Page 11 of Vow of the Undead (The Bloodrune Saga #1)

J ust beyond Skaldir’s borders, my horse was already breathing heavily as we caught up to the tail end of the royal party. Almost a hundred travelers from Torsholt and other nearby villages had joined for the same reason a dozen villagers from Skaldir trailed along behind us.

Winter had already begun.

Travel to Mara would be slow and rough enough, but survival in the north with snow starting on the second day of autumn would be brutal.

Anyone who was born in the north and opted to run to the south was not only considered weak and a traitor to their ancestors who’d established themselves here, but they were rarely welcomed back after running away.

Unlike my father and his men, those who trailed us intended to live in Mara, except the few who bravely declared they were offering themselves to the king’s exploration efforts.

Survival was dependent on if a southern stranger took them in and taught them how to live. Or perhaps gave them a new job.

And survival for the souls who planned to explore was impossible. If the arduous journey didn’t kill them first, they could be chosen for the Age of Exploration where the sea would claim their lives.

The parade of horses clopped alongside people on foot. Some rode in wagons pulled by the oxen they hoped to transport to the new home and farm they envisioned in the south.

Two nights passed with ease.

We always stopped at sunrise to set up camp. On the third day, we resumed the journey the same way we had for two days; at twilight, and in silence.

Why we always set up camp in the morning, I didn’t know. Night was colder with more risk of wild animals hunting the stragglers at the back.

Perhaps it was to prepare for the Polar Nocturne. In only a few days, the entire world would be plunged into darkness for half the winter. I’d heard some of the villages prepared for it this way, readying their minds to accept weeks of no sun, no morning, no light.

Each evening was quiet before the children woke for the all-night travel. Miraculously, the little ones adjusted to sleeping during the daylight better than the rest of us. Or maybe they were just so exhausted by the time we stopped that they collapsed. I could relate to that.

But the sounds of night, the cold especially, kept me restless. My heart beat too fast, a contrast to my heavy limbs and eyelids, keeping my nerves on edge as I curled my frozen fingers to check if they could still move.

Once the sun set, everyone stirred, and slowly, the buzz of eager conversation kept us going through the winter weather, even on the longest nights.

Nights like this one that stretched into near impenetrable darkness.

Nights where your mind wandered, wondering if we’d ever reach the relief of the southern villages.

My legs and butt ached from riding, so it was a welcome reprieve when one of the king’s guards rode to the back of the traveling party and demanded we dismount.

Though I hated having to listen to him.

I frowned, mirroring the other men and women who shot the guard looks full of venom. But we obeyed, shaking out our legs and allowing our poor horses a moment of rest.

Especially mine. The old horse already looked ragged, and I resolved to walk for a while after this.

The guard frowned right back at us.

None of us were used to dealing with the king’s guard, but we knew what happened when an executioner came to our villages.

Somebody either vanished or lost their head.

The guards embodied that same authorial and aggressive aura with axes swinging from their belts.

Others carried knives tucked into their boots—all weapons banned from the commoners. It was all to protect the king.

To protect us all. The phrase all Vyls chanted echoed in my head.

Every life was valuable, both the king’s and a villager’s, and without the rules keeping our world from unraveling, we’d end up damning all of Vylheim.

The guard slid off his horse and stormed through the maze of men and women and children, yanking his horse along behind him with a violent jerk of the reins.

He paused in front of a woman with hair the color of autumn. Wind carried her hair away from her face, revealing her pinched expression behind thick tendrils.

His abrasive manner left her stumbling back when he brushed her aside with the back of his hand.

Buzzing nerves rippled through the crowd. A woman behind me stooped to scoop up her crying child.

One of my father’s men looked to him for guidance, but my father merely gritted his teeth. His jaw slid back and forth as he kept his narrowed eyes, tracking the guard .

No doubt my father wanted to tell his people to return to their mounts and keep going. He wasn’t used to dealing with authority this often.

How he planned to win over King Drakkar with that attitude was beyond me.

The guard marched past the woman in front of me, scanning her, before he stopped at me. His eyes flashed. Staring at me, he grimaced.

“You’re the one he wants,” he said.

My heart rate tripled. The king already wanted to see me? Was I to start my servitude on the road?

