Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DEATH

Morning in the Hiisi Forest comes quietly and bitterly cold. Our makeshift camp rests in a glen where the ancient trees, at Tapio’s urging, have bowed their great limbs to shield us from the skies. I hunch over by a low-burning fire, the smoke locked in place by a ward Ilmarinen placed over the campfires, carefully nursing a tin cup of coffee between my gloves, a small luxury that makes camping in the wild worthwhile.

Hanna sits across from me, perched on the broad root of a gnarled tree. My wife. My queen. The Goddess of Death and the Sun, ruler of Tuonela at my side. It still jolts me to think of her fully like this, after everything we’ve been through.

But I see the hesitation on her face, the way her fingers hover over the cup I offered her. She put on a brave face, but now that the morning is here, she’s afraid—afraid that if she calls too strongly on her powers of the sun, the gift that makes her so formidable, it might strip away her true self again. Her mind, her love, her identity—fragile things balanced on the edge of that divine fire.

She sips the coffee anyway, her dark lashes lowered, chestnut brown hair braided loosely over one shoulder, ends tied together with vines courtesy of Tellervo. The greenish light of the Hiisi Forest canopy makes her look pale, but I know how much strength she carries inside.

I wish I could take that fear from her. I’d carry it myself if I could, but even Gods have limits.

Lovia has gone for a walk with the Magician. I trust Lovia, and I trust the Magician, in his own cryptic way. Still, their relationship concerns me a little. I noticed it before, back at Castle Syntri, and thought nothing of it, but since we’ve come to the forest, they’ve been inseparable. Perhaps the two of them search for answers, for a path through the Kaaos threatening Tuonela. Or maybe it’s something more than that. If that’s the case, I should talk to her, because the last thing I need is for my daughter to lose her head over…well, I don’t really know what the fuck the Magician is. It doesn’t matter—she needs to keep her focus on what’s at hand, like the general she is.

The rest of our small army stirs quietly in the dawn. Soldiers rake coals back to life, sharpen blades dulled by too many battles, check their guns, and whisper hopes of winning any next battles. Still, I think they’re happier here than they were at Castle Syntri—if you can call their stern, glum faces happy. Then again, they are Finnish and hard to read.

Outside the forest’s protective canopy, it’s snowing lightly, and a few stray flakes drift down through the woven branches.

In the dim light, Ilmarinen crouches near a mossy rise, preparing to use the sampo. This morning, he found a ley line right there—one of the vital currents of power Louhi and the Old Gods have twisted out of shape. If the sampo works, the Old Gods will lose some of their strength, if not all of it. We desperately need that edge, especially with Hanna’s power out of the picture.

Hanna shifts, and I catch her eye. I see the flicker of determination and fear in her gaze as she glances at Ilmarinen’s preparations.

“Is that thing really going to make a difference?” she asks softly.

I shrug. “It better,” I say as I rise, stretching sore muscles. The night’s rest on the forest floor wasn’t kind to my bones—I’m feeling less like a God by the day—but we survived another night. That alone is a blessing.

I walk over to Ilmarinen, damp moss squelching underfoot. he kneels with his ear to the ground, muttering to himself. Soldiers form a loose perimeter, watching silently, curiously. Torben appears, yawning deeply, Rasmus by his side, his hair a mess from sleeping, both ready to help if needed.

“So?” I ask Ilmarinen.

He looks up, thinning hair pulled back, cheeks smudged with dirt. “So,” he echoes, “I can feel it pulsing beneath us. This spot is as good as any.”

I glance back at Hanna. She stands behind me, silent, her presence an anchor. My hope rekindles, small but steady.

Ilmarinen positions the strange device with reverence. It gleams faintly, a complex work of metal and crystal and grinding parts etched with ancient runes. I feel its hum, as if hearing a distant choir singing beneath the soil.

He spins one of the spheres and begins a soft chant. Soldiers tense, hands on hilts. The forest hushes. For a moment, I imagine this working smoothly: ley lines stabilizing, the Old Gods losing their stranglehold. Then, we can push forward to Shadow’s End and challenge Louhi on more even terms. Hanna’s hand drifts near mine, as if seeking comfort. I brush my knuckles against hers.

A sudden creak of wood snaps me back to reality. The ground vibrates, and Ilmarinen jerks upright, hands stopping the sphere.

