Fjalltindr was the sacred temple on the very top of the mountain known as Hammar. Every nine years there was a gathering that drew people from near and far to pay tribute to the gods and offer
their sacrifices. I’d never been before, my parents having always claimed that it was not a place for children, and this would be the first time it took place since I’d come of age.
The great hall was in a flurry of activity, two dozen horses and a number of pack animals already saddled and loaded when I emerged in dry clothes and a thick cloak. Ylva was directing the process, the lady of Halsar no longer attired in a costly dress, but in warrior’s clothes, including a mail shirt, a long seax hanging from her belt. I had no doubt that she knew how to use it.
Particularly when her opponent’s back was turned.
“You will remain with the warriors I’m leaving behind to protect Halsar,” Snorri said to Leif. “You will be lord in my absence. Send word across my territories calling for those who can fight and tell them to prepare.”
“Prepare to be attacked?” Leif crossed his arms, expression displeased. “There will be anger, Father.”
“Remind them that we are favored by the gods,” Snorri answered as he mounted his horse. “If they care not for that, then remind them that those who fight for me will be rewarded.” Turning away from his son, he said to me, “We lost horses in the fire, so we are short. You will ride with Bjorn.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that as Snorri reached down to lift Ylva, who settled comfortably behind him. Steinunn also shared a mount, though with a young thrall woman, the skald watching my every move, though no emotion showed on her face. Sighing, I walked over to Bjorn’s big roan gelding, noting that he was also wearing mail. “What happened to riding shirtless into battle?” I grumbled, my aching arms protesting as he pulled me up behind him, knowing it would be my arse suffering in a few hours. The horse likely wouldn’t be impressed, either.
“You’re riding behind me, Born-in-Fire,” he said, heeling the horse into a walk. “And it is very nearly guaranteed that I’ll say something to anger you on the journey. It’s a long ride and I’ve no talent for silence.”
“Well, that is certainly the truth.” I barely managed to curb a yelp as he urged the horse into a canter that nearly sent me toppling off the back. I clung to Bjorn’s waist as he followed Snorri out of Halsar, but as we left the town, a hooded figure on a rocky outcropping caught my attention.
It was the same figure I’d seen during the funeral of the victims of the raid, smoke and ash drifting away on a wind despite the air being still.
“Bjorn!” I pointed. “Do you see that person?”
He turned his head, and through the mail and all the padding he wore beneath it, I felt him tense. “Where? I see no one.”
A chill of fear ran down my spine, because if Bjorn couldn’t see the figure, I was either losing my mind or this was a specter revealing itself only to me. “Stop the horse.”
Bjorn drew up his mount, the rest of our party following suit even as Snorri demanded, “Why are you stopping?”
I pointed again at the specter, which remained with its head lowered, embers and ash falling around it. “Do any of you see that hooded figure? The embers? The smoke?”
Confusion radiated across our party as everyone looked to where I pointed, shaking their heads. Nothing. Yet the horses seemed aware, all of them snorting and stomping, their ears pinned flat.
“A specter,” Snorri breathed. “Perhaps even one of the gods having stepped onto the mortal plane. Speak to him, Freya.”
My palms turned clammy because that was the last thing I wanted to do. “Try to get closer.”
Bjorn urged his mount toward the outcropping until the horse finally dug in its heels, refusing to go closer. “What do you want?” I shouted at the specter.
“So polite, Born-in-Fire,” Bjorn murmured, but I ignored him as the specter’s head tracked toward me, face still hidden by the hood. Then it lifted its hand and spoke, voice rough and pained.
“She, the unfated, she the child of Hlin, she who was born in fire must give sacrifice to the gods on the mount at the first night of the full moon else her thread will be cut short, the future that was foreseen unwoven.”
The words settled into my head, understanding of what they meant twisting my guts with nausea.
“Did it answer?” Bjorn asked, and I gave a tight nod. “Yes.” Louder, I asked, “Why? Why must I do this?”
“She must earn her fate,” the specter answered, then exploded into embers and smoke.
The horse reared, and I cursed, clinging to Bjorn’s waist to keep from falling while he settled the animal.
“How did the specter answer?” Snorri demanded, riding his snorting mount in circles around us. “Did it identify itself?”
