A Fate Inked in Blood: The number 1 Sunday Times bestselling fantasy romance
A Fate Inked in Blood: Chapter 16

I’d thought the tunnel would immediately rise in some form of staircase inside the cliff, but what greeted us instead was a passage that carved deeper into the mountain. Gouts of steam hissed from cracks in the floor, forcing us to time each step lest we be scalded. Bjorn’s axe cast a pool of light that reached only a half dozen feet, the darkness seeming to consume the brilliance of the god-fire.

“Do you really think she’s spying for Snorri?”

“Of course she is,” Bjorn answered. “She’s the perfect spy, for everyone answers her questions in the hope of a mention in one of her songs. Even if they didn’t, she’s always lurking in the corners, watching and listening. You’d do well to mind your words around her.”

On that, he might have a point, but…“I feel bad for her.”

“Why? She’s given everything.”

“There’s something sad about her. I…” I shook my head, unable to give justification to the feeling. Besides, Steinunn, and whether or not she was spying for Snorri, was hardly my foremost concern. “How did the draug come to be here?” I cast a backward glance toward the entrance, only to replace the sunlight already gone, the tunnel having bent without my noticing. “Who were they?”

“It is forbidden to carry a weapon through the temple borders or to take a life not in sacrifice to the gods,” Bjorn answered. “As the story goes, a jarl coveted the wealth of Fjalltindr and sought to take it. He and his trusted warriors came for the ritual, and in the celebration that followed, they stole much of the gold and silver that had been left as offerings and fled with it down this path. One by one, they were struck down by divine force, made to bear the burden of their master’s curse and guard the tunnels until the end of days. Most believe that the treasure they stole still remains within the caverns, and many have attempted to steal it for themselves. None have ever returned, and it is said that any who touch the treasure of Fjalltindr are cursed to become draug themselves. So if you see anything valuable on the steps, best leave it alone.”

“Noted,” I muttered, stepping over a dead rabbit, its skin torn by what looked like claws. “What about your axe? Can you still call it within the temple’s borders?”

“I wouldn’t even attempt to do so.” Bjorn stopped at the base of a staircase leading up, each step only half a handspan deep, the rock slimy with moisture. At his feet, the hindquarters of a deer sat rotting. “It’s a weapon.”

“What about my shield?”

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You willing to risk replaceing out?”

Given what had happened to the jarl and his men, that was a definite no.

The steps rose up and up, and it wasn’t long until my calves screamed from the effort of keeping my balance on the slippery rock. I suspected it was worse for Bjorn, for he was tall enough to have to hunch over, but he never paused.

And with every step, the mountain pressed in.

There was no way to know how deep inside we were, or even how far off the ground we’d traveled, and the walls of the tunnel seemed to narrow even as the air grew hotter and more fetid. Strange sounds filled the cavern, and more than once I swore I heard the sound of feet. The whisper of strange voices. I sucked in breath after rapid breath, my heart beating chaotically in my chest as the walls moved ever closer.

It’s just your imagination, I told myself. There’s plenty of space.

Bjorn chose that moment to grumble, “This is the first time in my life I’ve wished I were smaller,” before turning sideways to squeeze between stone walls, moisture sizzling as it struck his axe. Then he stopped, turning his head to look back at me. “You all right, Born-in-Fire?”

I was quivering, but I forced a nod. “Fine. Why?”

“You look like you might vomit.” His brow furrowed. “Or faint.”

“I’m not going to fucking faint, Bjorn,” I snapped, then regretted it as my voice echoed through the tunnels. We both froze, listening, but other than the endless hiss of steam venting, there was no sound but our breathing. “I swear I’ve heard footsteps,” I whispered. “Voices. Do you hear them?”

He was quiet, then said, “The imagination plays tricks.”

Cold crept up my fingertips because he hadn’t denied hearing things. “I don’t think we’re alone in here.”

“Doesn’t mean there are draug,” Bjorn said softly. “It could be that the bones and chimes are tricks set out by the gothar to dissuade those who wish to harm or thieve. Could be that it’s all myth and legend.”

“Maybe,” I whispered, remembering all the dead things I’d stepped over on the endless stairs. Creatures that had not died easily. “Either way, I don’t care to linger.”

Bjorn gave a tight nod of agreement, then continued his sideways progress through the tight space, the mail he wore scraping against the rock.

And then he stumbled.

Something metallic shot past my feet, and I managed a backward glance in time to see a golden cup crusted with jewels go bouncing down the steps and out of sight.

Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

The sound of the metal striking against stone as it went down and down and down echoed louder than any shout. Worse, it felt like it went on forever, my stomach twisted into knots by the time it finally silenced.

I held my breath, waiting for some sign that we’d been heard. For some sign that something other than us walked the tunnels of these mountains.

“It would seem that—” Bjorn cut off as the air stirred.

Hot mist swirled around my face as though the mountain had taken a deep breath. As though the mountain had…awakened.

“Fuck,” Bjorn whispered.

I squeezed through the tight spot to where he stood. Only to have my jaw drop. The stairs beneath his feet glimmered with coins and cups of silver and gold, rubies and emeralds winking in the axe’s light.

The stolen treasure, and if that part of the story was true, then—

A scream pierced the darkness. Then another and another.

