Page 12

TWELVE

PRESENT DAY

H ekla dreamed of weathered-timber beams groaning in the wind—of chains clanking against the twin oak doors of a barn.

It was utterly dark. A moonless night. Stunted fields of barley quivered all around her, and the tall spindly pines of the Western Woods swayed.

The setting was familiar, yet the lone apple tree in the middle of the yard was distinct, and Hekla was certain she’d never laid eyes on this farm before.

A heartbeat began low and deep within the woods, but time was slippery in this land of dreams, and soon it thundered in her skull.

White tendrils slinked from beneath dead shrubs, from behind gnarled trunks, and Hekla could feel the mist’s longing—could taste its hunger as it glided through the grass toward the barn.

She opened her mouth to scream a warning, but no sound came. Hekla watched helplessly as the mist seeped between the boards of the barn. Screams rose from within, joining the hammering beat of the mist in a chorus of agony, man, woman, child .

Hekla had to help them, had to make it stop, but she did not know how to best this enemy. A large form bounded into her vision, shaggy tail twitching. Wake , it said .

Hekla sat up with a gasp.

Her heart raced, and cold sweat misted her brow. But worst of all was the unsettling hunger lingering in her blood. The dream had been so vivid and felt so real.

Not real , she told herself, trying to banish the sight of that barn from her mind. You are in your chambers.

The sounds of the Winter Nights’ celebrations had faded away, and the faint light blooming from beneath the window coverings suggested that dawn neared. Hekla drained her waterskin. Sleep would not find her, not after a dream like that, and so she pulled the furs aside and dressed for the day.

Today her legs felt a bit steadier, the ache in her skull not quite as sharp. Hekla ate a few strips of dried elk, then grabbed her gear and made her way to the yard behind The Hungry Blade.

The horizon was brightening, casting just enough light for Hekla to see she was not alone in the yard.

The figure across the courtyard worked through a series of rapid sword thrusts before sinking into a quick defensive stance.

Her stomach clenched tight; she knew those movements. Had faced them before.

Hekla supposed she should not be surprised to find Eyvind Hakonsson up before the sun, diligently working through a defensive routine.

I hope that second chances are a very real thing.

The Fox’s words from their night together rang in her ears, and Hekla gritted her teeth. This job was the Fox’s second chance, and the realization curdled the last vestiges of her hope. The man would not squander it, which meant he would do as his father ordered.

As a favor to you, I’ll allow you a second chance.

Eyvind’s remembered words from last night kindled her anger to life.

Fuck him.

Fuck every patronizing man who disregarded her opinion because she lacked a certain appendage. Who brushed off her passion and called her temperamental . Who told her to smile, as though she needed to change herself to put them at ease.

Fuck them all.

Hekla stripped off her cloak and began working through movements to loosen her body.

She refused to grant Eyvind so much as a glance, even when she felt his eyes on her.

Thankfully, he had the good sense not to try to talk to her as Hekla channeled her anger into her routine.

Best to get it all out here now, in the sparring grounds, so she would not do or say something regretful later.

She could not help Istré’s citizens if she were ousted from the job.

By the end of her routine, sunlight streamed over the stable’s roof and steam rose from Hekla’s sweat-slicked skin. Roosters crowed and hooves clopped, a squirrel darting along the fence.

Hekla froze.

The creature paused on a fencepost, one paw lifted as it listened for predators.

Just a squirrel, bjáni . Hekla forced her attention to her waterskin, refusing to so much as glance the creature’s way as she took a long drink.

After gathering her gear, she sauntered into the mead hall. Eyvind’s men lined the benches, talking amongst themselves. Hekla ignored the occasional scowl sent her way, but her ears pricked up as she caught a wisp of conversation.

“Konal had best loosen the leash.” It was one of Eyvind’s warriors.

Hekla slowed her stroll.

“It’s not a good look for Eyvind, having to heel to Dear Papa’s every command.”

“Least we’re out of the city. Another patrol of that wall, and I’d gouge my bloody eyes out.” This came from a rangy man with red hair fastened into a warrior’s braid.

