Page 25

TWENTY-THREE

H ekla’s limbs felt heavy as she took in the extent of Istré’s devastation.

The heat was near unbearable where the homes were close together, fire leaping from roof to roof, eating its way down the timber walls.

As the Hungry Blade, reduced to a skeleton of beams, collapsed in a heap, it was clear that come morning, no structure would be left standing.

They’d defeated the mist—for now—and had evacuated Istré’s people before harm could befall them. And yet, Hekla felt like a failure. She’d come to help these people, not burn their village to the ground. And she couldn’t help but wonder if a better leader would have succeeded where she’d failed.

At last, they ducked beneath Istré’s burning gates and stepped onto the Black Road.

Turning, Hekla took in the inferno that once had been Istré.

Thankfully, the wide, barren plains encircling the town provided a barrier between Istré and the surrounding woods, and as she caught sight of warriors stamping out small fires along this perimeter, she said a silent prayer that they could keep it contained.

As Hekla and Eyvind approached, a small gathering of warriors erupted in whoops and cheers. Hekla spotted Gunnar and Sigrún among them, and a wide grin split her cheeks. She broke into a hobbled run to greet them.

Thank the gods , signed Sigrún, and she nearly tackled Hekla to the ground in a hug. But beneath her fierce grip, Sigrún shook, and after releasing Hekla, she brushed tears from her cheeks.

I’m sorry, she signed. I thought I could — But Sigrún’s hands trembled too hard for her to finish.

Hekla placed her metal hand on Sigrún’s shoulder. “Do not be sorry,” Hekla said, signing in tandem. “The mist is gone, its creatures dead. It’s over for now.”

She tried to ignore the worry wriggling at those last two words. For now. Because, much like the mist that had dissipated under moonlight, more could be formed from wherever it originated deep in the woods. No. This job wasn’t over. She sensed it had barely started.

But for now, Hekla’s grin broadened as Gunnar gathered her in a rib-bruising hug.

“Too many times,” he said into her hair, squeezing ever tighter. “No more throwing yourself into death’s path. No more endangering yourself.”

Hekla pushed on his chest, wincing as the wound at her shoulder pulled. “Easy, Fire Fist. I cannot breathe.”

Reluctantly, Gunnar released her, looking sheepish as Hekla rubbed her tender shoulder. “No more endangering myself? Gods above, Gunnar, I’m no milk maiden. What’s gotten into you?”

Gunnar’s dark eyes held a strange, unreadable look. “It’s only that-I cannot-I wish to speak to you of something—” His gaze drifted to something over her shoulder. “Later. We shall speak of it later.”

And then Gunnar launched himself at a startled Eyvind, wrapping him in a bear hug. “You saved her, Hakonsson,” Gunnar blubbered.

“You needn’t thank me, warrior, truly?—”

“Aye, but I must!” Gunnar rocked Eyvind back and forth, and Hekla couldn’t help but snicker.

Hours later, Hekla sighed in contentment.

She soaked in a large wooden tub, steam rising from the water and carrying the scent of calendula.

Her wounds at her shoulder and thigh had been cleaned, her belly filled with stew and bread.

This bath was the last step before she collapsed onto her bed in complete exhaustion.

It had been nearly first light by the time the last of the fires around Istré had been stamped out and their group took to the road.

They’d reached the nearest village at midday, and immediately, Eyvind had shifted into the leader’s role.

For once, Hekla was glad to let him. In an imperious move that was true to the son of a jarl, he bought out the entire inn, and had the innkeeper and his servants scurrying about within moments of their arrival.

Their horses were led away to the stables out back, while washing basins were fetched so the crew could wipe the ash from their faces.

The village healer had been called for, and a cauldron of stew soon simmered over the cookfire.

Now she lounged blissfully in the tub, her metal arm lying on the floor next to it. Slowly, heat melted into her weary bones, the calendula soothing her aches. The warm water wicked dirt and ash from her body, while the herbal blend relaxed her.

The thrill of surviving that blast had long faded from her body, yet Hekla was startled to find her tender feelings for Eyvind had lingered. She could still feel the imprint of his lips against hers—could still feel the impact of what he’d done.

Yes, he’d hidden things from her, and she could not forget the humiliation of being cast off the job in front of his retinue.

And yet, in the light of day, she now saw things differently.

When he’d discovered her on that road, barefoot and clad only in a tunic, Eyvind hadn’t known she’d been abducted by a squirrel and taken to the Hagensson farm.

When she put herself in Eyvind’s boots, Hekla could see how disrespectful her actions had looked.

Despite her deranged actions, Eyvind had still listened to her.

And bigger than that, he’d gone against his father’s orders, double-crossing both Konal and Loftur.

The realization that he’d been listening to her all this time filled Hekla with gratitude that was impossible to put into words.

He’d trusted her. Had respected her. And she.

..she’d defied him at every turn. Threatened to gut him.

Had forced him into a corner, where the only choice had been to throw her from the job.