“It said that I must earn my fate,” I answered, righting myself behind Bjorn. “That I must give sacrifice to the gods on the mount on the first night
of the full moon, or my thread will be cut short.”
“A test!” Snorri’s eyes brightened. “Surely the specter was one of the gods, for they delight in such things.”
A test that, if I failed, would see me dead. Needless to say, I did not share in Snorri’s enthusiasm.
“The gods will not grant you greatness for nothing,” he said. “You must prove yourself to them.”
It was not lost on me that I’d once dreamed of greatness, and now, presented with it, it felt like the last thing I wanted.
Besides, I was unfated. How could the specter, the gods, or anyone truly predict what my future held? How could they know for certain that if I didn’t go to Fjalltindr, I’d die? Maybe I could alter my destiny and escape this. Maybe I could wait for a moment when backs were turned and run. I could retrieve my family, and together we could flee out of Snorri’s reach. I could weave a new fate for myself. The race of thoughts made me abruptly regret not taking Bjorn up on his offer to help me escape.
As though hearing my thoughts, Snorri added, “If you destroy the fate foreseen for me, Freya, you had best hope that you are dead. For my wrath will burn like wildfire, and it will turn on everything you love.”
Hate boiled in my chest because the gods weren’t the threat I feared. It was the bastard standing before me.
“We’ve wasted enough time! We ride to Fjalltindr,” he ordered, spinning his horse and setting off at a gallop.
Instead of following, Bjorn twisted in the saddle, wrapping one arm around my waist, and pulling me in front of him. As I struggled to right my legs around the horse’s shoulders, he said, “I don’t think the specter was threatening you, Freya. I think it was warning you that there will be those along the way who will try to kill you.”
“As if I didn’t already know that.”
“The mountaintop is sacred ground.” Bjorn’s hand pressed against my ribs to hold me steady. “No weapons are allowed, as all deaths must be in sacrifice to the gods, which means some level of safety within Fjalltindr’s borders.”
I didn’t take much comfort in that. “How long will it take us to reach the mountain?”
“Tomorrow we’ll reach the village at the base of the mountain, where we’ll leave the horses,” he said. “Then another half day’s climb.”
A night out in the open. I swallowed hard. “I think we should ride faster.”
—
By the time dusk fell, the horses were laboring hard and my body ached from bouncing up and down for hours on Bjorn’s lap. Judging from his groans as he slowly dismounted his horse, falling on his back in the dirt and shouting at the sky that he’d lost the ability to sire children, he’d not fared much better.
Yet it was the first time since we’d left Halsar that anyone laughed, so I welcomed the release of tension even if it was at my expense. The warriors jostled and elbowed one another as they tended the mounts, the thralls Snorri had brought moving to prepare dinner while their mistress perched on a rock, clearly above doing anything at all.
I hesitated, not certain where I belonged, then moved to join the thralls. For while I didn’t know how to prepare the defense of a camp, I did know how to make a fire and dress game.
Carefully stacking a pile of kindling, I stuffed moss under the sticks. My scarred hand was painfully stiff, likely from my training with Bjorn, and I struggled to grip my knife to strike the flint.
“There’s an easier way.” Bjorn crouched next to me, axe appearing in his hand. The crimson fire flickered and danced as he shoved it into my carefully assembled stack of wood, knocking everything askew before disappearing into the darkness.
I eyed the weapon, this the first opportunity I’d had to really scrutinize the axe up close. It gave off tremendous heat, though the sweat that beaded on my brow was more from nerves than the temperature, as I remembered how it had felt when it seared my palm. How in the heartbeat I’d held it, the
crimson fire had enveloped my hand as though it intended to consume me. As though Tyr himself wanted to punish me for wielding a weapon never meant for my hands.
Yet my curiosity was greater than my fear, and I bent closer, squinting against the glow. Beneath the flickers of fire, the axe itself appeared to be made from translucent glass with patterns etched along the blade and haft.
Realizing the thralls were watching, I pushed kindling on top of the axe. The wood swiftly ignited, the oranges and golds and blues of natural flame mixing with the blood-red god-fire as I added larger pieces.
“Will you describe to me the specter’s appearance?” Steinunn knelt next to me, her cloak slipping dangerously close to Bjorn’s axe. I reached to move the fabric even as I said, “Hooded. Embers and smoke poured from it as though it were aflame beneath its cloak.”