Great shuddering shrieks coming from every direction and none. Voices beyond number, their howls full of grief and pain and rage. Drums not of this world took the place of screams, the rapid rhythm punctuated by sounds of footfalls. Not boots or shoes or even the slap of bare feet, but the scratch of…of bones against stone.

And they were coming closer.

“Run!” I gasped, but Bjorn had already locked his hand around my wrist, dragging me upward.

Terror chased away my exhaustion and I took the steps three at a time, shield bouncing against my back. The stairs ended, and Bjorn cut right down a narrow tunnel, dragging me with him.

Then he slid to a stop.

I collided with him, his chain mail digging into my forehead as my skull bounced off his shoulder. Stunned, I looked past him.

Part of me wished I hadn’t.

Four skeletal figures raced toward us, their forms illuminated by a strange green light. Scraps of leather and armor hung from their bony forms, chilling war cries echoing out of their gaping jaws, teeth blackened and foul. But the weapons in their hands gleamed brilliant bright, as though even in death the draug cared for them.

Twisting, I looked back the way we’d come, but the same green light illuminated the stairs, drums and footfalls growing louder by the second.

We were trapped.

“Freya,” Bjorn said, unhooking his shield from his shoulder, “get ready to fight.”

Ripping my own shield off my back, I drew my sword and then invoked Hlin’s name. Magic flared over my shield as draug exploded from the stairwell. My back to Bjorn’s, I widened my stance and braced, fetid steam filling my mouth with every rapid breath I took.

Empty eye sockets fixed on me, more of their awful screams shattering the air as they surged forward, weapons raised.

“Born-in-Fire,” I whispered, then screamed my own battle cry.

A draug threw itself at me, and for a heartbeat I thought my magic would fail. That the draug would slam through my shield, fingers clawing and teeth gnashing. But the silver glow was the power of a goddess, and it was as though it took hold of the draug and flung it with the strength of Hlin herself.

The draug sailed through the air, smashing into those behind it. Righting themselves, the creatures crouched on all fours, hissing like beasts. Except instead of attacking again, the draug bent their heads together, and my hopes that they were mindless entities disappeared like smoke. Cursed and skeletal as they were, some of the warriors they’d once been remained.

Sweat slicked my palms as one of them leapt, clinging to the ceiling, its neck bending backward unnaturally so that it could watch me as it prowled closer. Another clung to the wall, finger bones slipping into cracks in the stone, knife clenched between its teeth. But it was the largest, which strode with heavy scraping strides, that led their attack.

My breath came in too-quick pants, and it took all my willpower not to retreat. Not that there was anywhere to go. Behind me, Bjorn grunted with effort as he battled screeching draug, but I dared not look. Not when he was trusting me to guard his back.

The draug moved closer. My shield was nowhere near wide enough to block the width of the tunnel, and my attention skipped from the one on the ceiling to the one on the wall to the one striding upright, its jaw cracking open in a parody of a grin.

Step. The bones of his feet scraped on the stone. Step.

It tensed, preparing to attack.

But it was the one on the ceiling that moved.

I shifted my shield, clenching my teeth as he rebounded off it, barely managing to move my arm in time to knock back the one that sprang from its perch on the wall.

And not nearly fast enough for the third.

His sword slashed past the right edge of my shield. I jerked my own blade up to parry and the impact of his weapon against mine sent me staggering. He swung again, and my arm shuddered as I knocked it away.

Beyond, the other draug were back on their feet, and more had exited from the stairwell, the stink of rot wafting ahead of them.

The big draug tried again to slice at me. This time, I blocked the blow with my shield. My magic sent the weapon flying out of his hand, and I took advantage, thrusting my sword toward his heart.

Only for the weapon to pass right through the creature as though it were no more than air.

The shock cast me off balance, and I staggered.

Right into the draug’s grasp.

Its skeletal fingers closed around my throat, mouth stretching wide to reveal blackened teeth as it pulled me toward it. Pain lanced down my neck, my lungs desperately trying to draw in breath, and beyond, the other draug moved to take advantage.

I tried to cut at the creature with my sword, but the draug only let out a breathy laugh, stink rolling over me.

No weapon forged by mortal hands can harm them. Bjorn’s warning filled my ears, but I couldn’t move my shield to strike without giving the other draug space to pass. If I did, they’d stab Bjorn in the back, and I refused to allow that to happen while my heart still beat.

Which might not be much longer.

My chest convulsed with the need to breathe, and mindless desperation drove me to try to stab the draug over and over, but the tip of my sword only slammed into the tunnel wall.

So I let go of my blade.

The weapon clattered to the ground as I balled my hand into a fist and swung. My knuckles split as they collided with the creature’s skull, but though it recoiled, it didn’t let go.

My lungs were agony and my vision was blurring, but I bared my teeth and swung again. And again. My knuckles bruised but the pain was secondary to the need for air as tears slicked my face. Then the draug caught hold of my wrist, bony fingers digging into tendon and flesh, and…

Flame flashed overhead, and Bjorn’s axe cleaved through the creature’s skull. For a terrifying heartbeat, its grip on my throat remained strong.

Then it exploded into ash.

I sucked in a breath, the world swimming, but I managed to keep my shield up, protecting Bjorn’s left as he carved into the draug, leaving explosions of ash in his wake. The creatures shrieked in fury and fear, one trying to flee, but Bjorn threw his axe, the fiery blade turning it to dust. Bjorn spun, the axe reappearing in his hand as he searched for another opponent.

