Chapter 16 | Magnus

Chapter 16

Magnus

IT WAS MISERABLE OUT in the wilderness.

Gods, I never thought I’d miss the underground caves of Vikingrune Academy, but here I was, wishing I was back behind its relatively safe walls. Warming my hands near a hearth fire, or around Ravinica’s heat. Granted, I’d had my fair share of tortures and painful events at the academy, but it beat this shit, not knowing what lay ahead of me.

Our twenty-four-hour trek turned into seventy-two because of the rampaging blizzard. By the end of the first day, we should have been to the razed elven encampment where the portal sat. Yet we were only a third of the way there, not even out of Delaveer Forest.

The winds howled all hours of the day and night. Darkness felt permanent, like a blanket of black over every stitch of land. Snowfall came at us from every direction but up. These weren’t soft petals of snowflakes, but sharp daggers of ice that sliced into me. To make matters worse, I’d hardly slept a wink.

I traveled with half a dozen Huscarls. As Hersir Kelvar had warned me, they were handpicked by Tomekeeper Dahlia—the woman who wanted me dead for killing her bastard silvermoor daughter, a girl she had hardly recognized her entire life.

Suffice to say, I had to keep my head on a swivel traveling with my would-be killers. Every fiber of my being was tense, wondering when they would choose their moment to strike.

I wasn’t arrogant enough to think I could take six Huscarls. What was my alternative? Shrivel up like a frozen prune and await my death? No, I would go out fighting, as I always had. As I had when I escaped the blood-leechings of last term, without a clue of what I would do after escaping and stealing into Fort Woden, before Kelvar saved me.

Now, I was out in the open. There was no Whisperer to save me. No allies like Ravinica’s mates. And certainly no silvermoon, who I thought of endlessly.

When I got coldest at night, I would reminisce fondly of our torrid trysts all over campus—in the woods, underground, locked away in Mimir Tomes, fucking right there on the Tomekeeper’s doorstep.

It always brought a smile when I recalled how Ravinica felt wrapped around me. Her thick, muscled thighs squeezing tight around my middle; her heated gaze drilling to my core; her flexing arms grabbing every inch of me. Her sweet pussy—

“Oi, lad, why you slowing down?”

I blinked flakes from my lashes, glancing up from the screaming wind to the yelling face in front of me.

It was Trond. A Huscarl I’d “befriended” during our trek. Easily the most chipper Huscarl I’d ever met, the big man was simply happy to be out of the underground, and didn’t seem to mind the cold as much as the rest of us.

“Sluggish blood,” I told him.

He flashed a purple-lipped smile at me, tightening the hood of his fur coat around his neck and chin. He may have acted like he didn’t mind the freeze, but his actions sang a different tune.

“Well, we’re about to settle,” he said as I trudged through knee-high snow to get to him. “Do your little trick and get the blood pumping again.”

He clapped me on the back, shaking off a layer of white—only so another layer could quickly gather from the snowfall. I winced from the hard slap, the bones in my body feeling as brittle as the leafless trees we walked under.

The other five Huscarls were up ahead, making camp, plopping wood on the ground, setting up their tiny tents, and sitting down around the unlit fire pit.

I frowned at Trond. “I thought you said we would get there tonight.”

Trond shrugged. “Thought we would. Argyle says otherwise, redhair. Best not to argue with the boss.” He winked at me, snorted, and meandered ahead to the camp.

Argyle was was the oldest Huscarl of the bunch, maybe forty years old, and the scars on his face told me he’d seen some battles in his day.

Battles with what? It’s not like we have natural predators at Vikingrune. Is training to become a Huscarl that difficult and intense?

I shook the thought aside, teeth chattering, and pulled my trench coat around me. Even the coat wasn’t enough to stave off the blizzard, but I’d packed it full of fur and hay before leaving Vikingrune, at Trond’s recommendation.

That had been my first interaction with the large man, and our conversations had grown from there during our three days of travel.

As I got to the fire pit, the six snow-white faces stared up at me beneath their hoods.

