Chapter 25
The Western Woods
Hekla was growing used to the scrape of prickles down her spine and the crawling sensations beneath her skin.
In the Western Woods, it felt like the trees had eyes and the forest had a pulse.
The sickness of the trees and the dead underbrush only added to the eerie feel.
Yet on their group walked, for days upon days.
After their battle with the mist and its Turned beasts, Rey’s excitement about returning to Kopa was a palpable thing. And when he’d handed leadership to Hekla, the moment had felt strangely weighted—like he was handing over more than just the mission.
Now it had been several days since Rey had departed, and Hekla was still shaken from their encounter with the wolfspider.
For years, she hadn’t let her discomfort with spiders keep her from doing her job.
But the sheer size of that spider paired with the sound of its voice inside her skull had thoroughly flustered her.
She could not afford to let it do so again.
Instead, she refocused her thoughts on the task ahead of them.
Mad though it sounded, she could feel energy gathering in the forest, like the culmination of a great storm.
It was too much to consider all the moving pieces at once, and so she fixed on what was directly ahead of them: a trek across the Western Woods to reach the dormant half of the Forest Maiden.
As the days wore on, Hekla grew convinced that the stories Rey had told her of the Forest Maiden were true.
It was undeniable that she exerted some magic on the forest—they traveled far more quickly than what was natural, as though the woods folded in on themselves.
This skill of the Forest Maiden’s was rather helpful, with the caveat that it drained her.
The Forest Maiden spent most of her time slumbering in a small sling that Thrand Long Sword insisted on carrying around his neck. His strange devotion had Hekla wondering if the Maiden had Thrand under her thrall—he did seem the kind of man to be seduced and led to an untimely death.
Now Kritka was perched on her left shoulder, gnawing on a hard heel of bread, as he had for hours on end. Her temples had begun to throb earlier in the day, and the incessant gnashing of his teeth was not helping one bit.
Must you do that? Hekla sent through their bond, stepping over a fallen tree branch while dodging an oozing black mushroom.
Do what? asked Kritka, rotating the bread between his little paws.
You’ve been eating all day!
The squirrel assessed her with beady black eyes. Kritka must bulk up for winter. At Hekla’s bewildered look, he clarified, To keep warm and fed during cold months.
She sighed, then batted at a brittle pine branch, sending parched needles skittering to the snow-dusted forest floor.
Kritka senses Protector is angry.
As I’ve told you a hundred times before, I’m not the Protector.
Are Protector’s mates not chasing to her liking?
She nearly tripped over a rock. “What?” she demanded aloud, causing several heads in their party to turn her way. “Nothing.” Hekla waved her hands and waited until their attention drifted elsewhere.
What mates? she demanded inwardly.
The red one and the one who lingers behind.
Hekla glanced over her shoulder, locking eyes with Gunnar. White teeth flashed against his black beard, and she quickly looked away. A few warriors ahead of her strode Eyvind, bundled in his red cloak. Hekla turned her glare upon the squirrel.
If mates are not chasing to Protector’s liking, perhaps Protector should encourage them more, Kritka carried on, his russet tail twitching.
Malla’s tits, rodent, what are you going on about?
When a female squirrel goes into heat, she leads the males on a chase, Kritka explained. Many males take up the hunt. But the one who gets there first performs the mating strut.
Ahead of them, Eyvind held a pine bough up to allow their group to pass.
Hekla’s heartbeat quickened as she neared, and when he opened his mouth as though to speak, her eyes darted anywhere but on him.
She heard his frustrated breath. Felt his searing gaze upon her cheek.
He’d tried half a dozen times to explain himself to her, and each time, a hot panicky feeling arose within.
She’d fled like a coward. Hekla knew she was being childish—that she couldn’t avoid him forever.
Still, she didn’t exhale until she’d ducked beneath the branch and put space between them.
Protector’s heart beats rather quickly near the red mate, observed Kritka.
Hekla’s prickly defenses rose in an instant. He broke my trust. He’s betrothed to another woman.
Kritka was silent save for the scrape of his teeth against hard bread. Kritka does not understand. Is it not natural for males to mate with many?