But we once again stood alone in the tunnel.

“I’m sorry.” My voice was raspy and barely audible as I reached down to pick up my sword and sheathe it, my battered hand barely managing the task as pain lanced up my wrist and arm. Yet for all the pain, what I felt most was shame. “My weapon passed right through it and—”

“I saw what you did.” He caught hold of my waist and pulled me close, the light from our magic revealing a deep cut on his brow that spilled blood down his face. On the ground farther up the tunnel, his shield rested in pieces. “Don’t you ever put yourself in danger for me again.”

My pounding heart flipped at the intensity of his voice, the warmth from his hand spreading where it pressed against my back. The adrenaline racing through my veins, now deprived of a threat, turned to another purpose and I found myself leaning closer. “Why? Because your father will kill you if I so much as stub my toe?”

Bjorn’s fingers tightened, sending a jolt like lightning into my core. “No,” he answered. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

“Why would you say that?” I demanded. “Because I assure you, some foretelling doesn’t make my life worth more than yours.”

“There are many who’d argue that is precisely what it means.”

“Well, I’m not one of them.” I stared into his eyes, which reflected the glow of his axe. His rapid breath was hot against my face, his fingers still gripping me tightly, my mail-clad breasts grazing his chest. “And before you start arguing, allow me to remind you that I don’t give a shit about what you think when what you think is complete shit.”

Bjorn huffed out a laugh. “If the gods decide you are not a king-maker, Born-in-Fire, you should become a skald. People would come from all around to hear the poetry of your words. Steinunn would be out of a job.”

My cheeks flushed. “Kiss my arse, Bjorn.”

A smirk worked its way onto his face. “Perhaps later. I doubt that was the last we’ve seen of the draug, and while meeting my end with my lips pressed against your backside might not be the worst death, I don’t think it will earn me a place in Valhalla.”

My skin was blazing, but I managed to get out, “I’m sure you wouldn’t be the first arse-licker to enter Valhalla.”

“It’s licking now, is it?” His shoulders shook with mirth, and I cursed myself because I never seemed to get the better of him. “Such a filthy mind, Freya. Does your mother know the things you say?”

I was not going to win this round, but I vowed that once we were out of these cursed tunnels, there’d be a reckoning. “We should go.”

Bjorn looked like he might say more, but then shrugged and started up the tunnel, leaving me to follow at his heels. Though the screams and drums no longer deafened the air, I knew the whispers and faint tread of feet were not my imagination.

We were being watched. And when the draug came again, they’d be prepared.

—

Neither of us spoke as we carried on our climb up the mountain, and for me, much of that was driven by exhaustion. Each step was an act of will, my legs like lead, the shield once again strapped to my back having tripled in weight since we started our climb. My bruised throat ached and my battered knuckles throbbed.

But none of it compared to the gnawing sense that we were being trailed, our enemy waiting for the right moment to ambush us. Judging from the tension radiating from Bjorn, he felt the same, meaning it wasn’t my imagination.

Climbing over a crumbled stretch of stairs, Bjorn reached back to help me over. The left side of his face was a mask of blood, the wound on his brow still seeping. “You should let me bandage that cut,” I said. “You’re leaving a trail of blood.”

“I’m fine.” Our hands interlocked, his large enough to conceal mine entirely, holding tight until I was over the broken rocks. “And the cowardly vermin know we’re here regardless of what I do or don’t do.”

The air swirled, and I shot Bjorn a glare as he lifted me over another broken stretch. “Perhaps provoking them isn’t the best course.”

“Why not?” He started down the tunnel, still gripping my hand. “Thieving bastards plan to attack anyway.” Louder, he added, “Why not do it like men instead of lying in wait, you cowardly pricks!”

“Bjorn!” I hissed, hot air gusting around me. “Shut. Up.”

“They’re planning an ambush,” he muttered. “Might as well pick our ground.”

While there was logic to the thought, I was also of the opinion that we could at least try to quietly get to the top without another fight.

Whereas Bjorn was obviously itching for one.

Spotting a pile of treasure, he kicked the lot of it, sending it scattering over the tunnel floor. “Come out and fight like your balls didn’t rot off decades ago!”

The mountain exhaled, and then in the distance, the drumming renewed. Loud thundering beats that made my head throb. “You have maggots for brains,” I snarled. “Stupid, idiotic fool of a man!”

Bjorn unhooked my shield from my back and handed it to me. “It hurts my feelings when you call me names, Freya. Besides, you should have more faith—I’ve got a plan.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good plan.” My voice was shrill, my fear latching onto the scrape of skeletal feet racing in our direction. There were more than before. Far more.

“It is perfection. Trust me.” He pushed me toward the opening we’d just climbed through. “Keep that blocked.”

Spitting every curse I knew, I invoked Hlin and then pressed the shield to the opening. There was space above and below it. More than enough for hands to reach through. Hands with weapons in them. I muttered, “It’s amazing you’ve lived this long,” turning my head so as to look at Bjorn while berating him, only to have my tongue freeze and my skin turn to ice.

For coming down the tunnel toward us was a sickly green glow. The stink of decay rolled ahead on an icy breeze, filling the small chamber and making me gag, and I had to clench my teeth to keep from vomiting on the floor. The first of the draug appeared carrying rotting shields, which they interlaced in a wall to face Bjorn, more filing in behind to fill the space at their backs. The glow stretched down the tunnel behind them, dozens upon dozens.

