Page 19 of Vow of the Undead
Two nights passed with ease.
We always stopped at sunrise to set up camp. On the third day, we resumed the journey the same way we had for two days; at twilight, and in silence.
Why we always set up camp in the morning, I didn’t know. Night was colder with more risk of wild animals hunting the stragglers at the back.
Perhaps it was to prepare for the Polar Nocturne. In only a few days, the entire world would be plunged into darkness for half the winter. I’d heard some of the villages prepared for it this way, readying their minds to accept weeks of no sun, no morning, no light.
Each evening was quiet before the children woke for the all-night travel. Miraculously, the little ones adjusted to sleeping during the daylight better than the rest of us. Or maybe they were just so exhausted by the time we stopped that they collapsed. I could relate to that.
But the sounds of night, the cold especially, kept me restless. My heart beat too fast, a contrast to my heavy limbs and eyelids, keeping my nerves on edge as I curled my frozen fingers to check if they could still move.
Once the sun set, everyone stirred, and slowly, the buzz of eager conversation kept us going through the winter weather, even on the longest nights. Nights like this one that stretched into near impenetrable darkness. Nights where your mind wandered, wondering if we’d ever reach the relief of the southern villages.
My legs and butt ached from riding, so it was awelcome reprieve when one of the king’s guards rode to the back of the traveling party and demanded we dismount.
Though I hated having to listen to him.
I frowned, mirroring the other men and women who shot the guard looks full of venom. But we obeyed, shaking out our legs and allowing our poor horses a moment of rest.
Especially mine. The old horse already looked ragged, and I resolved to walk for a while after this.
The guard frowned right back at us.
None of us were used to dealing with the king’s guard, but we knew what happened when an executioner came to our villages. Somebody either vanished or lost their head. The guards embodied that same authorial and aggressive aura with axes swinging from their belts. Others carried knives tucked into their boots—all weapons banned from the commoners. It was all to protect the king.
To protect us all.The phrase all Vyls chanted echoed in my head.
Every life was valuable, both the king’s and a villager’s, and without the rules keeping our world from unraveling, we’d end up damning all of Vylheim.
The guard slid off his horse and stormed through the maze of men and women and children, yanking his horse along behind him with a violent jerk of the reins.
He paused in front of a woman with hair the color of autumn. Wind carried her hair away from her face, revealing her pinched expression behind thick tendrils.
His abrasive manner left her stumbling back when he brushed her aside with the back of his hand.
Buzzing nerves rippled through the crowd. A woman behind me stooped to scoop up her crying child.
One of my father’s men looked to him for guidance, but my father merely gritted his teeth. His jaw slid back and forth as he kept his narrowed eyes, tracking the guard.
No doubt my father wanted to tell his people to return to their mounts and keep going. He wasn’t used to dealing with authority this often.
How he planned to win over King Drakkar with that attitude was beyond me.
The guard marched past the woman in front of me, scanning her, before he stopped at me. His eyes flashed. Staring at me, he grimaced.
“You’re the one he wants,” he said.
My heart rate tripled. The king already wanted to see me? Was I to start my servitude on the road?
I’d thought I would answer to myself for the remainder of the trip. I’d hoped to have my freedom a little longer.
I glanced at my father who kept his gaze averted. This was what he’d bargained for; my service for my safety.
Had he saved my life, or damned it? As much as he denied the Gods, he knew I worshiped and revered Freya, the god of beauty, of prophecy, and of freedom. When Loki traded her hand in marriage to a giant, she refused to be controlled. She embodied independence, and the witches surviving in hiding, in secret, strived for that same freedom.
I was no different.
Still, this trade had kept me alive, and since I’d yet to bring honor to the Gods—at least according to my own standards—I knew I wouldn’t be granted an afterlife in Valhalla or Folkvangr where warriors feasted and challenged one another in games like our seasonal celebrations. I hoped someday becoming a seerborn as skilled as my mother would honor Odin and Freya enough to call me to an afterlife with one of them.
