A Fate Inked in Blood: The number 1 Sunday Times bestselling fantasy romance
A Fate Inked in Blood: Chapter 21

By the light of torches, we made our way down the southern slope of Hammar. No one spoke, every bit of concentration required not to slip on the treacherous pathway. Yet for all the slightest misstep that might send me tumbling to my death, flickers of memory invaded my mind’s eye. The sensation of Bjorn’s mouth on mine, our tongues entwined, the taste of him lingering like spice. Of his hands on my body, my legs wrapped around his waist, his hardness rubbing against my sex as I ground against him. Each time my boots skidded on loose rock or I stumbled over a root, I’d snap back to reality, my cheeks flushed and thighs slick with liquid heat, shame in my heart.

Why had I taken it so far?

Oh, it was easy enough to tell myself that we’d done what we needed to do, but that had only been the impetus. The escalation had been all desire, my desire, for while Bjorn’s body had reacted, that was only because he was a man and men had little control over such things. He was loyal to his father, and I’d shamed that loyalty. Embarrassed myself and him, and each time he reached out to steady me, mortification filled my core.

Yet for all my self-admonitions, it felt like a string stretched between us, my awareness of his proximity never faltering, and I could swear that even if my eyes were closed I might reach out to him with unerring precision. My eyes went to him of their own accord, only force of will driving them back to the ground, and my ears perked up every time I heard his voice.

You’re a stupid, lovesick fool, I snarled at myself. Lives are at stake, yet you lust over muscles and a pretty face. Act like a grown woman, not a girl who’s never had a man between her legs.

It’s more than that, my heart pleaded in protest. It’s more than just lust.

Which was what terrified me the most. Lust, I could satisfy myself. But the emotions burning in my chest? Those were not something that could be sated by deft fingers in a dark room. And certainly not by me.

It was with relief that the village at the base of the mountain appeared in the dawn light, and alongside it multiple camps with picket lines full of horses, all flying different banners. One of which was Snorri’s. Those on guard duty must have recognized us, for I’d not trodden another dozen feet before Ragnar approached. “My lord,” he said, “we were not expecting you so soon.”

“Halsar may be at risk of a raid.” Snorri’s voice was clipped. “Break camp and ready the horses. We must make haste.”

Bodil and her maidens split off to their camp, while our party trudged toward our own. As we drew closer, a familiar figure stepped out of a tent, her dress and cloak marked with travel stains and her face with exhaustion. “I am pleased to see you well, my lord,” Steinunn said, then to Ylva, “You as well, my lady.” Bjorn she pointedly ignored, but to me she said, “I would have your story, Freya Born-in-Fire.” Her voice was cool, expression stony, something in her gaze causing discomfort to twist my stomach.

“She’s tired,” Bjorn snapped. “While you’ve been at ease in camp, Freya has barely slept in days.”

“On the contrary,” the skald snapped back, “I arrived at the camp not an hour past, because that idiot man with the horses left before—” She broke off as Bodil approached, inclining her head. “Jarl Bodil.”

The big woman gave her a considering look, then said, “It has been long months since you’ve graced Brekkur with your presence, Steinunn. I look forward to a performance.”

“I will tell the tale of how Freya defeated the draug to reach the summit of the Hammar.”

“How do you know that is what happened?” Bjorn asked. “Perhaps the tunnels were empty and we merely climbed to the top.”

The look the skald gave him was withering, but before the conversation could devolve further, I said, “It was a great battle, and I will tell you all of it, as I promised.”

“Since you’ve made clear you do not wish to tell me anything, Bjorn,” Steinunn said, “perhaps you might retrieve our horses.”

Bjorn’s eyes narrowed, but Bodil said, “I will stay with Freya, Firehand. This is a story I greatly wish to hear.”

“It’s fine,” I said to him, “I will make no mention of Bjorn Shitshimself.”

Bodil coughed on the mouthful of water she’d just drunk, but Bjorn only smirked. “It is to my good fortune that the skalds’ magic can only reveal the truth.”

I smirked back, trying to ignore the flips my stomach was doing. “If I believe it, is it not the truth?”

“My reputation already cowers, Born-in-Fire,” he answered. “I shall flee lest it take more abuse.”

Turning on his heel, he strode toward the picket line, and I tore my eyes from his form to replace Bodil watching me, and my cheeks warmed. “He did not actually,” I swiftly said. “It’s just a—”

“Perhaps start from the beginning,” the jarl said, then jabbed Steinunn, who was glaring at the ground. “Pay attention, girl, you don’t want to get anything wrong on this one.”

