Page 20
NINETEEN
T he sun soon set, but where the moons should have risen was naught but darkness.
The double black moon was a rare phenomenon that happened but once a decade, when the sister moons’ cycles aligned just right.
It felt unnatural not to see at least one of the sisters in the sky, as though the eyes of a great god were shut to this world.
Hekla’s legs dangled over the side of the stockade wall, her back propped against a palisade.
The forest had been cleared within one hundred paces of the wall, and a sharp, piney scent filled the air.
Beyond the wall stretched a graveyard of stumps and felled trees awaiting their turn to become firewood.
Istré’s defensive walls were well built.
Wooden stakes jutted outward to impale attackers, arrow slits were carved into the timber walls at regular intervals, and watchtowers were stationed at each corner of the town.
By all standards, Istré was well fortified.
Little good it would do against the mist.
Five of Eyvind’s most trusted men were scattered along the stockade wall, five more assembling provisions for the evacuation in the inn’s yard.
Not long ago, Hekla had spied Gunnar in the town square with a bucket in each hand.
Everything was proceeding just as it must, but as low, rhythmic drumbeats began in Istré’s town square, Hekla’s muscles tensed all the same.
“Tonight, we honor the gods of old!” Loftur bellowed above the drums. “Tonight, we pay penance for seventeen years of neglect!”
Hekla fought the urge to roll her eyes at Loftur’s commitment to this ruse.
Enormous wooden platters were brought into the square, bearing portions of a freshly butchered ox.
Behind them, warriors rolled the casks of mead reserved for Shortest Day.
Eyvind had informed Hekla that each household was ordered to provide their best weapons; tonight, they’d each offer meat, mead, and weapons to Sunnvald.
Hekla braced her elbows on her knees and leaned as far forward as she dared. Over the roofs of Istré’s homes, she watched the men and women dressed in their very best. Girls and women wore crowns of autumnal grass, while the men had combed tallow into their hair to set it in place.
Where the hazel staves had once outlined the fighting square, an enormous bonfire now spat sparks into the black skies.
Loftur and Konal stood before it, clad in strange looking robes, and with the men and women of Istré queuing before them.
Konal held a small bowl in hand, smudging what appeared to be ashes across the forehead of a woman.
The woman drew a weapon from her belt, laying it between her palms while bowing her head to the flames.
The blade was then tossed into the bonfire, followed quickly by a cut of oxen and cup of mead.
Hekla watched as the cycle was repeated over and over.
It was a terrible waste of provisions, and she pitied these people for the guilt they would feel when they realized they’d been deceived.
The air was soon tinged with the scent of burnt meat, the drumbeats and laughter growing ever louder.
Hekla pushed to her feet and turned to survey the dark woods one hundred paces away from Istré.
It was utterly still.
Time dripped by, the feast below only growing more boisterous. Hekla locked eyes with Sigrún in the southern-most watchtower, and the knots in her stomach loosened.
Patience , Sigrún’s gaze seemed to urge.
Hekla dipped her head in acknowledgement and glanced at the skies. Without the sister moons, Hekla had trouble judging the time. Surely it was nearing midnight.
A warm breeze ruffled her hair, sending a prickle down Hekla’s neck.
The acrid scent of burnt meat was heavy and pungent, but there, just beneath it, was the slightest hint of earthen decay.
Her spine straightened, and she pushed slowly to her feet.
Clutching the sharpened pikes of the wall, Hekla stared into the dark woods, ears straining for any sign of the?—
There.
If she hadn’t been searching for it, perhaps she’d have missed it. But the low throb vibrated through the timber beams beneath Hekla’s feet and sent a shiver straight up her spine. She put her fingers to her lips and let out three sharp whistles.
Her ears strained over the drumbeats and laughter, but she caught the sharp trills in reply, counting until she confirmed all six.
Good. Hekla unsheathed the pair of torches strapped to her back.
The rough wooden handle felt strange in her hand.
She was so used to leather-wrapped hilts, but when it came to the mist, fire was the only protection they had tonight.
Crouching low, she pulled a firestone from her pocket. With a few quick strikes, she had the first torch lit. She touched the second torch to the first and held them high to cast light on the forest surrounding Istré.
Naught but darkness met her eyes.
Yet Hekla could feel the mist’s approach like her own heartbeat—could sense its hunger in the marrow of her bones.
