Page 13
THIRTEEN
H unched over her ale, Hekla tried to ignore the building chaos in the Hungry Blade.
The Winter Nights celebrations seemed to start earlier and earlier each day.
Already, Onund Ale Drinker was drinking straight from the jug, while Alf the Slender arm wrestled one of the Old Mothers, and Halldora buzzed about looking completely frazzled.
Gunnar slid onto the bench beside Hekla, handing her a fresh horn. “I hear you’re talking to woodland creatures now.”
Hekla had returned from the steading an hour before the others. Had taken a long bath to try to clear her mind before channeling her nerves into another round of sparring practice. Thankfully, she hadn’t caught sight of any suspicious looking rodents.
Hekla accepted the horn and drank deeply.
Gunnar watched her carefully. “I also heard that kunta Thrand telling Konal you’re not fit for this job. That you’re a danger to yourself and to others.”
A brittle laugh fell from her lips. “Did he now?”
Gunnar grunted. “But Hakonsson... ”
She whirled on Gunnar. “Did he join in? Tell them I threatened to rip the guts from his body?”
Gunnar frowned. “Hakonsson defended you. Said you were the only one to survive the mist. That you were an asset to the team, not a liability.”
Hekla’s throat worked on a hard swallow.
Gunnar’s gaze slid around her face, assessing. “Tell me you did not threaten to disembowel our new ally and leader, Rib Smasher.”
She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug.
Gunnar chortled. “Gods, but my girl is a violent one.”
Hekla’s gaze whipped toward him. “I’m not your girl , Fire Fist.”
The wide smile within his black beard told her she’d just reacted precisely how he’d expected. “Not yet.”
She scowled. “In case you’ve had the wits knocked from your skull, let me speak plainly. I am not your girl, Gunnar, nor will I ever be.”
But the lout’s smile only deepened. “Think about it, Hek. We know how to work together. We can trust one another. We know each other’s history.” His voice thickened. “And we know we work well in bed?—”
Hekla shot him a look so scathing that Gunnar’s smile finally faltered. She opened her mouth to say it all—that she would never again be someone’s girl , that no man would ever have such control over her again. But before she could speak, a hand fell upon her shoulder.
“What?” spat Hekla, whirling around.
There stood Hakonsson, his jaw firmly set as he stared down at her with those unnervingly beautiful eyes. She stared at the silver cuffs adorning his gleaming black locks, dumbstruck for a moment.
“Might I have a word?” Eyvind’s gaze slid to Gunnar. “Alone?”
Gunnar’s eyes met Hekla’s, and she nodded.
Grumbling, Fire Fist pushed to his feet and ambled away.
Eyvind slid onto the bench beside her, then drank deeply from his horn of ale.
She scoffed to herself. The man was a pretender; she knew for a fact that he didn’t even like ale.
But this near, Eyvind’s irritating scent invaded her senses, transporting her back to what she’d thought was a night of freedom—when she was the lynx and he was the fox.
She felt his gaze on her and forced herself to meet it. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, as though this job weighed on his mind. A part of Hekla was glad to see it.
“What is it between you?” asked Eyvind.
Hekla blinked. “I-what?”
“You and Gunnar,” said Eyvind, an unreadable expression upon his face. “What is it between you?”
“It is none of your concern.”
His expression shifted, like a cloud drifting across the sun. A dry laugh fell from Eyvind’s lips, and he soon took another long draught of ale. She ought to be angry—ought to remind him of their agreement to forget anything had ever happened between them.
But Hekla was reminded that Eyvind had stuck up for her in front of his men, which is why she quietly admitted, “I haven’t been with him in quite some time.”
Her words hung in the air, quiet and loud all at once. Just like that night on the riverbank, Hekla felt firmly planted in the here and now. Why did he have this effect on her?
Eyvind raked a hand through his hair, his gaze growing distant. “There are concerns,” he finally said, “about what happened at the farm today.”
She should be glad he’d brought them back to Hekla and Eyvind . That he hadn’t shared a truth of his own. Because Hekla didn’t trust herself not to do something rash.
Still, the transition was so abrupt, it gave her whiplash.
“The...squirrel,” Eyvind tried. “Will you tell me what startled you?”
