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TWENTY

P lanning and leading this impossible task had pushed Hekla beyond her comfort, but as her world descended into mayhem, her uncertainty dissolved in an instant.

With Turned creatures prowling into Istré, Hekla lost herself to instinct, becoming a creature of cold steel and ruthless violence.

In battle, there was no time for thinking, no time for emotion.

There was only the need to spill the putrid black blood of these Turned creatures.

There was also the unmistakable thrum of pride in her veins. Adept at delivering death, Hekla had come so very far from the helpless woman she’d once been. On the battlefield, she was in her element, doing what she was born to do.

Hekla supposed she ought to thank Rothna for helping her discover her calling in life.

Her former husband had, after all, taught Hekla her first lessons in brutality.

But her brutality was not the same as his.

She didn’t fight to feel bigger, more powerful.

She fought for those who could not. For the girl she’d once been.

A lethal longsword in her left hand was the one her enemies saw coming.

But the five curving steel claws on her right were their undoing.

She dazzled her enemies in showy arcs of her longsword, while delivering death in vicious slashes of her prosthetic’s claws.

It was poetic, Hekla supposed—she’d molded what one might consider a weakness into her greatest weapon.

In the midst of battle, Hekla relied less on her head and more on her heart—on that knowing feeling deep in her chest—to keep her from danger.

She danced away from fangs a hand span long, ducked beneath hacking claws and snarling maws, and slashed through the neck of a wolf lunging at Gunnar.

All the while, Hekla listened through the din of battle for Sigrún’s shrill whistle, which would signify success.

But as her world became a storm of violence, time grew shifty.

From the edge of her vision, Hekla noted several Turned beasts slinking away. While raking her claws through a Turned bear’s flank, she shifted to investigate. And as a grimwolf lay itself down upon the flaming barrier, a scream tore from her throat.

“No!”

Hekla turned on her foot, charging toward the wolf.

Immediately, the flames stuttered, creating a gap in the wall.

But as the wolf’s fur caught flame, it was enough to bar the mist from slinking through.

Hekla fell upon the wolf, heaving it off the fire by its tail, before decapitating the beast with a brutal hack of her blade.

Fire flickered back across the smear of flammable resin on the soil where the grimwolf had just lain.

But there was no time for her to pause. Horror coursed through her as she caught sight of a human draugur now laying herself down on the flames.

As her screams reached an ear-piercing pitch, Hekla lunged at her next.

By the time she’d put the wretched woman out of her misery, a vampire deer had lain itself down farther along the line.

The mist lurched toward the creature, undulating as the flames covering the vampire deer’s fur began to sputter.

Hekla grabbed its leg, heaving with all her effort, but the deer moved scarcely an inch.

Further along the ring of fire, other creatures were laying themselves down, smothering the flames.

Helplessness twisted her insides, but Hekla did not relent, using the full force of her body weight to heave the deer another inch.

“You see, sly mortal?” gloated the mist through a nearby human draugur. “You cannot best us.”

Heart palpitating wildly, the peace Hekla had felt earlier was now nowhere to be found.

She couldn’t move this enormous deer in time, let alone reach the other creatures laying themselves down.

Soon, a gap would form in the fire wall, and their chance to end the mist would be gone.

If only Sigrún could set those barrels alight before then.

..but a glance over her shoulder had Hekla’s stomach wrenching.

Perched atop a rain barrel, Sigrún had spun away from her task, firing arrow after arrow at the Turned creatures; they’d broken past Gunnar and the other warriors and were now closing in on her.

Hekla turned to face the mist head-on. Perhaps this was it—the moment death finally claimed her.

If so, she would go with steel in her hand and the knowledge that she’d done all she could to keep the people of Istré safe.

By now, they’d be miles down the road on their way to Kopa.

Hekla held out hope that it was too far for the mist to travel, even on this, of all nights.

“Hekla!” The shout came from behind her, but she could not look away from her task. With a roar, Hekla yanked with the full force of her weight, budging the vampire deer another paltry inch.

“We have tasted your strength,” growled the mist through a draugur, “and we want you in our ranks. We will snap your threads and forge them to our will.”

Nausea churned inside Hekla at the thought. The flames covering the vampire deer’s corpse were all but sputtered out. A tendril of mist slid along its singed coat, probing, seeking, sliding...

Suddenly the tiny, faltering flame erupted violently, so high and brutally hot, it sent Hekla sprawling backward.

“Ashbringer,” the mist’s avatar growled.

Hekla watched in stunned disbelief as warriors charged forth, colliding with the Turned monsters. It took her a moment to understand that it was the rest of Eyvind’s retinue—the warriors who ought to be evacuating Istré’s citizens.

Suddenly Eyvind himself was beside her, his men charging behind her and joining the battle with sword and shield. Hekla would have bellowed her joy at his timely arrival, but the sight of him rendered her speechless. Eyvind’s hazel eyes reflected the blaze before them.

And from his palms streamed jets of flames, filling all the gaps in the mist’s fiery prison.