by Zaya Feli
“No.”
“Then I want to stay out,” Rakkian said quickly. “Just a bit longer. I've been locked up for days.”
Rakkian was prepared for Isa to refuse, but instead, he sighed and said, “Fine. Come.”
Isa walked away between the trees and Rakkian hurried after him. They followed a deer track through a patch of withered blackberry bushes to a clearing of short grass littered with mushrooms of different colours and sizes.
A prickle against his skin made Rakkian pause. He felt the subtle buzz of the ward nearby, and something else about the place made him linger.
Ahead, a charred spot stood out against the forest floor. Yellowing grass surrounded it, but did not cross what looked like tendrils of smoke. Realisation struck and Rakkian staggered back a step, cold trickling down his spine.
“Rakkian!”
Rakkian spun around. Isa was watching him closely from a few steps ahead, his jaw clenched again. He disappeared around a dense stand of pines and Rakkian ran to catch up, trying to shake his discomfort.
The treeline gave way to a grassy hill. They were at the edge of the village, on the other side. A narrow stream feeding into the fjord cut through their path. Isa followed the stream and stepped onto an arched bridge. He sat down, feet dangling over the water. Skygge hopped off his shoulder and landed on a rock below, dipping her head and wings in the stream before shaking them out.
Rakkian sat beside Isa. This close, Rakkian could see the criss-cross of old scars all over his pale skin, layered like scratches on a tabletop. He was fit. Muscular and lean.
Above them, the grey clouds parted, lending a rare view of the autumn sun. Isa turned his face towards it, soaking up the rays with his eyes closed.
Rakkian studied his profile. His features had sharpened since Rakkian had first met him. He looked tired, with faint, dark circles under his eyes. “I'm sorry about what happened back then,” he said, before he could stop himself. “I thought I was helping, but I got you hurt.”
Isa cracked an eyelid, a muscle sliding in his jaw. He looked at Rakkian like he didn't understand what he was saying. He was quiet for a long time before he said, “I forgive you.”
Rakkian's eyes trailed downwards to the bruise on Isa's arm. Without thinking, he reached out. The hairs on Rakkian's arm rose, fingertips tingling, the writhing energy between them sparking and alive. Before Rakkian could touch him, Isa yanked his arm back rubbed the spot.
“Don't.” Isa drew his shoulders up. “You'd do well to stay clear.”
Rakkian pulled his hands in against his chest. “I...I was just trying to help.”
“Right. But don't,” Isa said firmly. He closed a hand over the mark on his shoulder, massaging the muscle like it pained him. He twisted away slightly.
Rakkian swallowed, looking down at his hand. Was it the mark? Isa radiated strength and control, but there was something else in him that seemed worn. Whatever the mark was doing to him, it wasn't good.
“Well,” Isa said. He looked at Rakkian again, expression gentler. His eyes narrowed. “You've kept yourself alive. That's...something.”
Rakkian tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. Something told him Isa didn't get to practice giving praise often. “Thank you.” He smiled. He stroked a hand over his chest. “I miss the necklace. Dagaz. Right? It's probably silly, but it made me feel safe.” He sighed.
“If it kept your powers hidden from the Halafjell Runiks, then it isn't silly. It did keep you safe. But everyone here knows what you are now. The pendant wouldn't be of much use to you any longer.” Isa rubbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes.
“Still.” Rakkian glanced at Skygge perched on a rock, straightening her newly washed feathers.
Isa let out a breath. He stood and wandered off the bridge.
Rakkian got to his feet. “What are they going to do to me? Eskal and the others.”
Isa stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I don't know,” he said, so quiet Rakkian almost didn't hear.
Rakkian opened his mouth to say something more, but the deep bellow of an alarm horn drowned out his voice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Isa's hand darted to the axe in his belt. He took off running and Rakkian leapt off the bridge to follow.
Rakkian's heart raced, boots splashing mud onto his trousers as he ran. Isa stopped in front of him so abruptly that Rakkian nearly bumped into his back. Men and women joined them in the village centre and Rakkian met their eyes with equal confusion. Were they under attack?