Suddenly, vines and roots at the edge of the clearing heave as if alive, dirt flying through the air. The ground near us splits, moss and ferns sucked under. Soldiers shout in alarm.

“Yggthra!” Rasmus yells as a blackened trunk rises from the ground, an Old God of twisted roots and tangled vines. It must sense us trying to mend the ley lines. Thick, wooden tentacles surge upward, lashing out. Ilmarinen leaps out of the way with his sampo as soldiers quickly spring into action, hacking at roots as thick as a man’s arm. Hanna lifts her hand, golden sparks dancing at her fingertips, then hesitates. I see the conflict in her eyes. She could obliterate these roots with solar fire—but at what cost to her memory?

“Do what you must,” I say, pressing my sword into my palm. I charge forward, slashing at a thrashing root. Sap and black ichor splatter the moss. Hanna draws a careful breath and then unleashes a narrower beam of radiance—less than what she’s capable of, but enough to scorch a cluster of roots. She’s holding back, rationing her power.

Yggthra’s limbs keep coming, writhing in fury. Soldiers form a line, shields raised. The Magician and Lovia return from the forest depths, the Magician weaving mycelia up from the ground to slow the roots, Lovia’s sword flashing in the dim light. From the way she charges at the creature, it’s apparent she has fought the Old God before.

Tapio and Tellervo join in, summoning vines and other roots against the beast. I strike down two more twisted coils, my blade humming with each swing.

“Allow me!” Kaleva the troll says, running through the forest toward it, the ground shaking with his heavy footfalls. The soldiers jump out of the way just in time as Kaleva throws himself on the Old God, punching it hard enough to break wood, bark flying.

Well, well, well. Thank the Gods for the Keskelli.

However, it doesn’t kill the Old God, only disables it enough for it to flop and writhe on the ground, its roots still reaching for people but slower now.

Then, I hear the dry rattle of bones. Skeleton soldiers appear from the shadows between trees, encircling us. We’re flanked. The undead hordes press in, their hollow eyes glowing green, shields and swords raised. The timing is perfect—too perfect. We’re caught between Yggthra’s thrashing roots and the skeleton army.

Hanna stands at my side, jaw tight. She could incinerate them all if she let the sun loose inside her, but she doesn’t. Instead, she summons controlled bursts of light, firing them at the undead, killing some of them.

Meanwhile, Kaleva continues to tear Yggthra apart with a roar as the soldiers hack off the roots, the mycelia dragging them into the ground. The skeletons keep coming, jabbing spears, swinging cleavers, their mouths clacking. Soldiers cry out, and I bark orders, trying to keep them organized. Lovia fights valiantly, cutting the undead into pieces while Torben and Rasmus try to protect pockets of soldiers with shimmering wards.

Suddenly, the sky darkens. Clouds race overhead, and within moments, we are plunged into blackness, like a candle being snuffed.

“What’s happening?” Tellervo yells, green vines growing from her fingertips.

Someone else cries out, confused by the sudden night.

But I know this trickery can only belong to one Old God. Zelma, the Night-Binder, has arrived. Zelma thrives in darkness, weaving webs of shadow that drain life and hope. I feel a crushing lethargy settling on my limbs, soldiers nearby yawning and drooping, as if under a spell. A total eclipse swallows what little light filtered through the canopy, and Hanna’s faint glow and the embers from the fires are all that remain.

Hanna’s eyes meet mine, wide with fear. She knows this darkness will demand more light from her if we hope to survive. She clenches her fists, golden veins flickering under her skin. Another memory risk. Another test of her resolve.

Then, a horrible, otherworldly cry joins the fray—a swirling, spectral storm at the edge of our camp. I have heard of this one too, an Old God called Thaerix, the Screaming Vortex. It howls with the voices of lost souls, driving some soldiers to clutch their heads in agony. The wind tears at tents and flings debris. The darkness is absolute, the screams mind numbing. Skeletons advance, Zelma’s shadows weigh us down, and the spectral winds of Thaerix scatter our formation. We are pinned beneath a perfect storm of horrors.

I slash blindly, feeling my sword bite into something solid—bone or bark, I can’t be sure. Soldiers shout and fall silent. The Magician tries to form a barrier of starlight, but Zelma’s darkness and Thaerix’s shrieks shatter his concentration. Lovia curses, swinging her sword wildly. Tapio’s and Tellervo’s powers wane in the suffocating gloom.

