Page 34

HENRIK

Six soldats, plus Oliver. Einar in the middle, which was no advantage. One soldat had just extricated from the tarry ground with burns on his skin, but otherwise not injured enough to discount. Henrik was surrounded on all sides, except his back, where he had no coverage except Malcolm. Nothing overhead to use as leverage, either.

Henrik tightened his grip on the machete. Besides the machete, he had only a hand knife. No smaller backup knives hidden in his boot. He’d been a fool, thinking himself safe on Stenberg, when a good soldat was always prepared. Lars could have outfitted him further before they left the ship.

Instead, Henrik let Britt’s safety distract him.

Curse himself a bastid.

Malcolm would be an asset, but not much. Soldat warfare was a brutal art that most islanders didn’t bother to learn, but the Helsing siblings had surprised him thus far. These soldats were His Glory’s personal soldats. Six of the ten had been peeled away for this excursion, which meant a great deal more than made sense.

Did Captain Oliver attempt to quell a rebellion?

Or something else?

Henrik had faced worse odds before, but he had other soldats on his side at the time. Certainly none poised against him. Lars and Britt vanished into the chaparral, leaving a rippling tension. A distant part of his mind couldn’t believe she’d left without arguing about it, but she had draguls to save.

Malcolm’s camp lay in tatters, with Einar on the woven mat. Bodies and seething rage occupied what little open space existed. Captain Oliver nodded toward Henrik’s right hand.

“Drop the machete, Henrik. We’re discussing.”

“No.”

“Drop it or Einar dies.”

Henrik clenched his jaw. Training screamed at him from distant recesses. The urging not to care. Your life first, others second. You’ll never save a situation if you’re dead. It’s the calculations of war, and not personal.

Another false imprint of the soldats.

War was personal to those with the burden of fighting. Perhaps His Glory, impassive in his stone castle, could command such emotional distance. With Einar half dead, and Britt potentially running to her demise, the entire operation had personal underwriting every ticking minute. Einar would call him shite if he gave into Captain Oliver’s demands. More than likely, Einar acted weaker than he was.

Henrik hoped.

He could only fight two soldats at once, not six. Which was Captain Oliver’s goal, of course. Overwhelm him into submission, like a good soldat.

Malcolm said nothing, but remained tense as a panther, his focus darting from Oliver, back to Henrik, and then to the soldats in turn. They stood stolid as walls, arms at their sides, deepest disregard written in their expressions. He looked to Einar, as if debating. Einar’s upper lip twitched up twice. Silent soldat speak to hold .

Henrik played the gamble.

He said nothing.

The hard stare between him and Captain Oliver turned into an expression of surprise on Captain Oliver’s part.

“Really?” he queried. “You refuse a command to my face and with Einar on the line?”

“Gladly.”

“A first for you. Color me surprised.”

Henrik paused, feeling out the air. It had been a test, but not the kind he expected. Nothing had changed. The vines tightened, and loosened. They moved, as always. Yet a hum existed that hadn’t before.

A . . . percussion.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malcolm glance down.

“I could have passed this off as insubordination, Henrik,” Oliver continued. “I planned to tell His Glory that you had a fit of lunacy, interrupting a Norr-given punishment of the girl. You were roped into the greater good of Stenberg, saving the dragul, and all, and His Glory might have allowed you forgiveness. Now it's a blatant rebellion. I can’t help you out of this. Better to kill you.”

“Really?” Henrik countered, tilting his head toward the closest soldat. “You brought six of His Glory’s personal henchmen on the off-chance I was on a peacemaking mission and didn’t have time to explain myself?”

Oliver smiled, but it struggled. Two of the soldats at his side rocked on their feet, a mask of bored agitation in place.

“We all have things we want, Henrik.”

“Yes, and what do you want, Oliver?” Dropping the Captain rang the air like a drum. “Why would you come here to murder two of your most talented soldats when you know that other soldats will rebel? Already have, in fact. There must be something in our deaths for you.”

The percussion intensified into a thrumming woop, woop, woop. Malcolm slipped back half a step, legs braced. He hissed something, but Henrik couldn’t make it out. They had to buy time so these wildly gesticulating vines could reveal whether the real problem was on the way.

Had Lars and Britt triggered an ikon?

A long pause burdened the air. Vines burst through the leaves, swirling in a frenetic dance. Malcolm, head tipped back, inched another step to the side. A soldat slammed a hand into Malcolm’s shoulder, shoving him to the ground. Malcolm careened to the rich earth, limp as a noodle for a man completely on edge, and rolled once. No protest crossed his lips.

