Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

LOVIA

A horn sounds softly from a watchtower, waking me from my slumber.

I sit up fast and straight. I’m in the grand hall, having fallen asleep in the chair next to the fire. Across from me is Vellamo, her watery eyes wide and gleaming in the firelight. She’s dressed in armor that once belonged to my mother, black steel covered in spikes. She would look formidable if not for the fear in her eyes.

The horn sounds again, and now, I’m fully awake, hit with a spear of terror.

“Something is happening,” Vellamo says to me, quickly rising to her feet.

I pick up my sword, adjust my own armor, and hurry up a winding staircase to a balcony high in the castle’s spires. Soldiers with bows and spears line the battlements. I lean over the stone railing, straining my eyes into the darkness. The snowfall lessens here, as if a dome of clearer air surrounds the castle, granting us visibility.

Beyond, in the gloom, shapes move.

Oh Gods.

They’re already here.

They come from the top of the ridge that slopes down toward the swamp, dark figures that move quickly, running toward us. I estimate we have only a few minutes before they’re upon us.

“They’re here!” I yell. “On the other side of the swamp! They’re here!”

My cry is carried on the wind, amplified by the troops and generals and other Gods, followed by another blast of the horn.

“Where is your father?” Vellamo asks, looking around.

“I don’t know,” I cry out, holding my sword so tightly, I’m afraid my palm might fuse to it. I thought I was strong and brave and ready to be a general, but I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. I can barely breathe.

This is it. This is it.

They come closer, enough for me to start picking out their forms amid the dark and blowing snow. The first line is one of skeleton warriors, their bones rattling, swords and axes in bony hands. They wear piecemeal armor, and in the dim light, their hollow eye sockets glow with eerie green fire, a sign of Louhi’s control. Behind them, towering silhouettes loom—a mass of Old Gods with too many limbs, twisted heads, and bodies that ripple as if made of shadows and nightmares. I see what might be antlered skulls floating atop writhing masses of bone. Strange, pulsing lights flicker around them as they advance.

Overhead, wingbeats fill the air, putting a chill down my spine. Looking up, I see dark shapes against the cloudy sky—flying unicorns, their bodies stripped to bone, manes of shadow, horns glistening with malice. They circle slowly, searching for prey.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. I didn’t count on those. Gods, I hope Sarvi isn’t among them.

Louhi and Rangaista are not visible because of course they aren’t—they send their minions first. They must be holding back, waiting for a perfect moment, or simply letting their forces soften us before they strike themselves.

My mouth goes dry. We’re truly facing an army of nightmares. Below, soldiers shift nervously, muttering prayers and curses in equal measure. I scan the crowd for Rasmus, only to find him lurking near a supply wagon. He’s not fighting yet—he’s hesitant, or maybe just terrified. I can’t blame him, but if he wants to survive, he’ll have to choose a side soon.

My father suddenly appears beside me, silent and grim. I steal a glance at him; his expression is stern, a skull mask pulled over his face, carved from blackened bones. The wind picks up, blowing his cloak. I wonder what he’s thinking, what regret or fear hides behind that mask. He chose this ground to stand on. Now, we must prove it was the right choice.

The enemy advances slower now as they close in, cautious. They know we’re here; they must sense the trap. Below on the barbican, Torben steps forward, staff in hand, beginning a low chant. When they’re close enough to let them think they can breach our walls, he’ll unfreeze the swamp. They’ll tumble through ice into blackened mire and drown, whisked straight to Oblivion. They won’t all fall, but it will be enough to break their formation. It’s our first line of defense.

But something’s wrong. Torben’s chant falters. He frowns, the runes on his staff glowing dimly. He tries again, voice rising as I watch intently.

“What’s happening?” I whisper to my father. “Can’t he do it?”

“I don’t know,” my father says grimly. He glances at Vellamo. “Run to Rasmus over there, tell him to help his father.”

Vellamo gives him a look as if to say, really? Rasmus ? but she does as he asks.

Now, I’m giving my father that same look.

“We need that ice to crack,” he says defensively. “Whatever it takes.”

Well, this is a now-or-never moment for Rasmus to prove himself.

We watch as Rasmus runs over to Torben and joins in on his chant.

But still, the army advances and the ice doesn’t crack. I can see Torben’s knuckles whiten on the staff. “Come on, Torben,” I hiss under my breath. “We need that ice to break.”

A hush falls over the battlements. Soldiers glance at each other. Across the parapet, Tapio grips a wooden talisman, hoping to conjure whatever animals he can in the fight, while Tellervo stands at the edge with an arrow knocked and ready to fly.

Still, no result. Torben curses softly, words I don’t understand, and Rasmus chants even louder, his hand sharing the staff with his father. Then, a sound reaches our ears—an arrow lancing off the castle walls.

They charge.

I barely have time to shout a warning before the skeleton warriors surge forward at a run. They come in a wave of clattering bones and scraping metal. Arrows whistle from our archers and gunshots fill the sky, striking some skeletons down, if only temporarily. Still, many keep coming. The Old Gods behind them lumber forward, limbs twisting, jaws snapping. The flying skeleton unicorns descend in a macabre swoop, shrieking like banshees as they come for us.

