“John, please,” she begged. “Who did you make a deal with?”
He coughed as blood poured out of him. He gave one nod of his head, gasping for air.
“R . . . Ra . . . Ragnvald,” he sputtered out.
Solveig’s blood ran cold hearing the King of Hel’s name. She met the wide eyes of the prince, her own shock mirrored in his expression.
“No. You’re wrong. That can’t be,” the prince whispered, denial written all over his face.
John squirmed and Solveig brought her attention back to the dying man in her arms. “We made . . . a . . . deal . . . so our . . . souls . . . would rest . . . with the . . . gods.” Solveig couldn’t even register those words. “Now . . . I know . . . it . . . was . . . a lie. I . . . don’t feel . . . the gods . . . with me . . . now.” Tears leaked from his eyes. “I’m sorry . . . we believed . . .”
Solveig’s own eyes stung at the words of the dying man. He clutched her arm. “Don’t ... make ... the ... same ... mistake. Don’t ... trust ... them.” His breathing grew more laboured and his coughing became violent until it stopped abruptly after one last gargled choke. The body Solveig clutched to her own slumped.
“We need to go,” Solveig whispered. The prince was a statue in front of her. All this time he’d thought that the Vanir were responsible. But the fucking King of Helheim? There were so many questions buzzing around her head, but it wasn’t the time to spiral.
She reached out her hand, covered in John’s blood, and touched the prince’s face. The jolt between them forced the prince from his stupor and his eyes snapped to hers.
“Let’s go.” He helped push the body off her and with it, the sword that had gone clean through her chest. The prince gaped at her.
“The bladegrazedyou, did it? Remind me never to ask you to accurately diagnose wounds.” He pulled her to her feet, but she bent down and closed John’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered to John’s lifeless body. “May the Valkyries guide you home.”
She followed the prince to the hallway that led to the front entrance, rolling her shoulder as her wound stitched itself back together. Thank the gods that blade wasn’t poisoned.
Her mind still reeled with the new information. She wasn’t sure how to come to terms with what this meant for her people or for the Fae. If Ragnvald was behind all of this, if he’d been in league with the mortals, what did that say about Idavoll? Given the prince’s shock, he hadn’t been aware of the King of Hel’s involvement.
They stayed glued to the wall, hidden in the shadows as the door slammed open and countless footsteps paraded into the dungeon. The mortals ran right past them. Solveig and the prince shared an exasperated look. It was pitiful that this senseless race had defeated them for so long.
Quickly and soundlessly, they made their way to the door and let themselves out of the dungeon. The devastation around them stopped them in their tracks.
Thick smoke billowed through the sky, mixing with the latest storm clouds overhead to create a vortex of swirling grey fog. The surrounding forest was alight with flames, the fire spreading to the camp.
Bodies lay discarded, half burned on the pathways. She couldn’t see through the fog and smoke to the other side but hoped the civilians were able to escape the carnage.
Rage surged inside her and magic scorched through her veins.
“Solveig, the stables!” the prince yelled, drawing her attention to the direction of the horse pasture.
Black smoke rose like tidal waves of death from the building, and Solveig’s heart lurched, tugging at the raw edges of her freshly healed scar. They bolted towards their horses, racing as fast as they could when her side flared with a sharp pain that almost brought her to her knees.
Her hand flew to the spot but found no wound or even any blood. She turned to see the prince had dropped to his knees. An arrow jutted from his side, pain lancing across his face.
“Run, Solveig!” he tried to tell her, but the pain was too much to bear and he buckled over onto the ground.
She started back towards him as three mortals advanced towards him from behind.
“WESTLEY!” she screamed, forcing him to lift his head and see her pointing behind him. He rolled onto his back just as the mortals descended.
“WESTLEY!”
Her voice tore at his soul. The sheer terror, not to mention the fact that she used his name, made him look up to see her sprinting as fast as she could towards him, grimacing.
The pain in his side dissipated as he shifted, bringing his sword up to meet the mortal’s weapon. He barely managed to block the fatal blow. The man grunted with the effort of his strike, but Westley didn’t release him.
He swiftly pushed the mortal, making the man falter. Breathing heavily as the poison from the arrow threatened to drag him under, Westley slammed his foot into the man’s face before he could right himself.
Two other mortals attacked from both sides and he had to spin onto his knees, throwing a dagger to his left before stabbing the snivelly mortal to his right. Both his weapons struck true. Neither were death blows, though—the mortals only stumbled before comingat him again. The surge of adrenaline was fading quickly, the pain in his side growing steadily.