I’d thought I would answer to myself for the remainder of the trip. I’d hoped to have my freedom a little longer.

I glanced at my father who kept his gaze averted. This was what he’d bargained for; my service for my safety.

Had he saved my life, or damned it? As much as he denied the Gods, he knew I worshiped and revered Freya, the god of beauty, of prophecy, and of freedom.

When Loki traded her hand in marriage to a giant, she refused to be controlled.

She embodied independence, and the witches surviving in hiding, in secret, strived for that same freedom.

I was no different.

Still, this trade had kept me alive, and since I’d yet to bring honor to the Gods—at least according to my own standards—I knew I wouldn’t be granted an afterlife in Valhalla or Folkvangr where warriors feasted and challenged one another in games like our seasonal celebrations.

I hoped someday becoming a seerborn as skilled as my mother would honor Odin and Freya enough to call me to an afterlife with one of them.

Otherwise, Hel would claim my soul for the underworld.

The guard gripped my arm and my heart skipped. He squeezed my scabs and bruises, sending a bolt of pain skittering over my skin and sinking into my muscles. I bit down hard on my lip to redirect the focus of pain .

The ghost of Astrid’s hold on me sent a shiver through me.

He prodded me the couple of steps toward his horse while others climbed back on their mounts or into their wagons, slowly resuming the long haul to Mara. When we reached his horse, he released me and shoved past me. He held up the end of a thick rope that was coiled around a hook on the saddle.

No fucking way was he going to tether me to his horse.

“You try to run, I tie you up,” he said. With that, he climbed into the saddle. Flicking his hand, he indicated for me to walk alongside the horse’s canter. I swallowed the scoff in my throat. “We’ll move fast to catch up to King Drakkar’s party. Fall behind and I’ll drag you.”

“Drag me?” I challenged him, as frustration with this binding servitude slowly built. Freya would never allow herself to be tied up. “Can’t I ride on my horse?”

Without a word, he nodded at my mount. I twisted to look over my shoulder. The poor old mare was worn thin, her nostrils still flaring from the exertion even though we’d been at rest for several minutes.

The guard said aloud what I didn’t want to admit. “That pathetic excuse for a mount won’t keep up with me, and I’m not waiting around. You’ll be faster on foot.”

I gnawed at my lip, walking was the best choice.

I’d never push my horse to go faster than the pace we’d already set.

I turned and stepped up to my sweet horse’s face.

Petting her neck gently, I gave Bjorn a knowing nod.

He returned it, glancing quickly at my father, who ignored the entire interaction.

Knowing Bjorn would keep my horse safe, I faced the guard again. Defiance stiffened my muscles. “I’ll ride your horse.” He only laughed, and it steeled my resolve. “You can’t let me bleed. Doesn’t the king want me alive?”

He glared at me with deep brown eyes. Had he been one of the masked men? Did the guards and executioners ever trade duties? Was he experienced with severing people’s heads from their bodies for causing a mere scuffle?

“For his service, I mean,” I said.

The guard snorted. “Your kind doesn’t bleed the same way we do.”

Your kind. It was the closest I’d ever heard an executioner or guard, or really anyone who wasn’t a witch or close with a witch, admit that we were something other than human.

And what the hell did that mean? I bled…

But my blood also burned Astrid and Sten. That wasn’t like other humans. The flesh on Astrid’s fingertips had bubbled and congealed as quickly as the skin touched by the silver Y Tree. Wasn’t that from the help of the Gods? Or was I really a threat?

Evil

Selfish.

Yes, I was, but not all witches.

He kicked the horse into a canter and I followed in a daze. My feet moved of their own accord. Evening stretched into night and stars slowly greeted us, each with a unique shine. Looking up too long, I lost pace with the guard’s horse.

The guard snapped demands at me until I forced my legs into a weak run to catch up with him. Walking eventually descended into me dragging my feet.

After passing hundreds of travelers, exhaustion tugged at my bones.

Men from Stormdal eyed us curiously. Why was a village woman trailing the king’s guard?

Women from Torsholt furrowed their brows. The jagged lightning strike embroidered into the left breast of their dresses carried the symbol of their village. A subtle but ancient reminder of Thor. It was a wonder the king didn’t banish anyone who dared stitch it into their clothing.

Freya would be proud.

Odin too .