Chapter 5 Shieldchief Arctos
Shieldchief Arctos
Ravinelun, the Queendom of Berserkers
“What news, incubus?” Arctos’s voice rumbled low in the cave.
“What coin, bear?” Inkletter lounged against the stone, cleaning his claws with a blade.
“Depends on the information. And before you say that depends on the pay, remember I’ve only so much time and a bear’s impatience.”
The abandoned cave, one of thousands within the twisty Berserker lands, stank of iron and secrets. Perfect for espionage.
“Very well.” Inkletter lowered his voice.
“I’ve developed a contact in Crypt Castle…
” He was notorious for his contacts across the Lore.
Besotted females believed this male loved them and told him all their secrets.
Yet Ink loved only his library. Spying for gold enabled him to acquire rare editions.
“Word is the vampires are planning a power move this Accession, setting you up for extinction in the next.”
“Excellent,” Arctos growled. “Then I’ve got much coin for such news.”
Inkletter smiled, flashing his demonic fangs. “King Neculain is sealing his daughter Emilia in the Blood Crypt for a century with a stable of males. To breed her.”
Arctos didn’t blink. Typical, accursed leeches. “She must possess some unusual gift. Did a witch foremother taint her line?”
“Unknown. But Neculain wants ‘enhanced’ offspring—vampires fit to end every other species in the Skein.”
“Can she trace?” Arctos had heard that Neculain could, but none of his offspring had mastered teleportation. Few in the kingdom could. Thank Wóden.
“My source says not an inch. Emilia Vl?descu must possess some other talent.” Maybe she could turn to mist like the royal vampires of old.
Arctos’s Berserkerage simmered just beneath the surface. Memories lived there too. He saw his family again—his mother shoving him into a bear den, her screams echoing, vampires laughing as they fed.
They’d decapitated his drained father and brother with a sword, but they’d beheaded her through bites alone.
In his nightmares…always that laughter.
He rubbed the scar that cut from his forehead to his jaw. His first fight, his first loss. Yet the pain of his injuries and lost eye was nothing compared to his grief and guilt.
Inkletter followed the movement of Arctos’s hand, then said, “Such news could stir the queendom to war with Bloodreach. Perhaps you’ll get the battles you need, Shieldchief.”
Arctos needed them desperately.
Just eight kills stood between him and ohalla—immortality forged from two hundred valiant kills. Ten years ago, he’d stalled because of Queen Yrsa’s edict: no offense, only defense.
And no one dared to attack them when the clan hungered for ohalla.
Only one future was certain for Arctos. Aging. Forty winters pressed on his bones. Every night when he looked in the mirror at his scarred face, he was reminded that he would soon be a burden to his people. No longer a warrior but a liability.
I’ll die first.
Arctos tossed him a bag of gold berkoin. “Dig deeper. I want a timeline.”
Inkletter’s brown eyes flashed Ubus green, a sign of sharp emotion. “Bedding this source is a punishment. I’d rather fuck a basilisk.”
Arctos could imagine little worse than intercourse with a vampire.
Inkletter added, “And if I take her three times, she’ll become bonded to me for eternity.”
“Then once more only. I’ll double your pay.”
Gaze gone distant, he muttered, “She…she cried at the end.”
Though Arctos and the incubus were more than acquaintances and had even downed a vodka together on occasion, this confession surprised him. “Hazard of the trade?” Arctos asked. “Cries of ecstasy and all that.”
“No. Real tears. Ecstasy and sobs.” Inkletter must be bewildered; he wasn’t exactly a sharer. He straightened, sheathed his blade at his side, and pocketed his pay. “No matter.” He vanished.
Puzzling over the incubus’s behavior, Arctos headed out of the cave into the howling wind.
This territory had the highest continued altitude of all those in the Skein, and ice had already begun to stick as autumn brought its chills.
Snow crept from Ravinelun Peak, whipping through the canyons like a sandblast.
Thousands of years ago, Berserkers—with their undiscovered potential for immortality—had been swept up in the Exile, then thrust into the lethal All-Battle. Led by Yrsa, they’d fled to these canyons no one else had desired.