How could there be so many?

Then I remembered…it wasn’t only the jarl’s men who’d stolen the gods’ offerings at Fjalltindr who were cursed to this place; it was all who’d come into these tunnels since, intending to take the treasure but instead succumbing to the draug.

A reminder that if Bjorn and I died, we wouldn’t join the gods but be condemned to haunt this place for eternity.

There was no time to dwell on such a fate, for beyond my shield, something scratched. Then a hand reached through the gap between stone and shield. Not long dead; flesh still clung to the draug’s bones as the arm bent upward, trying to lock onto my wrist. I swatted at it, my stomach roiling as bits of flesh caught on my fingers.

“Bitch-child of Hlin,” the draug hissed, apparently still possessed of its tongue. “Your flesh will fill my belly soon enough.”

In answer, I caught hold of its forearm and twisted until the elbow dislocated, relishing its cry of pain despite knowing the draug might well have the last word.

Behind me, Bjorn’s voice echoed through the chamber. “I see my reputation has reached even the bowels of this shithole.”

“You are no one to us, child of Tyr,” one of the draug rasped out, a black and rotten tongue flapping in its mouth. It tried to ease past Bjorn, keeping to the sides of the chamber, its eyes fixed on me. But Bjorn stretched out his arm, blazing axe blocking the creature’s path.

“If I am no one,” he said, “then why have so many of you gathered to fight me? I am but one man who stands alone.”

If I hadn’t been busy wrestling with a rotten arm, I’d have pointed out to him that he did not stand alone. But the first draug was clawing my shoes while another tried to stab me with a blade shoved over the top of my shield.

“It seems to me that you are either liars or that you are,” Bjorn paused, and I could imagine the smirk on his face, “cowards.”

The draug snarled at the insult, several of them releasing chilling battle cries, but none surged to attack.

Because they were afraid.

No weapon of this world could end the terrible existence that they clung to, but the axe that burned in Bjorn’s hand was not of this world. It was the fire of a god and thus capable of turning them to ash. If I were condemned to this fate, I would welcome an end, yet they flinched as the axe disappeared from Bjorn’s right hand, only to materialize in his left, blocking another creature attempting to reach me.

“Most cowardly of all is your leader,” Bjorn continued, his voice dripping with mockery. “He condemned you to this fate and yet has failed to show himself. Where is your jarl? Does he cower behind the lines, afraid to face the fire of the gods who cursed you to this place?”

I didn’t understand what Bjorn could gain from taunting them besides a last bit of satisfaction before he died, for there was no hope of us killing so many. And given that once dead, we’d likely join their ranks, I couldn’t help but think there’d be consequences for provoking them.

My thoughts on the shortsightedness of Bjorn’s plan vanished as the fetid air swirled, the shield wall parting to reveal an enormous hulking creature.

Skeletal as the rest, it wore a full coat of mail that rattled as it moved, its skull concealed by a helmet, and several weapons belted at its waist. In a voice like howling wind, it demanded, “Who are you to call me coward, Bjorn Firehand?”

“So you have heard of me.” Bjorn rocked on his heels, clearly amused, though how he wasn’t pissing himself from fear was beyond me.

“I have heard many tales in the intervening hours since you stepped into my domain,” the creature hissed. “And told many of my own.”

“I’ve only heard the one about you being a common thief, but by all means, if there is more to tell, I am happy to listen.”

The draug jarl opened its jaw and let out a scream of wrath, the noise like knives to my eardrums.

Bjorn didn’t so much as flinch, only waited for the echoes to silence. “It explains why none recall your name, Jarl. You have no battle fame.”

“I shall win great fame and honor for your death, Firehand,” the creature hissed. “A song sung by skalds for generations to come.”

“Seems unlikely, given none shall hear of it.”

How he could be so brazen, I did not know, for my chest felt bound and my tongue dry as sand.

“It will be sung,” the draug repeated, teeth baring in a grin.

Bjorn shrugged. “Then I suppose we ought to make it a song worth hearing. I challenge you to single combat. I win, you let us pass. I lose, well…I’ll have to spend an eternity listening to songs of your prowess.”

My breath caught. Perhaps his plan wasn’t as idiotic as I’d first believed.

The draug tilted its skull, seeming to consider Bjorn’s proposal, though there wasn’t a warrior present, living or dead, who didn’t know what he’d have to say. To decline would only prove Bjorn’s accusation that he was a coward. He’d lose the respect of all those who followed him, and if his cares were the same in death as they were in life, the loss of reputation would matter to him.

“So be it.” The jarl’s answer blew over me, strands of hair whipping around my face. Yet I swore he smiled as he added, “As long as it be on the terms of the living. Which means, Bjorn Firehand, you must fight using a mortal weapon.”

My stomach dropped. Was that true?

I had my answer when Bjorn went deathly still. “You cannot be killed by steel.”

The jarl’s laugh was echoed by his followers. “That is true, Bjorn Firehand. So now your choice is whether to die with honor. Or without. Either way, you will join my ranks.”

“That’s not fair,” I shouted, unable to contain my voice. “The cursed dead do not deserve terms set for mortals.”

The jarl laughed again. “Perhaps so, child of Hlin, but Bjorn Firehand issued the challenge.” His teeth clacked together, flakes of black falling from them. “Now we shall see what his reputation is worth to him.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Bjorn cut me off. “I agree.” He turned on his heel, striding toward me. “I need your shield, Freya. Theirs are all half rotten.”