The battle begins.

The first unicorn dives as quick as a lightning bolt, about to pierce their horn through my father’s chest when, suddenly, it hits an invisible shield with a loud thud, knocking itself unconscious and landing on the skeletons below. I didn’t think it was possible for Torben to protect us with wards while trying to unfreeze the swamp, but when I look to my left, I see Ilmarinen, hands in the air, his brow furrowed as he throws up as many shields around us as he can.

Guess he’s on our side after all.

But the wards are small, just enough to protect my father and those of us standing around him, leaving everyone else in the open. The soldiers along the castle walls cry out, losing arrows, lowering spears. Gunshots fill the air, along with the sound of steel on bone, splintering wood, and the eerie clamor of the undead army. I draw my sword, adrenaline flooding me. I know I’m protected where I am, but I also want to get out there and fight.

To our right, I see Tapio raise his arms, and roots slither from beneath the snow, entangling skeletons in knots. Tellervo calls upon the birds, sending a flurry of sparrows into the enemy ranks, their murmuration enough to blind them.

Vellamo tries something with water, summoning a mist from the swamp’s edges. It drifts toward the enemy, obscuring their vision. Some skeletons stumble, confused, while others slip on the ice, but it’s not enough.

I break through the ward, to which my father yells at me to stay. I ignore him as I leap down a short staircase to the courtyard, joining a group of soldiers. Their eyes widen as I stand with them—the daughter of Death, fighting at their side. I nod, and we push forward, meeting a skeleton as it tries to climb the wall. My blade flashes, cutting through bone, dismembering them. The skeleton collapses into a heap, but another takes its place.

Above us, I see my father raise his hands. The snow intensifies again, pushing a thick curtain of white toward the enemy lines. Wind howls and some skeletons fall, but there are so many enemies. Too many.

Torben, frantic now, tries again to unfreeze the swamp. I see him muttering spells, the runes on his staff flaring bright and then dimming. It’s as if something, or someone , resists him. Perhaps it’s the staff itself. After all, he found it in this castle. It might be working against him; the ice remains solid, giving the enemy stable ground to charge on.

An Eldritch-like horror slams into the castle’s outer gate, splintering wood. Soldiers rush to reinforce with shields and spears as I climb the stairs again, needing a vantage point. I see Rasmus stepping away from Torben. For a moment, I think he’s going to run, but then he looks at me, swallows hard, and picks up a long pole with a hooked blade at the end. With shaking hands, he pushes it through a gap in the wall, hooking a skeleton’s spine and yanking it off the ledge. The skeleton falls with a clatter. It’s a small gesture, but it shows he has chosen our side.

For now.

The Magician finally appears, gliding to the end of the platform. I watch him raise a hand, and a swirl of starlight flickers beneath his hood. Suddenly, a section of the enemy line falters, as if they’ve stepped into quicksand. Skeletons sink, their bony arms flailing as his black universe pulls them down. One of the Old Gods lurches sideways, distracted, and our archers take advantage, firing a volley that shatters several undead skulls.

Still, they keep coming.

The Finnish troops—these mortal warriors—fight bravely. I see them in the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder, faces grim. They thrust spears into rib cages, smash shields into skulls, blast bodies apart with close-range gunfire, but they’re also casualties to the undead. Some fall, their screams cut short, and my heart clenches. These soldiers are dying to protect this place, to protect us, and they’re going straight to Hell. I have to do something, have to fight harder than this.

I leap into the fray, slicing through bone, dodging a blade as it whistles past my ear.

High above, a flying skeleton unicorn dives at me, its horn aimed like a spear. I roll aside at the last moment, the creature’s horn scraping stone, leaving a trail of sparks. I lunge upward, slashing at its bony flank. It screeches and flaps away, missing one of its rear leg-bones.

We can’t last forever like this. We need Torben’s spell. The plan was to unfreeze the swamp and send half their army plunging into the Oblivion below. Without that, we’re overwhelmed. I see General Pekka shouting orders, rallying troops, sweat and blood staining his face. He’s fighting two skeletons at once, hacking them apart, but an Old God, a towering beast of molten rock and fire, lowers a fist of stone on top of him, crushing his head.

General Pekka is reduced to a pancake of blood.

My stomach twists. We are losing people. We are losing ground.

“Torben!” I shout over the din. “We need that swamp broken now!”

He grits his teeth, eyes blazing. “Something resists me,” he calls back. “I need more help.”

“Drop the staff!” I yell, but it’s swallowed up by the noise.

I look around frantically. Who can help him? Ilmarinen . If anyone can assist with complex magic, it’s him. The only problem is, I don’t think he’ll be able to keep the ward going at the same time.

Still, I run toward him, cutting through a pair of skeletons on the way, ignoring the slice that tears through my armor’s shoulder strap.

“Ilmarinen!” I shout. “Torben needs you. He can’t break the ice alone. I think his staff is compromised.”

Ilmarinen glances at me. “I can’t hold the wards at the same time.”

“I’ll be fine!” my father booms. “But no one else will if you don’t thaw the swamp.”

