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SIX

PRESENT DAY

T he yard behind the Hungry Blade was bright with the rising sun, the light catching golden leaves on the old tree beyond the fence.

It was early for the leaves to turn—easy to forget it hadn’t been long since the Bloodaxe Crew had celebrated the Longest Day.

Hekla’s chest clenched tight at that thought, and she forced her attention to the yard.

The clash of steel vibrated the air. Hakonsson’s men had paired off and were sparring, but to Hekla’s dismay, she failed to find Sigrún and Gunnar amongst them.

With a long exhale, she tried to quell her disappointment.

Gunnar had seemed more upbeat this morning; Sigrún a pillar of stoic resilience.

For a small moment, Hekla had felt the Bloodaxe Crew back at her side, and gods, but it had been such a relief.

She straightened her spine and strolled amongst the warriors. They had good form, their movements crisp and laced with power. It was clear they were well-trained. But as one warrior’s armor caught the sunlight, Hekla shielded her eyes.

“Better put that armor to use, warrior,” she said dryly. “Get some scuff marks on it before you blind someone with it.”

The man and his opponent paused, two pairs of steely eyes slicing into her skin. She recognized one as the warrior who’d shared her bench at the daymeal. He frowned, assessing her.

“I suppose you’d like to try, woman ?”

Hekla let out a heavy sigh. As a woman in a mercenary crew, it often went this way. And perhaps it was her good fortune she’d inadvertently insulted the largest warrior in Eyvind’s retinue. Because Hekla knew she’d have to make an example of him.

The yard had quieted, and Hekla felt the whole of the retinue watching her. Good. She’d show them how a woman fought. All that emotion had to be channeled somewhere.

Hekla put a hand on her waist, popping her hip. “I’m Hekla,” she told the man, batting her eyelashes. “And your name, blue eyes?”

His eyes narrowed in clear suspicion. “Thrand Long Sword. Eyvind’s Second.”

“Long Sword?” Hekla smirked, glancing at his groin. “Trying to compensate for something, are you?”

A chorus of incredulous laughter filled the air. The warm undertones of Thrand’s tawny complexion seemed to flush darker. He concealed his humiliation with a twirl of his sword.

“I’d challenge you to combat, but I don’t fight women.”

He turned his back on her, a gesture of such disrespect it made Hekla’s blood simmer with rage. But she forced calm into her voice as she called out, “Or perhaps you’re simply afraid you’ll lose.”

She’d uttered these words more times than she cared to count, and so Hekla was unsurprised when they had the desired effect. Slowly, Thrand turned, his blue eyes hard as shards of ice. The whole of the yard watched the pair of them. There was no way Thrand could back away from this challenge now.

“Come and say that to my face,” he gritted out.

Hekla strolled toward the man, swaying her hips.

Thrand widened his stance, his sword grip tightening.

She skimmed her metal fingers beneath the warrior’s jaw.

A subtle click of the button on the underside of her prosthetic’s wrist, and her claws shot out, grazing the tender skin of his throat.

Though Thrand’s jaw tightened, the warrior held his ground in a way she respected.

“I challenge you to combat, Thrand Long Sword .”

And with that, Hekla retracted her claws and sauntered back a few steps.

Thrand didn’t take his gaze off her as the nearby warriors retreated, creating a space around him and Hekla. She shook out her body, her blood flowing with vigor. Perhaps what she’d truly needed all these days was a taste of shattered male ego. It was so delicious, after all.

“I accept,” said Thrand with a scowl. He glanced at his sparring partner uncertainly. But as his gaze landed back on Hekla, it hardened. “No shields. No blades. No claws .” He nodded at her prosthetic hand.

“Aw,” said Hekla, with mock disappointment. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little scratch, Long Sword.” She sighed. “Very well. I shall keep them sheathed.”

A nearly imperceptible nod from the man, and then, “First blood wins.”

They squared off, staring at one another with equal intensity. Hekla’s muscles filled with energy as she sank into her battle mindset—a place where instinct and intelligence entwined. She watched Thrand’s every blink, noted the way his enormous hands splayed restlessly at his sides.

A whistle pierced the air. And then it was mayhem.

Thrand lunged at her with speed and strength, but Hekla saw it coming from a mile away. Sliding under his grip, she shoved her shoulder into his gut before spinning away. But the lout was quick to recover, whirling on her in time to dodge her striking fist.

Hekla lost herself to this dance, the careful balance of aggression and protection. She knew well enough how it felt to be on the receiving end of a blow from a man his size. Minutes ticked by, the pair circling one another as sweat dripped from their brows, and the crowd watched eagerly .

Hekla knew she’d find no support amongst them, but that was all right. She was used to being the underdog. In fact, she thrived on it. What she couldn’t stomach was the way Thrand held himself back. Was he truly so afraid of harming a woman?

“Is that all you’ve got, Long Sword?” taunted Hekla, wagging her little finger at him.

Thrand took the bait, throwing himself at her with a growl.

But there was something about the pitch of the growl, paired with the sweet scent of decomposing leaves, that triggered a memory long buried in Hekla.

For a heartbeat, she was sent back in time.

Golden light streaming through autumn leaves.

Woodsmoke and the smell of róa drifting through the windows and into the yard.

Hekla had fresh eggs bundled in her apron dress as she made her way across the yard.

The first light of day was near blinding, and yet Rothna had not yet returned from the mead hall.

Her husband’s low growl was her only warning before Hekla was shoved from behind.

She tripped and went sprawling, eggs spattering beneath her.

Hekla rolled and stared up at her husband.

And there loomed Rothna in all his glory, his scowl telling her just how many sólas he’d lost at the tables.

He’d be looking for a scapegoat, so Hekla was unsurprised when her husband drew back his fist.

Stars burst in her vision, but it was Thrand’s fist that swung through the blow. Thrand who now ambled toward her, a conflicted look in his eyes. As Hekla blinked, trying to shake off the intrusive memory, Thrand’s burly arm wrapped around her neck, and yanked her against his chest.

“I do this as a favor to you,” he growled in her ear. “You must learn that women have no place in a war band.”

His words yanked Hekla back into her body, anger and fire raging through her blood.

“Yield,” he demanded.

With a scream, she drove her fist into Thrand’s groin, just as she’d trained Silla to do all those times on the Road of Bones. The warrior let out a high-pitched wail.

“Pitiful male weakness,” she grunted against his grip.

Despite his agony, Thrand had enough presence of mind to keep his arm wrapped around her neck.

“There’s something you ought to have asked me, Thrand,” said Hekla, loud enough for all to hear. “My full name. My Bloodaxe Name.”

She gathered all her energy. Yanked Thrand forward. Then used all her momentum to ram her elbow into his ribs. The soft crack told her it had landed true. The warrior howled, and Hekla wrenched free.

She whirled on Thrand, now bent double and clutching his side.

“They call me Rib Smasher.”