“How did seeing it make you feel? What were your thoughts?”
My jaw tightened, the invasiveness of her queries again rubbing me the wrong way. As though sensing my irritation, the skald swiftly said, “It is how my magic works, Freya. I chronicle the stories of our people as ballads, but for them to possess heart and emotion, they must be told from the perspective of those they are about, not my own observations. I seek only to do justice to your growing fame.”
“It feels strange to share with someone I barely know.”
A rare flicker of emotion appeared in the skald’s eyes, then she looked away. “I’m not used to speaking about myself. Most desire for me to sing of their exploits, so conversation is about them, not me.”
My irritation fled in favor of sympathy, and for the first time since we’d met, I truly focused on the skald as I considered the cost of her gift. What it would feel like if everyone you spoke to cared only about telling you their stories on the chance of expanding their fame in a ballad, and nothing about the woman who wrote the songs. Steinunn was used as a tool, just as I was. “I would like to know more about you.”
Steinunn stiffened, then wiped her palms on her skirt. “There is little to tell. I was born in a small fishing village on the coast. When I turned fourteen, our jarl took me into service, though it was short-lived, for another
jarl soon learned of my gift and paid him in gold to bring me into his service. So it was for many years, jarls buying my service from one another.”
Like a thrall. “You had no choice where you went?”
Steinunn lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “For the most part, I was well compensated and cared for, and in recent years, my…liberty has grown.” Her jaw clenched as she said the last, but then she gave me a smile, the moment of discomfort gone as swiftly as it had appeared.
I opened my mouth to ask whether she had or wanted a family, then closed it again. If she had a family, they weren’t in Halsar, and she might not appreciate me raising the topic. “So you wish to know how I felt? That is how your magic works?”
Steinunn nodded.
Keeping my eyes on Bjorn’s axe, I bit the insides of my cheeks. Admitting that I had been afraid seemed counter to the story Snorri wished to spread about me, but if I said otherwise, the woman would likely know it was a lie.
“Perhaps if I show you,” the skald said, and opening her full lips, she began to sing. Softly, so that only I would hear, her beautiful voice filled my ears, telling the tale of the raid against Halsar. Yet it was not the words that drew a gasp from my lips, it was visions of darkness and flame that filled my eyes, blocking out the world around me, fear forming like a vise around my chest.
“Save your caterwauling for those who didn’t live through that battle, Steinunn.”
Bjorn’s voice cut through the song and the skald fell silent, the vision immediately fading away.
“I’m following your father’s orders,” she snapped, the first sign of anger I’d ever seen from her. “It is Snorri who wishes Freya’s fame to grow.”
“I felt afraid,” I blurted out, not wishing to be at the center of a confrontation between these two, who clearly were not friends. “But I also wanted answers.”
I held my breath, praying that would be sufficient.
“Thank you, Freya.” Steinunn rose to her feet, not saying a word to Bjorn as she pushed past him.
“You shouldn’t be so rude,” I said to him as he knelt near the fire. “She’s got no more choice in what she does than I do.”
Bjorn grunted, though whether it was in agreement or denial, I wasn’t sure. “I once allowed her to pick my thoughts, not realizing what her magic could do. Days later, she sang to all of Halsar and I realized that her power would allow all who heard her song to…become me in that moment. To see what I saw. To feel what I felt. To cast their judgment upon me for something I’d never have shared with them, if given the choice. It was… intrusive.”
It struck me as strange that a man such as him would resent anything that brought him notoriety. He was above all else a raider, and to warriors like Bjorn, nothing mattered more than battle fame. Except I’d once dreamed of such things, and those opening verses of the raid on Halsar had not brought me pride and elation, but rather fear. Perhaps, however improbably, Bjorn felt the same. But still…“That doesn’t mean you need to be rude to her.”
“You might reconsider your stance after a few more months of her prying into every detail of your actions,” he answered. “It’s the only way I can get her to leave me be.”
Chewing the insides of my cheeks, I debated whether this was something I wished to argue about and decided on changing the subject. Gesturing at his axe, I asked, “Does it have to be an axe? Or could you make it any weapon?”
Bjorn huffed a breath at the subject change but said, “It has always been an axe. For others with Tyr’s blood, a sword or knife.”
“And it looks the same every time you summon it?”
