men. The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Her attackers stalked closer, circling her like a hawk would an injured fox. They resembled the Norse but were more untamed. Mud marred their scarred faces, their weapons were dirty, and their eyes were crazed.

Her heart froze, forgetting how to beat for a moment. Icy tendrils of fear slithered around her chest, squeezing out the last remnants of air from her lungs until it burned to suck in gasping breaths.

Hollow laughs fell from their cracked lips, corralling her until she was pinned against a rocky outcropping with nowhere to run.

“What do you want?” she hissed, knuckles turning white around the hilt of her blade.

They shared a twisted, unsettling smile. Something ominous shone in the yellow of their bloodshot eyes. Unfamiliar words rumbled into the stale air. Acid rose in her throat, making her retch when their sinister stares raked over her.

Brielle did not need to understand Norse to figure out their intentions. An axe dangled in one man’s outstretched hand, while the other trained his spear on her, its points glittering with fresh blood.

They taunted her, swinging their weapons and chuckling as she stumbled. She shuffled through the crunchy leaves, her gait unbalanced. Sweat trickled down her face, sticky and cold on her nape where her hair stood on end.