—

I spoke until I was so hoarse my throat hurt, telling the story of our journey through the draug-infested tunnels. Of our battles and how my magic protected me so that I might wield Bjorn’s axe, and how the gods had intervened in the final moments, when all seemed lost, to drag the remaining creatures down to Helheim. It was fortunate that the moments I did not wish to share were the quiet moments, and no one seemed to notice their omission. Bjorn stubbornly refused to be involved in the telling, riding instead at the rear of the column.

The telling distracted me from thoughts of him, but it also served well to distract those I rode with who feared for their families in Halsar. Yet as the sun faded into night, Ylva insisting that we ride by torchlight, sleep took me. And in the confines of my mind, I was not so similarly spared.

Once again, I stood atop the great hall of Halsar, except this time everything burned. People ran screaming, their clothing aflame, while warriors made of shadow pursued and cut them down, black blood spraying even as their victims fell screaming. And I could do nothing. Could not move from the place where my feet were fixed to the roof of the hall, my body frozen in place. All I could do was scream and scream, for I’d brought this upon all of them.

I jerked upright, only the ropes tying me to the saddle keeping me from falling off the side of my horse.

“You have troubled dreams.”

My head snapped to my left where Bodil rode, leading my mare. Though she’d stayed by my side the entire journey, listened to every word of my tale, she had said little about herself. Logically, I knew that I needed to be careful about what I said, for she would discern any untruth and there were secrets I needed to keep, but there was something calming about her presence that made me want to confess my fears.

“I have a troubled life,” I finally answered. “Those troubles replace their ways into my dreams.”

Her head tilted slightly. “You fear for those in Halsar, despite it only recently becoming your home?”

“Yes.” Shifting in the saddle, I silently willed those ahead of me to increase their speed so conversation would be impossible. “They were left undefended for my sake.”

“That was Snorri’s decision, not yours.”

Just as it had been his decision to sacrifice the thralls as decoys during the ascent of Fjalltindr, but that hadn’t eased my conscience. “I don’t want anyone to die because of me, especially not innocent people.”

“If that is their fate, that is their fate.”

I scowled, though she spoke a truth I’d heard all my life. “I weave my own fate, Bodil, same as you. Same as all children of the gods. If by changing my path I might alter theirs, why shouldn’t I try?”

“I did not say you shouldn’t.” Bodil reined her horse around a bush. “But how are you to know whether the choice you made changed anything?”

“If everyone in Halsar is well, I’ll know, because it means what has occurred is different from what the seer foresaw.”

“Perhaps.” Bodil was quiet for a long moment. “Or perhaps the seer’s words did not mean what Ylva believed they meant. Perhaps she spoke of a moment far in the future. Or perhaps”—she gave me a long look—“of a place other than Halsar. Only the gods know for certain.”

“Then why ask a seer anything at all if what they tell you is useless?” I exploded. Not out of anger toward her, but out of a growing sense of powerlessness.

“The words the seers speak are given to them by the gods,” Bodil answered. “Do you not think it the greatest vanity for a mere mortal to believe he can take divine knowledge and bend it to his purpose?”

My eyes shot to her so fast my neck cracked, for, of a surety, she spoke of Snorri. “Speak plainly, Bodil. I’m too tired for riddles.”

The jarl shrugged, her silvered braids falling over her broad shoulders. “The gods love riddles, Freya, and I am as much at their mercy as you. But the question I replace myself asking is this: How can a man control your fate when he is not even the master of his own?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, unable to come up with an answer.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Bodil said. “I must go speak with Ylva. She is much consumed by fear for her home and Snorri has a man’s ability to offer comfort, which is to say none at all.”

Likely made worse by her knowing that Snorri had been more interested in taking vengeance against Harald than defending her home. “You know her well?”

Bodil smiled. “Why do you think she came to me for help at Fjalltindr?” Nudging her horse with her heels, she pressed into a canter, calling over her shoulder, “Think about what I said.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks, considering her words. Except the answer seemed obvious. Snorri controlled me with threats. His blade hovered over my mother’s neck, and above Geir’s and Ingrid’s, which meant I would do as he asked. While that wasn’t as worthy of song as gods and fate, it was every bit as effective.

“Foolishness,” I muttered to myself. Likely what Bodil was trying to do was undercut Snorri, which meant I should be wary of her.

“What is?”

For the second time in minutes, I jumped, replaceing Bjorn next to me, a shiver running over me as his knee bumped against mine with the motion of the trotting horses. “What?”

He took a bite of dried meat, jaw working as he chewed, the breeze sending pieces of his dark hair dancing against his skin. Swallowing, he said, “What is foolishness?”

