by Zaya Feli
Isa's heart raced as he dug his hands into the soil, searching. He shoved leaves aside. His stomach twisted. Where was it? His fingers brushed something hard and he wrapped his hand around it.
Before he turned it over, Isa knew the rune was dead.
It was his fault. He'd opened the ward and had sealed it wrong and something had gotten through.
No, not something. Isa knew exactly what. Long, sharp teeth. Glowing, golden eyes. Black claws.
“Rakki!” Isa pushed to his feet so fast that the raven tumbled onto the ground with a squawk. Isa paid her no mind, drawing his hunting knife from his belt and darting between the trees. He'd let something horrible through, and now Rakkian was gone. He was dead. Isa had killed him. He'd promised he'd watch over him, and he'd killed him. Tightness in his throat made it hard to breathe. Branches snapped against his face as he raced ahead. He'd killed a boy. “Rakki!”
“Isa?”
Isa's boots slipped in the leaves as he skidded to a stop and whirled. Rakkian stood there, unhurt – not torn to shreds, and definitely not dead. Isa closed his eyes and thanked the gods. “I'm so glad I found you,” he panted. “We need to go. I'll sneak you into the village. Come on!”
“Hold on,” Rakkian said, waving Isa closer. “I need your help.”
“Are you hurt?” Isa glanced down at Rakkian's bandaged foot strapped into his boot. The raven had finally fallen silent, sitting on a low branch with her head tilted. Isa bounced on his heels, eager to leave.
“No,” Rakkian said, pointing. “But I think he is. Is he one of yours? We can take him back to your village.”
Isa stepped closer. At Rakkian's feet, partially hidden by the leaves, lay a dog. This close, Isa could hear it whining softly, its tail tucked between its legs. Could they carry a dog all the way back to Ulfheim? The urgency of the broken ward sent shivers down Isa's spine. “Rakki, we really need to go. We can come back for him, all right?” Isa took a step back. A twig snapped under his boot and the dog raised its head, turning yellow eyes on Isa. Yellow, not brown.
It wasn’t a dog.
Isa froze.
“He isn't so big,” Rakkian said, kneeling beside it. “I think we can carry him. I can give him some of my energy like I did with the raven.” Rakkian reached out, placing a hand against its hide.
“Stop!” Isa's warning came too late.
The creature turned, staggering to its feet. It grew before Isa's eyes, snuffing out the light around it like clouds obscuring moonlight. Its fur turned bristly and long, claws digging into the soil as it stretched its powerful legs. Its muzzle lengthened, jaw snapping open and revealing rows of glistening, sharp teeth. Isa was frozen to the ground, staring at the beast that had torn his family to pieces.
Rakkian fell back as the Varg lurched forward and crouched over him, placing its massive paws on Rakkian's chest.
“No!” Isa threw himself into action, gripping his hunting knife. He didn't give himself time to think, but drew his arm back and buried the knife in the Varg's side. He felt the tip slide through skin and muscle. The Varg yelped and twisted, closing its jaws around Isa's shoulder.
Isa screamed as the massive creature's teeth pierced his skin. He twisted the knife and pushed harder. He could feel the power of the bite digging deeper as his blade did.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Rakkian yank the Varg’s bristly fur. He shouted something, but Isa couldn't hear him. Warm blood ran down Isa’s blade and over his hand, and finally, the Varg let go with a howl. It thrashed, its muzzle knocking Isa on the side of the head. He hit the ground hard and his vision darkened.
A piercing scream tore through the air. Isa clasped his hands over his ears. A burst of vibrant, burning energy prickled against his skin and made the hairs on his body rise. This was it. He braced himself for pain, for death, but nothing came. Still, he didn't dare open his eyes, afraid of what he might see. In his mind, he imagined the gruesome sight of the Varg feasting on Rakkian's insides, but when he cracked an eye open, everything was still. The Varg was gone.
Blinking, Isa sat up, wincing when a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. Spots of blood dotted his jacket where the Varg had bitten through the fabric, but something else drew Isa's attention. Where the Varg had stood was only a charred expanse of dirt. Rakkian lay on the ground where the beast had left him, his eyes closed.
“Rakki!” Isa crawled to him. At first, Rakkian didn't answer, but when Isa touched a hand to his shoulder, he opened his eyes.
Rakkian blinked and his eyes widened. “You're bleeding! Is that creature gone?”
“I think so. It didn't get you, did it?” Isa looked Rakkian over, but couldn't see any blood.
Rakkian shook his head. “Whoa.” He passed a hand over the charred ground. “Did...Did you kill it?”
Isa tugged his jacket open. It hurt to move his right arm and his hand shook when he slid it under his shirt to assess the damage. “I don't know.”
“I'm so sorry, Isa.” Rakkian's voice trembled, and when Isa looked back at him, his eyes were full of tears, his bottom lip wobbling. “I didn't know, I didn't think—”
“It's not your fault,” Isa said, ugly guilt curling in his belly. He could have gotten them both killed. “It was me, I—” An awful, prickling sensation gave him pause and he looked around, fearing the Varg had returned to make the kill. But it wasn't the Varg. The air vibrated around them in a subtle curve, shimmering like heat from hot stones. “The ward!” Isa said. “That burst of energy... The Varg's death must have disturbed the ward.”
“What does that mean?” Rakkian asked, watery eyes wide.
“You're in trouble if my village finds you. The ward alerts the master Runik.”
“What do I do?”
Isa bit his lip, stood with a grimace, and swung the bag off his shoulder. He shoved it against Rakkian's chest. “Take this. There's food, a map, and a warm coat. Follow the map south. I circled landmarks. Where the red X is, you might find traders who can take you across the Western Sea. It's a long journey, but I think you can make it.” Already, Isa could hear shouts and footsteps coming from the direction of Ulfheim.
“O-Okay.” Rakkian's voice trembled as he dragged the bag onto his shoulder and staggered to his feet.
“Wait!” Isa said as Rakkian turned away. Isa dug his hand into his pocket and drew out the braided leather cord he'd made that morning. A stone pendant dangled from it, a small rune carved on its surface. Dagaz. “This will hide your powers from Runik magic. Don't let anyone see it.” He slipped the cord over Rakkian's head and hid it under his shirt. Isa could definitely hear footsteps now. Dogs, too. “Now, run!”
Rakkian closed the space between them and drew Isa into a fierce hug. “I won't forget you,” he croaked. Then he turned and ran, darting across the shimmering ward and between the trees.
The raven squawked and flapped its wings, stumbling off the branch in an attempt to follow, but Isa grabbed her and drew her against his chest. He hushed her as the shouts drew closer. He'd lost a friend, but he'd set him free. “I beg you, Hlín,” Isa whispered. He looked through the treetops at the gathering clouds. “Keep Rakki safe.”
CHAPTER ONE
Six years later
The water in the Icefjord was still and black as tar. The only sound was the rub of metal against wood when Isa dragged the oars forward. Before two more full moons passed, the fjord would be frozen, but for now, the borrowed dinghy was all Isa needed to cross to Ravsø.
It was difficult to approach unseen. Ravsø lay in the middle of the fjord, and the island was small enough that watchers had a clear view of most of the island and its surrounding waters from the village's central tower.
'Most' was the key word.
Isa wrapped his scarf around his head to conceal the paleness of his face, then tugged on the right oar to steer the dinghy towards the island's northern shore. There, scattered shrubs left to grow wild offered some shelter from the harsh winds that whipped across the fjord, too sp
arse to hide a real ship, but plenty of cover for Isa.
Technically, Ravsø wasn't Ulfheim's enemy, but after the failure of the great western raid and everything that had happened since, Isa couldn't blame them for being sceptical when Ulfheim boys came asking for help. Especially not when the boy in question bore the curse of the Varg on his skin. This was much easier. Less painful for everybody.
Isa stepped onto the shore, tugging the boat up with him. He leaned down and looked up the hill, making sure it was hidden from view from above. Adjusting the scarf and loosening his blade in its sheath, Isa made his way over the crest of the sandy hill on all fours. Before him, Ravsø's oakwood halls and houses huddled together against the wind. Ravsø's position in the centre of the fjord had made their jarl overconfident – there was no ward.