Their barren refuge had turned into sacred ground. He would not lose it.
At the entrance to the court, a pair of guards he’d trained flanked the cave opening. Bear-skull helms dipped in respect to their shieldchief—second only to Yrsa herself. He nodded back.
Inside, firelight licked totems until they seemed to dance. The scent of cool rock swept him up as the cavern ceiling soared above. Roots dangled, reminding him of his own arms as he’d reached for his mother that last time. She’d tearfully smiled, then placed a finger over her lips.
Her last whispered words: Hide. Survive. It’s a simple calculus, son. If you live on, we live on. Then she’d charged away to save him.
“Arctos!” called a voice, rousing him from memories.
He passed his cousin, who was more a brother, with his pregnant mate beside him.
Though Torben had previously enjoyed nothing more than plowing through bedmates, he’d somehow earned his ohalla kills before Arctos and had found his actual fated mate, a beauty named Dagny.
Torben raised his blond brows. “You look ready for a fight.”
“Fortune favor me,” Arctos said. “Though none could be as fortunate as you.” Berserker mates had become so rare that they’d begun to wed outside those destined connections, just for survival. Not so for Torben.
“As I like to remind him.” Dagny buffed her nails, her boldness on fine display. “He feels his luck, I assure you.”
“Indeed.” Torben grinned down at his female with pride. His heart given. About to be a father. Dagny’s very name meant “new day,” and she had been for the once aimless Torben.
Arctos was happy for them but also a touch envious. As a male facing his own mortality, he wanted nothing more than to continue his line. Yet few females would throw their lot in with a Berserker who’d teetered at the edge of ohalla for so long. Not to mention his missing eye and scars.
Berserkers said his bear marking and survival as a boy made him a type of chosen warrior. Chosen by bears, yet never by a female. He didn’t blame them.
“Talk later?” Torben asked.
“I’ll stop by on my way home.” To his empty, echoing den…
He passed the Channeler Stone. Moonbeams haloed the Berserkers’ most sacred monument, a huge monolith that lightning had carved into a bear shape.
Legend held that after the Exile, Yrsa had touched the stone and a bolt had struck it, giving her wasted clan their power of Berserkerage and the possibility of ohalla. Without these gifts—without the first channeler—they’d be dust beneath vampire boots.
“Ah, my lord of shields.” Yrsa’s voice rolled across the court, turning heads.
“Arctos of the Wintry Eye.” Clad in a gray kirtle with a fur draped over her shoulders, she appeared fearsome, and not just because her Berserkerage was a thing of dark renown.
Her crown was fashioned from claws and fangs, her throne of bear bones.
“You look like a predator on a scent. What’s made your icy gaze so intent? ”
“I’ve news.” Arctos relayed Inkletter’s report.
She listened, expression as sharp as a blade. “You trust this incubus?”
“I do. I’ve known him for years. If he says the vampires are making a power move, then they are. I’ve asked him to dig and get a timeline, but I don’t believe we can wait.”
“Can this princess trace?”
“She can’t. Likely has some other power. All the more reason to strike before it ripens.” Emilia Vl?descu could be a spellcaster or a dragon shifter.
Murmurs rose—excitement, aggression. This was why he’d trained his people so hard, prepared so much.
Yrsa canted her head, and her mahogany mane spilled over her shoulder. A bolt of silver, like a Valkyrie’s lightning, shot through her tresses, the only hint of her ancient age. After a beat, she said, “You’ll lead a small incursion. I want this valuable princess, Arctos. Go and fetch her for me.”
“A raid? We need a war!” As immortality danced out of reach for many like Arctos, dissension in the queendom mounted. Would the great Berserkers return solely to mortality for the vampires to pick off once more?
She arched a brow at his tone, and her lips curled without humor, reminding him of the bear he’d attacked as a young boy. When it had opened its jaws, Arctos had sworn he’d witnessed Valhalla inside its bloody gullet. Or fate.
Moderating his voice, he said, “My queen, you know I remain just eight kills away from ohalla.”
Her pelt-brown eyes narrowed. “Then go alone with your incubus,” she said softly. “And pray the princess has eight guards between you and immortality.”