He’d have to speak to North about this development when he got back to Idavoll.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Viggo stood beside him, mask lifted.
“Ready for this?” Viggo asked gravely.
“It must be done.”
“Aye.” Viggo gave him a reassuring squeeze and replaced his mask. They took their positions as they waited for the Vanir to sweep through the village.
After a few hours, Westley’s body hummed with unease, the calm he normally cultivated on a mission nowhere to be found.
Each flicker of firelight from the mortal village caught his eye.
Every time the wind whistled through the tall trees, he checked to make sure all was well.
Animal sounds grated on his Fae hearing.
He began shifting on his feet as his heart rate picked up.
“West,” Noren hissed. “Stop moving, you’ll give us away.”
Westley tried to calm his movements, but the energy coursing through him wouldn’t abate, only heightening as time passed. Something wasn’t right.
“Do you think this is a trap?” he whispered.
“That’s always a possibility. Hasn’t stopped us yet,” Noren answered with a shrug.
Before he could respond, Maddock stood abruptly from his spot by the horses and threw something towards the rack of weapons nearby, causing it to topple over. The loud clatter shattered the stillness of the night.
The reaction was immediate.
Bright firelight filled the windows of the nearest houses, illuminating the sleeping village. Guards emerged from the shadows to inspect the noise, swords at the ready, as if they’d been lying in wait.
A pair of Vanir came into view, attacking the mortal guards. The scuffle escalated into an all-out brawl as more Vanir and mortals joined the rabble.
Westley cursed under his breath.
This was supposed to be a simple capture. Get in and get out. It wouldn’t be easy to go undetected with all the commotion. Given the number of guards posted around the village and the speed with which they’d responded, the mortals had been ready for this raid.
The sound of a twig snapping beside the Vanir horses drew Westley’s attention away from the fight. A sizable copper mare turned her head and reared like she was ready to attack, only settling when a gloved hand appeared and patted her gently on the neck.
A Vanir male lingered on the edges of the fray, calming the surly horse. Squinting, Westley could make out light brown hair and a stout, muscular figure.
Why was the witch hiding in the shadows and not out fighting with his kin? Had the Vanir traitor actually come to admire his handiwork as he betrayed his kind? The gods must have listened to their pleas.
Westley sent a brief prayer of gratitude to Thor.
Pinpricks of providence rushed through Westley’s veins. The male snuck around the horses, drawing his sword. What was he up to? If that twig hadn’t snapped, he wouldn’t have noticed him—he was nearly as camouflaged as Westley was. The gods were directing him—this was their target.
He gave the signal to Svend and Skarde, alerting them to the Vanir’s presence.
Westley was about to advance when Brenna’s bird call sounded from the other side of the horses. As he turned to see where she was pointing, a female with a blaze of fiery auburn hair flew into the centre of the village, swords drawn.
His heart hammered in a solid attempt to leap out of his chest while the rest of the scene around him fell away.
Goddess.
He tracked her every movement with a sudden awareness of each drop of blood in his body. She slashed through the mortals as though they were nothing to her, eyes set ahead of her.