His axe abruptly disappeared, as though he liked my scrutiny of it as little as he did Steinunn’s intrusions into his thoughts. “More or less.” Circling the fire, he sat cross-legged next to me. “Is Hlin’s shield always the same?”
I frowned, considering the question. “It takes the shape of the shield I’m holding.”
“Does it need to be a proper shield? Or could your magic turn anything into a shield?” He reached over and picked up a pot, brandishing it. “Such magic would keep anyone from crossing you in the kitchen. Are you a good cook, by the way?”
“Don’t be an arse—of course I’m a good cook.” Wrenching the pot from his grip, I turned it over in my hand, then lifted it. “Hlin, protect me.”
Power flooded my veins, the warmth of it driving away the chill in the air. It flowed from my hand to cover the pot, its glow doing more than the fire to illuminate the darkness. Vaguely, I was aware that everyone had stopped to stare at me, but my attention was all for Bjorn, who was eyeing the pot thoughtfully.
Extracting a knife from his belt, he slammed the tip into my pot. The weapon bounced off with enough force that it went spinning out of his grip and into the dirt, but rather than retrieving the blade, he motioned for me to rise. Nerves prickled my skin, but I obliged him, my nerves turning to fear as his axe appeared in his hand.
“Bjorn…” Snorri said, stepping forward. “I don’t think this—”
“Do you trust that I won’t miss?” Bjorn said to me, acting as though his father hadn’t even spoken.
I swallowed. “Bjorn, I’m wielding a cooking pot.”
“You’re wielding Hlin’s power,” he corrected. “So perhaps the better question is whether you trust the goddess? Or whether you trust yourself?”
Did I? Hlin’s magic had held against Tyr’s once before, but Bjorn had been unprepared. What if this time his axe sliced through my magic?
The memory of the pain I’d felt when the axe had burned me filled my head, feeling so real I looked down at my hand to ensure it wasn’t aflame. My breathing accelerated, my pulse a dull roar in my ears as the arm holding the pot trembled.
“Bjorn,” Snorri snarled, “if you hurt her, I’ll cut out your gods-cursed heart!”
Bjorn did not so much as blink, only asked softly, “Well, Freya?”
Terror and nausea rolled in my guts, every instinct telling me to back down. To say that I couldn’t do it. That I needed a proper shield and time to test just how powerful Hlin’s magic was. But a defiant, albeit potentially idiotic, part of my heart forced two words up through my strangled throat and across my dry tongue. “Do it.”
Bjorn threw the axe.
I clenched my teeth, fighting the instinct to dive sideways, instead holding my pot steady, a scream filling my ears. Crimson flame flipped end-over-end toward me, the screaming—which I realized was my own— abruptly drowned out by a concussive blast that shattered the air like thunder.
The axe ricocheted off my pot, smashing through tree branches and up into the sky before winking out.
Ylva gasped loudly, but Bjorn only laughed, his eyes bright as he reached out to touch the glowing pot.
“Careful!” I tensed, afraid that the magic would shatter his hand. But with utter fearlessness, he pressed his palm against the magic.
Instead of repelling his touch, my magic allowed Bjorn’s hand to sink into it like water. I felt the moment he touched the pot itself, a gentle pressure, whereas with the impact of his axe, I’d felt nothing. The sensation moved up my arm and down into my core, as though he touched not magic and metal, but my bare skin, and I shivered.
“You get what you give,” he murmured, then lifted his eyes from the magic to meet mine. “Or perhaps more accurately, you give what you get.”
The rest of the world fell away as I considered his words, it feeling for all the world like he was the first person to ever understand me.
Except…that wasn’t quite it.
My family understood me. My friends understood me. But there were parts of me that they wanted to change, whereas Bjorn seemed to accept the way I was. Seemed to encourage the parts of my character that everyone else in my life had tried to quash. A quiver ran through me, a powerful mix of emotions filling my chest in a way that made it hard to breathe.
Then Snorri spoke, shattering the moment. “Her magic is more powerful than yours? The shield maiden is stronger than you?”
My jaw tightened at the use of my title rather than my name, a reminder that to Snorri, I was a thing, not a person.
If Bjorn’s ego was bruised by the comment, he didn’t show it, only shrugged. “That certainly seems to be the case.”
I waited for him to caveat the statement. To argue that in battle, I wouldn’t stand a chance against him. But he didn’t. Didn’t tear me down in order to make himself look strong, as so many men did.
