Chapter 15 Arctos
Arctos
The vampire vomited three times before midday.
“Hopeless,” Arctos declared on her next retch.
“You’re even worse than I imagined.” She belonged to the predator class of immortals—strong enough to lift a horse—but she had no endurance.
After her first few times running up and down the mountain trail, she’d begun stumbling, gasping at the thin air.
Earlier, when she’d boldly stepped out into the sun—the sun!—her new clothes and her clear eyes had almost made him think of her as a small, fragile Berserker. Which infuriated him.
She was a drawn bow with an arrow pointed at the clan. From what he understood about vampires, they could no more control their fangache than a young Berserker could control their first rage.
Once her bloodlust hit, she would be a danger to everyone here.
He’d taken out his added edge on her. Run after run, he’d sent her to the peak and back, barking the same command whenever she slowed: “Why aren’t you running?”
Now, sweat matted her hair to her face, strands glued to the vomit streaking her cheek. Her earlier humiliation had faded as she’d grown too dazed for shame.
“Are you about to lose even more precious food on the trail?” he asked coldly.
Food was no small thing. Game grew scarcer each season, and every hunting trip meant venturing farther beyond the protection of the ravines.
The day of his family’s murder, he and his older brother and parents had embarked on one to stock up for the winter.
He recalled his father proudly saying to his mother, “As fast as these boys are growing, we need to fuel them with extra game.”
Instead, my family was the hunted.
The thought sparked his Berserkerage, heat crawling under his skin. He tamped it down with effort. Otherwise he might execute this vampire then and there.
Emilia swiped her trembling bottom lip with a shaky hand.
“For Wóden’s sake, are you going to cry?” he snapped. “Of course you are. Weak!”
Between faltering breaths, she gasped, “No…crying.” Yet a blood tear tracked down her cheek, gleaming pink in the light.
He’d seen those same tears leak from the severed heads of vampires he’d killed; the memory sharpened his disgust. “Is the sun affecting you, or just a lifetime of idleness?”
“Don’t know…never been in the light this long…think it’s just the…climb.” The rocky trail required technical skill she didn’t possess, and the sun glared down on the snow-dusted stones, which hindered even an immortal’s vision.
“Beg for mercy,” he said. “I might grant it on your first day.”
Her chin rose a fraction. “N-next?”
It took him a second to answer. Grit? From her? “You’ll build your pathetic upper body strength.” He pointed to a dead alder nearby and said, “Cut it down with your sword.”
Her unfocused amber gaze followed his hand. “Yes. Very good.” She didn’t move. “Here I go,” she murmured, as though her mind believed she’d already started.
At last she staggered over, dragging the tip of the blade through the snow like a broken limb.
She gritted her teeth, raised the weapon, and swung.
The vibration rattled her until he could all but hear her fangs clattering.
She’d likely never even brushed her own hair, much less felled a tree.
She swung again, again, making laughable progress.
Probably because that sword was a single edge, and she kept striking with the spine.
I could correct her.
And miss this?
Blisters burst on her palms; red spread across the hilt. Yet she kept going until her knees hit the snow.
And still she swung.
He had a brief thought of the maiden mother of the first Valkyrie, the one who’d fallen to her knees but kept fighting against all odds until Wóden and Freya had rescued her.
His face flushed. Comparing this pitiful creature to a female sacred to all Berserkers?
Swinging…swinging…swinging…
A few ravines over, the forge smiths clanged their anvils in an alternating beat to Emilia’s efforts.
For fuck’s sake, vampire, figure out that sword.
Damn it. Training accidents did happen, especially with an exhausted novice. He told himself he didn’t care. He wanted her gone. Dead, even.
But curiosity coiled tighter than hate. All morning, her weakness had been on display, yet so had her resolve, both evenly matched.
Did other vampires possess her determination? Shouldn’t he learn as much as possible about her kind before she tumbled off a cliff or stabbed herself?
At last he growled, “Stop.”
She drooped forward to rest her head against the trunk. “Just need…little break.”
“Go inside. Wash. Then meet me in the dining area for the midday meal.”
A thin sound answered him. Half breath, half sob. Just when he thought she’d passed out, she nodded and made a fumbling attempt to rise.
On her second try, he bit out a curse and strode over, hauling her upright by her arm.
“Thanks,” she whispered, still clutching the sword.
“Give it over.” He pried her bloody fingers loose, and she limped inside.
Across the ravine, he noticed others watching. Children played “vampire,” chasing one another, pretending to bite and drink. Their innocent laughter stabbed at him—because biting and drinking were what vampires did.
Arctos had already sent a report to Yrsa about the enslaved Berserkers in Crypt Castle. He’d expected outrage and alacrity.
No response.
Torben wasn’t the only one who sensed something amiss with their ruler. Yet whenever Arctos doubted her, he recalled how the famous warrior queen had shared weekly meals with him and Torben. She’d regaled them with tales of Berserkers who’d earned ohalla, whetting their appetite for it.
Only to deny it to Arctos now?
If Yrsa didn’t send him to the Helter for one last kill or to act on the intelligence Emilia had provided, then Arctos would be forced to demand an explanation, and the timing right now was dire.
He returned home, heading to the dining area. He sat at his table, one long enough to accommodate all the offspring he should already have had. His day cook had set out two trenchers with a crock of stew and a bread basket.
Arctos’s gaze flicked from one trencher to the other, and again the thought struck him that another being lived here.
He used to reside with Torben before his cousin had found Dagny last year during her first trip to court. Since then, the pair had routinely invited Arctos to sup with them, yet he hadn’t wanted to intrude.
His appetite was dulled, so he decided to wait for Emilia to begin his meal. He’d never seen a vampire eat regular food. Would she fang the meat, sucking it dry?
Emilia returned with her face and hair rinsed. The light from the hanging lamps illuminated chapped lips and dark circles under glazed eyes. She shuffled toward the table, jaw tight against pain. When she tried to sit, she missed the chair and hit the stone floor with a yelp.
“For Wóden’s sake.” Arctos rose, rounded the table, and hauled her up. Her bones felt too delicate in his hands.
A raspy thanks sounded from her abused lips as he settled her in.
Resuming his own seat, he said, “You should have asked for mercy.” He ladled stew into his bowl, hesitated, then filled hers as well.
“M’fine,” she murmured, eyelids fluttering. She made no move for the trencher.
Was he going to have to get someone to feed her? “You’re clearly not. Why did you keep going today?” he asked, his tone filled with something almost like amazement.
“Because I’m tougher than I lo—” She pitched forward mid-word, face-first into the steaming stew.