Page 2

TWO

THE NIGHT BEFORE

T he sun crawled toward the horizon, the musky yet sweet scent of the harvest hanging in the air.

The smell stirred a thousand memories within Hekla: her father’s deep voice, singing the reaping song as he cut back the barley; her grandmother’s stories as her crooked fingers worked the distaff.

Hekla’s family farm in Midfjord had been much farther south, the air less crisp than it was here in Istré.

But the smell of the harvest was exactly the same.

Istré’s beleaguered farmers would be reaping the barley this week before settling in for an uncertain winter. But tonight, at their chieftain’s request, they’d gathered in the village square with the rest of the townsfolk.

Arms folded over her chest, Hekla observed the Winter Nights celebration.

The dais at her back, with its three V-shaped pillars, was typically used for the Klaernar’s executions.

But now, it hosted a group of grizzled warriors pounding a rhythmic beat on their drums. Braziers illuminated the whole of the square, including the hazel staves marking the borders of a fighting ring.

Booths had been erected by vendors, the scent of flatbreads and roasted chicken drifting in the air.

Horns of ale were passed about, and the crowd was in good cheer .

Hekla’s head was already hazed with the ale she’d consumed in frustration at the Hungry Blade mead hall.

This celebration was a mistake, but Loftur “the Unwise”—as she’d taken to calling him—refused to heed her warnings.

It was bad enough the man blocked her every attempt to investigate the deadly mist stalking the outskirts of Istré.

But watching these people celebrate the Winter Nights with such danger lurking nearby did not sit right with her.

There had been no sign of the mist tonight, but Hekla glanced at Istré’s stockade walls, her nerves buzzing. She ought to have kept a clear mind, yet weeks of frustrations had frothed inside her. And Halldora, barmaid at the Hungry Blade, had been no help.

“You deserve some fun,” she’d said with a wink, pressing horn after horn of ale into Hekla’s hand.

Hekla suspected the ale was a show of gratitude from Halldora.

Upon her arrival in Istré, Hekla had immediately spotted the telltale bruises on Halldora’s cheek.

When at last she’d managed to corner the barmaid in private, Hekla had passed her a bag filled with coins.

“Bury it somewhere safe. And if ever the time feels right to leave him, you’ll have a choice in the matter.”

Halldora’s dark eyes had brimmed with tears at the gesture, and Hekla had been unable to reveal it was what she’d once wished someone would do for her.

It was more than coins. It was more than escape.

It was acknowledgment. I see you, the bag said.

I understand. Hekla wished she could do more—wished she could make true change in this kingdom to better the lives of women.

For now, she had to content herself with observing the fighting matches in Istré’s town square, and gods, but they were difficult to watch.

Alf the Slender succumbed to the sheer girth of Onund Ale Drinker, and he to the vice-like grip of Istré’s blacksmith.

Their fighting was messy and uncoordinated, any skill they might possess muddled by the vast quantities of ale they’d consumed.

Hekla’s limbs itched to leap into the ring, to show them how a true warrior fought.

And perhaps she selfishly wanted to dispel Loftur of any preconceived notions he had of women in the fighting ring.

But Hekla restrained herself. Betraying Loftur’s orders would not win the man’s favor.

And so she reached for another horn of ale and downed it swiftly.

The blacksmith ambled from the ring, tipping a splash of his drink into the brazier’s flames.

Many of the locals had boldly made similar offerings—bits of chicken and beef, crudely carved weapons, and ale.

Memory told Hekla such offerings were tailored to the old god Sunnvald’s preferences, which had her scanning the crowd for tattooed faces.

Should the King’s Claws see such overt devotion to the old gods, Hekla suspected the monstrous mist would be the least of Istré’s worries.

A new brawl was set to begin, the blacksmith against?—

—a stranger.

Annoyance jostled through Hekla. To enter the tournament, one needed Loftur’s approval. How had this newcomer gained entry into the games, when she, who’d been trying for weeks to gain the blockhead’s trust, was denied?

Hekla ground her teeth together, examining the stranger.

Light from the brazier illuminated the man’s pompous red cloak and cutting olive cheekbones.

Some women might swoon over a pretty face like that, but Hekla liked a little grit to her men.

To her surprise, as the stranger stepped into the fighting ring, she could tell each step was laced with power.

As the brawl began, Hekla could immediately tell the mysterious warrior held himself back.

He let the blacksmith tackle him to the ground.

Allowed him to land a few blows before rolling the blacksmith onto his stomach and wrapping an arm around his neck.

The blacksmith pounded the ground, granting victory to the stranger, and the crowd roared.

That was the precise moment that ale sloshed from her neighbor’s cup right down the collar of Hekla’s lébrynja jacket.

She’d officially seen enough.

Scowling, Hekla retreated from the festivities, the crowd’s cheers chasing her through the darkened streets of Istré.

The night was clear and dark, stars spattered across the skies as Hekla laid a blanket down on the riverbank.

