Chapter 1 #2
“Princess Saga’s whereabouts are yet unknown.”
Silla’s heart plummeted into her stomach as Jarl Hakon’s words sank in.
“She was not among the dead, nor is she in any Uppreisna safeholds,” continued Jarl Hakon. “Our spies continue their search and shall not rest until every shield-home in the realm has been examined. We will find her.”
Jarl Hakon glanced over his shoulder at Silla as he said this, but it did nothing to ease her frantically racing mind. Where was Saga? Was she in danger? And how could Silla simply sit here without knowing—without doing something?
But the jarl had turned back to the crowd. “Ivar has recovered from his injuries, and now he plots to retaliate against Zagadka. Despite reports of the black flames coming from Saga, the king accuses the Zagadkians of the attempt on his life.”
Confused murmurs slid through the room, but Jarl Hakon continued. “It does not take a Weaver to see the threads of fate coming together before us. With Ivar’s eyes on Zagadka, he won’t look so carefully at his northern lands. This, paired with Eisa Volsik’s return, tells me it is time.”
Jarl Hakon paused for effect. “Time to return to the old ways of íseldur, where we can worship the gods of our ancestors and use the blessings they granted to us!” A cheer rose, but Hakon’s voice rose higher.
“Eisa Volsik vows to champion the old ways! To banish the Klaernar from these lands! To tear down the pillars where so many of our kind have died!”
Silla’s mind raced somehow faster. This was not how it was supposed to go.
It should be Saga Volsik, not Eisa. The people of íseldur deserved a true queen, not some placeholder.
But Jarl Hakon’s words had built excitement in the crowd.
Warriors stood, some shouting and others banging their weapons on the floor.
And in the middle of the dais, Jarl Hakon stood, arms spread wide, bathing in the moment’s glory.
Once the room quieted, Hakon continued. “We will have to act quickly to solidify our northern alliance.” His gaze swept the crowd.
“As you know, Jarl Agnar has been the source of many violent incursions along my eastern borders. All attempts to talk sense into the boy have failed. Before the north can raise banners for the Volsiks, peace must be secured among us.”
Silla wrangled her mind to the troubles with the mysterious Jarl Agnar.
She’d listened to Rey and Jarl Hakon discuss the young jarl over the daymeal this morning.
Between the number of warriors oathsworn to Agnar and the ports he controlled in Kunafjord, it was clear he was a man of significant power.
What would Saga do if she were here? Broker peace between Hakon and Agnar?
Yes. Surely she’d pen a letter, perhaps meet the jarl face-to-face…
Shouting beyond the chamber doors yanked Silla from her thoughts. Her gaze darted along the walkway, fear prickling down her spine. She did not need to be reminded that discussions of treason would land every person in this room a brutal execution on the pillars.
The doors flew open, and five figures strode briskly down the walkway. The dim light of the meeting hall made it difficult to make out their faces, but as their voices grew louder, one rose above them all. Silla shot to her feet. She knew that voice.
“Hekla!”
Tears filled Silla’s eyes as she stared at the figure at the front of the group.
Black hair was braided along the top of her head, and her metallic hand glinted as she stormed toward the dais.
Gods, but she was glad to see her friend.
There had been no communication from Istré in some time, and Silla’s worry for the Bloodaxe Crew had grown each day.
But here they were, Hekla and Sigrún, and oh—there was Gunnar, bringing up the rear!
They were hale and apparently as vivacious as ever.
Rey scrambled to the edge of the dais, and Silla was on his heels.
The group reached the end of the walkway, bickering among themselves, and Silla examined the pair of warriors she did not know. But then her gaze flitted to Hekla’s amber eyes, and emotions chased themselves across her friend’s face—surprise, relief, and utter delight.
Silla imagined her own expression looked rather the same.
“Eyvind!” bellowed Jarl Hakon. “What is the meaning of this?”
Silla’s gaze found the warrior in question right away, his likeness to Jarl Hakon and Atli impossible to miss.
But Eyvind Hakonsson’s black hair was singed and sticking up at odd angles, and bright-red burn marks marred an olive cheekbone.
Despite it, Eyvind was clearly a handsome man, tall, with vivid hazel eyes.
Silla examined him with curiosity. So this was Eyvind Hakonsson, younger son of Jarl Hakon, and the childhood friend Rey had sent to Istré to help the Bloodaxe Crew.
“Istré has fallen,” Hekla proclaimed.
The words reverberated through the room for a long, weighted moment.
“What?” breathed Rey, so quietly only Silla heard him.
“What do you mean, ‘fallen’?” exclaimed Jarl Hakon. His gaze swept the crowd, as though searching for someone.
“She means,” said Eyvind, speaking at last, “Istré has burned to the ground.”
