Chapter 60 Westley/Solveig
Silent as the night, they rode through the forest. Westley tried not to read into the eerie quiet as they travelled, but something nagged at the back of his mind.
The forest was too silent.
No scurrying animal sounds or bird calls. The lack of the usual prowling beasts was even more unnerving. Pine needles cushioned the sound of the horses’ hooves so even their battalion sounded more like a gusting wind than a troop marching into battle.
Solveig rode ahead of him, her auburn hair held in place with a series of braids. His heart jumped every time he caught a glimpse of her. Something was wrong.
Westley was almost certain she was avoiding him. He’d tried to ask her at the beginning of their journey, but she’d evaded him rather quickly, pulling ahead to ride with the same sentinels who had spied on him in the forest.
Her shieldmaidens.
“You alright?” Noren asked quietly.
He shook his head. “Something isn’t right.”
“I feel it too,” he said.
He pulled Njord forward, hoping to get a chance to speak with Solveig, but she moved ahead like she sensed him coming.
Her shoulders were tense and one hand lay on the weapon at her side.
Westley thought it was a dagger until he looked closer and discovered it was the hammer. He finally caught up to her.
“If I didn’t know any better, General, I’d say you were avoiding me,” he accused, voice barely above a whisper.
“You clearly don’t know better if you thought I was avoiding you and still approached me,” she whispered back, her eyes darting to the trees surrounding them.
“You feel it too, don’t you?”
“Yes.” As if on cue, Helle tossed her head in agitation and Njord responded in kind. “Helle is never twitchy.” They rode on in silence for a while, unease gathering in the air as storm clouds rolled in.
“Perfect, just what we need.” Westley sighed.
Solveig tilted her head to the sky and a smile touched her lips. Westley couldn’t help but take in the line of her neck. A small tattoo peeked out behind her hair and his hand itched to brush the strands out of the way so he could see it properly.
Raindrops fell on her skin, her face losing some of its tension as she breathed in the stormy air.
One of the drops smeared the kohl she’d drawn on her face, leaving a watery black streak. Westley was mesmerized by each raindrop, jealous of their soft caresses on her skin.
It was probably a good thing he didn’t have access to his magic because he would’ve flooded the entire camp in that moment, leaving only the two of them.
She was a goddess of war when she had ridden into view on Helle. He’d been so struck by her presence he hadn’t been able to form words. He could only stare, his magic urging him to get closer to her.
It was a constant ache, the need to have her pressed up against him. His body knew hers, even clothed, and his cock filled at the memory. She wasn’t soft or supple, but she fit perfectly against him.
The image came unbidden, of peeling off each layer of her armour, exploring every exposed inch of her as she came undone in front of him. Underneath him. On top of him. He hadn’t heard a single thing Latham had said, and eventually, it had been too much for him, needing to go to her.
Westley didn’t want to examine why it had felt so right, but his magic eased when he was by her side.
Solveig caught him staring, bringing him back to the present. Her copper eyes were like twin flames, the black kohl surrounding them making them shine brightly in the dying darkness of the moon.
“What do you think?” Solveig asked him.
“Think about what?” he asked slowly. Had she been speaking and he had zoned out so completely that he hadn’t heard her?
Solveig gestured around her and understanding washed through him. He swallowed the lump formed in his throat and tried to shift in his saddle to ease some of the discomfort.
“I’m not sure. The forest is too quiet. Are we almost to the mortal village?” It was nearly morning, the moon giving way to the earliest of the sun’s rays, the inky-black sky fading to an eerie grey dawn.
“Soon.” She stared ahead, and when Westley followed her line of sight, she was focused on Latham.
“Are you worried about him?”
“We’ve been friends and partners for centuries. I’ll never not worry about him.”
“Do you . . . Do you regret saving him from the fate you suffered?” he asked carefully. He didn’t know why he was bringing it up now of all times—the question just slipped out.
Solveig’s face hardened and she tilted her head as she studied him. “No,” was all she said. Hint taken. He wouldn’t mention it again.
They rode on in silence, and Westley finally heard noises in the distance. It was a relief after the deadly quiet of the forest. The mortal village was not far off, and they’d made good time—many would not be awake yet.
His Fae hearing picked up the rhythmic sounds of guards marching from post to post. Mortals were so loud. He and Solveig exchanged a look as the whole group surged forward with renewed energy.
Latham made hand signals from the front of the caravan, and just like that, it was time.
Groups split off to take their positions as quietly as possible as the village gates came into view. Westley focused his attention back to Solveig who had slowed, allowing soldiers to march ahead of her. He gave her a questioning look, but she shook her head.
Her hand was on the hammer again, her leg trembling in her stirrups. He was about to go to her when Noren rode up beside him, cutting him off.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
They heard the sharp whistle of a bird and launched themselves forward at the signal, picking up their pace as they neared the south entrance of the village.
The Fae at the head of the group silenced two guards with one swipe of her sword before the mortals could ring the alarm.
