Chapter 16
Their group of four newcomers sat around the fire and accepted the offering of food.
Exhaustion begged her to rest. She was unable to remember the last time she’d slept. Likely before the chasm opened.
After being seconds away from death, the hard ride through the night to catch up to her clan had taken its toll.
She was glad her people practised packing up and leaving quickly. Even with only sixty-three survivors, they’d managed to gather a good store of supplies to last the journey to Asgard.
Solveig had Quillon Bjornson to thank. The jarl and his family had survived and had been quick to get as many people out as they could, with as many supplies as possible. It was impressive, and more than Solveig had been able to do for her people.
Letting the feelings of inadequacy and failure go, she watched the jarl play with the witchlings in a field of wildflowers.
Vanaheim was a beautiful land with an ethereal atmosphere. It had been a long while since Solveig was able to appreciate it. It was said that, before Ragnarok, the realm of old was so blessed by the gods that they bestowed life not only to the beings, but to the land itself.
The trees listened, the wind whispered, the mountains guarded, and the waters comforted.
That same magic lingered now.
During their journey, the forest had given way to sprawling hills and open fields, alive with flora and vegetation.
Solveig remembered a few decades ago when the Southern Wilds Legion had set up camp in one of the valleys, before they settled by the river, surrounded by trails and enormous waterfalls.
She thought back to a small clearing near that camp, hidden in a dense thicket. She remembered carving out this space for her personal use—where she would relish the cool feel of water cascading down her skin.
It had been an age since she last swam. A yearning seeped into her heart for those days that seemed so much simpler. What she wouldn’t give for a safe place for her people to rest.
Her surviving clan members were camped out on the top of a hill, no villages in sight.
She was proud of her people and how far they’d managed to flee from base camp in such a short time, but there was no shelter here.
They were out in the open. Any enemy could attack from all sides and they’d have nowhere to hide.
Solveig looked to the distance, where rolling hills turned to the mountains that guarded the border of Idavoll. Tired as she was, she knew they couldn’t linger. Though her people had travelled swiftly, Solveig needed to get to Asgard as quickly as possible.
She would wait out the rest of the day, get a night’s rest before heading out the following morning. Trusting Quillon to take care of their people was an easy choice.
The fire flickered, providing a wall of heat against the cold wind at her back.
She revelled in the temperature of her homeland—the cold, brisk air, the brutal winters, the mild summers.
Though she loved Asgard and the people who resided there, it was too hot.
She dreaded returning to the blazing sun.
Especially when she had no idea how long she would have to endure the harsh summer.
Vanaheim remained a realm with all four seasons, thriving under the change of temperatures throughout the year, as did Midgard, though their seasons were more extreme.
But Asgard’s heat was unrivalled. All year round the temperature was relentless. The beaches along the coast were the perfect antidote to the merciless sun.
The palace itself was perched high up on a well-defended cliffside along the eastern coastline. Their armada waited in the harbour on one side and the wide expanse of sea stretched to the horizon on the other.
As a witchling, much to her tutors’ and maids’ dismay, Solveig would escape to the seaside cliff to jump from inexplicable heights. The exhilaration of the free fall into the water was the height of her youth. She’d swim to shore and spend the day outside.
Wild horses roamed the beach, and she would ride with whichever one she could catch, laughing at those who chased her.
The queens always reprimanded her, but she didn’t care. It was the only place she’d felt free in Asgard.
Her favourite beach was where she’d found Helle. Or rather, where Helle had found her. Solveig couldn’t have been more than sixteen, still a babe by immortal standards. She had felt strong and powerful, able to use her magic before her Fae companions.
That day she’d found a cliff and had climbed higher and higher without a care in the world—heedless of the clouds that had turned dark or the rain that had begun to fall. She’d tossed herself into the unforgiving sea with the recklessness of one so young.
It had been thrilling for only a moment, until a wave almost as tall as the cliff itself had swept her under.
She couldn’t tell which way was up. Using all her strength and as much magic as she could manage, she’d struggled to break free of the ocean’s hold. When her head eventually broke the surface, the cliff she’d jumped from was a great distance away.
It had been a gruelling fight to reach the shore where the wild horses she’d loved so much witnessed her struggle. She knew if she could get to them, they would take her home.
The waves pulled her under repeatedly until her body grew weak from exertion. When she broke the surface again, she’d cried out for help. But no one was around to hear her pleas.
Only the horses she’d barely been able to make out through the stinging of salt water in her eyes.
Solveig struggled until she hadn’t been able to move her arms or kick her legs.
Just as the fourth wave took her under, a tug yanked her forward.
That tug had given her hope that had long since drowned.
She had kicked hard with renewed strength.
When she reached her hand out, it had grazed something soft.
Her eyes flashed open to see a sodden auburn coat. A small filly gripped her tunic between her teeth, dragging her back to shore. The young horse and Solveig made their way to the beach, collapsing in a tangle of legs and limbs once they’d reached the sand.
Disbelief flooded her at surviving her first near-death experience, and she’d begun to laugh.
Horses had rushed to circle them, sniffing and nudging with their warm, wet noses. Solveig rested her hand on the horse who had saved her, and from that day on, they’d been inseparable.
Helle was currently giving Njord the cold shoulder while they grazed in the field, their strained relationship putting a small smile on Solveig’s face. That horse was more Vanir than animal sometimes.
Solveig revelled in the moment of peace amidst the persistent grief.
The massacre of her legion would stay with her for the remainder of her years, however long that would be. Judging by this past year, her chances of surviving the coming war were slim.
Unfortunately, the calm moment lasted only a few minutes. Familiar footsteps approached, breaking her tranquillity, and she straightened her back in preparation for the conversation she was not ready to have.
Latham sat beside her. “We should talk.”
“We should,” she acquiesced, if only to get it over with as quickly as possible.
He said nothing, following Solveig’s line of sight to Quillon and the witchlings.
“If I had known this would happen—” he said, his voice full of sincere defeat.
“It doesn’t change the fact that it did.”
He’d allied with Jotunheim, unknowingly aligning himself with the evil who’d started this war centuries ago. And in doing so, he’d brought about the destruction of the very people he’d been trying to lead.
“I couldn’t have foreseen this.” He gestured to the remnants of their clan.
“This was always a risk on the path that you took,” Solveig said solemnly.
Latham shook his head, changing the subject. “Laeknir didn’t come with you. Did he not survive?”
Solveig couldn’t bear to speak of the old healer, so she answered with a simple, “No, he did not survive.” She stiffened when Latham reached out to comfort her. He dropped his arm.
“I’m so sorry, Sol.”
“So am I, Latham.”
Solveig thought of the decision she’d made to save Latham instead of going after the Lionhead. Choosing one person over the lives of many. She’d done the opposite with Laeknir. His life for the lives of everyone else.
Laeknir had known full well what he was getting into, as did Latham. Still, she was no better than them with her impulsive decisions. But she could not regret the decision to execute Laeknir—his traitorous behaviour had spanned decades.
“What do we do now?” Latham’s question interrupted her rumination.
“I’m leaving tomorrow to ride ahead to Asgard.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked quietly. Solveig really looked at him for the first time since she’d arrived.
“No, Latham. I do not want you.”
She stood and walked away from him.