Chapter 20
Hekla’s pulse was in her throat as the telltale heartbeat of the mist grew louder, closer. Across the clearing, Eyvind straightened, then shouted orders to his men. Warriors jostled about, getting into formation. But Hekla was momentarily dazed, haunted by all that had happened before.
She’d been in this very clearing. Had heard the heartbeats.
Had sensed the mist’s anger…its need to consume.
Back then, Hekla had done the only thing she could—she’d fled.
But it had been too late. The mist had engulfed her, seeped into her lungs, permeated her skin.
It had nearly Turned her draugur. But Kritka had appeared in grimwolf form. Had repelled the mist.
A nudge to her shoulder yanked Hekla back to the present.
She turned and gasped at the enormous lupine face to her left.
Clever yellow eyes watched her from above Kritka’s gray muzzle.
She hadn’t seen him in grimwolf form since the day he’d rescued her from the mist. Fur raised on end, he thrashed his tail back and forth in agitation.
Then the grimwolf cocked his head to the side, a motion so like a squirrel, she nearly laughed.
It senses my mistress, Kritka said into her skull. We must protect her.
Hekla glanced down at the tiny woman curled in her palm and scowled at the reminder of Kritka’s trickery. He’d led her to believe she needed only to free his mistress from a single tree. Not two.
The heartbeat pounded louder, louder, and Hekla knew there was no time for such thoughts.
Crouching low, she slid the tiny winged woman back into the tree’s hollow.
But as she straightened, she realized the other warriors had noticed Kritka’s new form—had drawn their swords and backed away defensively.
“He’s with us, you shite-beetles,” she snapped. “And your swords won’t do a thing against the mist. Fire is our only protection.” Hekla pulled the twin torches she’d strapped to her back.
Gunnar fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a firestone. But Eyvind leaned forward, a flame cupped in his palm.
“Braggart,” muttered Gunnar.
Hekla nudged her torch to Eyvind’s flame until it caught, then frowned. Eyvind Hakonsson had revealed his Ashbringer skill to save her life during Istré’s battle, but she’d yet to get used to it.
“Everyone has a gods damned secret, don’t they?” grumbled Gunnar, and Hekla followed his gaze to Rey, smoke churning from his palms.
Hekla slapped Gunnar on the back. “Cheer up, Gunnar. Two Ashbringers will be useful in our arsenal.” She turned to the group. “Keep your torches high. We fight back-to-back. Protect the Forest Maiden. Do not give the mist an opening.”
“I thought the mist had left the forest,” muttered Thrand, staring hard into the woods beyond the clearing. Their bones now rattled with each pounding heartbeat. “How can it have passed beyond the woods and yet still be here?”
“Clearly, we do not understand it at all,” said Hekla. She could sense the mist’s malevolent presence growing nearer by the minute, and was glad, at the very least, she didn’t have to worry for the safety of Istré’s citizens, now safely secured behind Kopa’s walls.
“Shore up,” barked Rey, gesturing for their group to tighten, their backs to the cracked tree and the forest spirit curled up beneath it. “Torches raised.”
“Try not to burn down the forest, Soot Fingers,” said Eyvind, far too jovially. Orange flames now crackled in his palms, but Hekla knew it was a bare hint at the power the warrior possessed.
Rey’s reply was low, yet amused. “As I recall, you were the one to set Harpa’s walls aflame, Fire Breath.”
“How is your dear grandmother? Still as charming as a porcupine?”
“Focus, children,” growled Hekla as a thick haze slid between the trees, swirling and eddying like the currents of a river. Hekla’s heart raced in her chest, the urge to flee bone-deep. The smog slithered through the brambles, then paused. Recoiled.
Hekla felt its wrath as it sensed their torches. But as twigs snapped and low growls sounded, she understood well enough.
“It has not come alone—the mist has brought its army.” Hekla’s mind raced, but Eyvind’s boot edged against hers. She hated that his presence was a reassuring comfort.
“Keep by my side,” he growled, adding in a louder voice, “Rey and I will keep the mist at bay with our galdur while the rest of you battle the Turned creatures.”
Hekla bristled at Eyvind’s protectiveness. “Remember!” she shouted to their group, stamping out her torch and drawing her sword. “You must take their heads!”
Not a moment later, ember-red eyes appeared in the mist. The moldering scent of the undead swarmed at them from all sides.
A Turned grimwolf was the first to break through—mouth too wide, with dual rows of blade-sharp teeth, it surged forward on misshapen limbs.