The doors of the jarl's hall flew open and Eskal stepped outside, his face pale and his eyes wide. His lips moved without sound for a moment before he said, “My father is dead.”
Shock reflected in the faces of the others, Hjalmar's name repeated between them. Isa stumbled back a step, a few people pushing past him before he followed Eskal inside. Rakkian stuck close as they walked through the hall to the back room, footsteps echoing.
One of the warriors – Torsten, the large man with the blond hair and beard – met them with a grim expression.
Rakkian clamped both hands over his mouth. Blood had pooled on the floor below where Jarl Hjalmar sat in his chair, his throat slit from ear to ear.
Steinar came up behind Rakkian and growled a curse. “Who would murder a sick man?” he asked, spitting on the floor.
The question seemed to ignite Isa's fury. “Impatience is his name.” He turned and squared off against Eskal, who stood in the corner, arms wrapped around his chest.
Eskal had been staring at the pool of his father's blood on the floor, but at Isa's words, he raised his head. “What are you saying, Isa?” His voice was hollow.
“You know what I'm saying.” Isa curled his hand around the hilt of his axe, voice cracking. “You couldn't wait to get your hands on Halafjell's ships. Hjalmar ordered you to wait for spring.”
“You shit-tongued little swine!” Eskal lunged for Isa, drawing the axe from his belt, but Torsten stopped him with an arm across his chest. Steinar's white-knuckled grip on Isa's arm kept him from drawing his axe.
“Enough!” Torsten's voice was thunder in the small space. “I'm the one who found Hjalmar. Eskal has been with me all morning. He's not to blame, Isa.”
Isa stared past Torsten, narrowing his eyes at Eskal, but stepped back.
Eskal spat at Isa's feet. “How do we know the wolf-killer didn't do it?”
Torsten raised a hand to Eskal's chest. “I said that's enough.”
“We all saw what happened,” Eskal continued. “With him and that western rat.” He jabbed a finger in Rakkian's direction. “We don't know what that curse on his body can do.”
Rakkian stepped back against the wall. He felt like an intruder, but Steinar's broad body blocked the doorway so he couldn't leave.
“I loved Hjalmar like a father,” Isa growled. “How dare you!”
Eskal's face turned red. “Yet you poisoned him with your presence. You—”
Torsten's fist hitting Eskal's face stopped his stream of accusations. Eskal caught himself against the wall and dropped into a chair.
“Thank you,” Isa murmured, sliding his axe back into its strap.
“How do you expect Hjalmar to enjoy Valhalla when his family is down here bickering over who killed him?” Steinar asked, giving them both hard glares one after the other. “It doesn't have to be any of us. The Halafjell villagers have been coming and going since we merged with their village. Any of them might still hold a grudge for the death of their jarl.”
“If that's the case, then they're snakes, all of them,” Eskal murmured from his spot in the corner. “A man who kills his enemy while he is weak has no honour and does not deserve his own life.”
“Then we better keep watch on the bastards. Don't let any of them into Ulfheim,” Steinar said.
“You heard him,” Eskal said. “Get to work.”
They left the hall. Isa angled his head for Rakkian to follow and Rakkian wasted no time rushing after him.
; Outside the jarl's hall, Isa grabbed Torsten by the sleeve. “So Eskal is jarl now?” he asked. “I don't accept it. I want to dispute.”
Torsten shook his head. His blond hair was wild and ruffled as if Hjalmar's death had had a physical effect on it. “Good luck, Isa. You can call for council if you want to.” He sounded sad.
A muscle in Isa's jaw twitched. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. Even if Eskal was an asshole, no one would support the cursed wolf-killer in removing their jarl from power.
“You don't think I did it, do you?” Isa asked, stopping Torsten with a hand on his shoulder. Behind them, Steinar went door to door, spreading the grim news. More and more people gathered in front of the looming oakwood hall.
“No, Isa, I don't. But Eskal is right,” Torsten said. “We don't know what that thing on your chest can do. Maybe you should talk to Steinar about it.”