Hanna stands near me, trembling with indecision.

“Hanna,” I say, voice cracking. “If you can, we need more light.”

She hesitates, tears in her eyes, torn between saving us and saving herself. I want to tell her we’ll find another way, but I know time is slipping through our fingers. Skeleton blades clatter against shields, and I hear Ilmarinen shout from the darkness. I can’t see him, only sense he’s in trouble. The sampo must be protected. If we lose it, we lose our only chance to end all the Old Gods at once.

Zelma’s laughter is a low hum, and I feel sleep tugging at my mind. The spectral storm’s scream threatens my sanity. My sword arm grows heavy. Around us, soldiers slump, eyes rolling back into unconsciousness while Bone Stragglers finish them off with their spears and cleavers.

I glance back at Hanna and she gives me a stiff nod then closes her eyes, tears glittering on her lashes. Her aura brightens. At first, it’s just a faint glow—enough to see her face. Then, it becomes brighter, brighter still, forcing back Zelma’s darkness. Threads of shadow recoil, and skeletons stagger.

I hear Hanna gasp. Her face contorts with pain and fear. She’s tapping into the sun now, summoning power that could unravel all she has worked for. I reach for her, grabbing her hand, and it’s like grabbing a hot poker, searing through my skin.

“I’m here,” I whisper. My voice is lost in the chaos, but maybe she hears it. Maybe this is enough for her to stay.

A flash of brilliance tears through the camp, revealing the grim tableau: soldiers wounded, some dead, skeletons cringing at the sudden glare, Zelma shielding itself with spidery arms of darkness, and Thaerix’s funnel thinning, as if under a strong wind of its own. We have a chance. If Hanna can hold this for just a moment longer, Ilmarinen might plant the sampo. We might turn the tide.

I move toward Ilmarinen to clear a path for him. The Magician and Lovia fight at my flank, their swords and illusions carving through the confusion. Tapio and Torben rally a few soldiers, skeletons shattering under blades and guns and fists. Zelma hisses, trying to weave new shadows alongside the screaming vortex.

Hanna’s radiance flares again, a heartbeat of pure, blinding light. In that moment, I catch a glimpse of her face—anguished, determined, and terrified. She’s losing herself. I can feel it—memories slipping, tears falling, her sense of self fading away.

“Hanna,” I tell her. “Stay with me little bird. You can do both.”

Then, the light dims. Darkness encroaches again, not as absolute as before but still strong. The eclipse hasn’t passed. Hanna’s strength wavers. She stands rigid, and I can tell she’s trying to keep her identity intact, to remember why she fights.

In the distance, I think I hear a horn, a faint echo. Could it be the Vellamo and the other Keskellis? Is Ilmatar finally making her appearance? Or a trick of Thaerix’s screams? The sound repeats, clearer this time, cutting through the cacophony. The skeletons pause, heads tilted.

Hope flickers in my chest.

But we are still trapped. Hanna’s light flickers uncertainly. She’s fighting not only the enemy but her own mind. Soldiers around me breathe raggedly, struggling to hold positions. Ilmarinen clutches the sampo, trying to edge closer to the ley line’s heart.

I slash at a skeleton, feeling my muscles burn. The horn sounds again, louder. Is help truly on the way? If so, can we hold out until they reach us? We balance on a knife’s edge, caught between salvation and annihilation.

“Hanna,” I whisper again, not sure if she can hear me. “Remember who you are.” If she can remember me, if she can remember Tuonela and all we’ve built, maybe she can hold back the madness of forgetting. Maybe she can shine again without losing herself.

I steel myself. Whatever happens, I won’t abandon her. Nor will I abandon these soldiers, this land, or the future we’ve all fought for. If this is the end, we’ll face it together. Still, I hold out hope that the horn heralds allies rushing to our aid. That Ilmarinen will find a moment to plant the sampo. That Hanna can balance on this razor’s edge a little longer.

We stand at the brink, shadows and screams pressing in. My sword feels heavy, my breath ragged, but still, I raise it, prepared to strike at whatever comes next. We will not surrender. We cannot. The underworld’s fate depends on this.

I will not be defeated.

A skeleton lunges at me, and I swing. The world hangs, unfinished, uncertain, on the edge of a blade.