Page 2 of Vow of the Undead (The Bloodrune Saga #1)

“Ragna!” Rolf’s voice echoed from the house above. “More Grimward are here. Get out here before they think you’re hiding.” He called the executioners by their collective name out of nervous respect, and the shrill edge of his voice hinted at his growing worry.

Ragna’s brow wrinkled, a sure sign that she didn’t hear Rolf’s warning clearly. Having suffered several infections in her ears, her senses weren’t as sharp as mine.

“We have to be out there, in plain sight,” I said, pointing to the ladder that led to our exit .

She nodded. As a witch like me, any little suspicion could blow her cover. Because even though violence was the executioner’s crime of focus, being a witch was just as illegal.

Arrivals like this—of more executioners than the ones who constantly patrolled our borders—were unpredictable so that they might catch more villagers in the act of shedding another’s blood.

Somehow, the Grimward always appeared when two young men got into a scuffle, or when a lover’s quarrel turned violent, as if they could smell the blood of battle before it hit the ground.

We tossed the makeshift weapons aside, and I paused, grabbing the discarded scythe instead. Angling the scythe’s blade to catch the glow of candlelight, I checked on the enchantment that concealed my eyes.

The shimmering metal reflected my face back at me.

No black eyes.

I breathed easier. My enchantment had held up. Even if it only concealed the black with a watery film of magic blessed to me by the Gods so that I may slink through the world unknown as a witch.

Not that other witches even had this curse.

I was the only one, and when the black first spread, my mother spent every waking moment creating an enchantment to hide it.

She’d placed it on me years ago, and now, as the enchantment slowly faded, it was proof her life was slipping away.

The more the black seeped out from the center and spread across my eyes, the closer she was to death.

I threw the scythe down and climbed above ground in time to see the dozens of horses carrying masked men and women.

Extra executioners weren’t the only visitors in Skaldir. Guards and the king’s council were riding with them today, and they were galloping straight toward the Vyl’s home—my home.

Ragna and I exchanged a knowing glance as Rolf herded us out the door and with the other villagers who emerged from their homes, a mixture of curiosity and fear painted across their faces.

That all-consuming fatigue after a full day in the fields returned, and the walk back into town only doubled it. By the time we reached the longhouse where my father held council, the largest and sturdiest home in Skaldir, a crowd had gathered, and my bones ached.

I carefully pushed through bodies, my stomach sinking farther and farther into my bowels. I kept my eyes off of the executioners because my nerves told me that if they merely looked at me they’d identify me as a witch and I’d be dragged away to the wasteland.

I’d see my mother there, but I wouldn’t be able to save her.

Never had the king’s guard and members of his council rode in with the Grimward before, and I couldn’t fathom why they’d come here.

Pieces of whispered conversations clung to my ears as I wriggled through the crowd. The executioners and the bloodshed law kept plenty of us cowed and scared, but plenty more dared to breathe their traitorous feelings.

“They never stop marching around us like we’re a bunch of criminals. I’m fucking sick of being watched,” an elderly man grumbled.

“They’re waiting for someone to slip up so they can stop fights,” another chimed in.

“Stop fights? They’re here to keep our necks under their boots,” his wife said.

“It’s all about control…”

I didn’t disagree with the sentiment, but control was necessary. Our villages had gone to war before and stained the earth with our blood. Too much blood had soured the soil like a curse and left half of Vylheim a wasteland that starved thousands of survivors of war.

Many believed the law was disingenuous, since the punishment for breaking it also spilled blood, but this was the only threat that kept people in line. Otherwise we’d be at each other’s throats.

Our history was proof of this. The nature to fight was in our blood. The same blood our ancestors had spilled in ancient wars and passed down to us.

After I squeezed my way inside, I saw my father at his chair on the left of the large room. My tired muscles tensed at the sight of the grimace twisting his mouth. His frown wasn’t directed at me, but habit said he’d still find a reason to scold me.

I swept my gaze away from him before I caught his eye.

Every inch of open space was filled with bodies except what seemed to be invisible boundaries around more executioners. I kept my eyes off their masks and the axes at their sides to keep my nerves from fraying even more.

A skeletal woman with a small, upturned nose and a hefty, pale man stood at the front, blocking my father’s chair. He was going to chew on the anger from it for days.

The woman addressed Skaldir by staring down her nose at us, her peaked brows permanently in the shape of shock. The detailed embroidery along the hem of her dress pinned her as a courtier, and the all-black dress signaled she was a member of King Drakkar’s council.

“Like Darius said, population has waned,” she said, waving to the male councilmember. “We are losing our people, our heritage, and our history.”

I snorted. We’d lost most of our history long ago. Villagers only shared it through oral sagas now.

The councilwoman continued on. “With the winters growing worse, we fear an all-consuming loss over the next few decades. Less food means more deaths and fewer births. We must find fertile land, and our only option is expansion beyond The Sea of Skalds. ”

Unrest rippled through the crowd. Going beyond the sea meant losing more lives to unforgiving waters.

She ignored the added restlessness. “For the next three years, our efforts will be focused on preparing for exploration, and as such, we’ve deemed the end of the Polar Nocturne in the third year, the seventh year of King Drakkar’s reign, The Dawn of Exploration, when the people of Vylheim will finally set sail.

By then we will have prepared enough ships and explorers to fill them with. ”

Darius laid his hand on her shoulder and then turned to us. “Thank you, Ylva. Able-bodied men and women of Vylheim should consider taking to the seas.”

“That’s sacrifice!” Ragna shouted.

All together, the Grimward snapped their heads and scanned the crowd for the source of the woman who dared speak out. She didn’t shrink back.

Darius continued. “Sacrifice to the seas is better than starvation in the wasteland or total extinction. With hunger, unrest grows, and we’ve been forced to cut down more and more of those who shed blood.”

“If you don’t want us to die out, then stop killing us!” Ragna dared shout out again.

Frowning, Darius spoke through clenched teeth.

“If we don’t send a message that bloodshed ends in execution, then we’ll descend into war again, and all of Vylheim will be as barren as the wasteland.

It is the way of all humans.” He flicked his hand out and two members of the Grimward, one in a boar’s mask and another in a bear’s mask shoved through the crowd, searching for Ragna.

But she did not take the bait. If she moved, they’d know she was trying to run. She stood her ground and their eyes passed right over her.

Ylva jumped in again and directed the speech back to this exploration. “Many of the king’s guards will take to the seas with you, and every exiled person will be required to join them.”

My heart stuttered and it seemed a hand clamped around my throat.

My mother would die at sea. I had no doubt. Every single one of the witches that had been hunted down and dragged to the wasteland would be sacrificed to The Sea of Skalds.

And I should be one of them, instead of her.

She never should have outed herself to protect me.

My pulse thumped erratically and my eyesight blurred. I thought I had more time to piece the visions together, to make a case for witches based on real, true history that the king couldn’t deny.

We aren’t a threat. Don’t kill us.

Don’t kill her.

But Ylva spoke again, sealing my mother’s fate. “With the passage of three years and at the end of the Polar Nocturne, the age of exploration will dawn.”

Three years.

I could no longer hope for visions while cutting away at the fields, I had to start running again, to beat myself down every chance I got for the glimpse of a vision from Odin or Freya.

It had to come with emotional and mental pressure too, because without it, I didn’t always get to the point of collapse.

Fear too easily stopped me short, a self-preservation that reminded me my heart and nerves were frail.

It had to be a total collapse to quiet my body and mind so my spirit could understand the language of the Gods. The language of Asgard.

I only had three years.