Whispers raged through the room, but one attendee stood from a bench and bellowed, “Burned! You let it burn?” Silla examined the furious, gray-haired man with curiosity. He boorishly clambered over attendees to reach the walkway.
“We did not let it burn, Loftur, you utter blockhead,” seethed Hekla, glaring at the man as he tried to squeeze past a disgruntled woman on the second row of benches.
What in the eternal fires happened in Istré? Silla wondered.
“Loftur hid vital details about the mist from us and brazenly endangered the entire village!” Hekla continued, glaring at a mad-eyed Loftur as he reached the walkway. “ ’Twas a miracle we got them out alive.”
Whispers whipped up in the crowd, but Jarl Hakon grew very still, his gaze falling on the warrior beside Hekla. “Eyvind,” he growled. “I do not understand this ill-tempered woman. Explain.”
Rey took a menacing step toward Hakon, but Silla grabbed his hand to hold him back. The last thing they needed was a brawl.
On the walkway below, Hekla’s cheeks turned a furious red, while Eyvind ran a hand through his hair. “It did not go as planned, Father. I’m afraid it was far more complicated than we’d expected—”
Jarl Hakon threw his hands up in the air. “I should have known to send Atli.”
Silla’s incredulous gaze whipped to Jarl Hakon. What kind of a father spoke of his son like that?
“This woman is to blame!” Silla’s attention was drawn back to the one named Loftur, pure loathing in the man’s expression as he stormed toward Hekla. “Stubborn and reckless, and endlessly meddlesome—”
In a move that was casually threatening, Eyvind stepped between Hekla and Loftur. Silla’s eyebrows rose. “I was there, Loftur,” he said in a firm voice. “She was not reckless. In fact, I believe many hundreds of people—including yourself—owe her their lives.”
The man was not cowed. He tried to dodge Eyvind to get to Hekla, whose face was now a furious shade of red.
“What good are our lives if we cannot feed our families?” growled Loftur. “Centuries, my kin have lived in Istré, and now it is all gone, all burnt because of you—”
Silla gasped as the man took a swing at Hekla. But Eyvind caught his fist, twisting until Loftur screamed.
“Do not,” said Eyvind through clenched teeth, “touch her.”
Silla lifted her eyebrows even higher. Twice now, Eyvind had protected Hekla.
“Eyvind!” exclaimed Jarl Hakon. “Loftur is a respected member of this community! Release him at once!”
Whispers whipped through the room as Eyvind released the man’s fist, and Loftur stumbled away. “Loftur,” said Eyvind, every word laced with deadly intent, “you and I both know there were no people in that barn, nor was there a cure for their ailment.”
“Gods’ sacred ashes, can someone speak plainly?” muttered Rey, scratching his head. Silla nodded, wholeheartedly in agreement.
Hekla sent them a wary look. “The mist Turns all living beasts—humans and woodland creatures alike—into draugur.”
Silla blinked at the word “draugur,” trying to recall the meaning of it.
“The restless dead,” Rey said numbly, and a cold sensation crept down Silla’s spine.
“Aye,” said Hekla. “And the gods damned chieftain of Istré had all the human victims locked in a barn, hidden away from prying eyes. Loftur tried to perform some ritual to convert them back to the living but—” She shook her head.
“It was the mist’s trickery. It would have killed them all had we not evacuated in time. ”
“It might have worked!” Loftur clutched his injured hand indignantly. “I had to try!”
“And after the double black moon,” continued Hekla in a booming voice, “the mist has grown strong enough to escape the confines of the woods. We were able to restrain it long enough to allow the people of Istré to escape, but now that it’s loose…
” A muscle in Hekla’s jaw flexed. “The mist will spread and feast on all mortals in this kingdom. It will not rest until we are all Turned.”
Silence spread in the wake of Hekla’s words, but Silla’s mind spun with renewed speed.
“How do we stop it?” she blurted.
Hekla’s amber eyes met hers, lit with determination. “We must seek the mist’s origin, somewhere deep in the Western Woods. And then we must destroy it.”
“Well, what do you ask of us?” demanded Jarl Hakon.
“More men,” said Hekla simply. “More resources.” She folded her arms, waiting expectantly.
“The bulk of my warriors are busy quelling the violence on the eastern borders,” said Hakon. “I do not have the resources to send more warriors to Istré.” Hakon grew eerily still before turning to Rey.
Silla’s heart stuttered as time seemed to slow.
And she knew what the jarl would say before the words left his mouth.
Not him! she wanted to scream. Anyone but him.
But she knew how badly Rey wanted to complete this job.
Knew how he’d worried for the Bloodaxe Crew during those long weeks in Kalasgarde.
“This was your job, Galtung,” said Jarl Hakon. “It is time for you to see it through.”