When he stopped, the shimmer of an iridescent symbol shone from the trunk, just within reach. Henrik couldn’t make out which one. Sweat rolled off Oliver’s forehead, dripping onto his shirt. Meanwhile, the soldats shuffled, focus locked on the twisting vines, which strangled with greater fervor.

The low woop, woop, woop, became thunder.

Oliver’s lips pinched into a frown brimming with hatred. “This is over, Henrik. You’re done. You gave up everything by your outright rebellion.”

The surge of loathing Henrik felt expanded into a wide chasm. The soldats did whatever their leadership asked. Blind faith. Lifetime servitude. Murder. Destruction. Darkness. Their leaders didn’t give the same.

“Is this service, Oliver?” he snapped. “His Glory uses children as weapons. He enslaves them, rips them from their families, demands utmost obedience, or else?”

A pained grimace contorted Oliver’s expression so quickly, Henrik might have imagined it. Henrik held his gaze, if only to keep Oliver’s attention off of Einar, whose hand had slipped off his chest. The tip of his middle finger discreetly drew in the ground, like a twitch.

Henrik didn’t dare look directly at it.

Not yet.

The vibrating vines hummed in a steady chorus, highlighting the approaching storm. Tighten, twist, flap, grind. Flowers flailed in wheeling circles. The burgeoning hum escalated to a steady, high-pitched whine. Two soldats glanced at the ground, brows wrinkling as ebony mist crept upward.

Einar’s finger moved more frantically now.

Oliver’s upper lip curled over his teeth. “You see,” he drawled, “it’s a bit different than you think.”

“Oh?”

“His Glory didn’t care about you, but I did. I advocated for you. Sent you on the reefer year to complete the final requirement so you could step into the next Captain position when it opened. I fought for you!”

“You commanded me!” he shouted in return. “You drove my bones to dust. You ripped away my freedom. You took her from me.”

“I gave Selma to you!” Oliver thundered. “I gave those papers to the Sister of Stenberg so you could find your birth mother and be done with it. You were supposed to find her, realize she was gone to the mainland for her foolish display, and focus on completing the final jord recovery.”

“I’m not talking about Selma,” Henrik growled.

Understanding brightened Oliver’s eyes.

“Shite, Henrik!” he shouted. “You’ve ruined everything and brought this on yourself. Why did you have to care ?”

Oliver’s rising ire cost him a morsel of control. Fraying control. The on-edge man had turned to near wild desperation, and that’s when Henrik understood. These six soldats didn’t come to help Oliver, they came to spy for His Glory. To ensure that Einar and Henrik didn’t make it out alive and to confirm Oliver’s allegiance to the Stenberg tyrant. Oliver had no way out except to destroy Henrik, Einar, and Malcolm. Effectively eliminating three different threats against His Glory and proving his worth.

Brutal, heartless leader.

His Glory, the voice of Norr, should have guided, governed, and cared. Instead, he held innocent lives at stake against men who had given everything they were, could be, and had ever been, to his service.

Henrik twirled the machete around his wrist. It sang as it spiraled. He caught it at the top, crouching.

“You’re supposed to return with my head?”

“And your balls,” Oliver snarled.

Henrik ducked his head and laughed, he couldn’t help it. His half-closed eyes looked right at Einar’s hand, masking the glance. A word formed in the black bracken. He couldn’t quite make it out.

But then . . .

Yes.

He knew it immediately.

Together .

The growing cacophony drew Oliver’s eyes higher. Screams, pirouetting into shrieks, sliding back to earsplitting screams again, shattered the world. Wind breezed by, swirling air, fallen petals, putrid stink. The powerful stench made his eyes water.

“If you want my balls,” Henrik declared over the rising noise, “take them from my dead body. Here’s the real grappling tournament. You and me, Oliver. One champion to another.”

A hellebore smile crossed Oliver’s lips. “You have six soldats and me to contend with.” Oliver withdrew his sword. “Not even our beloved grappling champion can hold his own against six of his equals.”

Henrik braced himself. Einar hadn’t moved, almost obscured by the creeping black fog that formed a circle around the soldats. Malcolm had eased onto his hands and knees, next to the trunk where he’d been so easily tossed. His hand inched closer to the ikon.

Henrik crouched, machete at the ready. He beckoned for the first soldat with a wave of his hand. He bellowed, “Together!”

Einar leaped to his feet.

Malcolm slapped the ikon.

A scream descended.