“Yet more proof the gods favor her.” Snorri smiled. “That they favor me.”
I couldn’t stop myself from demanding, “Why? How is the strength of my magic proof the gods favor you as the future king of Skaland?”
“Shut your disrespectful mouth, girl!” Ylva shoved past Bjorn, and I lowered my pot lest I accidentally send her flying across the camp. “A tool is only as good as the hand that wields it, and it was Snorri who received the foretelling. You are nothing without him.”
My jaw tightened, but before I could retort, Snorri said, “Be at ease, my love. She has not your experience and wisdom to have faith in the gods.”
“It is true,” Bjorn said. “I’d estimate two decades’ less experience. Or is it three, Ylva?”
Snorri struck.
Bjorn went from laughing to kneeling, blood seeping from his mouth in an instant.
“You are my son, Bjorn, and I love you.” Snorri’s voice carried an icy edge. “But do not mistake my affection for weakness. Dishonor Ylva, and you dishonor me. Now apologize.”
Bjorn’s jaw clenched in anger as he stood, eyes narrowed and filled with rage. It was more than mere anger—he despised Ylva, a hatred far beyond what could be justified by what I’d seen or heard. He opened his mouth, and I braced myself, anticipating anything but an apology. But Bjorn took a deep breath, then released it slowly.
Ylva folded her arms, her eyes narrowed. “I was grateful my husband saved you from our enemies, Bjorn, but every day, you test that gratitude.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ylva,” he shot back. “I know it bothers you that I took Leif’s place as heir. At least have the decency to admit it instead of hiding behind false sentiments.”
“Fine!” she snapped. “I don’t want you to inherit. You were gone too long and are more Nordelander than Skalander. The people deserve to be ruled by one of their own. By a legitimate son!”
I clapped a hand over my mouth, stunned by her words, but Bjorn didn’t even flinch.
“Enough!” Snorri roared. “Both of you, stop this pointless quarrel.”
Bjorn didn’t seem to hear his father, lowering his head to Ylva’s level and saying, “I heard you once said the same to my mother.”
I stepped back, realizing I was no longer part of the argument. Around us, warriors and servants did their best to ignore the conflict.
Ylva turned pale at the accusation, but Snorri’s roar was directed at her. “Who told you this lie? Ylva was a friend to your mother, and you know it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bjorn said, turning away. “It’s history. It’s done. Forget I said anything.”
He walked off into the darkness.
Snorri moved toward the direction Bjorn had gone, but Ylva stopped him. “He won’t listen while he’s angry,” she said. “And the more you deny it, the more he’ll believe it’s true.”
“It was Harald,” Snorri spat. “His way is to whisper poison and lies, twisting loyalties.”
“Likely so,” Ylva said. “Which raises the question of what else he whispered in Bjorn’s ears during those years.”
I clenched my teeth, recognizing Ylva’s manipulation, but Snorri seemed to see it too. “Your relationship with Bjorn would improve if you weren’t always trying to discredit him. What’s the end goal? To make Leif look better? I know my son is a fine boy and warrior, but he’s not my firstborn. He’s not the one Tyr chose to honor with a drop of blood.”
I took a step back, intending to find Bjorn, but Ylva’s scowl made me hesitate. She pulled a jar from her belt and tossed it to me. “Liv said to use this every night. It will ease the pain and stiffness so you might stay useful. Now go find something useful to do.”
I stuffed the salve into my pocket and returned to the fire, where the thralls were preparing a meal. Ylva had brought several of them, likely captured in raids, and their lives were hard and short unless Ylva decided to free them. “How can I help?”
One of them opened her mouth, likely to say it wasn’t necessary, so I quickly added, “Ylva wants me to be useful.” The young woman gave Ylva a sideways glance before handing me a spoon. “Stir occasionally.”
I complied, though my gaze kept drifting to the edge of the camp, hoping for Bjorn’s return. What had he meant about his mother? Had Ylva somehow been involved in her fate?
Questions without answers. I tasted the bland stew and added salt and spices, making it more palatable. “It’s ready.”
The thralls served the meal, and I sat apart, contemplating my situation. When I finished, I opened the salve Ylva had given me. It was waxy and pungent, but I sealed it away without using it.
“You need to use it for it to help.”