Isa seemed to curl in on himself. Then he tilted his chin up and marched in the opposite direction. He didn't look in the mood for company, so Rakkian didn't follow.
* * *
The fresh runes on Karel's body ached as he made his way up the steep forest slope, cursing when low blackberry brambles dug their thorns through his trousers and into his skin. Blood, still faintly warm, sloshed in the leather pouch strapped to his belt. He craned his neck, relieved to see the stout pillars of the seer's hut within arm's reach. Leaning against one, he gave himself a moment to breathe while he rubbed his sore chest. Then he made his way around the hut to a precarious set of stairs covered in a slippery layer of lichen, wondering absently why anyone thought it was a good idea to build the Ulfheim seer's hut in the middle of the woods, so far from any passable roads. Not even his horse could have made this trek. He'd had to abandon it when he entered the forest.
Karel stopped in front of the door, pausing for a moment to gather himself and push strands of hair out of his eyes. A deer skull hung on the door, the pale bone intricately carved. He knocked seven times, as was customary, to identify himself as human.
Karel waited, and waited some more. Unsure whether he'd been heard, he raised his hand to knock again, but a raspy voice from inside gave him pause.
“Enter.”
Took you long enough, Karel thought, pushing the door open and pausing inside to dip his fingers in the bowl of water on a small table. He dragged his hand down each cheek and across his mouth to wash dishonesty from his face, then wiped his hand on his trousers. Stepping farther in, he was careful not to bump any of the countless skulls and bones displayed along the walls of the cramped hut.
The seer sat against the back wall, layers of dark fabric concealing her body except for her milky face, throat, and bony hands. When she turned her cool gaze on Karel, he couldn't help but stare at the characteristic white eye all seers had. It made him want to shiver. When he'd been younger, he'd visited the Fenrisborg seer, hoping she might reveal some hints of greatness in his future. At eight years old, seeing that white eye stare through his soul as she told him he'd die with no family around him was enough to make him run and never return. Until now. He needed help.
“Hail Freja,” Karel murmured as he sank to the wooden floor in front of her, crossing his legs.
“Hail Freja,” she replied, raising a smooth, dark bowl towards him. “You're not from Ulfheim, skittish one.”
“No,” Karel said.
“New blood bringing old blood,” she whispered to herself. “What do you seek?”
“Answers.” Karel detached the pouch from his belt and carefully tugged off the string, pouring the valuable contents into the seer's bowl.
Karel had been worried of wasting his chance, since the rune Hakon had granted him would only get him through the Ulfheim ward once in each direction, but Karel had only needed to wait a single day to get the old man on his own. He'd not been hard to kill, already weak from sickness.
Drawing the bowl against her chest, the seer held her free hand over it, then dipped two fingers in the dark liquid and pressed them against her tongue, the grooves and lines on her face deepening. “Jarl's blood,” she whispered, turning her eyes on Karel.
Karel kept his face blank. Not that it mattered; he was sure the seer could sense his unease. “They're big questions.”
“Ask.”
“Where is the Varg?”
“No.” The seer shook her head in little jerks. She leaned forward and Karel had to force himself not to shuffle away. “Creatures of the gods are beyond my field of vision. To see the gods, I need blood of the gods.”
“What of Jera?”
The seer gave him a pointed look, head tilted to the side.
Karel swallowed back a sigh. “Fine,” he said. “But you must have felt the disturbance. Can you tell me anything at all?”
The seer tilted her head back and dipped her hand in the blood, bright-red liquid lapping at bone-white skin. “The wolves will gather in Jættedahl on the second day of the Great Sacrifice. More blood than expected will be spilled at the site of the sacred temple. Those who value their lives should not be there.”
“The Varg will be at Jættedahl for sure?” Karel pushed.
“The wolves heed their god's call.”
Good enough. Karel bowed his head to her. “Hail Freja,” he said before standing.
“Wait.”
Karel paused, looking over his shoulder. The seer had both hands outstretched towards him, the blood from her left one dripping down her sleeve.
“Death follows you like a shadow, Karel Torvaldsson. Hel herself looks over your shoulder. Choose wisely where you direct her gaze. You cannot ever take those choices back.”
