Page 7

SEVEN

W ind whipped across Hekla’s cheeks, the rhythmic clop of hooves in her ears as her mount followed a much-subdued Thrand along the road.

The man was utterly dramatic, hunched in the saddle and rubbing his side every five minutes.

Hekla huffed a breath. It wasn’t as though he’d suffered a death blow.

Although, as she considered it, perhaps it had been a death blow to his precious ego.

Eyvind had heard a commotion in the yard, exiting the mead hall just in time to witness Hekla putting Thrand in his place.

To her surprise, Eyvind had thrown his head back and laughed, before proclaiming he would buy the finest ale the Hungry Blade had to offer for whoever had just bested his second-in-command.

As his gaze settled on Hekla, Eyvind quieted, that look of surprise and discovery mingling in his expression. But Konal was suddenly there as well, bellowing his displeasure and reminding Eyvind to get control of his warriors.

Hekla hadn’t stayed long enough to hear Eyvind’s reply. She’d accomplished what she’d set out to do this morning. After her display in the yard, Eyvind’s retinue knew she was not to be trifled with.

Now, they were en route to the Braksson steading, the site of the mist’s second attack. Sigrún rode silently on Hekla’s left, the hood of her cloak drawn up despite the warmth of the sunshine.

What do you think of the new leader? signed Sigrún, glancing Eyvind’s way.

I think he’s a pompous arse, Hekla signed back. And I do not think his warriors are tried in battle.

Sigrún sighed wearily. For a moment, Hekla was desperate to know what was going on in her Bloodaxe sister’s mind.

She could not forget Sigrún’s face—ghostly white—in the moments following Ilías’s death.

She’d fled into the woods and had not returned until first light.

And though she was here in body, it was clear Sigrún had not been here in mind since that horrible day.

Are you— Hekla paused, searching for the right word to sign —comfortable around these new warriors? It was clunky and too forward for fiercely private Sigrún, but Hekla did not know how to ask any other way.

I’m fine, signed Sigrún briskly.

Rebuked, Hekla forced her gaze straight ahead. She ought to have expected as much. Even after five years of fighting together, she still knew so little about Sigrún. But as the petite blonde warrior sighed once again, Hekla turned back toward her.

I hate this, signed Sigrún. Axe Eyes should be here. No Beard. The Wolf. It is not the same without them.

An ache built in Hekla’s chest, and she tried to rub it away.

I do not like strangers , continued Sigrún, and Hekla had the vague realization that this was more than the woman had ever shared with her. How can I trust these men when I cannot even communicate with them?

A breath hissed between Hekla’s teeth, and she felt like a fool. I am sorry, Hekla signed. I will do better at staying nearby to interpret for them.

Sigrún waved her hand in casual dismissal. I do not need you to fight my battles, she signed, then paused. Though I thank you for the offer.

Now it was Hekla’s turn to sigh. She stared at the empty space to her right—the space where Gunnar should be riding.

Gunnar will be all right , signed Sigrún, following her gaze. He only needs time.

I told Hakonsson that Gunnar was ill , Hekla signed, her insides twisting. But I do not know how long he’ll accept such excuses. She chewed her lip, pondering how she could help him—what she could do or say to help Gunnar find his way back to himself.

As the Braksson’s steading came into view, Hekla ground her teeth together. She’d visited this farm countless times—had examined each timber beam in the longhouse and each blade of straw in the bloody barn. Today would be an exercise in futility.

“I will be patient,” she muttered to herself. “I will fall in line.”

Beside her, a chuffing sound came from Sigrún—one Hekla knew as her Bloodaxe sister’s laugh. “Quiet, you,” she grumbled. “I can do it.”

The sun shone pleasantly down from cloud-flecked skies across the farm. Everything was precisely as it had been the last time they’d visited: a vacant pen which had once housed sheep; an overturned cart which would have been used to haul barley, had the Brakssons lived to see the harvest.

Each time Hekla set foot on one of Istré’s farmsteads, nostalgia swirled within her like crisp autumn leaves.

If she squinted just right, she could see her father and brother, toiling in the fields, her grandmother hanging washing on the line.

That was the before —before the sickness had stolen her father and grandmother.

Before her brother had married Hekla off to Rothna.

Back then, she’d been a girl filled with dreams. Now, she was a woman who’d seen too much.

Hekla dismounted and shielded her eyes as she surveyed the Braksson fields bordering the Western Woods. It was barley, and like all other crops in íseldur these days, severely stunted. With a sigh, Hekla led her mare to where Eyvind and his retinue had secured their horses.

The quiet blanketing the farmstead made her skin prickle.

No birds chirped from the surrounding trees; no insects buzzed in the grass.

It had the feeling of... nothing . After securing her horse, Hekla trailed Eyvind’s men into the longhouse.

Konal leaned against a wall, arms folded over his chest as he glowered in her direction.

Look your fill, graybeard, she told him with her eyes.

And when the man looked away first, Hekla’s lips tilted up in victory.

But her smile fell as her gaze landed on Loftur standing near the hearth with a hand raised for silence.

Conversation died, and Istré’s chieftain launched into the same drivel Hekla had endured for weeks already.

She could not sit in this barren home listening to another moment of it.

“Heading to the privy,” Hekla lied to Thrand. “The daymeal does not sit well.”

Hekla tried not to roll her eyes at Thrand’s appalled expression. Such prim city warriors. With a sigh, she stalked out of the longhouse.

“Blood spatter everywhere,” Loftur was saying, his voice drifting through the windows. “As you can see, the claw marks groove too deeply to be of human origin.”

Hekla had just reached the privy when movement amid the stillness of the woods caught her eye. Under ordinary conditions, she would think nothing of it. A forest, after all, should be teeming with life. But not this forest. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

“I will be patient,” she reminded herself, continuing her path toward the privy. But Hekla could not resist another glance toward the woods. There it was again—a small creature hopping in the underbrush. After weeks without any sign of life in or around these woods, curiosity bristled through her.

Hekla threw a cautious look over her shoulder, then moved swiftly toward the trees. She would not enter the forest. She would only peer through the trees to identify the creature .

As she neared, her pulse quickened. Her eyes strained as she searched for the source of movement. But after a long minute spent gazing into the shadows, Hekla decided it must have been a trick of her mind. With a sigh, she began to turn.

Then she saw it.

Carved into the crusted trunk of a pine not two paces into the woods, was a symbol. With a spiral center and eight branching arms, there was no question of what it was.

“A Spiral Stave,” Hekla murmured, staring hard. It was the same symbol that had been scrawled in blood on the Klaernar’s corpses in Istré’s town square. A sigil that had once belonged to the Volsik bloodline.

Running a hand along her braid, Hekla glanced over her shoulder.

The warriors were still in the longhouse, Loftur still droning on.

Her gaze fell yet again to the forest. The knowing feeling rose from deep inside her—the same feeling that told her Loftur was hiding something.

The Spiral Stave was a clue to be followed.

Yet if she played by Eyvind’s rules, she’d be forced to wait.

Irritation churned in her stomach. Hekla cursed herself for promising Eyvind she’d fall in line. Who would pay the price for a lengthy investigation? Innocent Istré citizens, like Halldora and Onund Ale Drinker. All while Loftur the Bloody “Bird Witted” sat in his high seat and drank ale.

Her decision was made. Hekla drew a deep breath and stepped into the woods.

So much for playing by the rules.