Entering through barred culverts under Istré’s defensive walls, the river snaked right through the town.

This particular curve in the river was favored by locals for bathing, but given that every citizen was now gathered in the square, Hekla had it all to herself.

For a moment, she simply sat on the blanket, letting the quiet of the night surround her.

But soon the thoughts slunk out like wolves from the darkness.

Why did Loftur block her every move? How could she convince him to work with her, rather than against her?

Was it simply that she was a woman, or was there more to it?

Her questions shifted to irritation, and Hekla began to argue with the chieftain inside her head, trying to force logic into his thick skull.

How could he expect the Bloodaxe Crew to defeat the deadly mist without being allowed to enter the woods, and why did he hold these infernal celebrations despite the ever-present threat?

But even inside her mind, Loftur was as immovable as a mountain; no matter what she said or did, Hekla could not seem to get through to him.

The man’s refusal to listen was maddening!

The spilled ale on her neck was suddenly unbearable. Hekla shot to her feet and yanked off her lébrynja jacket. After tossing it on the riverbank, she moved to pull off her undertunic.

A twig snapped behind her.

Years of training had her drawing her blade without a heartbeat’s hesitation. Hekla held still as death, eyes surveying the shadowed brush for any sign of movement. And after a moment, there it was.

There he was.

The stranger’s red cloak drifted behind him as he ambled out of the bushes and onto the riverbank.

“This bank is taken,” said Hekla, the point of her sword angled toward him. “Find another one, warrior. ”

Emotions played across his face—shock, then amusement, before settling into a look of haughty indignation.

“I think not,” he said, strolling past her sword point, completely unbothered.

A week’s worth of Loftur’s disregard caught up to Hekla in a rush. It was one man too many brushing her aside when she could gut him like a fish. With a growl, Hekla charged after the man. Grabbing his shoulder, she whirled him around. Her sword tip now dimpled the tender skin of his throat.

“I said find another riverbank.”

“And I,” said the man, “ declined. ”

She saw his tell—the flare of his pupils—but his speed caught her by surprise.

As her sword was knocked aside, Hekla knew she was right.

The man had been holding back in Istré’s fighting ring.

But her opponent did not know that Hekla had surprises of her own.

She ducked, throwing her shoulder into his abdomen.

His soft oof filled her with satisfaction as momentum carried the pair of them back toward a prickly willow bush.

Somehow, the warrior diverted their course, bringing them down on the soft riverbank instead. In a dizzying move, he twisted until Hekla’s back hit the sand.

“And here I thought Istré would be dull,” drawled the warrior from where he straddled her hips. “The first night and already I’ve a vixen beneath me.”

“I’m no vixen, you braying ass,” she spat. “Best you learn that.”

Hekla brought her head crashing forward. The warrior reeled back in time to avoid a broken nose, but his distraction was enough for Hekla to wrench them sideways, rolling until the man was pinned beneath her.

Moonlight slanted across his tanned skin, and Hekla finally got a look at the man’s eyes.

“Hazel,” she muttered. “Of course.” The man truly was obscenely pretty.

Cheekbones that could cut glass. Glossy black hair, twisted into braids with such complexity it hurt her skull to even consider.

And those eyes, trained on...she looked down, trying to determine what he was looking at.

Her undertunic hung low, giving him a view straight down it.

“If your aim was to distract me, consider me distracted,” he said, staring unabashedly at her breasts. The irritating man simply lay there, making no attempt to remove her from his body.

“Watch yourself, warrior,” she growled. “I’ve anger to spend and have been looking for a target.”

Those hazel eyes snapped to hers, then narrowed. “Why did you not join the games? You’re more than an adequate opponent.” His gaze drifted downward once more. “From what I can see.”

With a huff, Hekla pushed off him and yanked her undertunic up.

“Fight me,” said the warrior, hopping to his feet.

She surveyed him, left hand itching to pummel his pretty face. But now she knew he was a worthy opponent. Hekla thought of Axe Eyes—of how fiercely she missed their morning sparring sessions.

She eyed the warrior. There was no doubt he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever laid eyes upon, a fact which made her insides writhe in discomfort. Her husband, too, had been handsome, though it had only served as a tool to conceal his vileness. Hekla forced her gaze over his shoulder.

“What do you get out of it?”

“I get to fight a true opponent.”

“Hmm. Not much enjoyment in holding back against Istré’s citizens, is there?”

The man’s eyes brightened. “The fact that you’ve a keen enough eye to notice tells me you’ll be a worthy adversary.” He reached for the buckle of his battle belt. It fell to the ground with a thunk that Hekla felt in the pit of her stomach.

She itched to do the same. Two weeks stuck in this hovel; two weeks with her every move shackled by Loftur; two weeks without her sparring partner. Hekla had kept with her morning routines but felt herself slipping. She needed an opponent. Someone to give her the challenge she craved.

“Very well,” she said, reaching for her own belt.