“What is?”
For the second time in minutes, I jumped, finding Bjorn next to me, a shiver running over me as his knee bumped against mine with the motion of the trotting horses. “What?”
He took a bite of dried meat, jaw working as he chewed, the breeze sending pieces of his dark hair dancing against his skin. Swallowing, he said, “What is foolishness?”
I blinked, wondering what sort of teasing he was subjecting me to, then realized he’d heard me talking to myself and my skin flushed. “Nothing. I…It’s nothing, only idle words with Bodil.”
“Didn’t look idle.”
His leg brushed against mine again, the track not really wide enough for two horses abreast, which his mount made clear by flattening his ears to his head and snapping at my own. Yet I didn’t urge my mare ahead, instead allowing Bjorn’s leg to bump mine again. Curse you, Freya! my conscience shouted. What is wrong with you?
“Why did you go speak to the seer?” I asked in order to give myself justification for not putting distance between us. That, and the fact no one carrying a torch was near us.
“Because I had questions,” he answered softly, ducking under a branch. “Decided to take advantage of the opportunity.”
“What did you ask?” My eyes stole to his face, but Bjorn was staring down the trail, expression unreadable.
He took another bite of the dried meat, chewing and remaining silent for so long that I thought he didn’t intend to answer. Which of course made me question why he wouldn’t. Then he said, “I asked whether the gods would tell me if I walked the path they wished me to. You already know how she responded.”
My horse stopped and it took me a moment to realize that I’d tugged on the reins, Bjorn slowing to look at me over his shoulder. Shaking my head sharply, I heeled the mare back into a trot, even less certain than I’d been after my conversation with Bodil. “I don’t understand…”
Before more could be said, the sound of galloping hooves filled the air. A female sob echoed down the trail and my stomach plummeted. “No.”
Digging in my heels, I cut into the trees, moving past the group and back to the path before heeling my horse into a gallop. Dimly, I heard shouts. Heard my name and orders to pause, but I ignored them and pressed onward.
This can’t be.
I made the choice to come to Halsar’s aid.
I changed fate.
Yet as I broke from the trees and was greeted with an orange glow on the dark horizon, smoke gusting over me on the wind, I knew I’d changed nothing.
Halsar had burned.
I galloped down the road, slowing only once I was at the outskirts of the ruins, the flames already dying down to embers. Nothing remained standing, not the great hall nor any of the homes. Even the docks that I’d once trained upon with Bjorn were destroyed, the pillars they’d rested upon jutting from the water like jagged teeth, blackened wrecks of fishing boats and drakkar floating beyond. And amongst the ruins, there was no mistaking the still forms of those who’d died fighting, trying to defend it all.
Bjorn’s horse slowed next to me, but he said nothing, only circled my own mount, eyes taking in the ruins of his home. Then his gaze met mine. “This is not your fault.”
I hadn’t asked for this. Had done what I could to try to prevent it. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t the cause.
More horses galloped into the ruined streets, Ylva’s wailing piercing my ears. She slid off Snorri’s horse, falling to her knees in the mud and ash before the remains of the great hall, face streaked with tears. “Where is my son?” she screamed. “Where is my child?”
All around, warriors were dismounting, their faces filled with grief and fury and fear, some racing through the ruins, shouting the names of those they’d left behind. Left undefended. Cries of anguish filled the air.
Snorri alone seemed unmoved, his jaw rigid as he surveyed the ruins of his stronghold. He opened his mouth, and I tensed, ready and willing to lash out if he told these people this was another test.Yet all he said was, “Search for survivors. And answers.”
I dismounted, my shoes sinking into the mud, but before I could go further, shouts rang out.
“Oh, thank the gods!” Ylva’s cry filled the air as I circled my horse. Beyond, dozens of people walked toward us, mostly women and children, dirty and exhausted and with seemingly nothing but the clothes on their backs. But they were very much alive.
The two groups, warriors and survivors, surged toward each other and my chest hitched as I watched Ylva fling her arms around Leif, whose skin was stained with soot and blood, a scabbed gash marring his forehead. Only Bjorn and I held back as families and friends were reunited, the air filled with tears of joy, but also with cries of grief, for both groups had suffered losses.