A coarse laugh fell free. “I’m mad, isn’t it obvious?”
“No,” he replied, propping his chin on his fist and staring at her. “You can trust me, Hekla. Whatever you tell me stays between us.”
Trust him. As she had that night by the riverbank. Hekla quickly rallied her defenses to do what they did best. “Trust you?” Her voice was a brittle thing. “When you haven’t even told me the true reason for Konal’s presence? Were you ever going to tell me he intends to perform some ritual?”
Eyvind’s surprise quickly morphed into anger. “Where did you hear that?”
The swell of victory inside her felt false, but she’d come too far to turn back now. “Your warriors talk behind your back, Hakonsson. They likened you to a hound on Konal’s leash. The red-haired one and the—” Hekla waved her hands.
“Vílki?”
She shrugged. “How should I know his name?”
His look was incredulous. “Perhaps because we’ve been here a week?”
Hekla leveled Eyvind with a look. “Focus, Hakonsson. Were I in your shoes, I’d make an example of them. Show them what happens to a warrior who slanders their leader.”
He stared at her with open curiosity and wonder, as though she’d just revealed she was the Queen of íseldur. “What else would you do?”
“I would drop this absurd ritual Konal has planned and focus on venturing into the woods.”
That snapped Eyvind from his reverie. “You must be patient. After the double black moon?—”
“You’re not listening to me, Hakonsson,” she seethed.
“I hear you just fine.”
Hekla’s anger reached a sudden, violent boil.
“If we wait until after the double black moon, we might all be dead!” she exclaimed, far louder than she’d meant.
But Hekla could not shake that dream from her mind; the people in that barn, screaming as it engulfed them; Eyvind’s eyes ember red as he succumbed to the mist.
Hekla met his gaze with her own unyielding glare. “Istré’s people are not pawns in your games.”
Eyvind’s brows shot up. “I know that. ”
“Do you?” Hekla’s heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and the words she’d pent up for days burst free.
“You, who is granted the seat of honor beside Loftur simply because of your name? You, whose armor is so pristine, it’s clear you’ve never been tried in battle?
Not to mention you’re a second son who clearly had no worries about being conscripted into the Klaernar’s ranks. Did Dear Papa arrange that as well?—”
“Bearing the Hakonsson name is not such a blessing as you might think,” Eyvind snapped.
It was such an uncharacteristic display of anger that it gave Hekla pause.
“I do not expect you to understand.” He growled in frustration.
“You are the most maddening, hard-headed woman I’ve ever met.
” Eyvind’s jaw shifted, but his eyes met hers.
“Two days, Hekla. There are two days until Loftur’s feast. Can you give me that? ”
She pushed to her feet and folded her arms over her chest. Eyvind spun on the bench to face her.
“Two days,” Hekla said with cutting calm. “Then I’m going into that forest, Hakonsson.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer. Hekla turned on her heel and left the mead hall.
Hekla dreamed of a land of dark shapes and shadows.
A world of claws and sharp teeth. Of eyes ever watching and ears ever listening.
She rode down the road, her legs bare against her mare’s black coat.
Beside her the forest gasped, desperate to free itself; but its world was controlled by a master, strings buried deep in the soil.
And yet, beneath the spreading darkness in the woods, she could sense something else.
Something quiet and ancient—a lone resistant being, protected by lignin’s tough embrace.
Wake, said a voice. We’re here.
Hekla’s eyes flew open. Before her stood a farmyard. A barn, with double oak doors chained shut. Stunted fields of barley all around her.
And in the middle of the yard stood a lone apple tree.
She knew that apple tree—had seen that barn.
Both were from her dream the night before.
Hekla waited for the barn to whisk away, but gradually became aware of just how vivid this dream was.
Had she been cold in her dreams before? Had she felt stones digging into her bare feet?
Had she smelled that foul, moldering stench?
A nicker from behind had Hekla whirling. Her black mare chewed a mouthful of grass, watching Hekla impassively.
“Wake up,” muttered Hekla, pinching her arm over and over. But despite the nips of pain, nothing changed.
The cold prickled her skin, and Hekla looked down to find her feet and legs bare. She was clad in naught but the long undertunic she’d worn to bed and her prosthetic arm, which she clearly remembered removing. What in the eternal fucking fires was going on? Had she sleepwalked here?
