Page 24 of Vow of the Undead (The Bloodrune Saga #1)

A fter years of watching shadows trail me from a distance, I embodied their behavior. Or perhaps I already knew the skills of invisibility after a lifetime of hiding.

A shudder vibrated through me as I stepped into the chill of the drafty hall. All the warmth of the celebration faded away. Soon, my fingers would be as blue as Rolf’s balls again.

A smirk lifted my lips for a moment before my heart sank. I had no idea where Ragna was now, or if she was okay.

I spotted King Drakkar’s cape trailing behind him. Now that I saw it from a distance, the designs woven into it matched the shape of Vylheim. At least I think it was Vylheim. The fabric splayed out behind him as he marched around the corner.

I crept forward as he ducked beyond a nearby door. When the door clicked shut, I sidled up in front of it and pressed my ear to the wood. The clop of his boots stopped.

After several minutes, I dared to crack it open and peer around the room. Only silence greeted me.

I slipped inside to find a simple bedchamber, not the armory I expected. I suppose a room full of weapons only existed in the past, but it likely had a place in Mara’s Keep. Where else did the Grimward, the appointed guards, and the king secure their swords and axes?

The room was a mirror of the one I’d been given though much smaller. The oversized bed at the center swallowed most of the space. A fireplace covered one wall and a cabinet crowded the opposite wall. The flicker of flames matched the sound I’d woken up to.

King Drakkar was nowhere to be seen, and there were no exits. That I could see.

Like the hidden hatch beneath my childhood bed, a crawlspace or hidden door might lead beyond the room.

I checked the floor under the four poster first. Deeming it solid stone, I stood and marched to the cabinet.

I swung the two doors open wide to find nothing more than a musty, empty space.

After slamming them shut, I ran my hands along the walls to determine if they were as solid as the floor.

The stone rubbed rough against my palm. I circled the room and stopped at the large mantel. The fireplace was the only place I had not checked, but he would have to be a God to walk through the flames.

Unless I was missing something.

Crouching in front of the fire, I relished the heat, wanting to pause to warm my fingers over the flames. They’d turned blue again after King Drakkar let go of my hands.

From this angle, the back of the fireplace looked deeper. Rather than a shallow indent and then an upward tunnel for the smoke to travel, this fireplace stretched into chalky blackness. Like a tunnel.

Impossible.

Not even kings walked through fire without getting burned. Unless he lit it after passing through.

From the other side of the door, footsteps stomped. The rhythmic march grew closer and closer, and my heart matched the thumping .

I ducked from the fire and into a hiding place I knew too well. Slipping beneath the bed, I pressed close to the cold stone and watched the door swing open.

Heavy boots stormed past the bed. The gray leather marked him as one of the king’s guards. The tip of the sword’s sheath hung low at his leg.

This had to be the place I was looking for. Satisfaction curled at my lips. I’d been right about King Drakkar’s plans before dawn; sparring.

When the guard stooped, I inched closer toward the wall. Holding my breath proved impossible with my hammering heart. I sucked in air in small intervals to keep from gasping desperately.

After a moment, water splashed over the flames, dousing the fire to mere embers. He stepped into the fireplace and his boots quickly disappeared into the darkness. When his footsteps faded to a distant thud, I dragged a gulp of air into my tight chest, and crawled out from beneath the bed.

I hurried to the fireplace, and, stepping inside, left the small bedchambers behind. Darkness stretched out before me so I was forced to follow by sound.

I quietly tracked the echo of his steps, carefully listening for every hint of change in the sound of his footfall.

Deeper inside the yawning tunnel, a faint flicker of candlelight beckoned me along. Only occasionally did I pass a candle left on the floor in a bronze holder, but each time it was a relief from the abyss of black.

Eventually, the tunnel broke off into several other hallways, but if I followed the sound of footsteps, I wouldn’t get lost.

I committed each turn to memory. Right, right, right again.

The floor sloped downward, inviting me lower and lower under the ground.

I paused at a fork in the hall and listened carefully.

Closing my eyes, I noted the clop of his feet coming from a slight left.

My eyes popped open and I ducked to the left pathway.

The maze grew narrower and darker as I came to the top of a staircase.

Steps vanished down into more inky black where the path descended to the depths of Mara’s Keep. If there was anywhere to hide weapons or the history the kings of the past didn’t want us to know, it was down there.

When the echo of his footsteps faded completely, I had to force myself further into the darkness. I placed a hand on the wall to steady myself. The steps were thin and dropped rapidly, the walls narrow like a tomb encasing me.

In the sagas, only people who died dishonorably were buried in tombs.

Those who lost their lives in battle, with a weapon still in their hand, were placed on a pyre and burned so their spirit was released where it could ascend to meet the Valkyries halfway to their descent. This gave them priority for Valhalla.

I recounted bits of history as I dropped deeper and deeper into the bowels of Mara’s Keep to keep my mind from spiraling.

Suddenly I could hear the clash of metal on metal ringing up from below, and excitement prickled through me.

When the narrow stairs flattened out and the walls expanded wider, I smashed myself against one side of the stone.

The steps opened into a full armory with an open floor in the center.

Racks of swords and axes lined the walls, their shine glinting faintly in the candlelight.

Dozens of candles were propped on the shelves set between each rack.

Scratches marred the edge of the axes, but most of the swords were smooth, pristine, maybe never used at all.

King Drakkar wielded a sword with a charcoal black hilt topped with a shimmering bronze pommel. A shape I wasn’t close enough to identify was carved into the pommel .