I blinked, wondering what sort of teasing he was subjecting me to, then realized he’d heard me talking to myself and my skin flushed. “Nothing. I…It’s nothing, only idle words with Bodil.”

“Didn’t look idle.”

His leg brushed against mine again, the track not really wide enough for two horses abreast, which his mount made clear by flattening his ears to his head and snapping at my own. Yet I didn’t urge my mare ahead, instead allowing Bjorn’s leg to bump mine again. Curse you, Freya! my conscience shouted. What is wrong with you?

“Why did you go speak to the seer?” I asked in order to give myself justification for not putting distance between us. That, and the fact no one carrying a torch was near us.

“Because I had questions,” he answered softly, ducking under a branch. “Decided to take advantage of the opportunity.”

“What did you ask?” My eyes stole to his face, but Bjorn was staring down the trail, expression unreadable.

He took another bite of the dried meat, chewing and remaining silent for so long that I thought he didn’t intend to answer. Which of course made me question why he wouldn’t. Then he said, “I asked whether the gods would tell me if I walked the path they wished me to. You already know how she responded.”

My horse stopped and it took me a moment to realize that I’d tugged on the reins, Bjorn slowing to look at me over his shoulder. Shaking my head sharply, I heeled the mare back into a trot, even less certain than I’d been after my conversation with Bodil. “I don’t understand…”

Before more could be said, the sound of galloping hooves filled the air. A female sob echoed down the trail and my stomach plummeted. “No.”

Digging in my heels, I cut into the trees, moving past the group and back to the path before heeling my horse into a gallop. Dimly, I heard shouts. Heard my name and orders to pause, but I ignored them and pressed onward.

This can’t be.

I made the choice to come to Halsar’s aid.

I changed fate.

Yet as I broke from the trees and was greeted with an orange glow on the dark horizon, smoke gusting over me on the wind, I knew I’d changed nothing.

Halsar had burned.

I galloped down the road, slowing only once I was at the outskirts of the ruins, the flames already dying down to embers. Nothing remained standing, not the great hall nor any of the homes. Even the docks that I’d once trained upon with Bjorn were destroyed, the pillars they’d rested upon jutting from the water like jagged teeth, blackened wrecks of fishing boats and drakkar floating beyond. And amongst the ruins, there was no mistaking the still forms of those who’d died fighting, trying to defend it all.

Bjorn’s horse slowed next to me, but he said nothing, only circled my own mount, eyes taking in the ruins of his home. Then his gaze met mine. “This is not your fault.”

I hadn’t asked for this. Had done what I could to try to prevent it. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t the cause.

More horses galloped into the ruined streets, Ylva’s wailing piercing my ears. She slid off Snorri’s horse, falling to her knees in the mud and ash before the remains of the great hall, face streaked with tears. “Where is my son?” she screamed. “Where is my child?”

All around, warriors were dismounting, their faces filled with grief and fury and fear, some racing through the ruins, shouting the names of those they’d left behind. Left undefended. Cries of anguish filled the air.

Snorri alone seemed unmoved, his jaw rigid as he surveyed the ruins of his stronghold. He opened his mouth, and I tensed, ready and willing to lash out if he told these people this was another test.Yet all he said was, “Search for survivors. And answers.”

I dismounted, my shoes sinking into the mud, but before I could go further, shouts rang out.

“Oh, thank the gods!” Ylva’s cry filled the air as I circled my horse. Beyond, dozens of people walked toward us, mostly women and children, dirty and exhausted and with seemingly nothing but the clothes on their backs. But they were very much alive.

The two groups, warriors and survivors, surged toward each other and my chest hitched as I watched Ylva fling her arms around Leif, whose skin was stained with soot and blood, a scabbed gash marring his forehead. Only Bjorn and I held back as families and friends were reunited, the air filled with tears of joy, but also with cries of grief, for both groups had suffered losses.

Resting his forearms on his saddle, Bjorn watched, and I was struck with the sense that he was not quite one of them. That despite his father being jarl and Bjorn set to inherit the role someday in the future, he stood apart. I wondered if that was by choice or whether it was forced upon him by all those long years he’d spent in Nordeland. Ylva’s words to him echoed in my head: You were gone too long and are more of a Nordelander than a Skalander.

Snippets of conversation drew my attention. Explanations that scouts had seen the attack coming but not with enough time to evacuate the village. That those who were able fought back so that those who couldn’t fight were able to flee into the forest to hide. That all had been lost. But one word, one name, I heard repeated over and over.

Gnut.