The first warrior grunted his agreement. “Do you really think Konal’s ritual will help? ”

The red-haired warrior shrugged. “Suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

The first man opened his mouth to reply but caught sight of Hekla and glared. With a mocking salute, Hekla ambled on, but her mind spun at what she’d heard. So, this was Konal’s business here? What was this ritual the warriors spoke of, and why had she not been informed of it?

Put together with the fact that Jarl Hakon was an old friend of Loftur’s, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening here. Jarl-bloody-Hakon had sent Konal to do something on Loftur’s behalf. The jarl was trying to control things from Kopa. No wonder they were making no progress!

Gods, what a mess.

Gunnar waved her over to an empty bench space. “Feeling well enough to spar, are you?” He nudged a plate toward her.

Hekla’s eyes narrowed on the stack of oatcakes generously drizzled with honey. “What’s this for?”

“The daymeal.” Gunnar shrugged.

Hekla was no fool—the man had never fixed a plate of food for her in his life, which meant he was angling for something. But Hekla was too hungry to care. Hunching over her plate, she wolfed down her meal like she hadn’t eaten in days. Which, she supposed, she hadn’t.

“I could spar with you tomorrow, if you’d like.”

Hekla’s knife paused in midair, and she assessed Gunnar from the corner of her eye. This man had been the last member of the Bloodaxe Crew to rise in the morning for years . Was he unwell? “Looking to get your arse handed to you before the daymeal, Fire Fist?”

He grimaced. “I suppose not. But we could”—he waggled his eyebrows—“ spar in the evenings.”

Hekla shook her head in amusement. “As subtle as a greataxe, aren’t you?”

But a curious sensation twisted in her stomach.

She and Gunnar had had a physical relationship for the better part of a year, and always, their expectations had been clear—sex only, no soft sentiments.

Gunnar was a more than adequate lover, and over time, she’d even grown comfortable falling asleep in his bed.

Yet the thought of bringing him to her furs suddenly felt unappealing.

Gunnar’s arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Is it flattery you want, Smasher? I can do that.” His mouth was now right beside her ear. “I can do anything you’d like.”

A prickling sensation rushed down her spine, and it was not due to Gunnar’s proposition in the slightest. She turned to find a familiar figure in the doorway.

Eyvind’s ridiculous red cloak was bundled under his arm, his brow slicked with sweat.

Her gaze met his, and her insides danced like a gaggle of little girls around a bonfire.

A muscle feathered in Eyvind’s jaw, but he strode past them and took his seat at Loftur’s left.

Hekla exhaled and tried to gather her wits. She shook Gunnar’s arm from her shoulder.

“I am glad you’re feeling better, Fire Fist. But I’m afraid I must decline.”

Hekla’s head pounded in time to the hoofbeats as they made their way to examine a site where livestock had gone missing, but thankfully no human victims had been claimed.

The sun was far too gods-damned bright, and Hakonsson’s men far too cheerful.

She watched the warrior who’d badmouthed Eyvind now speaking jovially to him.

It didn’t sit right with her, the way Eyvind’s men had spoken of him behind his back.

At least she’d had the bollocks to voice her discontent to his face.

Not your battle, she told herself.

Grinding her teeth together, Hekla tried not to wonder how this job would go were Axe Eyes here—were the Wolf and No Beard riding alongside them. She let out a long, weighted breath. There was no point in wondering. She had to make do with what she had.

They arrived at the farm when the sun was at its zenith. It was much like all the others—an abandoned longhouse; vacant animal pens; endless fields of stunted crops. A lone wagon sat stoically in the yard, and it was so gods-damned quiet, she wanted to scream.

Wincing against the drumbeat in her skull, Hekla dismounted and trailed the warriors into the stables.

It was precisely as it had been when she’d last seen it: tools and hay strewn about, walls spattered with blood.

Hekla stared at a scythe, somehow still leaning against the wall, as she breathed through the pain in her skull.

It was strange how the world around this scythe could fall apart so completely, and there it still stood.

Follow me , came a shrill voice.

