Kritka appeared by her side, and Hekla climbed onto his back, her left hand sliding into his fur and clasping on tightly. She was dimly aware of the rest of Kritka’s pack presenting themselves to Sigrún and Gunnar and Eyvind’s warband.
And then they were gone, loping toward the heartwood on the backs of grimwolves.
Chapter 57
The Black Road
Silla rode from Kopa with a warband of roughly four hundred warriors. After the northern jarls had pledged themselves to Eisa Volsik, plans had come together with disorienting speed. The battle-ready jarls, including Agnar and Holger, had readied their retinues at once, while the older jarls had agreed to send their retinue warriors in their stead. And to Silla’s surprise, a number of Kopa’s citizens and refugees had volunteered to join them in the woods.
Silla had tasked Rey with organizing their warband for battle. Jarl Hakon, meanwhile, arranged parties to collect provisions from the abandoned villages to feed the increasing number of refugees who flooded into Kopa daily.
Now seated in Dawn’s saddle with Rey and Horse by her side, it felt like Silla had gone back to far simpler times. But with Atli Hakonsson and Jarls Agnar and Holger riding ahead of them with Volsik banners, it was impossible to forget what trials awaited them in the heartwood—the deepest and oldest grove in the Western Woods.
There was the matter of the so-called leech—a foe that apparently Silla alone had the skills to best. There was the army of Turned creatures guarding it. And then there was the shard of the god of chaos living inside her.
After Silla’s triumph in the meeting hall, Myrkur’s excitement only seemed to grow. To this point, the god’s motives had been easy enough to understand—He wanted to, as He called it, play. He also wanted access to Silla’s bloodline gift. But what could the god of chaos gain by them going to the heartwood? This she did not understand, a fact that unnerved her greatly.
Their warband rode at a steady pace and was on track to reach the heartwood by the full Marra. Each night, they made camp. Tents were erected, fires lit, brennsa passed hand to hand, while the stories flowed. They were blessed with many bright-mooned nights, and Silla was able to confirm that when bathed in moonlight, Myrkur burrowed deeply away. With her mind blissfully to herself, Silla took advantage, meeting the brave warriors who followed her into battle against this unknown foe; not only professional warriors, but blacksmiths and field workers and the like. She made it a point to sit at a new fire each night; to hear their stories and learn their faces.
She spent hours sparring with Runný and Rey, Kálf and Hef, practicing the art of pulling their galdur into her veins. Silla knew well the burn of an Ashbringer, and was growing used to the intensity of Hef’s Blade Breaker strength.
Runný’s Shadow Hound galdur was the strangest of all. When Silla pulled on Runný’s power, she gained the ability to see and manipulate thousands of shimmering threads. It was a simple matter of bending these threads of light to make herself invisible, or twisting them another way to create a shield. Over and over, Silla practiced with their powers by night; in combat and on horseback. If this bloodline gift was the key to defeating Myrkur, then she needed to master it.
Myrkur slithered restlessly through her veins during the long days of riding, wavering between excitement to reach the heartwood and begging Silla to let Him in. The dark god’s emotions were overpowering and utterly maddening.
But there was something that Myrkur did not understand: After all she’d weathered with the skjöld leaves, Silla was no stranger tohungering for things that were no good for her. Like giving in to her addiction, granting the dark god access to her bloodline gift was an easy, instantaneous choice that would forever change her. The realization made her strangely grateful for her struggles.
And yet it was not easy. The god’s cravings intensified each day, sometimes growing so potent that they drove her to her knees. He showed Silla her darkest desires—all the different ways Signe and Ivar could be slaughtered; the crown being lowered onto her brow; the entire Kingdom of Íseldur under her thumb. They would bow to her—bend the knee to her. And she would make those who’d turned their backs on the Volsiks pay for their dishonor—
Silla shook her head, trying to physically dislodge the thoughts from her mind. It was the fifth day since they’d ridden from Kopa, and the Black Road leading to Istré was covered in a white blanket of snow. Silla focused on the thick, white snowflakes drifting down from the sky, lifting her face upward and opening her mouth. And as a single snowflake landed on her tongue, her insides shimmered like the flames of a hearthfire, making Myrkur recoil and hiss.