“No,” I said. “We fight. There’s a chance we can get through them.”

Bjorn shook his head. “I’ll not die a coward.”

“Who cares?” The words tore from my throat. “They are the cursed dead—what does it matter what they think?”

“It doesn’t.” His voice was clipped. “Do what you need to do to survive, Born-in-Fire. You aren’t bound by my word.”

He set his flaming axe on the ground near me, then reached for my shield. My magic disappeared the moment the wood was out of my grip. “Trust Hlin’s power, Freya.”

I ground my teeth. What good was my magic with no shield in my hand?

“Leave the woman be during the fight,” the jarl ordered his followers, and the other draug retreated, their bony feet scratching the ground. “After he’s dead, do what you will to her, but the Firehand is mine.”

Horror soured my stomach as I pressed my back to the wall, helplessness twisting my guts into ropes as Bjorn squared off against the jarl. One of the other draug approached. It looked to have once been a woman, rags of a dress hanging from its skeletal frame. It handed Bjorn an axe, then it caught hold of both combatants’ wrists and lifted them high. From all around, the draug screamed in delight, and I dropped my sword to press my hands against my ears, the sound agony. But I saw the creature’s fleshless jaw move as it spoke. “Begin.”

Preternaturally fast, the jarl swung his weapon.

Bjorn was ready.

His borrowed weapon was up in a flash, the axe catching the jarl’s sword even as he wrenched it sideways. A less experienced fighter would have lost his blade, but the jarl moved with Bjorn, extracting his sword and swinging again.

Bjorn caught the blow with my shield, grunting from the strength of the impact and staggering back. The jarl grinned, revealing his blackened teeth, then struck again. Bjorn parried, but the jarl’s sword cleaved the haft of his borrowed axe and sent the blade flying.

Bjorn cursed, barely managing to block another blow with the shield. Then another and another, the wood cracking and splintering under the onslaught.

Lifting my sword, I shouted, “Bjorn, take mine!” and held it out, hilt first.

He reacted instantly, blocking a blow, and then twisting away. He snatched my weapon from my grip, rotating in time to block another blow.

It went on, Bjorn defending but never going on the offensive because there was no point. My sword would pass right through the draug’s body without doing any harm. The jarl could not be killed except with the power of a god, which Bjorn was stubbornly resisting despite his axe being right there.

All for fucking honor.

My breath came in painful little gasps as I envisioned him dying, yet another to fall because of me and everything I supposedly represented. Tears flowed down my cheeks, because instead of going to Valhalla as he deserved, Bjorn would rise as one of the draug. And I’d have to leave him here. Would have to figure out a way to fight past these creatures so that I might survive, for dying seemed the greatest insult I could possibly give to Bjorn’s sacrifice.

Which meant I needed to replace a way to get out.

Bjorn’s shield shattered under one of the jarl’s blows, broken pieces flying everywhere. My eyes skipped over the chunks of wood, all too small to be the slightest bit effective. Nothing within reach was large enough to use, which meant I’d need to try to wrest a shield from one of the draug.

“Fuck,” I breathed, seeing that Bjorn’s strength was fading and I’d found no solution. He’d said to trust Hlin, but what did that mean?

Bjorn stumbled beneath a heavy blow, the reopened cut on his brow splattering the ground with blood, droplets sizzling as they struck his axe where it still rested near my feet.

The axe.

I stared at the weapon, understanding of what I needed to do sending beads of sweat running down my back.

Could I do it again? Could I pick it up? And if I did, what would I be able to do, given my hand would be incinerated in a matter of moments? What had Bjorn believed I could accomplish?

Think, Freya, I silently screamed.

What had been his original plan? What had he hoped to achieve by drawing them here and challenging the jarl, because I didn’t believe for a heartbeat that these vermin would honor the terms agreed to by their vanquished leader.

Unless they had to?

Made to bear the burden of their master’s curse. Bjorn’s voice filled my head, and I abruptly understood what I needed to do.

Pick it up, I ordered myself. End this.

Sweat rolled down my cheeks to mix with my tears, my fear of the pain battling with my fear of watching Bjorn die. Of dying myself.

Do it.

My heart throbbed with terror as I edged closer to the axe. Already the heat of it made me sick, my head spinning.

A sharp hiss of pain caught my attention, my eyes jerking back to the fight to see Bjorn stumble, a gash just above his elbow spilling crimson across the ground. The jarl pushed the advantage, swinging hard.

Steel clashed against steel, my sword flipping out of Bjorn’s hands, the jarl’s mouth gaping wide as he laughed.

There was no more time.

I reached for the axe, clenching my teeth against the pain that would come. Just before I took hold of the weapon, Bjorn’s words filled my ears: Trust Hlin’s power.

“Hlin,” I gasped out. “Protect me.”

Magic surged into my body right as Bjorn fell, landing hard on his back. Tears of terror dripped into my mouth, but I forced myself to focus. Not to push the magic outward, but to draw it over my fingers. My palm. My wrist, until it all glowed with the goddess’s light.

Please let this work. I closed my hand over the handle of the axe, and braced for the burn.

But the smell of charring flesh did not fill my nose.

Rising to my feet, I hefted the weapon as the draug pressed a bony foot down on Bjorn’s chest.