“Well, boy?” Argyle grunted, clapping his gloves over the pit and rubbing them together. “Get to it.”

I crossed my arms. “It takes a lot out of me, you know. I can’t just snap my fingers and—”

“Do I look like I give a shit? Maybe you shouldn’t’a shown us your trick in the first place.”

I flared my nostrils—a mistake, I realized, once snowflakes swept up there and froze my damn brain.

Settling down beside Trond, I sighed and started my “trick.” “Just don’t go bitching when I lag behind tomorrow.”

“There won’t be a tomorrow.”

My head whipped up from the pit, hands already moving for the daggers at my belt.

Argyle remained seated, the squat soldier frowning at the fire. “We’ll be there before daybreak.”

I rallied, trying to still my beating heart. I thought that was the fucking moment. “Then why are we even stopping, if we can push through?”

“Because we can’t. Grayon’s got a bum leg. The cold makes it worse.”

I tilted my head. “You think we should have brought a man with a limp on a mission in the raging snow?”

“Fuck you, bloodboy,” the soldier named Grayon said.

“Wasn’t our choice,” Argyle said. “Captain’s decision.”

The captain? More like the Tomekeeper, you smug bastard.

“Besides, after this trek, Grayon gets to retire. Ain’t that right, you surly bastard?” Argyle clapped his friend on the back, to which Grayon grumbled something unintelligible.

My eyes flickered between the four men and two women around me. All of them experienced and battle-tested, whereas I was a simple second-year cadet. Somehow I’d been named Drengr—warrior and top of my class—but it didn’t mean shit when staring down the mean mugs of six people older and more experienced than I.

How many of these soldiers have fought in snow like this? And how often have I?

So, I kept cordial. Nodding slowly, I pulled up the cuff of my sleeve, baring my skin to the freezing cold. Puffs of mist blew out in heavy clouds from the breaths around the black fire pit dug into the ground.

My “trick” had come about last night, on our second evening. The timber we’d found had been so water-logged with snow it had been impossible to light with fire, whether sparks, flint, or runeshaping. The fire never took.

I had a workaround, and I was cold enough to show my secret to these strangers because I didn’t want to die of frostbite before I died of swords in the back. I also hoped my helpfulness would give me some measure of respect—some amount of usefulness to make the others hesitate when the time came to kill me.

Perhaps that moment’s hesitation was all I’d need to get out alive from this treacherous mission.

Just as I had last night, with my scarred skin bare from wrist to elbow, I pulled out a dagger and gently sliced across my skin, Shaping a small rune in my flesh. I worked the dagger around the bump of another scar, gritting my teeth.

My blood welled, instantly freezing as it hit cold air—but I was able to concentrate enough to keep the Shape active. I carved the air around me with my free hand, working a simple fire spell, and set my hand on the soggy wood.

With my blood rending, my palm sizzled on the wood. The water and snow melted away, until my palm sank deeper into the husk of timber where it was dry. Blood visible, I added to the potency of my spell, and that was the trick. The fire that sprouted from my fingertips and palm was stronger and brighter than any fire a natural runeshaper could possess. My bloodrending powers helped amplify my spell, and within thirty seconds the wood was alight.

I received no cheers for my deed. Everyone was too quiet and dour, trying to conserve their energy for the trek ahead.

Trond said, “Atta boy,” and slapped me on the back with a half-smile.

It was the most I was going to get.

Everyone pulled out their remnants of hard tack and started chewing as the fire sizzled around us and flickered to life. I tucked my sleeve over my wound, the slice already scarring and iced over from the cold.

The warmth of the fire was relieving, yet it only brought me back to thoughts of Ravinica.

Our scouting unit rested for an hour. I managed to close my eyes with my head drooped forward. I listened to every slight rustle around me—every shift in the breeze and movement of the Huscarls. Waiting. Silently watching.

The daggers never came. When the fire was sputtering out, we were ready to go again.

“How’s the leg, Grayon?” I asked.

He grunted to me as he stood with Argyle’s help, flashing me a deadly stare before wandering off.