Tonight, the mortals feasted, and it, too, would gorge.
The heartbeat grew stronger though still distant within the woods.
Bile rose in her throat as Hekla considered all that was at stake.
Should she fail, she and all of Istré would all face a fate worse than death .
“Mist!” someone shouted, and Hekla was relieved that at least one of the revelers had enough presence of mind to notice the strange throbbing beneath their feet.
“Hurry!” bellowed Loftur. “All of you come forth and give your offerings! It must all go into the fire!”
Hekla glanced over her shoulder, taking in the scene unfolding.
The queue had broken, men and women rushing at the bonfire, tossing weapons in without ceremony.
Alf the Slender grabbed the enormous platter of oxen portions, flinging it into the flames.
Half the meat splattered onto the packed earth road, the platter skidding through the fire and colliding with a woman on the opposite side.
A pair of young warriors frantically rolled the casks of mead into the blaze.
And above it all, Loftur’s frantic shouting: “Accept our offerings, oh mighty mist! Heal our kin as you promised?—”
“Mist?” bellowed the armourer. “These offerings are for Sunnvald ?—”
“I have done as you asked, mist beast!” shouted Loftur. “Now you must follow through with your end of the bargain!”
The casks of mead exploded under the bonfire’s heat and pressure, and chaos erupted in the Istré’s square.
Accusations of Loftur’s betrayal and panicked screams filled the air.
Hekla cursed Loftur. Cursed Istré’s citizens for not hearing her warning.
This could have been avoided if only they’d listened.
Now was not the time for such bitter thoughts. Hekla cast another anxious glance toward the square, and as she caught sight of Eyvind’s ridiculous red cloak, she exhaled and turned back to her task.
The first wisps of white seeped from the woods, sending Hekla’s pulse skittering. She gripped her torches tighter and counted her breaths. The mist quickly thickened, undulating in time to the distant heartbeat.
Hold , Hekla told herself, fighting against the urge to flee. She could not forget that world of chaos, the sense of the mist permeating her senses...
“Mist!” bellowed Loftur with a hint of desperation. “I have done as you asked! I have held your feast, now you must do as you promised!”
Hekla’s jaw shifted against her growing pity.
“You must heal my kin!” Loftur’s voice broke, and Hekla guessed he was finally realizing that he’d fallen prey to the mist’s trickery—that he’d offered the whole of Istré up on a platter.
The villagers screamed in the town center, but Eyvind’s voice rang clear above them all.
“Citizens of Istré! If you wish to live, you must listen!” The frenzy in the square lessened just a touch.
“In the yard behind the Hungry Blade, we have eighteen wagons departing for Kopa. Each of you must follow me with haste. There is enough space for everyone, but if I see any pushing—if anyone so much as raises a fist—my men will restrain you and you will be left behind.”
In that moment, Eyvind sounded less like a jarl’s son, desperate to win his father’s affection, and more like a true leader. Despite the sting of his betrayal, pride shimmered in Hekla’s chest. Eyvind had taken a stand for what he knew was right, and because of it, hundreds of lives would be saved.
The voices quickly grew fainter, and Hekla was able to breathe a little easier. Everything was proceeding just as it should.
“What of my kin!” Loftur had fallen to his knees before the raging bonfire. “What of your promise, mist?”
“Come, All Wise!” shouted Konal. “We’ve performed the rites. There is nothing else to be done.”
“But my kin, Konal!”
“You cannot help them if you are dead, Loftur. Gather your wits, and let us get to the wagons.”
The mist was now sliding through gaps in the stockade wall. Hekla felt it hesitate. A tendril slid forward, and she drove it back with a slash of her torch. The mist hissed in anger, but she felt the moment it decided she was not worth it .
The mist parted and surged forth, surrounding her on all sides.
Heart hammering, Hekla looked up to the small section of star-spattered skies overhead for reassurance.
The mist eddied around her and rushed into Istré’s streets like a raging river, and she sent a silent prayer that Eyvind’s evacuation had been swift and efficient.
Hekla counted her rapid heartbeats to remain calm and hoped Sigrún and Eyvind’s men could do the same. Gradually, the mist thinned, and as the last of it churned into the town, Hekla felt as though she could finally breathe.
She shifted the torches to her metal hand, then lifted the trembling fingers of her left to her lips, letting out two sharp whistles.