“You are defeated,” the jarl whispered, not seeming to notice that I held the axe as he said to his followers, “You may have the woman after he’s dead, but only I will feast on the flesh of the Firehand.”

The jarl lifted his weapon, and Bjorn grinned. “I forfeit the challenge.”

The draug hesitated, seemingly surprised, and in that heartbeat, I let the axe fly.

It flipped end-over-end, embedding with a thunk in the jarl’s chest. Slowly, he looked down, vacant eye sockets latching onto the burning weapon.

My heart skipped with the fear that I’d erred. That Tyr disapproved of my actions and would deny me his power.

The jarl took one step toward me, reaching—

Only to explode into ash, weapons and armor dropping into a pile on the ground.

And not just him.

All around us, the draug sworn to the jarl turned to ash, the curse binding them to this place broken with the death of their lord. I gaped in amazement as weapons and bits of armor clattered to the tunnel floor, ash billowing up in choking clouds.

If only that were the end of it.

Those who’d come into these tunnels to search for the lost treasure and died for their efforts remained, for it was not the jarl’s greed that had cursed them, but their own.

Teeth clacking, they filtered into the chamber, warily eyeing the burning axe that Bjorn held once again. Fear warring with an endless unsatiable hunger for living flesh.

Bjorn retrieved my sword for me, and with my newfound knowledge of my gift I covered it with magic as we stood back-to-back. “There are fewer of them,” he muttered. “Unlike the jarl’s men, these are not trained warriors.”

Yet they had numbers.

My grip tightened on my sword, fury rising hot and fast inside me, drowning my fear. Fury that these shells of men would be the end of us despite all we’d done. Despite how hard we’d fought. Snorri and the others said that I was favored by the gods, but was this how they showed their favor? The draug were bound here by the will of the gods and the will of the gods alone, which meant it was the gods’ will that we face them.

“I curse you,” I hissed, not certain if I meant the draug or the gods or both. “I curse you to Helheim, you shades of men. May Hel rule you until the end of days, for you do not deserve the honor of Valhalla!”

The air in the tunnel abruptly turned to ice, and beneath my feet the ground quivered with such violence that I’d have fallen if Bjorn hadn’t caught my arm.

The draug shrieked and tried to flee, but before any went more than a step, what looked like blackened tree roots reached up through the tunnel floor. They wrapped around each of the draug, the creatures screaming as they tried to claw their way free.

I recoiled against Bjorn, shock stealing my breath when, as one, the roots descended and disappeared.

Leaving only scattered bone and scraps of clothing in their wake.

They were gone. All the draug were gone.

“Good to see the gods finally being helpful to our cause,” Bjorn said, but his voice was stilted, devoid of its usual humor.

I swallowed because the alternative was to vomit. “I suppose we needed to pass their test.”

“Not we,” Bjorn said. “You. Though you took your time doing it.”

“I believe the words you are looking for are thank you for saving my arse, Freya.”

The quip stole the last of my bravado. My legs buckled and I fell on my bottom, resting my forehead against my knees to stop the spinning.

Bjorn sat next to me, holding out a waterskin, from which I took a long drink. “It was my idea.”

“Your idea?” I tried to glare at him, which was hard, given that I was on the verge of fainting. Or puking. Or both. “How could you have possibly known that would work?”

“I couldn’t.” All the humor vanished from Bjorn’s face as he clasped my forearms. “But I knew that you’d do what needed to be done.”

“Your confidence is misplaced.” I remembered how I’d hesitated. How afraid I’d been.

Bjorn tilted his head, his expression considering. “I have a great many doubts,” he finally said. “But the courage of Freya Born-in-Fire is not one of them.”

My chest tightened even as a flood of warmth filled my body, because no one had ever given me such a compliment, about something that mattered so much. It meant even more coming from him. I searched for the words to tell him so, but instead found myself arguing. “I’m not courageous. I was terrified to pick it up. Terrified that it would burn through my magic. It was shameful that it took me so long to overcome my cowardice.”

Bjorn let out a laugh that sounded oddly strangled. “If we are having a moment of honesty, in those last few seconds before you killed the jarl, I had some concerns I might shit myself out of pure terror.”

I snorted out a laugh, knowing full well that he was trying to make me feel better. “Bjorn, the only thing you shit is bluster and foolery.”

“It was a valid fear.” He reached down to pull me to my feet, drawing me up the tunnel and away from the remains of the draug. “If you’d made it out alive, it would only have been a matter of time until your tongue was loosened by wine and you told everyone what truly happened. Then not only would I be cursed for eternity to these tunnels as a draug, I’d forever be known to mortals as Bjorn Shitshimself.”

My shoulders shook, I was laughing so hard. “I would never tell.”

“Women always talk.” He led me up a section of stairs, my legs wobbling with each step. “Especially to one another. There is no secret sacred enough to your kind to silence your tongue when you gather. Especially when there is wine.”

I smiled even though I barely had the strength to keep moving. “You speak as though from experience. Tell me, what grave secret of yours was aired by a woman? What did she know that you were so desperate to keep from mocking ears?”

“I have no secrets.” He winked as he looked down at me, arm moving from my shoulders to around my waist, supporting me. “Only large truths that I hope women will not share lest they bring envy into the hearts of their fellow women, which, in turn, will bring their men to my doorstep in a jealous rage spurred by a sense of inadequacy.”