Bjorn’s voice startled me. He had emerged from the shadows, sitting across from me and poking the fire with a stick. “Well? Aren’t you going to apply it?”
My fingers were stiff and would likely be worse in the morning, but for reasons I couldn’t explain, I set the jar aside.
Bjorn exhaled in exasperation, rising and walking around the fire. “Give me the salve.”
Acutely aware of the eyes on us, I handed him the jar, wincing as he scooped out a generous glob. “Clearly, you’re unaware of the chests of silver my father has hidden in his territory,” he said. “He values your ability to use your hand more than the cost of this salve.”
Despite my ingrained frugality, he had a point. Extending my arm, I waited as he applied the salve to the twisted tattoo on my palm. I tensed, self-conscious about the scars, but Bjorn showed no sign of discomfort. His strong fingers worked the salve into my stiff tendons, the heat of his skin providing warmth beyond the fire.
I couldn’t relax.
The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming.
I was another man’s wife. Not just any man, but his father’s.
Yet I didn’t pull away.
The firelight danced over Bjorn’s hands, revealing the tendons beneath his suntanned skin, marked with tiny white scars, some from burns. My gaze traveled up his muscled forearms, adorned with faded tattoos that must have been there for years. I wondered if they held meaning for him or were mere decorations, but I kept the question to myself.
I didn’t want to disrupt the moment. Didn’t want to do anything that might make him remove his hands from mine. Not because the pain was easing but because the growing tension in my core was undeniable.
You are a cursed fool, Freya. An idiot deserving a slap for lusting after the unattainable.
My body ignored my warnings, and the ache in my core intensified. My imagination flared, conjuring vivid images of Bjorn without his shirt, his trousers, any garments between us, his hands and lips on my body.
Stop it, I pleaded with myself, but my imagination persisted.
It had always been a curse, giving me false hope that what it conjured might become reality, only to lead to disappointment. Even though I had been unhappy about my father’s choice to marry me to Vragi, I’d still dreamed of the pleasures of my wedding night, fueled by other women’s tales. The reality had been a bitter disappointment, Vragi demanding I disrobe, bending me over the bed, finishing quickly, leaving me with a cold, hollow void.
“Deep thoughts for the late hour,” Bjorn said softly, startling me from my reverie. I met his gaze, feeling caught despite my thoughts of Vragi having quelled the lust within me.
Now I was just embarrassed.
“I wasn’t thinking of anything.” I pulled my hand away and hid it in my cloak. “Thank you for your help. The pain is much reduced.”
Bjorn shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“Apologies,” he added after a moment. “For before. You were trying to make sense of my father’s plans, and I turned the conversation to my grievances, denying you the chance to speak.”
I shrugged, unable to meet his gaze. “He had no intention of sharing anything.”
“I suspect it’s because he doesn’t know,” Bjorn said, picking up the stick and poking the fire. “He knows about war and raiding and twisting the gods’ stories to his advantage. But as for how you might inspire Skaland to swear oaths to him as king? I think he’s as clueless as the rest of us.”
I bit my lip, the night air suddenly colder.
“You should rest,” Bjorn said, standing. “We’ll break camp before dawn and ride hard tomorrow.”
I spread out my furs and lay down, pulling a thick pelt over me. The camp was quiet except for the crackle of the fire, the wind in the pine trees, and the faint snoring of a warrior.
The silence was shattered by a meaty crunch.
I sat up in horror as a warrior on guard fell into the firelight, an axe embedded in his skull. Before I could scream, more warriors emerged from the trees, faces painted for battle and weapons gleaming, their cries of war filling me with pure terror.
“Kill the shield maiden!” one shouted. “Kill all the women!”
One of the thralls tried to escape but was struck down before she could take two steps. The warrior’s gaze locked on me.
Instinct took over.
Leaping to my feet, I drew my sword and grabbed a shield, my arm strengthened by fierce emotion. They wanted me dead, so it would be me they had to kill. “Hlin,” I cried, “give me your strength!”
Magic flowed through me and enveloped the shield, glowing with a brilliant silver light. All eyes turned to me as the attackers surged forward, not just a few, but dozens pouring from the trees, their eyes filled with murder.
And I stood alone. Or so I thought.
A shield appeared beside mine, and I turned to see Bjorn standing next to me, his
