“Least we’re out of the city. Another patrol of that wall, and I’d gouge my bloody eyes out.” This came from a rangy man with red hair fastened into a warrior’s braid.
The first warrior grunted his agreement. “Do you really think Konal’s ritual will help?”
The red-haired warrior shrugged. “Suppose there’s only one way to find out.”
The first man opened his mouth to reply but caught sight of Hekla and glared. With a mocking salute, Hekla ambled on, but her mind spun at what she’d heard. So,thiswas Konal’s business here? What was this ritual the warriors spoke of, and why had she not been informed of it?
Put together with the fact that Jarl Hakon was an old friend of Loftur’s, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening here. Jarl-bloody-Hakon had sent Konal to do something on Loftur’s behalf. Thejarlwas trying to control things from Kopa. No wonder they were making no progress!
Gods, what a mess.
Gunnar waved her over to an empty bench space. “Feeling well enough to spar, are you?” He nudged a plate toward her.
Hekla’s eyes narrowed on the stack of oatcakes generously drizzled with honey. “What’s this for?”
“The daymeal.” Gunnar shrugged.
Hekla was no fool—the man had never fixed a plate of food for her in his life, which meant he was angling for something. But Hekla was too hungry to care. Hunching over her plate, she wolfed down her meal like she hadn’t eaten in days. Which, she supposed, she hadn’t.
“I could spar with you tomorrow, if you’d like.”
Hekla’s knife paused in midair, and she assessed Gunnar from the corner of her eye. This man had been the last member of the Bloodaxe Crew to rise in the morning foryears. Was he unwell? “Looking to get your arse handed to you before the daymeal, Fire Fist?”
He grimaced. “I suppose not. But we could”—he waggled his eyebrows—“sparin the evenings.”
Hekla shook her head in amusement. “As subtle as a greataxe, aren’t you?”
But a curious sensation twisted in her stomach. She and Gunnarhad had a physical relationship for the better part of a year, and always, their expectations had been clear—sex only, no soft sentiments. Gunnar was a more than adequate lover, and over time, she’d even grown comfortable falling asleep in his bed. Yet the thought of bringing him to her furs suddenly felt unappealing.
Gunnar’s arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Is it flattery you want, Smasher? I can do that.” His mouth was now right beside her ear. “I can do anything you’d like.”
A prickling sensation rushed down her spine, and it was not due to Gunnar’s proposition in the slightest. She turned to find a familiar figure in the doorway. Eyvind’s ridiculous red cloak was bundled under his arm, his brow slicked with sweat. Her gaze met his, and her insides danced like a gaggle of little girls around a bonfire. A muscle feathered in Eyvind’s jaw, but he strode past them and took his seat at Loftur’s left.
Hekla exhaled and tried to gather her wits. She shook Gunnar’s arm from her shoulder.
“I am glad you’re feeling better, Fire Fist. But I’m afraid I must decline.”
Hekla’s headpounded in time to the hoofbeats as they made their way to examine a site where livestock had gone missing, but thankfully no human victims had been claimed. The sun was far too gods-damned bright, and Hakonsson’s men far too cheerful. She watched the warrior who’d badmouthed Eyvind now speaking jovially to him. It didn’t sit right with her, the way Eyvind’s men had spoken of him behind his back. At least she’d had the bollocks to voice her discontent to his face.
Not your battle,she told herself.
Grinding her teeth together, Hekla tried not to wonder how this job would go were Axe Eyes here—were the Wolf and No Beard riding alongside them. She let out a long, weighted breath.There was no point in wondering. She had to make do with what she had.
They arrived at the farm when the sun was at its zenith. It was much like all the others—an abandoned longhouse; vacant animal pens; endless fields of stunted crops. A lone wagon sat stoically in the yard, and it was so gods-damned quiet, she wanted to scream.
Wincing against the drumbeat in her skull, Hekla dismounted and trailed the warriors into the stables. It was precisely as it had been when she’d last seen it: tools and hay strewn about, walls spattered with blood. Hekla stared at a scythe, somehow still leaning against the wall, as she breathed through the pain in her skull. It was strange how the world around this scythe could fall apart so completely, and there it still stood.
Follow me, came a shrill voice.
Hekla glanced around but found only Eyvind’s retinue listening raptly to Loftur. She gave her head a shake. This gods-damned headache was truly doing a number on her. She tried to focus on Loftur as the chieftain relayed the events leading up to the grim discovery in this barn. But the voice flitted once more through her skull.
Protector must follow Kritka!
This time, she recognized the childlike voice. Hekla whirled, then locked her knees in place to prevent them from buckling. She blinked to clear her vision. But the squirrel perched on the barn’s windowsill did not fade away.
“You. What areyoudoing here?”
We must go,said the voice.