“Ah.” My cheeks flushed, because I suspected what he alluded to was the truth. Bjorn was a large man, so it only made sense that he had a large—“So your demands for discretion are entirely altruistic?”

“I’m glad you understand my self-sacrifice in the name of the greater good.”

I snorted. “I’d sooner believe you’re hung like Thor himself than that you’d sacrifice a drop of piss to protect the vanity of other men.”

Bjorn lifted me over some rubble. “This is why I like you, Freya. You’ve got a brain between your ears and a saucy tongue to voice the thoughts within it.”

Heat flooded me. “Trying to distract me with compliments? You’re losing your edge, Bjorn. Next you’ll tell me that I’m pretty and I’ll lose all respect for your wit.”

“It is hard to keep one’s wits when faced with a woman as beautiful as the sight of shore to a man who has been lost at sea.”

My heart skipped, then sped. Because that was an entirely different sort of compliment, meaningful in an entirely different kind of way. I’d spent so much time thinking about how I felt about him, but this was the first time I truly considered how he felt about me. “Bjorn—”

My legs chose that moment to give out from exhaustion, and only his grip on my waist kept me from crashing to the ground.

“My feet hurt,” he declared, lowering me so that my back rested against the tunnel wall. Setting his axe on the ground, he sat next to me. “And I’m hungry. Fighting makes me hungry.”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

Bjorn dug around his pack, extracting some dried meat, which he handed to me. “Because you’ve barely slept in days. Because you just climbed halfway up a mountain. Because you just battled an army of draug. Because—”

“You made your point.” Biting off a piece of the meat, I chewed, my eyes blindly staring at the crimson flames of his axe. I was exhausted, but my mind kept skipping from thought to thought, too overwhelmed to focus but unable to relax.

A scuff of noise followed by the sound of scattering pebbles caught my attention and I tensed, staring back the way we came. Bjorn went still as well, but then he shook his head. “The draug are vanquished, Freya. They are a threat no longer.”

I knew that. Had seen it with my own eyes, but I still stared into the blackness for a long time until my heart settled, my breathing slowing enough for me to take a bite of the meat I held.

We ate and drank in silence, the only sound the draft of wind through the tunnels and the crackle of Bjorn’s axe, which had turned the stone it rested upon black. With the distance we’d climbed, long gone were the gusts of fetid steam, and the cold seeped into my bones, the draft coming from above frigid. Shivering, I held my hands out to the heat of the flame, my right knuckles seeping blood from punching the draug. My fingers ached with stiffness, my skin painfully tight, a constant reminder of the moment my life had changed.

“Where is Liv’s salve?” Bjorn asked. “You’re to use it every day.”

The thought of digging it out felt exhausting. “I don’t need it.”

“You do.”

“I don’t know where it is.” Glancing up at him, I added, “You’re the one who is injured.” No lie, given that half of his face was covered in dried blood, his sleeve was soaked in crimson, and I was sure he was sporting many bruises from his battle with the draug jarl.

“You’re right,” he answered. “Not only am I in a great deal of pain, but this cut”—he tapped his face—“was also from a rusty draug blade and is likely going to fester, thus ruining my good looks. And I know how you value them, Born-in-Fire, because you’ve told me twice.”

It was impossible not to roll my eyes. “I told you to let me tend to it. You said you were fine.”

“I changed my mind.”

Sighing, I twisted onto my knees, my chilled muscles protesting the motion as I lifted up enough to look at the injury. Just below the hairline, the cut was about as long as my little finger, and was likely down to the bone. It should’ve been stitched but I didn’t have the tools. Digging into my bag, I retrieved a clean rag, which I dampened with water, and then cleaned away all the blood.

It was hard to focus with his breath brushing my throat and his skin hot beneath my cold hands. “This was from a blade?”

“A rusty blade.”

Frowning, I shook my head. “When we reach Fjalltindr, someone will have herbs to better clean this. Cloves, perhaps,” I added, having seen some in the spices carried by Snorri’s thralls.

“There are cloves in Liv’s salve.”

“True,” I muttered, reaching into my bag, my hand closing over the little pot before I froze. “You arse.”

“Always with the insults.” Bjorn slid his hand down my arm and into my bag, where my hand clutched the pot of salve, his fingers wrapping over mine. The sensation sent sparks dancing over my skin, and my stomach did flips as he drew our hands out of the bag.

Unfolding my fingers, he extracted the pot from my grip and opened it with his thumb. “Lucky for me that you didn’t lose it. Or”—he dug out a glob and smeared it across his cut—“lucky for you, as now my face is saved.”

“You are so vain.” Flopping on my bottom with my back against the wall, I crossed my arms. “It’s not right for a man to think so highly of his own appearance.”

“You’re the one who said you thought Baldur had finally been freed by Hel when you first saw me,” he replied, prying my arm away from my side and depositing a glob of salve on my scarred palm. “And also the one who thought I blinded my enemies with beauty by charging them shirtless. And—”

“I hate you.”

“If only that were true,” he murmured, his strong fingers digging into the stiff tendons of my hand, driving away the cold and the pain and replacing them with something else entirely. A longing to feel them touching other parts of me.

A longing to touch him.

I said nothing, only watched him work on my hand long after the salve was rubbed into my scarred skin. Then he turned it over, tracing the twisted lines of the second tattoo Hlin had given me. Needing to break the silence, I asked, “I wonder what it was meant to look like?”

