Chapter 33 Aura
AURA
Viktoft, Skalor
Calder’s healing is surprisingly quick, and Aura is wary of his recovery. His body’s ability to withstand the seidr wounds seems unnatural for a mortal. A halvgud could resist such an assault of godly powers upon the body.
But not him.
Then there are his powers, which are unheard of, especially for someone not granted Sacred Stone abilities as a young boy.
Fitz assures her the healing is routine and that she should trust his process.
In the barn, she tosses and turns, unable to find sleep through the night. Once morning arrives, she can no longer feign slumber. She rises and methodically packs her bag when Argnier and Edmund's snores are too loud to ignore.
After another cold bath in the lake, she paces outside the shack until Fitz unexpectedly announces that he wants to speak with everyone on the dock before they set sail for Sannhet Burg.
“All right, Fitzy, what do you have for us?” Argnier asks the mink waddling on his back legs across the pier.
“After some contemplation.” His paws swipe across the wool of his tiny cloak. “You may be the only crew capable of killing a god.” He adjusts his monocle. “Before you sail for Borg Hold, you should gather the support of the only person who loathes Makt and Lavinia more than you.”
Silence descends over the group as Aura observes the knowing uncertainty reflected on the faces of Calder, Edmund, and Argnier.
“You must brave the Forest of Fear and earn entrance into the Inner Sanctum.”
A collective inhale puts Aura on edge. Her knowledge of the Forest of Fear stems from Argnier’s lessons on map building. Whatever disturbs the men remains unknown to the Princess.
A brief assessment of the Iss Drengr leaves her with a sinking suspicion that he knows more than he lets on.
“Why? What is the importance?” Aura asks, but none of them meet her gaze.
Fitz sighs, waving a paw in the direction of her companions.
“You lads are worthless!” He shuffles closer to her feet, and she crouches to his level.
“Initially, it was a pilgrimage site for the people of Skalor.
The gods needed them to confront their fears of living in such an inhospitable place, and the Norn delivered, crafting a sanctuary protected by their unique seidr.
“Someone needed to oversee such a place. The Wicked Wyvern, lassie. She was once a mortal woman who oversaw the pilgrims as they completed their trials and arrived at the Inner Sanctum. Makt took notice of her beauty and abilities. He elevated her to a lesser goddess and married the unfortunate lass. Alas, his infidelity and corruption proved to be too much, among other atrocities. The legends state that she sought revenge on his halvguds and mistresses. Pilgrimages ceased out of fear of her wrath.”
Aura’s mind grapples with another earth-shattering revelation on this perilous journey.
Argnier coughs. “Well, shit.” He places his hands on his lower back and stretches, producing a crack somewhere on his body. “I didn’t plan on seeing that old leather hide again. How about we do it without her help?” He holds his hands out as he looks at the others.
Calder rubs his temples. “Diverting from the course will waste valuable time. We still have to deal with Sigvid in Treland.”
“Laddies,” Fitz extends his arms to his sides, “If you wish to cut down the God of Power, you need to ally with his wife.”
After a lengthy, mostly silent debate, they ultimately decide they need the Wicked Wyvern. Her powers as a lesser goddess and her knowledge of Makt will be essential for defeating him.
“Don’t worry, cousin. She only gobbles up halvgud children of Makt,” Edmund reassures Aura with a pat on her head. “Little children of the Depths and Golden Citadel are spared.”
Calder has grown even more reserved and somehow pale as they prepare to adjust course south around Makt’s Temple and deep into the Forest of Fear.
After collecting additional resources from the village, Aura heads to the barn to find him sitting on his bag, puffing on his pipe while inspecting Makt’s great axe across his lap.
Edmund tosses Aura her pack and whispers. “I haven’t seen him this nervous since I tried my hand at fire breathing.”
Aura stares at her cousin as if she has never quite seen him before.
He shrugs. “Astria is a wild country.” With a final pat on her back, he shoulders his bag and strides into the overcast day.
She approaches Calder with a light touch along his neck. “Surely the Forest of Fear is an exaggerated name.”
A relieved breath of sweet smoke escapes his mouth. “It is named appropriately. When you enter, it reveals your worst fears. You either accept them and pass through or perish.”
“If ever there was someone who could enter such a place and step away unscathed, it would be you, Calder.” She settles on the ground with her legs crossed.
