Chapter 61
Contrary though it was, in the midst of battle, Rey felt most at peace. There was no space for the past; for anger or bitterness or ill-tempered thoughts. There was only the here and now.
But as Silla battled an undead fire-breathing bear and Rey defended her against a foe that could not be pierced by sword, his mind scattered in a dozen different directions.
The air vibrated once more, and from the corner of his eye, Rey watched Silla dive aside before a burst of black flames could reduce her to ash.
Focus, Rey urged himself, expressing his galdur with more force than usual. The power churning from his palms was nearly unbearable—a torrent of smoke and ash on the knife’s edge of his control. Sweat beaded his brow, snow melting underfoot, the power surging from him dangerously hot.
With a flick of his wrist, Rey split his smoke into wisps to match the white mist striking out toward Silla from all sides. Rooting his feet into the packed snow, Rey sent his charring tendrils at the mist with all the force he could muster. Mist and smoke collided, steam hissing where they met.
Fury rattled the air—Myrkur and the parasite in that tree all at once—and Rey shoved harder, trying to drive the mist back.
The bear roared, and Silla shrieked, Rey catching movement in his periphery as she flew through the air.
He shouted in frustration, hating that he could not be of more aid to her.
Yet more movement had him turning—a rope of mist snaking over the snow toward Silla.
Fear fueled Rey’s galdur as his smoke shot out, driving the mist back.
Ally of Eisa, I expected better of you, taunted Myrkur inside his skull. You are slow and dim-witted.
“My grandmother has called me far worse,” Rey grunted. To Silla he muttered, “You’ll need to take Him by surprise. A quick, powerful flurry of attacks.”
Silla rolled beneath a swiping paw, body colliding with that gods damned boulder. The tree behind it vibrated, showering snow down from above. Concern knotted in Rey’s gut as Silla brushed snow from her face and the undead bear lumbered ever closer.
“What kind of pitiful god are you, anyway?” taunted Rey, hoping Myrkur could not hear the edge of panic in his voice. Shake it off, he urged Silla silently, exhaling as she gingerly climbed to her feet.
“Where is the honor in fighting the smallest among mortals?” Rey shouted.
Honor, laughed Myrkur inside Rey’s skull. How amusing you think I care for such things.
Rey couldn’t shake his worry as he tracked Silla’s movement from the corner of his eye.
Her motions were apprehensive—still far too cautious.
A single swipe of a paw and she could be lying dead on the forest floor.
And yet no swipe came. As the bear and Silla circled each other, and Rey corralled attempt after attempt by the mist to reach her, he realized what was happening.
Myrkur was toying with her.
I’ve decided I won’t kill your precious Eisa, hissed Myrkur. Instead, I’ll have her Turned draugur. And then I shall turn the little Volsik on her lover. She shall feast on your flesh. Suck the marrow from your bones.
“If I’m to die,” grunted Rey, “having my…marrow…sucked does not sound like the worst sort of thing.”
Displeasure rolled off Myrkur in waves. She will feed on your entrails and eyeballs! Tear the lungs from your body!
Sensing the mist slinking around his periphery, Rey changed the trajectory of his galdur and drove it back.
In a move Rey recognized well, Silla lunged forward.
Swung her sword upward with impressive speed.
The undead bear snapped its fangs at her, but Silla was already spinning away, her blade stained black with blood.
A hit, thought Rey, but it was not a hit she needed.
Silla needed to get near enough while avoiding those lethal claws.
Using her momentum, Silla suddenly darted toward Rey.
He tried to parse what she needed from him, but he was diverted by another cord of mist slithering into the clearing.
He shoved his galdur at it, then gasped.
Silla’s cold hand had landed on his wrist, where smoke spilled in a dozen different directions.
Immediately, the galdur crackling through him was siphoned away, and his storm of smoke evaporated.
Panic surged into Rey as the mist broke free from his hold. But one glance at Silla and Rey knew what had happened. She’d wrangled his galdur to wield against the god’s bear avatar. Rather than the orderly wisps Rey had managed, it was now a disordered torrent of smoke.
“Silla!” he shouted as the mist surged all around them. Finally, she expressed, blasting the massive frenzy of smoke at the beastly form of the god.
Rey had scarcely enough time to draw a breath—to feel her release her grip on his galdur.
It billowed back into his veins, and he’d barely seized it before flinging it outward without precision.
He couldn’t look to see if Silla had managed to subdue the bear, not while it took every ounce of his strength to keep the mist at bay.
But her whimpered, “No,” told Rey enough.
A moment later, the bear ambled straight through Rey’s smoke, fur singed black, but utterly unbothered.
As Rey’s smoke battled with the mist, the scent of mold and ash and scorched loam filled the air.
Rey’s limbs trembled with the force of his exertion—with the will required to keep the wall of smoke in place.
Embers snapped, smoke hissing where it met the mist. The surrounding snow had melted away, and patches of grass had caught alight.
Keeping his focus on the mist, Rey stamped the flames out.
Myrkur laughed, His dark delight filled the clearing, oozing through Rey’s veins. Rey gave his head a shake, trying to free himself from the god’s thrall.
Dear Eisa, purred the god, that was quite fun.
Rey’s brows dipped down, sweat sliding into one eye and blurring his vision.
Let’s do it again.
“I can do this all day,” snarled Silla, and Rey wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.
She’d pulled so much galdur from him; he could now feel the dry bottom of his source.
Rey glanced over his shoulder in search of another Ashbringer.
Kálf’s skill manifested as a whip, but they needed a gods damned wall to drive the mist back…
“Hef!” Rey hollered, catching sight of the man. “Get me another Ashbringer!”
“On it!” shouted Hef, darting into the fray.
Silla lunged into battle with the god of chaos once more, and Rey focused all his wits on keeping the mist out. But he felt his smoke thinning, gaps where the mist slunk through. He pulled smoke from other places in the wall to plug these holes, but it only created new weaknesses.
“Hurry up, Hef,” Rey muttered under his breath.
Silla sailed through the air to his left before crashing onto sodden grass. “Get up,” muttered Rey, prodding at his dry source, then the halda stores tattooed on his chest. Empty—he’d reached the end of his galdur, and though he had his sword, it would do nothing against the mist.
He couldn’t let go, not without risking every warrior in this clearing being Turned, but his galdur was faltering and starting to fade…Rey gritted his teeth, assessing Silla from the corner of his eye.
And then it happened.
His smoke sputtered, then failed. Immediately, the mist surged forth and swarmed all around him.
It was like being plunged underwater, only in reverse.
Inside the mist was a world of chaos and discordant sound.
Cloudy forms charged at him. Immediately, Rey knew these masks would do nothing to keep it out, and held his breath.
His world became a haze. Bright lights danced in his vision—he needed to breathe but could not let himself.
But then came a blast of orange—the mist hissing. Retracting.
“Get away from them, you foul fucking gutter sludge!”
The forest swam back into view, and Rey finally drew breath as he caught sight of Silla. Thank the fucking gods, she’d climbed back to her feet and was raining a flurry of blows at the Turned bear. But who had driven back the mist and saved Rey from joining the ranks of the draugur?
He whirled to his savior.
There stood Eyvind Hakonsson. The man’s beard was grizzled, his clothing filthy and torn. But the orange flames pouring from Eyvind’s wrists were a sight for sore eyes.
“Fire Breath,” Rey wheezed in mingled relief and exhaustion.
“Soot Fingers,” Eyvind replied in kind. “I’m here to save your sorry arse.”