Gunnar fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a firestone. But Eyvind leaned forward, a flame cupped in his palm.
“Braggart,” muttered Gunnar.
Hekla nudged her torch to Eyvind’s flame until it caught, then frowned. Eyvind Hakonsson had revealed his Ashbringer skill to save her life during Istré’s battle, but she’d yet to get used to it.
“Everyone has a gods damned secret, don’t they?” grumbled Gunnar, and Hekla followed his gaze to Rey, smoke churning from his palms.
Hekla slapped Gunnar on the back. “Cheer up, Gunnar. Two Ashbringers will be useful in our arsenal.” She turned to the group. “Keep your torches high. We fight back-to-back. Protect the Forest Maiden. Do not give the mist an opening.”
“I thought the mist had left the forest,” muttered Thrand, staring hard into the woods beyond the clearing. Their bones now rattled with each pounding heartbeat. “How can it have passed beyond the woods and yet still be here?”
“Clearly, we do not understand it at all,” said Hekla. She could sense the mist’s malevolent presence growing nearer by the minute, and was glad, at the very least, she didn’t have to worry for the safety of Istré’s citizens, now safely secured behind Kopa’s walls.
“Shore up,” barked Rey, gesturing for their group to tighten, their backs to the cracked tree and the forest spirit curled up beneath it. “Torches raised.”
“Try not to burn down the forest, Soot Fingers,” said Eyvind, far too jovially. Orange flames now crackled in his palms, but Hekla knew it was a bare hint at the power the warrior possessed.
Rey’s reply was low, yet amused. “As I recall,youwere the one to set Harpa’s walls aflame, Fire Breath.”
“How is your dear grandmother? Still as charming as a porcupine?”
“Focus, children,” growled Hekla as a thick haze slid between the trees, swirling and eddying like the currents of a river. Hekla’s heart raced in her chest, the urge to flee bone-deep. The smog slithered through the brambles, then paused. Recoiled.
Hekla felt its wrath as it sensed their torches. But as twigs snapped and low growls sounded, she understood well enough.
“It has not come alone—the mist has brought its army.” Hekla’s mind raced, but Eyvind’s boot edged against hers. She hated that his presence was a reassuring comfort.
“Keep by my side,” he growled, adding in a louder voice, “Rey and I will keep the mist at bay with our galdur while the rest of you battle the Turned creatures.”
Hekla bristled at Eyvind’s protectiveness. “Remember!” she shouted to their group, stamping out her torch and drawing her sword. “You must take their heads!”
Not a moment later, ember-red eyes appeared in the mist. The moldering scent of the undead swarmed at them from all sides.
A Turned grimwolf was the first to break through—mouth too wide, with dual rows of blade-sharp teeth, it surged forward on misshapen limbs. A vampire deer vaulted into the clearing, then charged at them with lowered antlers. Enormous Turned bears barreled through the brambles, elongated claws gouging into the soft earth. Ravens swooped down from above on torn, batlike wings, talons primed to rake through flesh.
Hekla’s blood sang as the battle thrill took over. She became a thing of blade and claw, delivering death in lethal slashes. Black blood splattered her face—the putrid, moldering stench of the Turned beasts assaulting her senses. But Hekla did not care. Whenever one beast was felled, a new set of red eyes took its place a moment later.
Hekla and Kritka were a blur of swords and fangs and glinting claws. She was vaguely aware of Gunnar on her right, tirelessly defending her flank, and Eyvind behind her, keeping the mist at baywith controlled bursts of fire. These two might drive her mad, but she was glad to fight beside them.
Hekla buried her steel claws in the belly of a vampire deer as it tried to impale Kritka on pointed antlers. Warriors swarmed it, working together to hack its head from its neck.
Duck,came Kritka’s command in her mind before he leaped over her to collide with a Turned bear. She’d never been so in tune with a fellow warrior.
Screams filled her ears, and Hekla was vaguely aware of one of Eyvind’s men falling, of their circle tightening around the tree. It only spurred her on.
On and on they fought, Hekla losing herself to the dance of battle. She took a grimwolf’s claw to the thigh, the beast’s head rolling on the ground a moment later thanks to Gunnar’s longsword. But as sudden as a clap of thunder, the wave of Turned beasts ceased.
Hekla scraped the hair from her face, chest heaving. Her senses were on high alert, blood churning furiously through her body. Something was wrong.
“Did the mist call them off?” asked Thrand, looking around.
“No,” murmured Hekla. It was too abrupt to be natural.
A rapid series of clicks rattled through the air, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Wolfspider,” muttered Rey.
Nausea rolled in her stomach. Hekla could handle the most putrid of vampire deer, the most violent outlaw. But gods, she despised spiders.