The shaman nods and grabs a small pouch from his belt, the energy of the wards fizzling. My father brandishes his sword, ready for the next unicorn to try anything.

Ilmarinen and I push through a knot of soldiers toward Torben and Rasmus.

“I can amplify our power,” Ilmarinen says, voice calm despite the chaos. “If the staff is indeed magicked against us, this will help.”

He rummages in his pouch and pulls out a handful of runic nails. “Hold them,” he instructs me. I do so, cupping them in my palm, feeling them vibrate with faint power.

He takes one, presses it against Torben’s staff, and whispers something I can’t hear over the battle roar. The runes on the staff flare brighter, and Torben tries again, voice carrying a strange harmonic note as the ground beneath us shivers.

Below, the skeleton army surges again, pushing closer. More soldiers fall, screams torn away by the wind. I see my father spearing a unicorn in the chest with his sword as Tapio conjures grasping roots that ensnare legs. Tellervo’s birds swoop and soar, dodging and wasting the arrows that were meant for us. The Magician’s galaxies swirl brighter, warping space so an Old God with five legs stumbles into a wall, as if misled by illusions.

Still, there are too many.

Then, I feel it. A deep crack resonates through the stone under my feet. Torben and Rasmus’ chanting rises in pitch, the runes glowing like wildfire. Ilmarinen drives a nail into the parapet stone, and there’s a sound like thunder as, beneath the enemy army, the ice splits apart.

What had been a solid, frozen surface over the swamp now fractures into jagged shards. Sections of the enemy ranks suddenly lose their footing as skeleton warriors slip, tumble, and crash through the breaking ice, plunging into the dark Oblivion beneath with their weapons. I watch entire columns of enemy soldiers collapse into the swamp’s depths, dragged down by armor and tangled limbs. Old Gods screech as they flail, trying to climb back up, but it is no use.

Infinity has its hold on them.

The flying skeleton unicorns, startled by the sudden shift, swoop lower, only to meet a barrage of our arrows, bullets, and spears that knock them from the sky, each one landing on the skeletons, taking more of them out. Cheers rise from our troops. Hope is on the wind. The enemy numbers thin as a third of their force falls into watery oblivion, and for a moment, hope flares in my chest. Maybe we can hold Castle Syntri after all.

But they keep coming. Louhi’s forces seem endless as more undead spill from over the ridge. The few horrors that avoid the pools surge forward, smashing at our walls, forcing us back. Archers run out of arrows, gunmen out of bullets, soldiers tire, and many of our troops lie lifeless in the snow.

“We’re being overwhelmed!” a general cries.

I grit my teeth, slashing at a skeletal warrior who dared climb the wall. It falls apart under my sword, but for every one I cut down, two more appear. The courtyard is littered with broken bones and shattered shields.

My father stands on the highest battlement, summoning storms and hail, but even a God can tire. I see him falter, shoulders slumped, as if carrying a great weight. Tapio and Tellervo cling to each other, their powers waning as the night drags on. Vellamo tries to stir the water again, but the enemy no longer trusts the frozen swamp and stays on firmer ground. The Magician creates illusions, but illusions alone cannot stem a tide so vast.

It’s too much. Even with Torben and Ilmarinen’s success, we cannot hold forever. The enemy is pressing in, and I see soldiers retreating through the inner courtyard. Screams fill the night. My sword arm aches, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I search for my father’s face again, only to see pain and dread there, his mask pushed up on his face. He knows we’re losing ground.

This can’t be it.

Rasmus appears at my side suddenly, hooking another skeleton off the wall with that pole-blade. He’s shaking, eyes wide, but he’s helping. “We need a fucking miracle,” he gasps, voice cracking.

The castle is about to fall. The soldiers form a last ring of defense around the inner gate as my father lowers his hands, looking defeated. My stomach turns cold. We’ve done everything we could, but the enemy is too strong.

We have too many mortals and not enough Gods.

Then, a bright light appears in the sky above the castle, cutting through the swirling snow. It’s blinding, pure, and warm. At first, I think it’s a trick, another illusion put forth by the Magician to blind our enemies. But then, I feel heat radiating from it, a gentle warmth that pushes back the cold and the darkness. Soldiers stop fighting to stare upward, mouths agape as skeletons recoil, their glowing eyes dimming.

“Hanna,” I whisper, heart pounding. It must be her. It has to be her. The Sun Goddess’ blood flows in her veins. If she has returned, maybe we have a chance.

The light intensifies, casting long shadows of bones and broken weapons across the courtyard. Under its radiance, I see Father lift his head, disbelief and hope mingling across his face. Tapio and Tellervo gasp, and Vellamo’s eyes shine with something like relief as Torben lowers his staff, awestruck. The Magician tilts his hooded head, as if he knew this would happen but still marvels at the sight.

The enemy army halts, uncertain. The light grows brighter, and I can almost see a figure within it, wings of radiance and flames streaming from her hair. The snowstorm falters, flakes glowing gold before they melt into soft droplets. The darkness that clung to the castle recedes.

We needed a miracle, and we got one.

Hanna is here.