Chapter 39
The Western Woods
With her prosthetic arm gripped between her knees, Hekla passed a whetstone along the edge of her claws.
She’d grown complacent in her time with the Bloodaxe Crew—had been happy to let Axe Eyes tend her claws as he did any blade he could get his hands on.
In his absence, Hekla had taken back her responsibility, and she had to admit, the task was rather soothing.
It quieted her mind. Drove out the frustrations that had gathered.
They’d walked for days through the deepest depths of the forest, and everyone’s moods were flagging. The Forest Maiden, exhausted by her efforts of speeding their journey, slumbered constantly, but Kritka assured Hekla they made good progress.
The undead ravens continued to stalk them in greater numbers, growing more bold with each passing day.
Earlier, a pair of ravens had swooped at Thrand’s face—an obvious attempt to surprise him into dropping the Forest Maiden.
But it seemed the foul birds had not expected the lethal slash of Thrand’s sword.
In a matter of moments, their corpses lay on the ground.
The rest of the flock screamed angrily from the trees, though they quieted once Sigrún fired a few arrows at them.
They had not encountered the mist again, though Hekla doubted they’d seen the last of it.
Yet still, she felt it watching, felt it biding its time.
On the long days, Hekla’s mind strayed often to Kopa.
Had Axe Eyes been successful? Would he be waiting for them in the heartwood?
Or would Hekla and her beleaguered crew be on their own?
A shout yanked Hekla back to the present.
“You kunta!” Eyvind bellowed, lunging at a laughing Gunnar and bringing him to the ground.
Hekla pushed to her feet, bewildered. It was no secret these two shared no love for each other, but at least there had been tolerance. Now, as Eyvind drove his fist into Gunnar’s jaw, it seemed their emotions had reached a boiling point.
Were they fighting over her? Gods, she’d let this go on for too long. It was time to put an end to things.
Hekla rushed forward, elbowing through the warriors gathered around the grappling men. But Thrand put a hand on her shoulder, bringing Hekla to a halt.
“Stop, you man-boys!” she shouted.
Thrand chuckled, brows rising as Gunnar pummeled Eyvind with the speed that had garnered him the nickname Fire Fist. “You know this has long been coming,” said Thrand. “Let us enjoy the show.”
Hekla scowled as sólas changed hands among the warriors.
“Gunnar has been placing stones in Eyvind’s satchel,” explained Thrand. “Each day, he’s added another. And tonight, when Eyvind dumped the satchel out, there were a dozen of them in there.”
Hekla felt foolish to have thought it was she they quarreled over. Gunnar rolled on top of Eyvind, drawing his fist back. But Eyvind caught it and twisted, making Gunnar bellow. The men continued to wrestle, but Hekla’s tolerance for it had soured.
“Man-boys,” she muttered, returning to her whetstone.
Eventually, the manly grunts and growls fell away to exhausted wheezes. Soon an unexpected sound reached her ears. Laughter.
Hekla rolled her eyes. Gunnar and Eyvind, having exhausted themselves, now lay on their backs, passing a flask between them and guffawing over something. She supposed the pair of them had finished their axe-measuring contest.
At some point, Eyvind stood and pulled his torn tunic over his head.
Firelight caught on the toughened muscles of his torso, bunching and flexing as he twisted to examine some blow Gunnar had delivered.
Despite her best efforts, Hekla could not seem to look away.
His gaze slid to hers, and she felt it like a physical touch.
He was giving her the space she’d asked for, and a part of her hated him for it. Hekla’s mind and body were at war, images sliding into her exhausted mind—those muscles moving below her; those hazel eyes looking up at her like she was everything he could ever want.
Break your rule, he’d asked her. Spend the night with me.
It was impossible to forget how safe she’d felt in that room with him—how she’d felt more like herself with him than she had in years.
But it was only ever a fantasy. Never mind their constant bickering for weeks afterward.
Each soft word of praise he’d spoken that night—every sentimental moment they’d shared—was spoiled by the fact that Eyvind Hakonsson was betrothed to another woman all along.
Hekla looked away with a tremulous breath. She didn’t care that she was holding this grudge too tight. Did not care that the right thing to do was to hear Eyvind’s words. He’d been so patient. Admirably calm. It did not matter. Hekla could not expose her tender heart again.
Eyvind and Thrand had gone to the stream, and Hekla hated herself for noticing.
The other warriors milled about within the perimeter of campfires, some playing games of dice, others readying themselves for another night in these cursed woods.
Gunnar, it seemed, had won the favor of Eyvind and his retinue with his latest prank, and his laughter came easily as he tossed the dice with a trio of warriors.
She would talk to him tonight, Hekla decided.
And she had her chance a moment later, when, after extricating himself from the game, Gunnar sank down on the bedroll next to hers.
He nudged her with his shoulder and offered her his flask of brennsa.
Hekla took a long draught, leaning into the whiskey’s burn.
She’d need courage to do what came next.
“I cannot marry you, Gunnar,” she said, returning his flask.
He stiffened. “Why not?”
“I will never marry again.”
She felt his eyes on her as the silence stretched on. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
Hekla scowled into the campfire.
“He’s not right for you, Hek,” continued the obtuse man. “His clothing is threaded with actual gold—and have you seen his sword? I swear it to the gods. That’s Karthian steel he carries!”
Hekla’s scowl only deepened as Gunnar’s words settled into her. She knew well enough that Eyvind and she were utterly unsuited, but Gunnar’s agreement irritated her.
“Do you know what Thrand told me?” Gunnar did not wait for Hekla’s reply. “For Hakonsson’s fifth birthday, he was gifted a thousand acres of land. A thousand! Do you know how many sólas that is worth?”
When she did not answer, he continued. “I know you, Hekla. You like things a certain way. I can give you stability—a life without rules or expectations. With me, you’d have freedom—something you’d never have with a man like him.”
Hekla’s mind jerked to another time. It was just after her husband had taken an axe to her arm.
She’d dragged herself from the woodshed and collapsed in the neighbor’s yard.
The old mother there had bound the wound tightly and kept Hekla hidden and abed for the better part of a month.
Her survival had been miraculous, but she was not so foolish as to think she could survive such a thing twice.
Upon her recovery, Hekla’s first vow was that she’d kill her husband. The second was that she would never marry again. Never again would a man have such power over her.
“You aren’t listening to me, Gunnar!” Hekla knew that her voice rang too loud—that the warriors in the camp now glanced their way—but she had to make him understand. “My answer is no. Do not ask me again.”
Gunnar pushed abruptly to his feet and stormed into the woods. Hekla waited to feel lighter—to feel some of the burden lifted from her shoulders. But all she felt was exhaustion.