Hekla glanced around but found only Eyvind’s retinue listening raptly to Loftur.

She gave her head a shake. This gods-damned headache was truly doing a number on her.

She tried to focus on Loftur as the chieftain relayed the events leading up to the grim discovery in this barn.

But the voice flitted once more through her skull.

Protector must follow Kritka!

This time, she recognized the childlike voice. Hekla whirled, then locked her knees in place to prevent them from buckling. She blinked to clear her vision. But the squirrel perched on the barn’s windowsill did not fade away.

“You. What are you doing here?”

We must go, said the voice.

“I’m going mad,” Hekla mumbled. It was the only explanation.

The back of her neck prickled, and Hekla knew that Loftur had stopped talking. She winced, keenly aware that all eyes in the barn were now trained on her back. Someone tried to conceal a chuckle behind a cough, but it was enough to set her teeth on edge.

A figure appeared at her side, and she knew it was Eyvind even before he spoke. “You’ve pushed too hard too soon,” he said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You must return to the inn and rest.”

Hekla’s anger burned to life, and she shook his hand loose. “I only need some fresh air.” And with that, she strode out of the barn.

The sunlight was bright, wreaking havoc on her throbbing skull. Hekla braced against the lone cart in the yard, drawing in long, calming breaths. Perhaps she ought to have listened to the healer and rested for longer. Because it seemed she was losing her gods-damned mind.

But she couldn’t afford to look weak. Not here. Not with the eyes of all those male warriors upon her. Hekla needed to gather her wits before she did irreparable damage to her reputation.

Sigrún appeared beside her, that damnable black hood concealing her face.

What is going on with you? Hekla wanted to shout. Why have you turned so nervous and flighty? But then Hekla reminded herself a squirrel had just spoken to her. Clearly, she was not of sound mind.

The arrogant one watches , Sigrún signed.

Hekla straightened and followed her gaze, finding Thrand leaning casually against the barn doors.

His face held a mixture of loathing and suspicion, and Hekla knew in an instant that Eyvind had assigned him to watch her.

Did he think she would try to sneak back into the Western Woods?

Did he not know the very sight of them sent a shiver down her spine?

Hekla turned away and gasped. “No.” The gods-damned squirrel was bounding toward her. “You leave me alone.”

Sigrún was signing, but Hekla was too distracted by the voice in her mind.

Protector, it said, you must follow Kritka.

“Leave me be, you insolent creature,” she growled.

But just like in the woods, the squirrel was unperturbed.

It hopped onto the wagon, then scurried along the siding.

Hekla’s chest constricted as she looked into those beady black eyes.

She saw intelligence. Saw more than a mere squirrel.

She saw a grimwolf in the mist, keeping her from harm. ..

My mistress needs your help , said the squirrel, for Hekla was now certain it was the squirrel’s voice in her head. You must follow Kritka into the forest.

Are you all right? signed Sigrún, concern etched into her shadowed face.

Hekla swallowed. “Can you...do you not hear that?”

Sigrún’s brows furrowed. Hear what?

Hekla stole a glance at Thrand, whose stance was now anything but casual. He watched her with the keenness of a wolfhound who’d just scented blood.

Nothing , Hekla signed, hardening her jaw. Not waiting for Sigrún’s reply, she whirled on her foot and took long strides toward her black mare. She had to get out of here. Get some rest.

Why do you not follow Kritka, Protector? asked the creature. Hekla made the mistake of looking back; the gods-damned squirrel was following her. My mistress begs of you ? —

“Leave me alone!” exclaimed Hekla. She forced her voice to lower. “I do not know why you think I am this...Protector, but I can assure you I’m not.” She raked a hand over her warrior’s braid.

The squirrel cocked its head to the side, tail twitching.

“Leave me be!” Gods above, she was talking to a squirrel.

I will show you , said Kritka, whiskers twitching. Kritka will help Protector see.

“Not on your life,” she muttered, refusing to glance back.

Hekla mounted her black mare and galloped down the road. She did not look back for a very long time. But when she did, she was eternally grateful not to see a squirrel bounding after her.