“All right?” asked Rey, watching her from atop Horse.
Silla nodded wordlessly, not trusting herself to speak. But knowing that he was beside her—that Rey would be strong for her when she could not—made the hearthfire in her chest grow just a little stronger.
There was something familiar about their surroundings, and as they rounded a bend, Silla understood why. The gates of Istré had once stood before them. Now they were naught but a snow-covered mass. This, she realized with startlement, was where she’d found that birch-bark etching identifying Rey as the Slátrari. The place where her path and Rey’s had become irrevocably entwined.
“Well,” said Rey glumly, gazing at Istré’s ruins, “I suppose it’s time for the next part of the plan.”
After Hekla had relayed the ordeal of her horse being Turned and attacking her, their group had decided it would be best to leave their horses at the border of the woods. Five refugees had beenappointed to care for the horses, Ashbringers among them to ward off the mist should it attack.
Silla dismounted, and after pressing a kiss to Dawn’s muzzle, she looked deep into her mare’s dark eyes. “Be well, Dawn,” she said softly. “Be kind to the other horses. Don’t nip at your caretakers. And when I return to you”—if I return to you,she refused to amend—“I shall give you all the oat treats you could ever wish for.” Dawn nuzzled against her, her eyes dark and solemn, as though she understood the gravity of this moment.
When at last they reached the edge of the woods, Silla paused, taking one last look over her shoulder. The fire mountains loomed dark in the direction from which they’d come, and she wondered if she’d ever see Kopa again. With that dismal thought, she entered the Western Woods.
Silla was glad for the soft deerskin boots that warmed her feet, as the snowdrifts were deep. As she trudged through the forest, Silla could have sworn she felt its pulse—weak and labored.Volsik,the air seemed to whisper, urging her forward.
Even beneath the drifts of snow, it was clear this forest was not as it ought to be. What foliage they could see was either dead or an ill-looking gray, and there was a notable absence of birdsong. As they walked, the jovial banter fell away to quiet tension within their warband. The woods grew denser and darker, but a strange, unnatural presence grew stronger. Silla felt it in each sickly tree and gray blade of grass protruding from the snow. They walked for hours, perhaps a full day, and this dark, oppressive presence of the wood grew more burdensome.
But beneath the heavy-handed darkness was something softer.Volsik,the woods gasped through the gloom’s strangling hands. Leaves she did not see rustled with winds she could not feel, and snow-covered brambles seemed to lean away from the path, as though aiding their travel.
Silla sensed the heartwood well before she saw it. Here was something more ancient than all—more ancient, perhaps, thanMyrkur Himself. She wanted to go to it, wanted to see the wonder of the great elder trees, but that would ruin the plans they’d so carefully crafted.
They paused in the greater forest, just beyond the heartwood. The snow here reached up to their knees, and the trees in this part less dense than at the outer edge, letting the day’s waning sunlight cast long shadows. As the warriors drank from their waterskins, Rey and the jarls gathered around Atli to go over their plan for the final time.
“Shadow Hound scouts will go in first,” whispered Atli, waving two of his men forward. “They will skirt the border of the heartwood grove and report back to us.”
Their group watched on as Atli’s Shadow Hound scouts pulled their specialized masks into place. Rey had explained he’d had the Tailor create these masks, with the aim of keeping the mist’s miasma at bay. But just in case the masks did not work, the warriors had torches strapped to their backs and orders to light them at the first beat of the mist’s heart. The Shadow Hounds flickered out of view, but Silla couldn’t help but worry the effect was lost—with knee-deep snow revealing their every trudging step, these warriors were far from invisible.