“Maybe this is what it was meant to look like,” he countered, taking my other hand and examining the crimson shield tattooed across the back, the lines pulsing with each beat of my heart. “The gods foresaw that you’d take my axe. That you’d be burned. What they saw was why they said your name would be born in fire.”

“Unless I acted differently than they foresaw,” I said. “Unless I altered the fate the Norns planned for me. Maybe that’s why this tattoo is twisted, because from that moment, the path they saw for me ceased to exist.”

“Only the gods can answer that.” Bjorn hesitated, still holding my hands. “Or a seer.”

“Know one?” I asked, then immediately regretted it when he dropped my hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. What happened to my mother was not your fault.”

And clearly not anything he wished to talk about. I wracked my brain for a way to change the subject that wouldn’t feel awkward, finally blurting out, “What does your tattoo depict?”

Bjorn huffed out an amused breath. “Which one?”

“The one Tyr gave you, obviously.”

“That one’s hardly hidden.” He gave me a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth turned up once again. “I thought you meant the one on my arse.”

My chin quivered with the effort it took not to laugh. “I already know what that one depicts.”

“Do you now.” Both his eyebrows rose. “Have you been spying on me when I bathe, Born-in-Fire?”

“Difficult, given that you don’t.” Keeping my expression steady, I added, “And I don’t need to see it to know that it depicts the poor decisions that you make when you are drunk, whereas I imagine Tyr put more care into his selection when he inked you in blood.”

Tipping his head back, Bjorn laughed, the rich sound filling the tunnel with echoes. “You are a goddess among women,” he finally said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Look for yourself, then.”

He turned his back to me and lowered his head to expose his neck. His height kept me from getting a good look, so I rose back onto my knees, holding his hair to one side and leaning close. “More light.”

“Demanding,” he murmured, but picked up his axe, holding it high to illuminate his skin.

Not unexpectedly, the tattoo was shaped like an axe, the blade etched in incredible detail, though the rune representing Tyr was what drew my eye. Like my own tattoo, the crimson inkwork pulsed with the beat of his heart, and, beneath my scrutiny, it seemed to throb faster. “Nervous?”

“My neck is exposed to you, Born-in-Fire,” he answered. “I’m fucking terrified.”

Smiling, I traced my left index finger over the thin red lines. He shivered beneath my touch, and his reaction stoked the embers of desire in me that felt impossible to extinguish. Swallowing the dryness in my throat, I said, “You’re the one holding the weapon.”

“And yet I feel entirely at your mercy,” he said under his breath, lowering his axe back to the ground. Bjorn turned to face me, and on my knees as I was, we were at eye level. Breathing the same air, though the tension between us was so thick I felt light-headed.

“Satisfied?” he asked, green eyes rendered black by the shadows.

I wasn’t. Not even a little bit, but the things it would take to sate me were so very forbidden. “It’s good work.”

Bjorn inclined his head without breaking our gaze, and I suddenly found I couldn’t breathe at all. We were alone in these tunnels, which meant there was nothing to stop us but ourselves, and I felt my will to do so waning.

I wanted him.

Wanted his lips on mine. Wanted to feel his hands on my body. Wanted to touch the hard muscles and taut skin beneath his clothing and mail until I knew every inch of him.

He’s your husband’s son, a voice screamed in my head. Nothing good could come of this!

Husband in name only, I screamed back at the voice. A sham of a marriage!

That doesn’t mean you aren’t bound! That doesn’t mean you won’t pay if you get caught!

The thought rattled sense into me, and I looked away. Lowered myself down so that my back was pressed against the wall, my eyes again fixed on his axe. As my desire faded, so did the adrenaline that had come with it, and exhaustion pressed down. Cold leached into my legs, into my back, and I shivered.

“Come here.” Bjorn’s voice was low and rough, and I didn’t resist as he pulled me against him, the heat of his body driving away the chill. I rested my head against his chest, so painfully tired but unable to close my eyes. Unable to relax because the misery in my heart refused to let me.

“What’s it like in Nordeland?” Perhaps no better a topic than his murdered mother, but I needed to fill the silence with something heavy. With something that would pull me down and down until I finally fell asleep.

Bjorn cleared his throat. “Colder. Harder. It makes Skaland seem like soft living by comparison.”

That was hard to imagine, though I didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth. “What are the people like?”

“The same. Yet entirely different.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s hard to explain, but if you were to go there, I think you’d understand.”

Nordeland was Skaland’s greatest enemy, the most vicious of raiders, and I struggled to reconcile that truth with his words, for all I saw were monsters who slaughtered families and burned villages, stealing everything of value. “They treated you well?”

“Yes. Very well.”

His voice was tight, but I pressed anyway. “Snorri wishes to make war against them. Will that be difficult for you? To fight those who raised you?”

Bjorn didn’t answer, but I kept quiet, waiting, and eventually he said, “No matter how I feel about the people, vengeance must be had against the one who hurt my mother. I’ve sworn an oath to take everything from him, and anyone who stands in the way is nothing more than a casualty of war.”

A shiver ran over me, and I started to turn to look up at him, but his grip tightened. Holding me in place, he murmured, “Go to sleep, Born-in-Fire. In a few hours, we’ll finish the climb to the summit and see just what the gods have in store for you.”