Her lack of self-preservation had been kindling to Rey’s anger, but her pleas to leave Íseldur were the winds fanning it higher. Eisa Volsik was alive but wanted nothing to do with this kingdom. The realization more than disappointed Rey. Itenragedhim.
It was a slap in the face to those who’d fought—to those who’ddied—for her family. Silla had inadvertently picked at an old wound of his; it felt as raw and exposed as it had seventeen years ago. Dead, all of them. It was only him now, left to sift through the rubble. To find meaning in it all.
To seek vengeance.
And the woman lacked the common sense to keep herself alive. If Rey had to force her into the northern reaches of Íseldur for her own good, then so be it.
On they rode, but the closer Istré loomed, the higher Rey’s unease grew. Was it merely the prospect of reaching his destination after a full month’s travel from Reykfjord? The anticipation of tackling this challenging job without two of his Bloodaxe brothers?
Or was it something more?
Days now, Rey had been pushing memories of Kopa from his mind. Now he could think of nothing else but the escaped Klaernar he’d failed to kill at Kopa’s hidden entrance. It was a loose end Rey would normally have tied up. But there hadn’t been time.
And now it was too late.
As they neared Istré, Rey found himself glancing over his shoulder. The sun had set, though the cloud-cloaked skies meant an absence of moonlight and the slumber of luminescent forest plants. Ravens called out, a wolf howling from the woods nearby.
“Grimwolves?” asked Silla, tensing.
“Could be,” said Rey, eyes searching the woods on either side of the road. “As we’re on horseback, they should not attack.”
Had it truly been a grimwolf? Rey rolled his shoulders, the strange sense of foreboding crawling through his body. Was it the eyes of wild things that had him reaching for his dagger?
Or was it merely their nearness to Istré, with its deadly mist and mysterious creatures the Bloodaxe Crew had been sent to deal with? Yes. That must be the reason for this strange apprehension.
They rode for several minutes, until at last, they rounded a bend in the road and the torch-lit walls of Istré came into view. Silla shivered, drawing her new cloak tight around her.
Rey remained silent as they approached the closed gates, torches lighting sheep skulls and weathered shields mounted on the timber walls.
Istré.
His heart pounded. The trip north had been rife with troubles, and the job with the mist would be a challenge to tackle, but he’d made it, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.
Before he could stop her, Silla slid from Horse, rushing to the closed gates of Istré. “Oh gods,” she muttered, pulling at something.
“What is it?” he asked, casting a look at the top of Istré’s walls. Where were the guards at this hour?
Her body had gone preternaturally still as she stared at something in her hands. “How? What?” Slowly, Silla turned, holding a birchbark etching.
The breath left his lungs in a sharp exhale. Rey’s body grew weightless, his mind spinning, as he stared at the image painted on the bark. As the threads of his fate unraveled before his very eyes.
Rey’s own face stared back at him.
Silla’s was beneath it. And below that, were the words serving as the final stones on his burial mound.
Reward:
Slátrari—ten thousand sólas.
Companion—twenty thousand sólas.
Must be brought in alive.
Chapter Six
“Slátrari,” Silla read, looking at him in confusion.
Rey could not reply; he was too busy trying to awaken from this nightmare. But each time he blinked he was met with the damning image of his face paired with that name.Slátrari.