A bell rang out from the east, meaning another group hadn’t been swift enough to enter undetected. The bell sounded once before it was cut short. But it was too late.
All Hel broke loose.
Solveig brought up the rear as their group charged into the south side of the mortal village.
She tried to keep her heart rate steady as she immersed herself in the last place she’d seen before she was captured. Memories of that night flashed through her vision, making past and present hard to differentiate.
Sten’s face before she’d charged into the fray. Gerrie’s voice called to her, instead of Conalle’s.
She clamped her eyes closed and pushed down every bit of panic that had started to bubble up. The mortals responded quickly to their onslaught, and on instinct Solveig drew her weapons, moving forward.
Helle’s size made it almost impossible for the mortals to reach her while on foot, and it made her job easier and less bloody.
In a fitting sense of déjà vu, she was in charge of finding the Lionhead. During their brief strategy session, they’d surmised he would come out when he heard the fight. So instead of breaking into the houses, they had to draw him out, taking as many mortal lives as they could along the way.
Charging ahead, Solveig discovered that although they bled, none of the mortals were staying down.
All the blood drained from her face as one of her Vanir soldiers stabbed a mortal right through the heart but the mortal kept fighting. When the Vanir removed the sword, Solveig expected the man to drop, but he went on like he hadn’t just been skewered through the chest.
Similar scenarios played out around her—the mortals were not dying. Panic throttled her and she urged Helle ahead, desperate to be out of this place as soon as possible.
She cut through the mortals, swinging her sword and catching arrows with her shield. She lost herself in the battle, her instincts taking over as her body fell into the familiar choreography of dancing with death. Though this time, her instincts had her keeping tabs on another as well.
The prince attempted to behead the mortal coming for him, but even though his blade went clean through the woman’s neck, her head stayed where it was, not a drop of blood to be seen.
A crease formed in his brow as he watched the blow he’d dealt a thousand times in his life not kill his opponent.
He kicked the mortal away instead and continued to fight through the swarm. Almost simultaneously, she and the prince dismounted their horses and sent them off, out of harm’s way.
There were too many mortals to be effective on horseback now. She and the prince fought back to back, covering each other’s blind spots. Their fighting styles complemented each other as they moved forward together. The feeling of an unspoken conversation played between them as they went.
On your right! she sensed him saying. She jerked her elbow back into the mortal coming at her from behind.
Couldn’t have gotten that one for me? she thought back.
He shot her a brief smile. I can’t do all the work for you.
Solveig launched a throwing knife, stopping the mortal who’d been about to strike the prince. You’re welcome.
I would’ve stopped him.
Sure. I think this means I’m winning.
The prince parried and swung at two more who came towards them.
In case you haven’t noticed, General, they aren’t dying. No one is winning. He grunted as he dislodged the woman who’d latched onto his neck. Solveig attempted to slice her open, but her sword just swiped through the woman without causing any harm.
I still think I’m winning, she said, kicking another mortal unconscious to prove her point.
Their internal dialogue was interrupted when a group of about fifteen mortals came at them. Trying to fight them off, they were separated by the swinging of swords and spears.
Solveig moved forward, realizing that knocking them unconscious was the only way to stop the onslaught. She wanted to tell the prince but couldn’t see him anymore. Her breath caught as she became aware of where she was.
Time slowed, déjà vu sweeping her under.
She stood at the edge of the village centre, gaping at the bloodbath that was sowing death only for her people and the Fae. The Lionhead charged into the fight, sword out, snapping her out of her panic. She started towards him, and as if on a phantom wind, she heard Gerrie’s voice.
“SOLVEIG!” the voice screamed.
She whipped her head around, a different scene playing out in her mind’s eye now—the same place, but a different time as she looked to Gerrie to see what was happening. Gerrie pointed towards the edge of camp and there was Latham, being dragged away by figures in black.
I got out. I got out. I got out, she tried to tell herself. But she was rooted to the spot.
This couldn’t be happening. Not again. She tried to blink away the memory, but it wouldn’t fade. Her breath came faster and faster, her head dizzy. Pride was the only thing that kept her lucid. She would not allow Latham to be right.
She shook her head clear, and the present scene caught up to her just in time to duck under the swing of a sword. She somersaulted on the ground, grabbing a fallen bow and arrow before standing. Her aim was true as she let an arrow fly towards the Lionhead.
“SOLVEIG!” Someone yelled her name again, but this time it wasn’t Gerrie’s voice.
Fear seized her a moment before a sharp pain pierced her shoulder, knocking the bow from her arm. She tilted her head down to see arrow feathers, a black tip poking out behind her shoulder blade.
It was no ordinary arrow—the tip wasn’t completely solid as tendrils of smoke, no, shadows, curled around it.
They had magical weapons, and clearly some sort of spell so they couldn’t die.
Dark magic.
Solveig! She heard her name in her mind just before her head spun, feeling herself start to fade. Images flashed again—a black hooded figure coming for her, the prince’s panicked face as he grabbed her before she hit the ground.
And for the second time in this village, all went black.