Hekla groaned, dipping her head beneath the water.

As she broke the surface, she was filled with the sudden need to see Eyvind.

Something had profoundly shifted between them in Istré’s town square, and she wanted to be certain he’d felt it, too.

All sorts of new truths were bubbling up inside her—that she liked how she felt when she was with him, and that if he was willing, perhaps this could be a fresh start.

Perhaps they could be a them .

In a dream-like state, Hekla pulled herself from the tub, dried herself off, then dressed in her clean clothes—clothes that were thankfully undamaged as they’d been safely stored in her gelding’s saddlesacks. She ran a comb through her hair, smiling like a wolverine.

But a boisterous knock at the door deflected her attention. Before Hekla could open it, Gunnar strode in.

“Fire Fist—” she started, breaking off as she took in his appearance.

Clad in his finest doublet, Gunnar’s white teeth flashed from a broad smile.

His locs and beard were adorned with silver cuffs and gleamed as though freshly oiled.

Hekla thought back to the state he’d been in just a few weeks before and was amazed at how far the warrior had come.

“You’re well attired,” was all she could manage.

Ever the showman, Gunnar lifted his arms, spinning in a slow circle for Hekla to get the full effect.

Hekla put her hands on her hips. “What has you looking so handsome? ”

That broad, confident smile deepened as Gunnar strolled forward. He worked a hemp sack loose from his belt.

“For you,” he said, bowing low, and placing the bag in Hekla’s hand with a flourish.

It was surprisingly heavy, filled with sólas and kressens. “What is this?”

“’Tis your bride price.”

Hekla stared, dumbstruck, trying to understand this new jest. Gunnar’s thick black brows lifted in expectation, and she scrambled for a reply, but words seemed to have fled her in this moment.

He chuckled, completely unfazed by her vacant expression.

“Ahh, but you want me to do this the traditional way?” He drew his sword, then dropped to his knees, laying the flat of the blade across his palms. Bowing his head, Gunnar recited, “Fairest maiden, I pledge to you my sword, my heart, my love?—”

“Gunnar.”

His brow lifted, and he sent her a scathing look. “Let me finish. Where was I? My love. I vow to shelter you, to provide for you, to lie with no other woman. I kneel before you now to ask for your hand.”

Apparently now finished, Gunnar lifted his head and beamed at her.

Acid burned in her stomach, climbing up her throat. What in the eternal fucking fires had gotten into him?

But at her silence, Gunnar’s head cocked to the side. “Ah, I see. You truly wish to be wooed, do you?”

Placing the sword down on the floor, he mocked rolling up his sleeves, then took her sound hand in his.

“The past two months have shown me a long life is far from guaranteed. I’ve travelled far and wide within this realm.

Have tasted adventure and earned my share of scars.

Now I am ready to rest my feet, to build a home and a family.

And I would do it with you by my side, Hekla Rib Smasher—” He paused, apparently in search of her family name.

Hekla’s mouth opened and closed, still unable to speak.

“That is only part of your bride price,” Gunnar continued. “I’ve more buried in my horde near Kopa. Should you need proof, I shall dig it up and show you once we’re near.”

Hekla pulled her hand free from his to rub her throbbing temples, and Gunnar’s smile fell just a fraction. And in that moment, she knew—this was no jest. This fool of a man was truly asking for her hand.

He cleared his throat. “I know you’ve no love for your brother, and I would not do you the dishonor of asking him for your hand. Instead, I ask you , Hekla Rib Smasher?—”

The throbbing in her skull grew ever louder. This had to stop. Hekla tugged at his elbow. “Get up, you brute!”

Gunnar scrambled to his feet. She looked up at the lout, mind scrambling for a way out of this.

“You know I shall never marry again.” Hekla tried to keep the desperation from her voice, but a note cracked in.

“We need not have a ceremony.” Gunnar’s broad shoulders lifted and fell. “But think of the little warriors we could make together. A whole brood of them.”

“Brood,” she choked out. Her throat was constricting.

She could not breathe. Hekla’s mind careened like an out-of-control wagon.

This was Gunnar, a man she’d used to scratch an itch whenever it arose.

She’d been direct with him from the start: only sex and no soft sentiments.

Never mind that she hadn’t craved his company in weeks.

Yet even through her growing panic, Hekla knew she cared for Gunnar, though if she had to name it, perhaps it was more like the love for a brother.

How could she not care for him when she’d fought shoulder to shoulder with Gunnar for five long years—when they’d weathered so much in the recent seasons?

And she could not forget that Gunnar had only just pulled himself out of his misery.

She could not risk sending him back there.

Hekla forced a smile on her face. Patted Gunnar’s cheek. She watched the confidence in his gaze swirl with confusion.

“I am honored by your request,” she managed through her nausea. “I am not saying no . I am only saying I need time to think.” Of how to say no while ensuring you won’t fall back into a pit of despair , she could not add.

And before she could witness any hint of hurt on Gunnar’s face, Hekla rushed out of the room.