A vampire deer vaulted into the clearing, then charged at them with lowered antlers.
Enormous Turned bears barreled through the brambles, elongated claws gouging into the soft earth.
Ravens swooped down from above on torn, batlike wings, talons primed to rake through flesh.
Hekla’s blood sang as the battle thrill took over.
She became a thing of blade and claw, delivering death in lethal slashes.
Black blood splattered her face—the putrid, moldering stench of the Turned beasts assaulting her senses.
But Hekla did not care. Whenever one beast was felled, a new set of red eyes took its place a moment later.
Hekla and Kritka were a blur of swords and fangs and glinting claws. She was vaguely aware of Gunnar on her right, tirelessly defending her flank, and Eyvind behind her, keeping the mist at bay with controlled bursts of fire. These two might drive her mad, but she was glad to fight beside them.
Hekla buried her steel claws in the belly of a vampire deer as it tried to impale Kritka on pointed antlers. Warriors swarmed it, working together to hack its head from its neck.
Duck, came Kritka’s command in her mind before he leaped over her to collide with a Turned bear. She’d never been so in tune with a fellow warrior.
Screams filled her ears, and Hekla was vaguely aware of one of Eyvind’s men falling, of their circle tightening around the tree. It only spurred her on.
On and on they fought, Hekla losing herself to the dance of battle. She took a grimwolf’s claw to the thigh, the beast’s head rolling on the ground a moment later thanks to Gunnar’s longsword. But as sudden as a clap of thunder, the wave of Turned beasts ceased.
Hekla scraped the hair from her face, chest heaving. Her senses were on high alert, blood churning furiously through her body. Something was wrong.
“Did the mist call them off?” asked Thrand, looking around.
“No,” murmured Hekla. It was too abrupt to be natural.
A rapid series of clicks rattled through the air, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Wolfspider,” muttered Rey.
Nausea rolled in her stomach. Hekla could handle the most putrid of vampire deer, the most violent outlaw. But gods, she despised spiders.
“Stay close,” ordered Rey. “Shields up. We thrust together. Take it down from below.”
Hekla took a fortifying breath, her boot edging against Gunnar’s.
“Don’t worry, Smasher,” he said. “I won’t let the little spider near you.”
“Shut it, bjáni.”
The wolfspider crashed through the brambles and Hekla’s breath seized in her throat.
It was larger than any she’d ever seen, as tall as three men and just as wide.
Eight glowing red eyes burned down at them, fangs as long as longswords gleaming.
The beast scuttled on legs as wide as tree trunks, crushing brambles and trees as though they were kindling.
Hekla was held immobile, some part of her recognizing that this being was ancient—a creature from the deepest part of the woods. The wolfspider came to an abrupt stop, and she could have sworn those beady red eyes looked directly at her.
You, it hissed in her mind.
Hekla stumbled back, trying to understand how she could hear this thing inside her mind.
Our mother has warned us of you. You won’t escape us this time, taunted the spider. Gjalla Eight Legs will taste you first. But we will end you last.
Mother? Hekla vaguely wondered. It must mean the mist. But a series of rapid clicks burst from it, diverting her attention. Hekla was distantly aware of Rey shouting orders, but she could not hear him over the ringing in her ears. She was going to be sick…
The spider crouched low with a high-pitched shriek. Hekla fell to her knees, clapping her hands to her ears. Her sword fell free, but she could do nothing but hold on as the horrid sound burrowed into her skull and chewed up every thought in her mind.
At some point, the spider must have stopped screaming, but it echoed in her skull, rendering Hekla senseless. She was dimly aware of the spider surging forward, yet she was no longer in control of her limbs.
“Hekla!” someone bellowed as the spider surged at her with impossible speed, and Hekla knew she’d be too late to dodge it.
Pinchers flashed through the air, and Hekla readied herself to feel them tear through her flesh.
But the moment didn’t come. A sword lashed out and steel cracked against the spider’s chitinous fangs.
“Get back!” shouted Eyvind, and Hekla’s senses rushed back to her in a torrent. She scuttled backward until hands hooked under her armpits and hauled her into the fold of a small shield wall.
Gunnar crouched before her, shaking her shoulder. “What’s gotten into you?” he demanded.
“N-nothing.” Gods, she needed to get her head on straight—needed to shake off her dislike of spiders. Hekla shoved to her feet and shouldered between a pair of warriors. “Eyvind,” Hekla whispered, heart sinking into her stomach. She stared in horror at Eyvind, facing down the spider all by himself.