Suddenly Eyvind himself was beside her, his men charging behind her and joining the battle with sword and shield. Hekla would have bellowed her joy at his timely arrival, but the sight of him rendered her speechless. Eyvind’s hazel eyes reflected the blaze before them.
And from his palms streamed jets of flames, filling all the gaps in the mist’s fiery prison.
TWENTY-ONE
Hekla’s gaze bounced from the flames pouring from Eyvind’s palms to the gaps in the fire wall, now blocked. “Hakonsson,” she sputtered. “You’re-how are you?—”
She was unable to finish the sentence. Eyvind Bloody Hakonsson was one of the Galdra. Hekla had never seen magic wielded before, and for a moment, all she could do was stare in wonder. Was this how Eyvind and Rey knew one another? Was there some sort of secret Galdra club?
Hekla’s mind reeled, but there was no time for her to put things together. Help had come when they needed it most, and she would take it in any form. A Turned grimwolf lunged at Eyvind’s back, and Hekla buried her claws in its throat, wrenching downward to bring it crashing to the ground. She twisted and drove her longsword down hard, severing the beast’s head.
“Kill the Ashbringer!” howled a draugur in the mist’s inhuman voice.
Hekla felt the creatures’ focus shift toward Eyvind, and her anger burned awake, low and deep inside her.
“Not on my watch.” Hekla hefted her sword and placed her backto Eyvind’s. The heat pouring off him made the air hotter than a steam bath, and sweat beaded her brow, sliding down her temple.
“So protective, Lynx,” said Eyvind, a smile in his voice.
“Save your strength, Fox!” she barked, fighting the urge to roll her eyes, because of course this man would tease her while they were but a heartbeat from death’s door.
As a Turned bear lunged forward, Hekla braced for impact. She had to protect Eyvind. Could not allow the undead beasts to break his focus.
“The dais, Eyvind. Can you set the dais aflame?”
But Eyvind just grunted, and as Hekla turned her head slightly, she saw two fresh gaps in the wall form as more creatures laid themselves down. Twin jets of flame burst from Eyvind’s palms as he quickly filled the newly formed gaps. It seemed he required all of his strength and concentration to contain the mist within Istré’s square, which meant Sigrún needed to set that gods-damned dais alight, and she needed to do itnow.
Hekla could not risk checking on Sigrún’s progress; the surge of Turned creatures seemed endless, each one Hekla felled replaced by two more. She buried her sword in a vampire deer’s neck. With a quick kick to the beast’s chest, she heaved her sword free and hacked until its head fell free. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Eyvind’s men had cordoned a large group of Turned against a longhouse, but a male scream from that direction suggested their ranks had now broken.
At last, there was a break in the onslaught. Sigrún had an arrow nocked in her bow and aimed toward the dais, but a grimwolf snapped at her ankles. She lurched back, toppling off the rain barrel. As the grimwolf leapt onto her, Hekla opened her mouth to cry out but shut it as Gunnar vaulted through the air and fell upon the beast.
On Hekla’s left, a forest walker advanced, and she was momentarily stunned. With rough, bark-like skin and branch-like arms, the forest walker’s three-pronged claws lashed out with inhuman speed. Hekla ducked with scarcely a heartbeat to spare.
“The dais!” she shouted to Eyvind. “Burn the dais!” Hekla kicked out low, her boot colliding with solid wood. The forest walker did not so much as budge. How could she take its head?
The forest walker swung again, and this time, Hekla was a heartbeat too slow. Pain exploded from her shoulder, sending her staggering back. The beast surged after her. A scream tore from her throat as its claw shredded through her breeches and into the flesh of her upper thighs.
“Hekla!” bellowed Eyvind, but his voice sounded distant through the loud ring in her ears. Her knees buckled as the forest walker advanced. Though its eyes were a vacant red haze, she could have sworn she read victory in them. Thick, gnarled arms swung upward, and for the dozenth time that hour, Hekla prepared to meet death.
A dullthwackmet Hekla’s ears, confusion jostling through her as the forest walker’s smile fell. Black blood oozed like sticky sap, dripping down its trunk. A gleaming axe sang through the air and embedded deep in the forest walker’s neck. The beast whirled, but it was too late. A third swing of the axe knocked the forest walker’s head clean off. Putrid black blood spurted from its headless trunk, but it was the most beautiful sight Hekla had ever seen. She met Thrand’s blue eyes, appreciating the gleam of madness within. The warrior’s once gleaming armor was now smeared with ash and gore. As he yanked her to her feet, she smiled.
“Finally put some scuffs in that armor, Long Sword?”
“Aye.”
“Is she hurt?” grunted Eyvind.
“Merely a flesh wound,” Hekla assured Eyvind, but frowned. With a wide stance, he seemed to brace against the power churning from his palms. His limbs trembled with exertion and rivulets of sweat carved paths through his soot-stained face. It was clear Eyvind could not continue like this for long.
More of the Turned charged at Eyvind, and Hekla and Thrand worked in tandem to cut them down. Turned after Turned fell, but more surged forth. The attacks grew more frenzied, their parriesmore sluggish, and Hekla was alarmed to find her battle thrill waning.
They could not keep on like this. Eyvind now blocked more gaps in the fire than she could count, and chaos engulfed Sigrún’s corner of the square. The moment the mist escaped its fiery confines, they would all be consumed and Turned. They needed to change the tide of battle—needed to try something else.
“You see, mortal?” cackled the mist through a nearby draugur. “It is inevitable. It is fated. We will finish what we started. Youwillbelong to us.”
Hekla slashed into a grimwolf’s throat, refusing to let the mist distract her. Pungent black blood slid down her claws and coated her metal arm. But the mist’s taunting words stirred an idea. It was brash. It was almost certainly mad.
But no one had ever called her level-headed.
