“We break off into three groups,” Rey said quietly, looking each man in the eye. “Agnar with masks and torches to ward off the mist. Atli and Holger with longswords to take on the Turned creatures. Remember, you must take their heads.” They nodded solemnly. “And Silla—” Brown eyes found hers, and Silla’s heart pounded faster. “I’ll be by your side. Your queensguard will have your flank. You focus on that tree, and we’ll keep you safe.”
She nodded, holding his gaze. This was it. Days of travel—weeks of preparation—and they would finally do battle in the heartwood. Silla thought of all the refugees flowing into Kopa, and of all those who hadn’t escaped in time. This was for them—to keep the citizens of Íseldur safe. To keep this leech from Turning any other creature in this realm. At this thought, Myrkur shifted deep inside her, and she was suddenly aware of how distant He’d grown over the past several hours.
The worry she’d pushed aside now niggled back. Was He scheming at something?
“Where is Hekla?” Silla whispered. They peered into the forest in search of movement, but there was none to be found.
“If she is here, my scouts will find her,” said Atli, his tone so assured that Silla almost believed him. “And if she is not, we must wait. Our plan will be strengthened by her forces and the element of surprise.”
Trying to calm her racing heart, Silla stared at the strange lumpy forms of the winter forest, young trees and the underbrush buried beneath feet of snow. How different the forest looked in winter. Sounds were muffled, a tranquil feeling settling over them. And a curious, sickly-sweet odor hung in the air.
She opened her mouth to remark on the smell, but motion from the corner of her eye diverted her attention. Silla squinted, trying to understand what, precisely, she saw. The woods were dim and shadowy in the last light of the day, but gradually the black figures distinguished themselves.
“Turned ravens,” hissed Rey, unsheathing his sword.
Indeed, they were ravens, though not as they ought to be—their movement was too quick, their motion abnormal, and as she took in the red glow of their eyes, Silla shivered. This, she thought uneasily, was not the kind of good omen she’d hoped to see.
Silla pulled her mask up over her nose, the piney scent of the imbibed herbs permeating her senses.
“We may not have a choice in awaiting your scouts, Atli,” Rey whispered, working his own mask into place. “It seems the leech has sent scouts of its own.”
Atli’s archers waded forward through the thick snow, then sent a silent flurry of arrows into the woods. Several ravens were felled, but one of the birds miraculously avoided the arrows, and it swooped down on their warband on torn, leathery wings. Silla’s gaze locked onto what it clutched in its talons.
“Rey,” she whispered, watching in horror as Rey’s longsword hacked the unnatural creature in two.
Black blood spattered down, but as the raven corpse landed, the object it held sank into the snow. Silla reached down for it, then dropped it with a gasp.
“Eyeball,” she managed, blinking furiously. “And fresh.”
“Shite,” muttered Atli, staring intently into the woods. She could tell he searched for any sign of the men he’d just sent in.
“We have a problem,” said Rey ominously. “Those ravens flew straight for us.” His gaze slid to Silla, and he swallowed. “They knew where we were.”
Laughter from deep inside her rattled Silla’s rib cage, and her worry sharpened into fear. “Something is wrong,” she whispered, her eyes finding Rey’s. “Myrkur has been silent—” But before she could finish her thought, a shout rang out from the rear of their warband, and she soon saw why.
Snow swished around them as the strange lumpy forms of the forest began torise.
“Swords ready!” bellowed Rey, stepping between Silla and the hulking form causing a small avalanche before her. Silla drew her own blade, heart in her throat as the snow tumbled free, revealing a pair of glowing red eyes. A black, wet nose. A maw drawn back, revealing two rows of fangs.
“Turned grimwolf,” she whimpered. At last, she understood the sickly-sweet smell. Myrkur’s strange quietude. The Turned army washere,all around them, buried beneath feet of snow.
The woods erupted with violence, Myrkur cackling within Silla. On her left, Hef’s sword hacked through the air with Blade Breaker strength. It sliced clean through a leaping mountain cat, severing the Turned beast’s body in half. Black blood spurted, releasing a moldering stench that the masks did little to quell. On her right, Kálf’s whip of fire cut through the neck of a Turned fox, sending it sailing through the air. Silla’s hand was on her own sword, gripping it tightly, though her retinue let no foe get near enough for her to use it.
The Turned moved with unnatural speed and frightening ferocity, unaffected by the bite of swords, and seemingly unimpeded bythe thick snow. The only way to end them was to take their heads—afeat that was far easier with a rabid fox than it was for the enormous slavering bears. Silla hacked a swooping raven out of the air, then whirled at a grimwolf that was lunging at Rey.
Atli intercepted the beast, hacking until the thing’s head lay still in the snow.
“We must push into the heartwood!” bellowed Rey, death incarnate as he cleaved a bloody path through a throng of Turned beasts.
Atli’s men trudged forward through the snow, bolstering their forces, and after several laborious minutes, they’d opened a gap in the circle of undead creatures.
“My men will hold them back,” panted Atli, wiping black gore from his face. Rey nodded, seizing Silla’s elbow.
“Into the heartwood!” Rey ordered.
And Sillaran.
Chapter 58