Two seconds later, Argyle’s voice carried on the wind as he followed his comrade. “How’s the leg, lout?”

I rolled my eyes at the repeated question. Grayon did not like me, and I wasn’t making any friends by challenging his ability to walk in the torrential storm.

“I’ll live, asshole,” Grayon told his leader. “Fire helped.”

Trond sidled up beside me, leaving the third male Huscarl and the two women behind us, which I did not like.

“Don’t worry about old Grayon,” Trond said.

“I’m not.”

“He’s a mean son of a bitch.”

“You all are.”

Trond laughed. His chest wheezed as he took a shallow breath in the knee-high snow next to me. We bowed our heads and continued forward against the slanting pelt of white coming at us. “Right you are, redhair.”

My body felt heavy and dreary, like a vacuum had sucked the energy out of me. It had, in a way, with my bloodrending. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry on. It felt my legs were starting to atrophy and seize from the freeze.

“Don’t worry, lad, we’re almost there,” Trond said.

I knew that. I’d been to the elven encampment. But I didn’t want him knowing that, no matter how friendly he seemed at the moment.

The friendliest smiles often carry the sharpest blades.

“You’ll get to rest once we’re at the portal,” he continued.

Trond liked to talk because it kept his mind off the chill. It made sense, even if I ended up being the backboard for him to throw his words against. I rarely had an answer for him, and he had learned over the past three nights to just keep jabbering.

It wasn’t like I could run away. I could have tried, but being out here alone was the only thing worse than being out here with enemies.

“We’ll relieve the other crew and take their cabin.”

I blinked over at him. “Cabin?”

Trond nodded, his white-flaked beard shaking. “There’s some leftover dwellings from the elves there. Much warmer than this shite. Much easier to light a fire, no blood required.”

He smiled.

“That’s what we’re doing, then. Relieving the other scouts?” I asked.

He looked confused. “Gods below, son, did no one tell you what fucking mission you were coming on?”

“Not really.”

“We take the post from the other unit. Until the next crew comes to watch the portal. Rinse and repeat.”

Alarm set off inside me. “I thought this was a weeklong mission.”

“Yes . . . a weeklong at the portal.”

I flared my nostrils at him.

“Doesn’t take into account travel time, redhair.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “How much sense would that make, eh? Traveling all this way to stand around for a day and then come back?”

I hadn’t thought of the actual mission logistics during this journey. I’d been too mind-numbingly frozen to care about the details—too focused on keeping my head attached.

“We show up. Guard and patrol for a week. Go home. Easy.”

Fucking hell, I thought. That’s nearly a fortnight. Seven days longer without Ravinica. She’s going to get worried.

She thought I was only out here for a week. So did I, dammit. And now this? I hated the idea of worrying my silvermoon. Maybe Trond is building up the background for their little murder spree, once they decide to spring their trap.

It was awful trying to anticipate these fuckers’ next moves.

About an hour after grooving twin tracks through the driven snow, Argyle let out a sound of surprise up ahead.

“Ah! There she is.”

My hands went to my daggers as we approached the hill leading down to the elf encampment.

The entire place was blanketed by fresh powder. It wasn’t until I got closer that I saw the few remaining cabins the elves had built here before escaping for their homeland.

My eyes swiveled beneath the ridge of my brow, left and right, readying myself. Now seems a good time for them to pounce, I thought, holding a blade to my skin under my trench coat so I could bloodrend on the fly.

The Huscarls kept walking toward the cabin. Argyle called out names I didn’t know, his voice echoing lightly against the blast of snow. He threw the door to the cabin open.

Inside was empty. A smoldering fire lay in the center of the room, extinguished recently, it appeared.

“What in Hel?” Argyle grumbled to himself, stepping inside. “Where is everyone?”

I let the other Huscarls go first, not wanting to get trapped inside the death pit. To say I was paranoid would be an understatement.

Through an aperture, I watched as Argyle paced the small room. He went to a corner, crouched, and reached out toward the floor. When he lifted his hand, he sniffed his fingers. Then he stood and showed us.

Red coated his fingertips.