When the guard lunged for King Drakkar, I held my breath. The tip of the guard’s sword nearly slashed the king’s arm, but he swung his arm away with blinding speed. He slammed the base of the blade against the same spot on his opponent’s sword, and the hilts crossed.

King Drakkar shoved him back. The guard stumbled but quickly recovered, ducking to pierce the king low on his torso.

In the dry air, my breath came in shallow gulps as I pressed into the wall and kept to the shadow of the stairs.

The king easily side-stepped each angle of the guard’s blade but it did not discourage his opponent.

The guard was relentless, swinging, and then clashing.

When their blades met, he used his weight to shove against King Drakkar, though it did not have the same effect it had when King Drakkar did it to him.

Each time the guard thrust, swung, or slashed, the king bested him.

I bit my lip, watching sweat gather across King Drakkar’s forehead. Though this sparring was mere practice, he did not hold back. Slamming the blades together, he continued pushing the guard back, back, back toward the opposite wall.

King Drakkar was closer to a true warrior than any man I’d ever seen. I slid my eyes shut for a moment, committing the sight of him with the sword in his hand to memory. A slight ache burned low in my belly. The hours I’d spent dreaming of the men described in the sagas put me in trouble now.

Now I didn’t have to imagine them.

Their dueling quickened with their breaths. They clashed again and again and again, and every time the guard came close to slicing the blade into the king’s skin, I ceased breathing.

When the sparring suddenly stopped, the king marched toward the stairs. I flattened to the wall, my heart nearly slamming against the stone through my spine .

What would he do to me if he knew I’d followed him? What would he do to the guard who led me here? King Drakkar was discreet in his escape to the armory. As diligent as I was in following his every step, I wouldn’t have found the armory if it wasn’t for the guard.

“I’m starving.” Came the king’s voice. The guard grunted in response. “We’ll resume this tomorrow before dawn.”

The sparring had ended and the result yielded no blood. If only the guard’s skills were sharper, this would have been worth it. Now, I was deep in a maze of tunnels beneath the castle with the king heading my direction.

I slipped up two steps as quietly as possible, but when King Drakkar’s footsteps grew quieter, I paused and stuck my neck out just enough to see him swipe a linen cloth over the glinting blade.

His hands shook from muscle strain and lack of food. If he was careless, he might nick his finger.

But he didn’t.

His gaze snapped up, and I swallowed a gasp. His eyes sliced to the guard who stepped in front of him and headed for the steps. To my relief, the guard had stopped walking to face his king.

“Be sure this week’s vessel is ready for me,” King Drakkar said.

His icy eyes flashed red and my pulse skipped.

When he spoke again, the tips of his teeth caught the glow of the candles.

They stretched long, jutting out of his mouth as if they’d grown several inches in the blink of an eye.

The ends were pointed, unlike his row of perfect teeth behind it. “I need fresh food.”

I squinted, brows furrowed to narrow in on what I was seeing. Fangs were only for wolves, serpents, wild boars, and the undead. This couldn’t be real.

Now I sounded like my father.

Draugr, or the undead people, tore the living apart, eating them like a wild animal would.

At least that was what we suspected based on the poetic language of the only saga to mention such creatures.

My mother believed they ate their prey’s flesh, but Ragna had said she thought Draugr siphoned their existence simply from the joy of killing the living.

A living being’s breath was offensive to the undead.

We believed the Undead, like all other monsters, once bled over from the other realms relative to Midgard.

I didn’t have time to consider the reality of what I saw or the implications of my reaction. After the guard responded with a curt nod, he marched forward and straight toward me.

I spun and darted up the staircase as quickly and as quietly as possible. Following the directions in reverse, I went left three times, counting how many halls it broke off into to be sure I turned down the right one.

Ahead, I spied the light of the candles in the bedchamber. Tracking my way back was easier than I thought. Perhaps King Drakkar was right about my skill with observation, though this, too, was tied to my survival—or rather, my mother’s.

Footsteps echoed in my wake. I was already breathless, but I shuffled faster, careful to keep my feet low and quiet against the stone.

The guard must have been in a hurry to end his night. Each heavy footfall gained on me. If he turned the corner, he’d see me. I broke into a desperate run for the mantle when a hand hooked around my arm.

Another hand slapped over my mouth before shock had me crying out. The shadow pulled me into the darkness of another, narrower hall just behind the fireplace.

My heart slammed thrashed against my ribcage as I squirmed to free myself, but my captor merely hushed me and tightened their hold. Their voice was low, belonging to a man, and barely audible at the edge of my ear as he tried to shush me.

The guard marched past, ducking through the fireplace .

I quietly squirmed against my captor, but his hold grew firmer and firmer with every muscle I flexed. Panic gripped my throat and I suddenly couldn’t draw enough breath through my nose. His fingers dug into my cheeks until I couldn’t so much as part my lips.

Had King Drakkar seen me? Did he take a quicker path to beat me to the exit?

Those fangs flashed in my mind.

Every story my mother told resurfaced. Draugr dragged their victims into the privacy of the shadows where they ripped off their flesh.

Ragna’s theories were worse. Images of the king tearing me to shreds just for the sheer entertainment of it clouded my mind.

I refused to believe the latter, but my resolve did nothing to comfort me.

I’m starving.

A shiver rippled through me.

His eyes had turned red, just like the Draugr, like my shadows.

I’d never heard of red eyes on the undead before, my mother claimed they didn’t have eyes, just open sockets of sinew and hollow bone, but the sagas didn’t confirm this.

King Drakkar had both the fangs of the undead and the eyes of the figures who’d lurked at my heels.

They were one in the same—a king, my shadow, an undead monster—and he’d finally dragged me into the shadows to devour me.