Isa stuck to the shadows, following the perimeter of the village. Aside from their healer, Ravsø had only one Runik – an old woman, if he recalled correctly, close to retirement. She’d be no match for him.
A man rounded the corner of the barn in front of Isa, a basket in one hand and a hatchet in the other. Isa froze, then crouched, but moving was a mistake. The man turned the rest of the way and their eyes locked. Shit. Maybe Isa had been overconfident. The last thing he wanted was to get Hjalmar in trouble; he had enough worries already.
“I'm here to visit a friend,” Isa said, putting on a smile he hoped looked friendlier than it felt. He straightened and raised his hands, knowing that his gloves would hide the runes tattooed on his palms. “Do you know where I might find the healer's hut?”
The man looked Isa up and down, hand going to the bearded axe at his belt. “What are you doing sneaking around? Where are you from?” He craned his neck – likely checking for ships, although the hill obscured his view – and adjusted his grip on the hatchet.
Isa shrugged. “I wasn't sneaking.”
“You were sneaking,” the man insisted. He came forward, dropping the basket to draw his axe. “Tell me what you want.” He raised both weapons.
Isa sighed. He'd hoped he could do this without bloodying his blade. Corpses brought so many questions.
“Fenrisborg?” the man continued, a growl to his voice. He was getting too close for comfort.
“No, Ulfheim,” Isa said. He drew the dagger from his belt. “I don't want to fight you, friend.”
“Ulfheim? I think you should piss right on back to your dirt hole.” The man swung the hatchet.
Isa blocked the attack and twisted out of range of the axe. He didn't need to draw on his battle runes, but he did it anyway to spare himself the extra energy. Drawing on Pertho, Isa singled out Thurs in his mind and the pendant burned against his chest. Power and euphoria rushed through Isa; he shattered his opponent's defences, twisting the hatchet down and slicing the man's throat before he could finish his second strike. The man's eyes widened for a moment before the light left them and he tumbled to the sandy ground. Isa extinguished the flow of magic like a blown out candle. A tremble ran through Isa as he shook himself, the power replaced with cold as it seeped from his muscles.
When Isa picked up the body and hoisted it over the hill, the head lolled back and revealed bright shards of bone. Isa had cut deeper than he'd thought. Thurs would do that. It was why Steinar had struck Isa so hard when Isa had tried to carve the rune onto his ribs. That's how men turn into monsters, he'd said. Isa had shouted that he was already a monster. Fourteen years old and recklessly stupid. He was wiser now, but Thurs was still hard to resist.
Distractions. The longer he stayed, the higher the risk of getting himself into more trouble than he could handle with a blade.
Isa kicked the body into the dark water with the heel of his boot. It rolled two and a half times into the wash, dyeing the sand red with blood as it went. Good enough; he'd hide it properly when he came back.
Scaling the hill once more, Isa followed a line of fencing and slipped underneath. The dried reeds and herbs dangling from ropes along the side of the hut on his left told him he'd found the right place. Slipping into the light, he raised one hand to tap on the door. A moment later, it opened with a creak and a woman stared out at him. Her hair was intricately braided and tied back from her face and her dress looked like it had been fashioned from countless different pieces of clothing. She looked at him first with confusion, then alarm. When she reached for something under her clothes, Isa wrapped a hand around her wrist.
“Lena, it's me,” he said. He tugged the scarf from his face with his free hand, revealing his black hair and blue eyes. “Isa, son of Eirik.”
Recognition flitted across her features and she grabbed Isa by the front of his coat and tugged him inside, closing the door. “Isa Eiriksson.” She stroked her hands down his sides. “You've grown so tall. Odin's beard, you look more like your mother each time I see you.”
Isa shifted beneath the gentle touches. “I didn't mean to surprise you.” He looked around. The healer's hut smelled of strange concoctions and there was hardly a patch of wall not covered by some kind of medicine or herb. She gestured him farther in. Isa's head bumped something, and when he looked up, it was into the hollow eye sockets of what must once have been a dog. “I heard you'd met the seers from the south,” he said. “That they showed you a new way to heal.”