“What in Odin’s name is going—”

A black blur caught my peripheral, outside, drifting through the diagonal snowfall like a dark wraith. When I swung around and drew my daggers, the other Huscarls saw me move and looked that direction too.

The shadow was gone, vanished into the roaring white.

My brow furrowed.

“Fuckery is afoot,” Argyle roared, stamping through the door to the outside. “Shield wall!”

The Huscarls crowded close, backs against the wall and door of the cabin. They drew shields, placed them in a row to protect the man next to them. I stood to their far left, not bothering to join in their defensive stance.

Eyes peeked over the rims of shields. Deadly silent except for that howling wind and damnable snow. Feet crunching underfoot.

Another blur ahead of us, dashing through the snow about twenty paces ahead at a perpendicular angle—away from us—too far to make out what it was.

Then a gurgling voice of surprise, much closer.

My head instinctively turned—

To see that my friend Trond had been the first to get it.

From behind us. From the empty cabin door.

A curved blade of black sprouted from his chest, snapping bones and muscle as it impaled him. He stared down in confusion at the blade, red blood running down his chin.

The shield wall broke in an instant, alarmed cries carrying on the wind as everyone whipped around.

I stayed looking ahead out into the snow, because I saw the trickery for what it was. Someone had hidden in the shadows of the cabin and waited for the right moment to strike.

Now the black shapes were numerous, coming in fast, stealing my breath with a shock of fear rippling through me.

I never saw the attacker was behind us, because I never turned that way. I vaguely wondered if someone out here had used shadowwalking to trick our crew, like Kelvar the Whisperer, making the cabin seem emptier than it was.

All hell broke loose as the black shapes descended.

I Shaped a rune and tossed fire into the white—

Quickly snuffed out by some kind of siphon ahead of me, swallowing up the magic before it even sputtered to life.

A glance over showed me one of the Huscarl women getting skewered from an invisible force, then a row of arrows appearing in her chest before Trond had even fallen to the snow.

Both of them dead.

My heart jolted to my throat. What the fuck is this?!

Clearly, this was not part of Tomekeeper Dahlia’s plan.

No, this was something . . . supernatural.

I moved my feet, eager not to get lit up by arrows like the woman had.

Argyle swung his sword blindly, as if attacking the snow itself.

It was only when I moved off to the side of the cabin that I got a better angle and saw him fending off against a fast-moving shadow, a tinge of white sparkling in the snowfall and melding with it.

Argyle was cut down, his shins separating from his feet as he collapsed, footless, screaming out in agony and spurting blood across the snow.

I recognized I was outmatched, if these swift enemies were able to cut down half our number in a matter of heartbeats. An idea came to mind—the only desperate thing I could think to try and escape this red slaughter.

I took off running, sprinting away from the cabin—

Toward the other cottage. The important one where the portal lay like an invisible forcefield, about twenty feet away. The portal surrounded the door and walls of the structure in a sphere. I knew that from recognizing its shape when Ravinica opened it, shortly before it seemed to dissipate before everyone’s eyes.

I prayed to Odin it was still standing, invisible as always, but ready to take desperate visitors.

More cries came from the bloody cabin, the Huscarls losing their lives to a foe they couldn’t see or strike in the blinding storm.

I was five feet away from that open door, gasping for breath—

A sharp pain ran up my calf, inching up my spine.

I didn’t have time to look or think about the arrow lodged there. I carried on through the pain, hobbled from the burn in my muscle. Something clutched my hand—

I spun around, Shaping fire in my other palm—

A white glint of teeth seethed at me, my bright flame eclipsing the rest of the creature’s face so I couldn’t make out its features.

With a hiss, it pulled back, trying to yank me into my own fire toward the snow and death.

I spun, yelling, growling—

And my trench coat flew off my body as the creature pulled. I managed to wiggle my way out of it at the last second, spinning toward the cottage.

An arrow landed an inch from my good leg.

Another one slammed into the wall, sending snowchips flying into my face.

With a cry, I yanked the door open, stepping into the warm interior—

And the world vanished.