Sleep-rode-her-horse?
But where was here ? Based on the chafing on her arse, she’d ridden some distance.
And that single lonely apple tree identified this as the farm she’d dreamed about—the one with the people screaming in the barn as they were engulfed by mist. Her gaze landed on a heavy chain barring entry to the barn, and the cold in her bones deepened.
A small form bounded onto the path before her, beady black eyes glinting in the darkness.
Do you like Kritka’s gift?
Hekla was past the point of fighting this delusion. She advanced on the squirrel, hands balled into fists. “What have you done? Where am I?”
Kritka brought you here, Protector, to help you understand the dark thing. Now you will trust in Kritka.
“Help me understand? ” Hekla sputtered. “How...where...” The questions piled up too quickly for her to make sense of them. She was dreaming, and then...then she was here. “How did I come to be here?”
Kritka made your paws move many steps away from your burrow.
“Where are we, Kritka?” asked Hekla in a low growl.
The squirrel’s tail vibrated in a happy sort of gesture, as though he preened at her use of his name. We are at the burrow called Hagensson. Here, Protector will find answers about the bad thing. Then, Protector will trust Kritka. Help free our mistress.
“Hagensson,” gasped Hekla, glancing toward the barn. This was the site of the first human victims—the farm Loftur had forbidden her to visit. Curiosity bristled inside her. “I shouldn’t be here,” she murmured, but her bare feet were already stepping toward the barn.
The sudden clank of chains sent a shiver down Hekla’s spine, only heightening the eerie sense of having taken these steps before.
“You’re awake,” she reassured herself, then began reciting the information she knew of the Hagenssons to ease her nerves. “Site of the first human attack. Livestock vanished, the family noted missing when their eldest son failed to call upon the neighbor’s girl.”
Another gust of wind carried the unmistakable scent of rotting flesh, and Hekla’s feet faltered. “Family of eight. Mother, father, four children, two grandparents. Only deep claw marks and blood spray found in their home?—”
A grunt from within the barn brought Hekla to an abrupt halt. Her left hand reached instinctively for her sword, and she swore when she did not find it.
“Curse you, you bloody squirrel,” she muttered. “Could you not have brought me fully dressed?”
The squirrel’s nose twitched, and Hekla had the sense that the creature did not understand the concept of breeches nor boots.
“At least you had the good sense to put my arm on.” Hekla unsheathed her claws, the reassuring glint of metal easing her pulse just a bit. But a long, low wail floated through the air, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. It was increasingly clear that something was locked inside the barn .
Before she could second guess herself, Hekla took off at a brisk pace.
She snatched an axe propped against the wall and used the butt to strike the metal padlock once, twice, three times.
The sound rattled her ear drums and instantly agitated whatever was locked inside.
A second screech joined the first, then a third…
fourth…fifth…Hekla’s nerves were on high alert, but she did not cease her assault on the lock.
You need fire , came the squirrel’s voice, diverting her gaze away from the barn doors.
Her gaze swung toward the creature perched upon what appeared to be a small bucket filled with unlit torches.
And tucked just behind it, a firestone. Someone had left these here, but who, and more importantly, why?
Hekla soon held a lit torch in hand, allowing her to drive the axe into the padlock with far more accuracy. It wasn’t long before it cracked open. Hekla shoved the door with her shoulder. The shrieks from within reached an ear-splitting crescendo, rattling her bones.
Kritka will wait outside, chattered the squirrel.
Hekla sent him an irritated look, then lifted the torch, casting light into the barn.
The moldered stench hit her at once, making her eyes water, yet Hekla pushed through it and stepped inside.
Her breath seized at what she found within.
The Hagenssons, the Erikssons, the Brakkssons—all of the missing were here.
Except it was clear it was not them at all.
Their flesh was a bluish gray, bruised and dripping black blood from multiple slash marks.
Iron collars wrapped around their necks, and they were secured to the wall with chains long enough to allow movement.
As two-dozen faces swung toward her, Hekla flinched.
They smiled too wide, their mouths filled with pointed teeth.
But their eyes were the most frightening part of all.
Glowing red, like the embers of a fire.
A chill settled into Hekla’s bones.
“Fuck,” she muttered.