Lena went to a cluttered table, picked up a cup, and took a sip. “I did. Met them on my way to gather herbs on the mainland this summer, farther south than Jættedahl. Unusual people, the southerners. Their seers are nothing like ours, but they're seers nonetheless. It's very intriguing.” She poured tea from a pot into a clay cup and held it out to him. “What do you need?”
Isa took the cup but put it down. “It would be easier if I showed you.”
Lena gestured at him, bracelets clinking. “Then show me.”
Isa shrugged off his coat and leather vest before pulling the undershirt over his head. He dropped it all on a nearby stool, the only empty space he could find. When he straightened, he saw in Lena's eyes the look he'd come to know so well: revulsion mixed with a hint of fear. He didn't want to look down, so instead, he looked at her as she came closer, braver than most, and reached towards his shoulder. But she stopped short, drawing her hand back.
“What did this?” she whispered.
Isa didn't have to look to know where she was pointing. The black tendrils twisted their way across his chest and shoulder, moving outwards like tree roots from between the scars left by sharp teeth. “I was bitten.”
“Not by any animal.” Her eyes grew dark.
“By the Varg,” Isa said.
Lena's head snapped up and her eyes bored into his. “The Varg died in Ulfheim six years ago. We all felt it.”
“Yes,” Isa said. He crossed his arms over his chest, itching to put his shirt back on. “I killed it.”
“How did you do it?”
“With a hunting knife.”
Lena frowned at him, disbelief clear in her eyes. “The Varg is a god among animals.”
“It was.”
“And this?”
Isa shook his head. “I don't know. It came the next day. Our healers don't know how to cure it. Nor the Rosvik healers.”
“What have you tried?”
“Everything,” Isa said, exasperation seeping into his voice.
Lena hummed, hand hovering over his chest as if she expected to feel some kind of energy radiating off it. “An infection caused by a god cannot be cured with medicine made by mortals.”
Isa held back the sharp sigh on the tip of his tongue. He had no right to be disrespectful when he'd come to her for help. Lena was the best chance he'd had in a long time. Maybe ever. “I've spent the past six years realising as much,” he said, softer. “I was hoping perhaps the southern seers had taught you something new.”
“Is it growing?” she asked, piercing him with a stare. “The mark. Does it grow?”
Isa swallowed. Answering yes never yielded good news, but dishonesty would get him nowhere. “Very slowly. It star
ted out the size of a coin. Three years ago, it was half this size.”
“Now, what do you think will happen when it reaches your heart?”
Isa looked away. It was something he didn't want to consider. “You tell me.”
“I don't even know what it is,” Lena said. She ran a hand through her hair, loosing a few braids from their band. “A curse, surely. But a curse can be so many things.”
“There's really nothing you can try?” Isa pushed, thinking about the dead man on the beach and another trip made in vain.
“I suppose there is one thing. Something the southern seers taught me.” Lena nodded, then turned her back on him and sifted through the clutter on her desk, knocking things over without bothering to pick them up. She withdrew a shiny metal bowl and Isa knew what she intended.
“My blood?”
She handed him the bowl. “As much as you can handle. And better be quick about it, before anyone finds you here. I'll need time to figure out how to work this curse of yours. I'll send a pigeon when I have results.”
Isa pushed his clothes off the stool and sat with the bowl in his lap. Lena lit a candle for him and Isa held the blade of his knife over the flame. It was hard not to feel discouraged. He'd given enough of his blood to healers to satisfy the gods for years. Every time he’d hoped, and every time he’d been disappointed. Still, he thought as he dragged the sharp edge of the blade across his skin, dark rivulets of blood splashing into the bowl, this time it might work. Lena might have the cure.
* * *
Isa slowed his horse to a walk. The cut where the blade had sliced through his skin ached. Ahead, scattered lights shone through the pines. Winter was coming, and a chill breeze carried the scent of smoke from the fjordside town. Isa didn't need runes to find his way home; he knew Ulfheim, and Ulfheim knew him. He rode across the ward, announcing his arrival under his breath. The ward brushed his skin like the caress of a mother's hand. He could feel Steinar's influence in it.