“I will be patient,” she reminded herself, continuing her path toward the privy. But Hekla could not resist another glance toward the woods. There it was again—a small creature hopping in the underbrush. After weeks without any sign of life in or around these woods, curiosity bristled through her.
Hekla threw a cautious look over her shoulder, then moved swiftly toward the trees. She would not enter the forest. She would only peer through the trees to identify the creature.
As she neared, her pulse quickened. Her eyes strained as she searched for the source of movement. But after a long minute spent gazing into the shadows, Hekla decided it must have been a trick of her mind. With a sigh, she began to turn.
Then she saw it.
Carved into the crusted trunk of a pine not two paces into the woods, was a symbol. With a spiral center and eight branching arms, there was no question of what it was.
“A Spiral Stave,” Hekla murmured, staring hard. It was the same symbol that had been scrawled in blood on the Klaernar’s corpses in Istré’s town square. A sigil that had once belonged to the Volsik bloodline.
Running a hand along her braid, Hekla glanced over her shoulder. The warriors were still in the longhouse, Loftur still droning on. Her gaze fell yet again to the forest. The knowing feeling rose from deep inside her—the same feeling that told her Loftur was hiding something. The Spiral Stave was a clue to be followed. Yet if she played by Eyvind’s rules, she’d be forced to wait.
Irritation churned in her stomach. Hekla cursed herself for promising Eyvind she’d fall in line. Who would pay the price for a lengthy investigation? Innocent Istré citizens, like Halldora and Onund Ale Drinker. All while Loftur the Bloody “Bird Witted” sat in his high seat and drank ale.
Her decision was made. Hekla drew a deep breath and stepped into the woods.
So much for playing by the rules.
EIGHT
Two steps into the Western Woods, Hekla pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The legends her grandmother had once told her rang loudly in her ears—frightening and fascinating tales of mythical creatures, of sacred groves and deep-rooted magic.
“They are only stories,” Hekla murmured to herself, though her hand found the hilt of her sword all the same.
Towering pines swayed above bare-branched rowans, vibrant red berries the lone spot of color in these eerie woods. Sunlight slanted high through the trees, catching on lichen-covered branches. But the forest floor told a different story. Bone-dry moss and dead leaves crunched beneath Hekla’s feet while the corpse limbs of bracken ferns rasped eerily against tree trunks. Ferns and shrubs, tree saplings and mushrooms—all of them were dead. The forest floor was a graveyard.
Hekla peered at the sun-dappled pine boughs above. Whatever plagued the smaller plants clearly had not yet claimed the larger, hardier trees. After one last glance back at the farmstead, she forced herself onward, weaving between the stems and tracking deeper intothe woods. It did not take long for her to find the second Spiral Stave carved into a trunk. Her body tingled with excitement, the knowing feeling inside her only growing more certain: The path she walked led to answers.
As she strode on, Hekla searched the darkness for any sign of the creature she’d spied at the edge of the woods, her hand never lifting from the hilt of her sword. She listened for the telltale sound of the mist—that eerie muffled heartbeat—yet it was as though a blanket of silence had fallen upon the forest. No birds. No small woodland creatures. Her gaze landed on a third Spiral Stave, and she pressed onward.
The air grew thicker, tinged with a heavy, earthen scent. In the depths of the woods, the pine trees dominated, their toothy needles clawing toward the sun. By the time Hekla spotted the sixth Spiral Stave, the forest was altogether gloomy.
Then she heard the scrape of dead brush—brittle twigs snapping like bones. Hekla unsheathed her sword, widened her stance, and held herself absolutely still. As she stared into the thick brambles, she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. Then a whiskered nose peeked out from beneath a twitching bush.
“A squirrel.”
Hekla chuffed in disbelief. Burning fucking stars. She’d drawn her sword on a bloody squirrel.
With a heavy exhale, she soldiered forward, eyes searching for the next Spiral Stave. By now, Eyvind would have discovered her absence, and Loftur would be fuming. Hekla’s stomach twinged with a hint of regret, but she’d come too far to turn back now. Besides, for the first time in weeks, she wasdoingsomething.
The next Spiral Stave was carved into the crusted trunk of an ancient pine. Dry leaves scraped along the forest floor, and she whirled around. The squirrel was a few paces behind her, its russet tail twitching.
“Get out of here!” Hekla waved her arms to frighten it off, but the squirrel stood its ground, watching her with beadyblack eyes. With an irritated sigh, Hekla turned back to her task. The underbrush grew denser, sharp brambles grasping at her cloak and breeches. Finally, Hekla broke through into a clearing.
Instantly, the air lightened, the scent shifting from acrid pine needles to sweet summer blossoms. Hekla blinked at the soft emerald moss carpeting the clearing. Why was it not dead and brittle like in the forest beyond? Indeed, compared to the gnarled gloom of the outer forest, this clearing had the sense of a refuge—an island of calm in wild seas.
In the center of the clearing, stood an enormous tree. Not a pine, nor a rowan; Hekla had never seen anything like it. The tree’s thick trunk twisted upward, a handful of yellowing leaves clinging to long, curving branches. Her eyes traced along the tree’s bark, and a jolt ran through her. Another Spiral Stave. It wasn’t carved like the others. This one was twisted into the gnarled whorls of the trunk itself.
Hekla’s mind swirled with unanswerable questions. Who had killed the Klaernar and scrawled the Spiral Staves in their blood? Had their aim been to draw someone to this clearing all along? Despite the lack of answers, her skin buzzed with anticipation as she lifted her hand and grazed her fingers along the rough bark.
Energy surged into her body, her mind flooding with a thousand memories that were not her own: groves of elder trees so enormous their branches scraped the clouds and their roots burrowed to the deepest depths of the earth; a forest teeming with life, with birds and skarplings; frost foxes and flíta; glossy beetles marching over delicate mushroom caps and white lichen unfurling under moonlight. In the forest’s rich soil, insects wriggled—life forms too small to see with the living eye thrived. Delicate threads connected each plant in the forest, nourishment pulsing through them from elder to sapling. She was slumbering on a bed of moss and lichen, her grimwolves all around her, thick gray coats rising and falling with each rhythmic breath.
But beneath it all, a low, shrill sound crescendoed with each beat of her heart. Horror and anger and desperation thrashed through her.The cycle reversed—nourishment stolen, sucked from the forest, an unending hunger, devouring all in its path. It was coming for her, too, eager to Turn her to its cause. She had to protect herself at all costs, even if it meant going dormant to survive. The sound reached its apex, a blood-curdling screech that was the sound of nightmares. And at last Hekla understood—the scream was coming from the tree.
She stumbled back with a gasp. The woods swarmed back into view, and Hekla clutched her hand to her chest, staring at the tree. Had she lost her gods-damned mind? But the feel of coarse wolf hair lingered on her fingertips, the despair and rage still churning through her blood.
The squirrel chittered from a branch on the strange tree, and Hekla leapt back. Red tail twitching in agitation, it released another string of angry sounds.
