While an intimate visit to the pools with Gunnar was certainly not on her mind, the idea of scraping the grime from the socket of her prosthetic sounded divine. And so Hekla picked herself off the ground and gathered her remaining energy to trudge in the direction Gunnar had come from. She passed several of Eyvind’s men along the way, greeting them with curt nods.
They’d proven to be good, loyal warriors, and she sensed she’d earned their respect when they’d fought together in Istré. To be sure, she’d had to prove herself to them—and break Thrand Long Sword’s ribs—but such was the life of a woman warrior. She had to work twice as hard as the men, and twice more on top of that because of her prosthetic arm.
At last, the dense tree canopy opened up, a still, glassy pool reflecting the constellations above. The woods were so quiet, the water so enticing. After a glance over her shoulder to ensure she was alone, Hekla stripped down to her undertunic.
Lowering herself onto a flat stone overhanging the pond, Hekla dipped her prosthetic arm into the water, rubbing the forest grime from it. She then twisted the arm off, sighing as she dipped her residual limb into the cool liquid. It had been too many weeks since she’d been able to prepare Silla’s poultice recipe, and her skin around the anchor joint was once more patchy and irritated.
As she soothed the burning itch, Hekla examined her moonlit reflection. The same brown eyes looked up at her, framed by the same dark, slashing brows. Her olive cheekbones were more pronounced than they had once been, and there was a weariness in her face that told of many long days just like this one. Yet Hekla collected each small mark on her skin like a badge. Once there had been a time when wrinkles and scars weren’t guaranteed.
A snap from somewhere behind her had Hekla glancing over her shoulder. But still, shadowy woods were all that met her eyes. The trees were so eerie in their quietude; she had to shake off a shiver before turning back to the water.
She frowned at the small ripple marring the surface of the pool and distorting her reflection. Then—movement beneath thesurface. And Hekla realized she no longer looked at her own likeness, but that of a yellow-eyed woman beneath the water.
Time slowed as the woman’s face twisted into a snarl. And then she burst from the pool, all sharp teeth and lank hair and corpse-gray skin.
Hekla screeched, rearing back, but her left hand slipped on the rock’s surface. Webbed fingers snatched at her braid and hauled her toward the pool. Hekla groped for her prosthetic arm, but she could not reach it—nor could she reach the dagger sheathed in her boot. How could she have let her guard down in this, of all places?
As Hekla fought against the thing’s immense strength, horror spread through her. The creature had the feel of something ancient—something older than even the trees in this forest. And her eyes—a pale yellow rather than ember red—placed her as something entirely different from the draugur and Turned creatures they’d encountered so far.
Water hag,her mind oh-so-helpfully provided.
The fetid stench of pond water invaded her senses, and she devolved into desperation, clawing with the blunted nails of her left hand against cold rubbery skin. With a sudden rush, her head plunged into the water. She knew she ought to hold her panic at bay—to save as much air as she could—but a torrent of bubbles poured from her nose. Hekla punched at the water hag; clung desperately to the rock above the water with her legs.
Suddenly, the hag’s grip on her hair relented, and the creature reared back with a jerk. Blood spread like ink through the water and the hag wrenched a dagger free from her shoulder. Where in the gods’ burning bollocks had that come from? With one final snarl of bubbles, the creature darted into the pool’s dark depths.
Hekla shoved her head above water and sucked in a deep breath of air, but a grip on her hips hauled her onto her back. She collided with the hard stone, a band around her waist pinning her in place. Hekla fought like an overturned beetle, but could not free herself from the shackle.
“Be still, Hekla. I have you.”
All her fight died in an instant as she recognized Eyvind’s voice. Gasping for breath, Hekla sagged against what she realized was not, in fact, the stone, but Eyvind’s firm chest. She couldn’t bring herself to care—couldn’t shake that creature’s haunting yellow eyes from her mind, nor drive the smell of the pond from her nose. For a moment, she lay atop Eyvind, staring up at the star-filled skies as she heaved for breath.
Then she pried his fingers free from her waist and rolled onto all fours.
Eyvind was on his feet in an instant, hauling her up and into his arms like she was a gods damned damsel in distress. “You’ve been hurt,” he said with worry, cradling her tighter to his chest. Hekla thrashed against him, but his grip was unyielding. “Do not exert yourself, Hekla. Let me look upon you.”
Hekla’s body warmed at his words, and she growled in frustration. How, after everything, could Eyvind still have this effect on her? “Release me, Hakonsson, or those’ll be the last words you speak,” she snapped.
His hazel eyes hardened, but his grip slowly softened, and a moment later, Eyvind placed her gently on her feet. He produced a flame in his palm, the light revealing the worry in his eyes.
“Let me look.”
Emotion caught in her chest, and she found herself swaying toward him. With a defeated sigh, Hekla relented. Eyvind stepped forward, firelight dancing across his irritatingly handsome face as he prodded at the scratch marks at the base of her neck; at the bare patch where the creature had yanked the hair from her scalp.
“See?” she mumbled. “I’m fine. Nothing Sigrún’s ointment won’t fix.”
Eyvind stepped back, his concerned expression turning stern. “You removed your arm? And what happened to your weapons?”
She deemed his questions unworthy of an answer and pointedly looked away. Hekla searched for her defenses. Tried to pull them back into place.
“You were fortunate. A moment later and I’d have been too late.”
Hekla rubbed the stinging wound on her neck.
“You should not be unaccompanied in these woods,” said Eyvind, low and deadly serious. “I do not care who you bring with you, but do not lower your guard.”
She ought to be glad that someone cared enough to look out for her. Instead, anger simmered in her gut. She was so gods damned angry—with Eyvind for his deception. With herself for letting her guard down.
“Do not trouble yourself with my safety,” she hissed.
