A scene orchestrated by the child of Loki to gain loyalty from one of the Unfated, as Harald swept in to play the savior, young Guthrum weeping at his knees as he promised a lifetime of allegiance.
A younger version of Troels came next in Steinunn’s tale. My friend was laughing and calling out his brother’s name, but as he raced around a corner, it was to fall into a pit lined with stakes.
“Help me,” he screamed, legs punctured in three places. “Aksel, help me!”
He looked up out of the pit at the child of Loki, who was laughing. “Aksel, brother, please help me!”
But the child of Loki only said, “Why do you need my help, brother? You are unfated. Help yourself.” Then walked away, leaving Troels to scream and scream until Harald appeared, pulling him out of the pit and seeing him healed.
And the real Aksel, begging innocence, was hung from a tree until he could plead no more, all while Troels pledged allegiance to the one who had masterminded the worst moment of his life.
The stories unspooled, visions rising for each of the Unfated in Harald’s cabal, and it was clear as day that the child of Loki had orchestrated every tragedy by taking on the faces of friends and family and turning them into villains thatHaraldcould rescue the victim from. Except the only thingHaraldsaved anyone from was himself.
Tears ran down my face as my own story unfolded, Harald pretending to be Snorri as he savaged my mother. Myself as a child bursting from my hiding place to call Tyr’s flame, the cabin turning into an inferno as my mother screamed, then Harald, dressed in my mother’s clothes, carrying me away from the smoke and flame.
Vaguely I heard Harald-as-Snorri shrieking and thrashing, trying toescape Steinunn’s magic so that he could hunt her down and silence her, but then the skald’s village filled my eyes. People ran in terror from warriors dressed like Skalanders bearing Snorri’s banners, yet as one opened his mouth to scream, the brand of Harald’s Nameless was clearly visible on his tongue. The child of Loki led them, laughing as he cut down Steinunn’s husband and then set the blade to her young son.
It was not Snorri who had murdered them.
It was Harald, or whatever his true name might be. The child of Loki wearing Snorri’s face.
The trickster.
Even though Steinunn had shown me these visions in my cell, her grief in this moment was thick and choking as smoke. Making me desperate to be free of her thrall.
But Steinunn had not yet finished her song.
My plan had depended on everyone inside fleeing the flames, but my intentions were in shambles, because though the flames grew, not a person on the wall stirred.
Next to me, Guthrum dropped to his knees. Tears ran down his cheeks and his body shook with heaving sobs as he moaned, “No, no, no!”
“Guthrum, what is happening? What do you see?”
“The truth,” he whispered. “Steinunn reveals the truth. Harald is not our savior—he is our curse.”
The desire for truth had driven me during so much of my journey. The desire to know it. The desire to reveal it. Now both had been achieved, yet rather than winning the day, the truth was going to see every Skalander in Grindill burned alive.
“Go!” I shouted at Geir, my voice barely audible over the draugs’ shouts of dismay. “Break open the gates! Do what you can to find Harald, but it is more important to get everyone out!”
Geir didn’t hesitate, his rotting face set in grim determination as hebarked orders to the draug warriors. They surged past me with preternatural swiftness, their speed driven by the same desperation that fueled my own. It was their families and loved ones caught in Steinunn’s thrall, and with every heartbeat, the smoke thickened. I ran with them, my legs pumping over the uneven ground, but my mind was fixed on only one thing—finding Bjorn.
The draug, their skeletal hands gripping the stone walls, scaled the fortress with grim efficiency, their movements eerily silent. The enthralled Skalanders stood like statues on the battlements, oblivious to the threat as the draug raced between them.
Open the gates,I pleaded.Get them out!
The gates exploded open with a thunderous crash, and the first screams of panic filled the night air. Steinunn must have finished her song, and the people of Grindill had been released from her thrall to discover themselves surrounded by smoke. Fear took hold, spreading through the crowd like wildfire as they raced to escape the flames, only to find their paths blocked by the draug. But the undead warriors did not strike them down. Instead, they herded them toward the gates, pushing them toward safety. Saviors, though few understoodit.
“Skoll! Hati!” I dropped to my knees at their approach, coughing as the smoke filled my lungs. Placing my hands on their heads, I said, “Stay at the gates. Harald will try to sneak out, and you must find him. When you do, signal the draug as we planned. We might yet have victory here.”
Skoll growled in understanding, and Hati raced toward the far gate, his dark fur blending into the smoke and shadow. I lifted my shield and sprinted with Skoll into the chaos before me. The fortress was a nightmare—a place where celebration had collapsed into confusion and fear. Villagers and warriors alike shoved and stumbled in their frantic attempts to escape, their faces twisted in terror. I fought my way through the crowd, heart pounding, my eyes stinging from the smoke. I had to reach the center of the fortress. I had to find Bjorn.
The smoke thickened, turning the world into a suffocating haze of gray and black. I could barely see, and each breath was a struggle as theacrid air burned my lungs. Though only a few rooftops had caught ablaze, it felt like a deathtrap. Every second counted, and yet the winding paths through Grindill seemed endless.
“Bjorn!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “Bjorn!”
But there was no answer, only the cries of those fleeing. The draug were everywhere, their rotting forms moving with purpose, guiding the villagers toward the gates, away from the flames.
Please be alive.