The air in the seer's hut felt icy when Karel slipped out and closed the door behind him. Seers. Karel hoped it would be a long time before he'd have to visit one again. His visit hadn't been as successful as he had hoped, considering he'd killed a jarl for it. But the Varg would be in Jættedahl, calling the wolves. That meant it would have to reveal itself. All Karel had to do was keep his eyes open.
As he set foot on the last stair, the familiar feeling of hands sliding under his skin made him gasp. It wasn't the cold this time.
Not now. Karel gripped the railing and closed his eyes, breathing through the discomfort, willing his heart to steady. It felt like being bled, all the strength seeping from his body, but faster. Much faster. His heart skipped and he sat on the bottom step, dropping his head between his knees. He could hear his own heartbeat, see the edges of his vision darkening. Stop. That's enough. Stop.
The feeling vanished as fast as it had come, although weakness and fatigue clung to him. Karel stroked a shaking hand over his chest. The fresh runes there ached anew.
But he didn't have time to rest and recover.
The Great Sacrifice at Jættedahl was only five nights away. He'd have to be swift and smart to execute his plan in time. Karel wasn't worried. He had spent his entire life perfecting the skill of making people like him. This would be no different from being at home.
Taking a drink from his water bottle, he stood, waiting until he was sure his legs could hold his weight before making his way down the rugged slope. Karel took in the sight of smoke columns in the distance. Ulfheim was so close and Karel was suddenly starving, but he would have to wait for the perfect time to make an entrance. He could be patient.
The sun was going down. He'd have to find shelter. Tomorrow, he could eat.
* * *
“This is wrong,” Isa said, eyes dark as he looked out over the beach where the people of Ulfheim worked to ready Hjalmar's funeral ship. Behind them, the sun touched down on the water, colours melting into it like liquid gold. “We should build a mound. By Odin's strength, Hjalmar has been jarl here for almost twenty years.”
“As fate would have it, Hjalmar bred an impatient son.” Kjartan flipped his axe in the air and caught it by the handle, leaning against the hay bales next to Isa. “I guess we won't be going to Jættedahl this year. Are you going to go with Eskal to the Western Isles, w
olf boy?”
“Do I have a choice?” Isa leaned over the side of the hay bale tower he lounged on and spat on the ground before leaning back alongside Kjartan, if only to take his eyes off the pathetic view below. “He's going to make me go whether I want to or not. Runiks are invaluable. King Torvald brought a dozen Runiks to the Western Isles.”
In the short time since they'd discovered Hjalmar's body, Eskal had isolated Ulfheim from Halafjell, however unlikely it was that anyone from Halafjell was the killer. Their warriors were dead and the remaining villagers were focusing all their energy on securing food for the winter now that they had no ships for travel and trade. Eskal didn't care to help them. He wouldn't even let mothers cross the Ulfheim ward with their sick children. It wouldn't be long until they decided to break up the village and move elsewhere. A waste of perfectly good resources, in Isa's opinion, but all Eskal cared about was fame and gold.
“You always have a choice,” Kjartan said, piercing Isa with his blue eyes and those of the pair of snarling dragons tattooed on his cheekbones. “You could leave.”
Isa huffed. “And go where? No village will let me into their fold when they find out I have the Varg's curse on my chest. You know I'm here by Hjalmar's grace alone.”
“And now the jarl is dead,” Kjartan said thoughtfully, flipping his axe into the air once more and catching it just before it cut his throat.
“One of these days, you will miss,” Isa said, pointing to Kjartan's axe.
“I never miss,” Kjartan replied, baring his teeth at Isa.
“We'll have to call you Kjartan Half-Face,” Isa continued. “At least you're already so ugly, taking bits off might be an improvement.” He laughed and was swift enough getting to his feet to avoid Kjartan's kick in his direction. He moved to the edge of the hay, looking down.
A group of barking dogs bounded at full speed around the corner. Isa staggered back, heart in his throat. He watched the hounds disappear down the road, chasing a rabbit that had poked its head up near the edge of the trees, and closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow.