Page 16

FIFTEEN

B y first light, Hekla’s ribs throbbed viciously, yet inside, she was numb with exhaustion and disbelief.

Hours had passed since she’d killed her Turned horse, and she could not push the sight of it from her mind.

Those ember-red eyes and misshapen limbs would more than likely haunt her for some time.

Hours Hekla had walked, the sister moons and Kritka her only companions. The squirrel had been uncharacteristically quiet, and she suspected the night’s terrible turn had not been part of his plans.

Hekla had discovered many horrors this night: the fate of the mist’s human victims; the truth of Loftur’s deception; the confirmation that the mist was, indeed, capable of Turning animals and humans alike.

But she’d also discovered some things of hope; for one thing, the mist was repelled by fire.

And moonlight—well, that had been even more surprising.

The mist had evaporated before her very eyes.

Was this why the mist could not venture far from the woods? If it was vulnerable to moonlight, the forest’s canopy might offer protection. But this thought only tightened the knots in Hekla’s stomach, for Loftur’s feast was slated for the night of the double black moon .

You’re not Loftur , the mist had said through the draugur’s mouth.

At the time, Hekla hadn’t thought anything of it.

But now, she couldn’t shake it from her mind.

Istré’s chieftain had been communicating with that.

.. thing in the woods. And it was suddenly clear that Loftur was not taking orders from Sunnvald at all.

What had the mist promised Loftur? That it would Turn the draugur in that barn back to their natural state? Was Loftur truly such an imbecile that he’d trust in something so obviously malevolent?

“Gods, but I want to throttle that man,” Hekla growled, wincing as her bare foot landed once more on a sharp stone.

But she frowned when her anger failed to materialize.

Much to her chagrin, Hekla pitied Loftur.

The man was truly an eelhead. Yet his heart was in the right place.

He wanted to help those people. And as her mind’s eye showed her the carved horse toy nestled in the straw—those child-like draugur wrestling in the barn—Hekla understood his motives entirely.

She also understood they could not hold a feast on the double black moon. In the absence of moonlight, the mist would not be restrained in the woods, and Istré’s people would be ripe for the taking. There was only one logical plan of action: They had to evacuate the town.

Now Protector trusts Kritka, yes? the squirrel suddenly chattered in her mind. Now Protector will come free our mistress?

Hekla nearly groaned. How many times did she have to tell this squirrel she was not this so-called Protector? “I must return to Istré,” she said aloud. “We must gather provisions and prepare to evacuate?—”

The squirrel released a torrent of angry chitters before scrambling down her body and scampering into the road. The rodent stood on its hind legs, glaring—if a squirrel could do such a thing—up at her.

Long Kritka has searched for the Protector. Kritka has been patient! The squirrel bared its teeth and screeched. Protector must free our mistress!

Hekla’s shoulder was badly bruised, and she was covered in her undead horse’s black blood.

She was not in the mood to be screamed at by an unhinged squirrel.

She opened her mouth to say as much, but the sound of hooves on the road diverted her attention.

A figure appeared on the horizon. As the rising sun caught a swath of red, Hekla nearly fell to her knees in relief.

She’d never been so gods-damned glad to see Eyvind and that ridiculous cloak of his.

He urged his horse into a gallop, sending Kritka scampering off the road and vanishing into the shrubs.

“Good riddance,” Hekla muttered.

Eyvind leapt from his horse and rushed toward her with startling speed. His eyes were wild, scanning her from head to toe, and then he was there, large, warm hands cupping her jaw and probing along her neck.

She swayed toward him but caught herself.

“Where are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Hakonsson,” she muttered, trying to extract herself, but those large, capable hands held her in place.

“Is that blood on your face?” His nose curled. “What is that smell?”

Hekla opened her mouth to reply, but as Eyvind’s assessing hands reached her shoulder, she hissed in pain.

“You are hurt,” he accused.

She finally managed to wrench free from his grip. “The blood is from my horse. It was Turned.”

“Turned?” Eyvind glanced over his shoulder, and Hekla realized he was not alone. Thrand and Konal had appeared on the horizon, the rest of his retinue following suit.

“Listen,” hissed Eyvind, “I don’t have a lot of time. I need you to listen?—”

“No, Eyvind, I need you to listen,” Hekla shot back. “We must ride to the Hagensson’s steading. Loftur endangers all of Istré for the sake of the slain.”

Eyvind’s coal-black brows dipped low. “The Hagensson’s steading.”

Hekla plowed onward. “Loftur has kept us from the Hagensson’s farm not because of a cleansing ritual, but because he keeps the mist’s human victims chained up in the barn.

But, Eyvind, they are no longer human. They are undead.

The mist”—her voice broke at the thought of her horse—“it has transformed them into draugur.”

Horses whinnied, and Hekla realized Konal and the rest of Eyvind’s retinue had arrived, with Sigrún and Gunnar bringing up the rear. Eyvind’s spine straightened, his gaze growing noticeably harder with their presence. Hekla glanced toward the warriors, her unease growing.

“Where have you been?” boomed Konal, dismounting in a single, smooth motion before storming toward them. “Good gods, woman, where are your breeches?”

Eyvind’s gaze slid down Hekla’s body, and he seemed to realize for the first time just how ill-equipped she was.

A muscle in his jaw feathered, but he swiftly unclasped the pompous red cloak.

Hekla didn’t fight as he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders; she was too glad for the warmth and the coverage it provided.

As Eyvind slid the cloak pin in place, imploring hazel eyes met hers.

She sensed he was trying to convey something, but she hadn’t the faintest inkling of what.

Hekla met Konal’s hard gaze and held it. She was clad in naught but a tunic and Eyvind’s cloak, yet she refused to cower. Refused to make herself smaller.

“Well, Eyvind?” growled Konal. “What has she to say for herself?”

“ She ,” ground out Hekla, “is right here.”

Konal’s steely eyes landed on her. “You’re at least two hours’ walk from Istré, with no horse, no boots, smelling like the gods know what.

And don’t think it has slipped our notice that you’ve come from the direction of the Hagensson steading.

” He took a menacing step forward, but Eyvind’s hand shot out, preventing him from taking another.

“Stand down, Konal,” he said, the carefree, jovial man she’d come to know nowhere to be found. “Let me handle this.”

Konal made a sound of frustration but retreated a few steps.

Eyvind closed his eyes and released a long breath. When he opened them, there was no softness to be found. “Tell me you did not disobey my orders and visit the Hagensson’s steading,” he said slowly.

The fact that Eyvind was more worried about her venturing to the forbidden property, and not the existence of two dozen undead creatures chained in the barn made Hekla’s anger erupt violently.

“All this time, Loftur has hidden vital information from us! They are draugur , Eyvind, and the fool thinks he can cure them by holding a feast?—”

A muscle in Eyvind’s jaw ticked, yet he showed no trace of surprise.

“You knew.” Hekla took a step back in shock. Disbelief and hurt mingled in her chest, but her anger eclipsed them both. “I should have known! What are your father’s orders?”

Eyvind’s hazel eyes roamed her face. “Konal,” he said, in a hoarse voice, “is schooled in the ancient rites of the old gods. My father has ordered him to perform these rites on the night of the double black moon, in order to heal those in the barn.”

Laughter fell from her lips, a dry, brittle sound. “There is no healing those in the barn!” Hekla turned her gaze on Eyvind. “There is no coming back from what they’ve become. Surely you do not buy into Loftur’s madness? Surely your father is not such a fool?—”

Konal clasped his hands behind his back, watching her with stern, dark eyes. “I’d watch what you say about Jarl Hakon, girl.”

Hekla tried to swallow back her anger, yet her words came out sharper than she’d intended. “Loftur lies about Sunnvald coming to him in a dream. It is the mist. It speaks to him through the draugur in the barn. I do not know what it has promised him?— ”

“It’s probably your moontime, isn’t it?” said Konal coldly. He turned to Eyvind. “This is why I advise against women in your retinue.”

With a low growl, Hekla unsheathed her claws and took a menacing step forward.

“Enough, Konal!” Eyvind exploded. For the span of a heartbeat, Hekla could have sworn she saw pure, untethered rage in his expression. But it was gone so quickly, she could not be certain.

As Konal stared at Eyvind, there was no mistaking the threat in his eyes. “Handle your business, son.” And after a long, weighted look at Hekla, the aged warrior retreated.

Exhaustion and betrayal and grief twisted inside Hekla’s skull. “You knew. You knew about the draugur. You let me toil on this job—let me risk my life —and all this time, you hid this from me.”

Remorse flickered in his eyes, but it only drew her ire.

“What about partnership , Hakonsson? What about working together to defeat the mist?”

A muscle in his jaw feathered. “I wanted to tell you, Hekla, but your behavior has been erratic.” Eyvind ran a hand along his braids. “Now everyone knows you’ve gone to the Hagensson’s steading after I strictly forbade it. You’ve pushed me into a corner Hekla. There is no other way out.”

Hekla braced herself for what was to come, but it hurt all the same.

“You’re off the job.” Again, there was that imploring look in Eyvind’s eye. He swallowed. “I gave you a second chance, but, Hekla, there will not be a third. You must leave Istré immediately.”

His voice was loud enough that all present could hear his words, and Hekla understood that his retinue was meant to witness this moment of dishonor. She should be angry—should be distraught—but the blasted numbness was back.

Hekla had no words. Instead she shouldered past him.