Her irritation reached a breaking point. Hekla plucked Kritka from her shoulder, then whirled on a startled Gunnar. “I need a break from him,” she grumbled, handing him the squirrel.
But even without the squirrel on her shoulder, the throb at her temples did not subside.
When Hekla tripped over a moss-covered stone for the third time that hour, she raised her hand, bringing their party to a stop.
“It seems as good a place as any to set camp for the night,” she muttered, looking around.
There wasn’t truly a good place to camp in these gods forsaken woods, but the relieved looks among their crew made Hekla glad of her decision.
Each day that she led this crew of warriors, her confidence grew a little more.
She knew this job better than anyone else, and taking full control of it felt like a natural thing.
Hekla dropped onto the forest floor and pulled provisions from her sack. They were down to salt cod rations, and as Hekla chewed on the tough, briny meat, she tried to imagine it was the kind of fare Silla had once cooked for the Bloodaxe Crew.
Eventually, their group split off—some warriors fetching deadwood for their nightly fires, others searching for water.
For the first two nights, Eyvind had stayed up, ready to produce flames with his Ashbringer skill should the mist attack.
But by the third night, the man was practically sleeping on his feet, and it was clear this setup would not work anymore.
That night, they’d lit a perimeter of small campfires around their bedrolls.
Two men sat on watch, buckets of water on hand to douse errant sparks.
It was a fine balance to maintain, keeping themselves protected without setting the woods aflame.
Gunnar soon ambled back into their makeshift camp, a bucket of water in each hand and Kritka perched on his shoulder.
The squirrel clutched a portion of salt cod between his tiny paws, and Hekla suppressed the urge to remind Gunnar their priority was to make these portions last—not fatten up a squirrel for the winter.
“Came across a pool,” Gunnar said, a gleam in his dark eyes. “Perhaps we could return to it later, alone.”
Hekla’s flat gaze was all the answer Gunnar should need.
He was remarkably persistent, as was Hekla’s hesitation to trample this new, bright version of him.
She knew she ought to give the man an answer to his marriage proposal and put an end to this, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
And though she hated to admit it, a small part of her enjoyed being at the center of Gunnar’s and Eyvind’s ridiculous attentions.
While an intimate visit to the pools with Gunnar was certainly not on her mind, the idea of scraping the grime from the socket of her prosthetic sounded divine.
And so Hekla picked herself off the ground and gathered her remaining energy to trudge in the direction Gunnar had come from.
She passed several of Eyvind’s men along the way, greeting them with curt nods.
They’d proven to be good, loyal warriors, and she sensed she’d earned their respect when they’d fought together in Istré.
To be sure, she’d had to prove herself to them—and break Thrand Long Sword’s ribs—but such was the life of a woman warrior.
She had to work twice as hard as the men, and twice more on top of that because of her prosthetic arm.
At last, the dense tree canopy opened up, a still, glassy pool reflecting the constellations above. The woods were so quiet, the water so enticing. After a glance over her shoulder to ensure she was alone, Hekla stripped down to her undertunic.
Lowering herself onto a flat stone overhanging the pond, Hekla dipped her prosthetic arm into the water, rubbing the forest grime from it.
She then twisted the arm off, sighing as she dipped her residual limb into the cool liquid.
It had been too many weeks since she’d been able to prepare Silla’s poultice recipe, and her skin around the anchor joint was once more patchy and irritated.
As she soothed the burning itch, Hekla examined her moonlit reflection.
The same brown eyes looked up at her, framed by the same dark, slashing brows.
Her olive cheekbones were more pronounced than they had once been, and there was a weariness in her face that told of many long days just like this one.
Yet Hekla collected each small mark on her skin like a badge.
Once there had been a time when wrinkles and scars weren’t guaranteed.
A snap from somewhere behind her had Hekla glancing over her shoulder. But still, shadowy woods were all that met her eyes. The trees were so eerie in their quietude; she had to shake off a shiver before turning back to the water.
She frowned at the small ripple marring the surface of the pool and distorting her reflection. Then—movement beneath the surface. And Hekla realized she no longer looked at her own likeness, but that of a yellow-eyed woman beneath the water.
Time slowed as the woman’s face twisted into a snarl. And then she burst from the pool, all sharp teeth and lank hair and corpse-gray skin.