“You think highly of me, pretty girl.” He leans closer and kisses the top of her head. “Are you ready for this?”
She senses he is withholding, and suddenly, Helga’s attempted warning worms into her mind. The urge to confront him about the suspected truth lurking in her heart thunks against her chest.
Not yet.
“Is anyone ready to face their fears?” She kneels to lean up and press her lips to his, gasping at how his beard tingles straight between her legs.
He tugs her into his lap and they lose themselves in each other's lips. For just a moment, she forgets the perilousness of their journey.
When the group gathers at the edge of the woods, preparing to trek deeper into the forest, Fitz ushers her away from the others. “The forest will require you to confront your greatest fear, lass.”
“To pass through unscathed, right?” Her gaze flicks to Calder puffing on his pipe.
Fitz nods emphatically. “You must know that passing the test in the forest grants safe passage to the Inner Sanctum. However, she can deny entry if you understand my meaning, halvgud. Gothi are forbidden from treading this path, and she has a rather violent history with Lavinia.”
She swallows hard, taking in her three companions.
“How do you know I am a halvgud?”
Is the mink smirking at me?
“Vísir are not the only ones with the power to read runes. I trained from the woman your companions call the Wicked Wyvern.” He waves her off with a paw. “If anyone can destroy the evil of Skalor, it would be this ragtag bunch.”
The group shares a tense silence as they trudge through the woods, passing the mountain of Makt’s Temple and moving beyond. No one knows when the Forest of Fear will begin or what to expect.
Edmund mutters prayers under his breath while Argnier’s face is set with a hard determination.
She counts the birds they pass to steady her mind, noting their vibrant colors and wingspans, which differ from those in Treland.
Calder is the most on edge. His pipe does not leave his lips, and he strides far enough ahead of the pact that she knows he has resigned to the terror that awaits them.
After pausing for a quick break, Aura can feel the air change. The energy in the pit of her stomach intensifies, and a force flutters in her heart.
Finally, the terrain shifts around them. Twirls of twigs encircle the base of each towering, snow-covered evergreen. The group instinctively spreads out, allowing the peculiar designs to separate them as they await the onset of their trials of fear.
They have not ventured far when Calder’s hand lands firmly on her shoulder. He removes Makt’s great axe and secures it to her back.
“If I don’t make it out, you are our only chance to kill him.”
She shakes her head, refusing to entertain this defeatist thought.
“I am the son of Lavinia and…” He raps his knuckles against the nearest tree, his brows knitted as if saying anything more haunts him. “I need you to be safe.”
He takes her head between his calloused hands and kisses her with more swooning passion than he has previously. “Never doubt that my heart beats only for you.”
With that parting, he turns away and plunges into the forest, leaving her heart fluttering for the hardened warrior while a profound sense of foreboding churns in her gut.
Her feet move effortlessly, without much thought to their placement. As she ventures deeper into the thickening forest, the animal noises grow quieter until the only sound is the crunch of snow beneath her boot heel. She soon realizes she is alone in the underbrush.
“Calder? Argnier? Edmund?” She calls out, but her voice does not carry as it should.
Her blood runs cold as uneasiness pulsates within her very soul. The isolation from her companions unnerves her more than any task that awaits her.
What if they fail? What if the Wyvern devours their souls?
As her spiraling panic intensifies, the terrain around her shifts, and she descends along a muddy path while the powdery white forest floor looms above her head.
Down and down, she trudges into a flowing stream, diving through the path.
Gnarled tree roots twist down toward the stream like contorted bones.
Once the water laps at her boots, she senses a shift in the air. The clanking of metal above her head draws her gaze to the steel chains suspended in midair. Before she can comprehend their strange presence, she notices bodies bound in the creaking links.
The first two individuals halt her progress entirely, as she can identify the faces as those of her family friends.
Kjarton’s corpse hangs limp beside his mother, along with other acquaintances she knows well in Toftlund.
Each body sways with the wind, some with blank gazes, while others bear signs of horrifying mutilation.
This is not real.
She repeats the words as if they are a prayer to the gods.
The stream laps cool against her calves as she wades through its waters, keeping her eyes on the unending string of corpses swinging above.
Their shadows cast an unsettling darkness where her boots tread, yet not as disturbing as the creaking of the chains in the breeze that leaves her hands trembling.