The other jarl had come to finish the job he’d started the night Bjorn and I set his ships on fire, taking advantage of Snorri’s absence to strike a blow that would not be easy to overcome. Not only was every home destroyed, but all the stores and supplies and tools within them were lost to the raiders’ fire. Everything would need to be rebuilt and replaced during the months most dedicated to farming and gathering, which meant all would be in a weakened position when winter struck.

I knew this because I’d seen it before. Had lived it.

These people had survived the raid, but that might only mean a prolonged death as they suffered and starved over winter, and my hands balled into fists. Gnut had done this to strike a blow at Snorri, but it would not be Snorri who suffered.

It wasn’t fair.

Which was perhaps a childish thing to think, because nothing about life was fair, yet I was so sick of seeing those who were powerless harmed by the actions of those who were supposed to protect them.

Snorri’s warriors and the survivors began bringing the fallen to the square before the ruins of the great hall. I moved to help them, but then hesitated. They were all strangers to me, whereas those who tended to them were their friends and family. Although I was Skalander through and through, I was also an outsider in this moment. At least I was until I saw a familiar form supported by two of Snorri’s men. “Oh, Liv,” I whispered.

Of their own accord, my feet took me to the still form of the healer, her eyes glazed and unseeing, the wound in her chest so catastrophic that I knew her end had been quick. Kneeling in the mud, I closed her lids, whispering my hopes that the gods had met her with open arms and full cups.

Bjorn knelt next to the healer, every muscle in his face tight with grief. And, I realized, anger.

“Why didn’t you run?” he asked under his breath. “What the fuck were you thinking, Liv?”

I knew what she was thinking. These were the people whom she had spent nearly every day of her life healing with her gift. She was connected to every single person in Halsar, whether it had been delivering them or their child, mending wounds from accident or battle, or chasing away sickness. She’d known what losing the village would mean, and though she opposed fighting to her core, she’d picked up a weapon to fight for her people. Had earned a place with the gods.

Bodil approached on horseback, her maidens holding back, their watchful eyes on the surrounding forest. Dismounting, she went to Ylva’s side. “I’ll send word to Brekkur requesting supplies and ships and laborers.”

“You have our thanks, my friend,” Ylva said, wiping tears from her face. “We will rebuild and—”

“We will not rebuild, for that is what Gnut wants!” Snorri roared, silencing everyone even as Ylva’s face filled with dismay. “He fears me! Fears the fate the gods have in store for me! That is why he struck when our backs were turned, attacking women and children, and burning homes—because he believed it would keep us from making war upon him. That he’d be able to hide in his stronghold another season while we toiled to rebuild. Gnut believes he has struck us a grievous blow, but I say he is mistaken!” Snorri paused, then shouted, “I say that he has given us the gift that will see his destruction!”

From the other side of Liv’s body, Bjorn made a noise of disgust, but I found myself leaning in Snorri’s direction, desperate to learn what silver lining he saw within this catastrophe. I was not alone. All around us, the people of Halsar watched their jarl with hope in their eyes, and for all I prayed that he had answers, it was not lost upon me that it was the consequences of his choices that we needed to be delivered from.

“Long have we known that Halsar was vulnerable!” Snorri leapt onto a pile of debris, his voice projecting across the smoking ruins. “Long have we known that its position was weak, ever a target of raiders from north and south, east and west. Yet it was our home, so we clung to it, allowing habit and sentiment and apathy to weaken us. But no longer.” His eyes surveyed his people. “For like a healer excises a rotten bit of flesh, so has Gnut burned away our weakness, leaving behind nothing but strength!”

I felt a fervor growing in the people, a restless energy stirred by Snorri’s words. Felt it in myself, and for the first time I saw a spark of why the gods foresaw him as king of Skaland, for he was a man whom other men followed on the strength of his words alone. Ylva, however, seemed unmoved, her arms crossed and eyes frosty.

“The gods themselves have seen a united Skaland. Have seen a king. And a king does not live in a muddy fishing village.” He paused again for effect. “And neither do a king’s people!”

Villagers and warriors alike voiced their agreement, lifting their fists into the air.

“So we will turn our backs on this pile of mud and ash,” Snorri shouted. “Will turn our eyes across the mountains and prepare for war. Will prepare to strike our enemy! And I swear to you this: The next roof you sleep beneath will be within the walls of Grindill!”

Roars of approval echoed across the ruins, everyone, including me, shouting for Gnut’s death. Shouting for blood. And shouting for vengeance. I allowed myself to be swept away by it, for a path forward was an escape from what had come before. From what surrounded me now.

“We’re going to make the bastards bleed for this,” I said, turning to Bjorn.

Only to discover that he was gone.