They passed through a short corridor into the adjacent mead hall. The Hungry Blade was quiet at this hour, candles flickering serenely in iron chandeliers, while morning light crept beneath the window coverings. But remnants of the previous night’s celebrations were clear with the stale mead and sweat hanging in the air. The chaotic state of the room was a match to the chambers Hekla had recently vacated.She passed the slumped form of Onund Ale Drinker and winked at the exhausted-looking barkeep, Halldora, who hauled a kettle of róa across the room.
Sigrún seemed to materialize from thin air, touching Hekla’s elbow gently. Light caught the scarred flesh climbing from beneath Sigrún’s collar and across the side of her skull, her ash-blonde hair flipped to the opposite side of her head, displaying the burns without shame.
Another memory jostled forth. Sigrún had been with her the night before, though only briefly. A group of strangers had entered the mead hall, and Sigrún had vanished into the shadows, not to be seen for the rest of the night.Flightydid not begin to describeSigrún’s behavior since Ilías’s death. The petite warrior was as skittish as a squirrel.
“Are you well?” Hekla asked, signing the words as she spoke them.
Fine,Sigrún signed back, her gaze hard as she stared across the room.
Hekla followed her line of sight, gaze settling on the group of warriors seated at the far end of a long table. Their heads were bowed in quiet conversation, and Hekla felt a moment of apprehension. But she pushed it aside, reminding herself that these men were the reinforcements they badly needed. Shoulders back, she strode across the hall to greet them.
One voice lifted above the others, and Hekla’s blood flamed hot in recognition.Loftur the so-called “All-Wise”, village chieftain and official pain in her arse. Tall, with gray streaks in his blond beard, Hekla guessed the man had seen near fifty winters. Loftur lounged in the high chair like a king on his throne.
Hekla’s smile turned brittle as she took in the warriors gathered around Loftur. All this time, she’d thought she could not get through to the man because she was not an Istré local. But as she watched him speak amiably with the warriors from Kopa, she suddenly understood.
Not a single pair of tits amongst them.
Feigning a casual air that she most certainly did not feel, Hekla strode across the mead hall, Gunnar and Sigrún flanking her.
“Ahh.” Loftur’s steely brown eyes met hers. “Here comes the Bloodaxe Crew now.”
The warriors surrounding him shifted, watching her in silence.
Which one was Eyvind Hakonsson, trusted friend of Axe Eyes and a much-needed ally in her plight with Loftur? Hekla waited for one of the men to stand and introduce himself. But as they turned back to their róa in a less-than-warm welcome, Hekla scowled.
She knew nothing of this Eyvind, save that he was second heir to House Hakon. While everyone knew of Jarl Hakon, and his heir, AtliHakonsson, Eyvind himself remained a mystery. She folded her arms over her chest, trying to quell her rising irritation. But then Hekla thought of Rey’s letter—of how he’d vouched for Eyvind as a competent leader.
She opened her mouth to ask which of these men was Eyvind, but the mead hall doors banged open. The men at the long table shot to their feet, and Hekla turned to find two men striding into the hall. Squinting at the figures backlit by the intense morning light, Hekla’s eyes fell first upon the stout man with an impressive, grizzled beard. He was dressed in the finest armor Hekla had ever seen, emblazoned with the dragon sigil belonging to House Hakon. But as her gaze flitted to the taller figure, a crimson cloak streaming behind him, her heart lurched.
She knew that cloak.
“Ah, you’re all here!”
She knew that voice.
The figures approached, and Hekla felt the strangest sort of detachment—as though this was not happening before her very eyes.
But then, the inevitable happened: Their gazes locked. The man’s hazel eyes widened only a fraction. Soft lips—lips she’d tried to forget—parted. He passed a hand along the intricate warrior braids woven along the sides of his skull—braids which Hekla had caressed the night before.
Her paramour recovered before she did. “Well met.” He thrust a large hand out. “I’m Eyvind Hakonsson.”
TWO
THE NIGHT BEFORE
The sun crawled toward the horizon, the musky yet sweet scent of the harvest hanging in the air. The smell stirred a thousand memories within Hekla: her father’s deep voice, singing the reaping song as he cut back the barley; her grandmother’s stories as her crooked fingers worked the distaff. Hekla’s family farm in Midfjord had been much farther south, the air less crisp than it was here in Istré. But the smell of the harvest was exactly the same.
Istré’s beleaguered farmers would be reaping the barley this week before settling in for an uncertain winter. But tonight, at their chieftain’s request, they’d gathered in the village square with the rest of the townsfolk.
Arms folded over her chest, Hekla observed the Winter Nights celebration. The dais at her back, with its three V-shaped pillars, was typically used for the Klaernar’s executions. But now, it hosted a group of grizzled warriors pounding a rhythmic beat on their drums. Braziers illuminated the whole of the square, including the hazel staves marking the borders of a fighting ring. Booths had been erected by vendors, the scent of flatbreads and roasted chicken drifting in the air. Horns of ale were passed about, and the crowd was in good cheer.
Hekla’s head was already hazed with the ale she’d consumed in frustration at the Hungry Blade mead hall. This celebration was a mistake, but Loftur “the Unwise”—as she’d taken to calling him—refused to heed her warnings. It was bad enough the man blocked her every attempt to investigate the deadly mist stalking the outskirts of Istré. But watching these people celebrate the Winter Nights with such danger lurking nearby did not sit right with her.
There had been no sign of the mist tonight, but Hekla glanced at Istré’s stockade walls, her nerves buzzing. She ought to have kept a clear mind, yet weeks of frustrations had frothed inside her. And Halldora, barmaid at the Hungry Blade, had been no help.
“You deserve some fun,” she’d said with a wink, pressing horn after horn of ale into Hekla’s hand. Hekla suspected the ale was a show of gratitude from Halldora. Upon her arrival in Istré, Hekla had immediately spotted the telltale bruises on Halldora’s cheek. When at last she’d managed to corner the barmaid in private, Hekla had passed her a bag filled with coins.
“Bury it somewhere safe. And if ever the time feels right to leave him, you’ll have a choice in the matter.”
