Chapter 11
The Black Road (east of Kopa)
Gunnar and Eyvind were getting on Hekla’s last nerve.
Gaze trained on the darkening road before her, she tried to ignore the fact that Eyvind’s white mare nudged ever closer to her left, while Gunnar refused to give any ground on her right.
At some point, the pair had learned each other’s intentions toward Hekla, and their antics had grown more childish with each passing day.
Last night, Gunnar had positioned his bedroll directly beside Hekla’s—a move that would only have been more obvious if he were to whip his breeches down and start pissing on the trees all around them.
But the bedroll had become mysteriously dampened during the evening meal, forcing Gunnar to string it up by the fire to dry.
When he’d returned to set it back out, there lay Eyvind on his own bedroll, arms tucked behind his head.
Hekla knew that in avoiding conversation with either, she was being a coward.
Even Rey had stopped moping to watch Gunnar and Eyvind jostling to unsaddle and brush Hekla’s horse. “How long will you let this go on?” he’d grumbled.
“Until I grow tired of it,” she replied defensively. “When will you stop sulking about your woman, Galtung?”
When Rey’s jaw hardened and he glared back into the fire, Hekla lowered her voice. “You hurt her, Axe Eyes, and you’ll have me to answer to.” Protracting her claws, she held them so they caught the glint of firelight.
To her great surprise, Axe Eyes threw his head back and laughed, leaving Hekla a little disconcerted. She could count the number of times she’d heard the man laugh on her lone remaining hand.
“If I hurt her,” Rey said, “I give you permission to shred my flesh into ribbons.”
“Good,” Hekla replied, studying him. She’d admit, the pair seemed unlikely.
And after what Silla had weathered with Jonas, Hekla’s hackles were raised.
But when she’d seen how disgustingly adorable they were together—not to mention the tenderness in Rey’s eyes whenever he looked at Silla—Hekla had wondered if there was something to be said about opposites.
Her gelding snorted, drawing Hekla from her reverie. She felt the weight of Gunnar’s gaze from where he rode beside her, but refused to look his way.
I kneel before you now to ask for your hand.
His words rang too loudly in her mind, her guilt burning hotter each day.
She needed to find the words to let Gunnar down gently.
But each time she looked into his eyes, they brightened with hope, and all she could see was the sullen man who’d been bed-bound for weeks after Ilías’s death.
She couldn’t be the one to put him back in that dark place.
Hekla tried to drive all thoughts of Gunnar from her mind and refocus on the job ahead of them. Istré loomed ever nearer. Tonight, they’d bed down in a nearby village, and after a good night’s sleep, they would make the last leg of the journey.
They rounded a bend, and the village’s defensive walls came into view.
“ ’Twill be good to have a fresh pint of ale and a soft straw mattress tonight, eh, Smasher?
” asked Thrand Long Sword, Eyvind’s second in command.
Though he might have a highly punchable face and a rather ridiculous nickname, Hekla had discovered him to be a good man—a dependable warrior to fight alongside.
“I’ll rest better once this gods damned job is complete,” Hekla answered.
Limping away from the burnt ruins of Istré was not how it was supposed to go.
But now she returned with more soldiers at her back and with renewed purpose.
Now there would be no village chieftain to keep her from doing her job.
They would find the source of the mist and destroy it.
And though Hekla had not mentioned it yet to Rey, she had a promise she must fulfill—to a squirrel.
As they neared the village gates, disquiet grew in the pit of Hekla’s stomach. Rey held up a fist, drawing them to a halt. The gate hung wide, yet Hekla could not spot a single warrior atop the defensive walls. She swallowed hard, but followed the group through the gate.
In a matter of moments, the air was thick with the smell of moldered things.
“The mist,” Hekla said softly. “It has been here.” Her mind spun as she tried to guess how far they were from Istré. Two hours? Perhaps three?
Warriors drew their swords, and Hekla readied herself for the sight of the undead. She could still see the draugur Loftur had kept chained in a barn in her mind’s eye—gray skin, sharpened teeth and claws, and eyes that glowed like twin red coals.
But as they rode through the streets, no draugur lunged from the shadows.
In fact, there was no movement at all. The timber homes were dark and still.
For a moment, hope lifted in Hekla’s chest. Perhaps the people’d had time to evacuate.
Perhaps they’d found safety. But as Hekla stared at the weathered door of one home, the smear of a bloodied handprint turned her hope to ash.
A moment later, her horse stepped over a severed arm.
There was no question that the mist had struck this village. Which confirmed it truly was growing stronger. Spreading farther. Her stomach burned with anger and regret. This never should have happened.
“Where have the townspeople gone?” asked Gunnar.
It was a good question. The smell alone was enough to confirm that they’d been Turned draugur. But where were they?
They reached the village square, half a dozen ravens watching them from atop the V-shaped pillars on the central dais. For a moment, Hekla thought she saw a red glint in their eyes, but it was only a trick of the light.
The group dismounted, milling about uneasily.
Unthinking, Hekla climbed onto the dais and began barking orders.
“We search the homes in pairs…” Her gaze found Axe Eyes and her voice trailed off.
Hekla shook her head, inwardly chastising herself.
“I forgot the Bloodaxe Crew’s leader is back among us. ”
“Go on,” said Rey, watching her with an unreadable expression.
