Solveig drew the rune on her own forehead with the last of her drying blood. There wasn’t enough to complete the rune, but without her magic powering it, it was only a symbol anyway.
“Let’s go.”
They mounted their horses and followed Solveig through camp to the main gates. They had settled closer to a mortal settlement than ever before, and thus their journey would not be long. This was the third time raiding from their newest camp location.
Every few years the Southern Wilds legion had to pack up and move whenever they were about to be discovered.
Though the war was over for the mortals, the magical races continued to fight a silent battle within the confines of the Block. Before they could lay siege to Midgard, they had to fight in the shadows, stealing crumbs of information like starved rats.
This was the only way of life many of her people knew. Even as raids and attacks dwindled their number of warriors, families developed and her people thrived. The least she could do was give them some semblance of a life, especially for the witchlings. As their numbers grew, the process of moving became more laborious. It was vital, though, that they made each new location feel like home.
At each new location, they built a large dining hall, a school, stables for the horses, and, because the legion was first and foremost a war camp, a dungeon called the Vault. Their tents were arranged in rows with widestreets down the middle to resemble a village. The lines of tents spread like spokes on a wheel from the large firepit in the centre of camp next to the fighting ring.
They constructed a large wall around the outside of their makeshift village with wooden gates they transported from place to place. It was an exhausting but necessary task. Solveig had learned her lesson when the mortals followed them back, storming in to slaughter innocents.
This camp had great potential for a longer stay since it was buried deep in an ancient pine forest. The ground was covered in a thick layer of needles and moss, creating a soft, soundless blanket to hide their movements when they dispatched the raid parties. The maze of trees made it almost impossible to find without significant intel, and the mortals had grown complacent over the years.
With the sun setting quickly, the woods blocked most of the light, cloaking their journey in an eerie glow. The forest was silent, as if holding its breath. Time passed in slow rivulets, like water lazily lapping at the shore. Unhurried and disinterested in their plight. Solveig’s shoulders grew sore with tension, urging the speed of time.
Solveig studied each of her warriors, and Maddock, wondering who would be sacrificed tonight. Gerrie caught her eye and gave her a small smile and nod, reading her unease as she had done many times.
The plan was simple. Slip into the village after dark.
This strategy had proven the most successful in all their attempts. Fifteen soldiers would break into seven teams of two, leaving one to guard the horses.
Maddock would wait with their horses just outside the town. Solveig gave him this post for two reasons. First, it was the most boring position, usually given to the soldier with the least experience. The second being, as much as she hated to admit it, Maddock was necessary.
The King of Jotunheim would retaliate tenfold if his lead commander, and son, was kidnapped or murdered. Solveig hated the Giant, but she was pragmatic. They couldn’t afford to lose him. Not that she’d tell him that.
Solveig’s ears pricked and she whipped her head around, one hand taking both reins and the other flying to the pommel of her sword, her soldiers silently following suit. Narrowing her eyes at the surrounding area, she searched for signs of movement behind the large tree trunks and exposed roots.
Chills ran down her spine as she strained to hear any broaching sounds.
She spotted nothing out of the ordinary and gave a quick flick of her hand to command them to return to their riding positions. She didn’t dare speak, knowing there were more than animals and harmless woodland folk lurking in these woods.
Vanaheim had not escaped unscathed when an unseen darkness invaded the land at the beginning of the war. Shadows were not something one could escape easily.
A sense of unease settled in her stomach, as it always did when they approached the mortal towns. The feeling, though, grew stronger than normal, slithering under her skin almost painfully. The hair on her arms rose as if charged with forgotten energy.
With the luck of the fallen gods, they would cross without any unnatural incidents.
Itseemedthatevenfrom wherever the gods found rest, they heard their prayers. Or rather, her soldiers were diligent about keeping alert and silent as they travelled—the gods likely had nothing to do with it.
They reached the edge of the forest, where smoke was visible, rising from the mortal village that lay across a narrow creek. Dark skies cloaked their approach, night giving them cover. Their immortal senses allowed them to see farther than the mortals, though not as well as the Fae.
Solveig could make out the fourteen pairs of eyes staring back at her, waiting for her signal. She took a steadying breath, meeting each pair of eyes, committing them to memory. With a nod those fourteen pairs of eyes blinked and were gone into the night.
Her partner was a young soldier who had barely made it through his magic maturation before the Block hit, cutting him off from his source. He’d been blessed with the gift of Sight if she remembered correctly. Thiswas a common gift among the Vanir, who were notorious for having multitudes of Seers endowed with different kinds of Sight.
Sten, the soldier who trembled beside her, had just begun to develop the ability to See crossroads in the lives of others. An interesting gift to be sure, to be able to See a point when a life-changing decision would be made.
Whether or not one would be able to decipher the Seer’s interpretation of such a vision was another problem entirely.
It had surprised Solveig when the young Vanir volunteered for the raid.
Solveig and Sten crept through the northernmost point in the village, searching for the man their scouts believed to be the leader of this clan. This street in particular was in a wealthier section of the village, the buildings less worn, with metal locks glistening on their thick wooden doors. Stone houses varied in size but all had one thing in common—guards posted on their front steps.
This was new, and her unease from earlier threatened to fracture her composure.
