Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
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.”