Hekla cleared her throat, then launched back into it. “We search for survivors. If any are found, we’ll want to speak to them.”
“I’ll go with Hekla,” said Eyvind, determination in his eye as he moved toward her.
Her chest clenched—she was not ready to be alone with Eyvind.
“Actually,” said Hekla, backing away, “I’ll partner with Sigrún.” She glanced at her old friend, whose mouth was drawn into an amused smile. “You ought to partner with Gunnar, Hakonsson.”
Before either man could protest, Hekla grabbed Sigrún’s arm and pulled her toward the northern quadrant.
They kicked down door after door, battle thrill pumping through Hekla’s veins.
Any of these homes could conceal a draugur, ready to tear the flesh from their bones.
But each home they searched was empty, with nothing to show save for bloodstains and claw marks, if one didn’t count the boot with a foot still inside it.
At last, they converged back on the village square with the rest of the group. It seemed no one had found a thing.
“I’d rather take my odds in the woods than slumber between these walls,” Rey muttered. The chorus of agreement died off as a loud clang jolted the air. Collectively, they turned to the source of the sound.
Claws sliding out, Hekla eyed the building. “Who took the mead hall?”
“Group endeavor, I suppose?” said Axe Eyes. His sword unsheathed, he ambled to the hall. With a single, powerful kick, the door burst open, the moldered scent slapping them with sudden intensity.
“Gods,” muttered Rey, throwing an elbow over his nose. “Worse than Gunnar’s armpits.”
“Worse than Siggie’s cooking,” Gunnar countered.
Worse than Hekla’s boots, signed Sigrún.
“Worse than a dung heap,” chimed in Thrand, clearly not understanding how this worked.
Rey retrieved a torch and lit it with his strange smoke magic, sending Hekla a sheepish look.
He’d spoken to the Bloodaxe Crew in private and had explained the reasons for his secrecy.
In truth, she had yet to accept it fully.
But it was one thing to hear he was a so-called Ashbringer Galdra, and quite another to see it with her own eyes.
Cautiously, the group eased through the doorway. The mead hall had seen better days. Tables were overturned, chairs smashed to bits, crimson and black blood spraying the walls. Hekla stepped over a scalp, warrior’s braid still attached, and scowled at a severed hand pinned to the wall by a dagger.
The rattle of iron chains broke the silence of the mead hall, and now Hekla was certain it came from out back.
“We mean you no harm!” Rey called out, jerking two fingers upward. Sigrún and Gunnar silently fell into step behind him. “We search for survivors.”
A low, guttural sound was the only reply.
Rey nodded, and they edged through the doorway as a unit. Hekla slunk behind him, her heart a loud drumbeat in her skull. The smell was overpowering, forcing Hekla to breathe through her mouth and quashing any hopes of survivors.
A lone figure lunged for them with clawed hands and blood-red eyes. Gunnar made to swing his blade, but Rey held up a fist and he retreated. A chain fastened around the draugur’s neck reached the end of its length, and the undead creature stumbled back.
And Hekla understood why this draugur alone remained in the village. Perhaps the mortal man had been caught thieving and had been chained here to await his trial. Hekla supposed they’d never truly know. Because this thing, snarling with rage, was no longer a man.
“Where are they?” demanded Rey. “Where are the villagers—the survivors?”
Froth gathered in the draugur’s mouth, its red eyes burning ever brighter. It threw itself against the chains with another incoherent hiss.
“I think it’s saying something,” said Eyvind, standing to her right with a pocket linen pressed to his nose.
Hekla’s ears strained, trying to make out the draugur’s voice through the clamor of its chains. “Rokksgarde,” she repeated, exchanging a curious look with Rey. The draugur repeated the sound. “Rokksgarde, I’m sure of it!”
“What is Rokksgarde?” asked Thrand, scratching his forehead with the pommel of his sword.
Hekla searched her mind for any clues but came up short.
Rey snatched the creature’s chains, yanking it forward. “Is this a place? Have the others gone to this…Rokksgarde? Where are they?”
But the draugur wrenched itself free, then threw itself forward. Rey bobbed backward out of its reach, but as the collar caught, it cut a deep gouge into the draugur’s neck.
Rey let out a low sigh, and Hekla understood—the vile beast was now incapable of speech. After signaling for the others to back out of range, Rey hefted his sword and gripped it in two hands. And with a swift, brutal swing, the draugur’s head was severed from its body.
“May Stjarna light your path,” he murmured, staring at what had once been a man. Rey turned to face the group of warriors, a weary expression on his face.
“Rokksgarde,” repeated Gunnar. “Garde means ‘yard’ in the old language, does it not?”
“And Rokk?” chimed in Thrand. “What does that mean?”
“ ‘Twilight,’ ” said Rey dully. “I can only imagine this place is related to the twilight of days.”
“Does that mean the other draugur have gone to this…Rokksgarde?” Hekla mused.
Rey wiped the black blood from his blade on the dead man’s tunic before sheathing it. “It does not concern us at the moment.” He paused, lips pulling down. “We will burn this man to ensure his death. And then we ride on.”
Rey’s gaze was hard as flint as he looked at the group and said, “We shall not stop until we reach Istré.”