Page 24 of Vow of the Undead
I didn’t know how to feel about it. The witches’ plan had failed, but at least the woman who’d stabbed him wasn’t as disturbed as me. I’d buried my silver pendant into Astrid and Sten’s bodies far deeper. Deep enough to kill.
She’d only injured King Drakkar’s eye, though I supposed she had intended to kill him.
She and I both had drawn blood.
Any moment, I expected the executioner standing over me to swing her axe down on my neck. I lay flat on my back, staring up at her eagle’s mask like an animal sacrifice laid out for the slaughter, a secret ritual practiced by few witches, and one I’d only witnessed twice.
A small rock dug into my spine. My legs and arms throbbed with the effort of stopping Ragna. Miniscule stars simmered in the inky gray sky as night crawled closer to dawn. Thick black clouds were scattered above, rolling in to slowly block any sign of the realms beyond Midgard.
I’d never see the sun again.
This was my end, and yet my heart didn’t slam against my chest. I had full use of my lungs, and my eyesight was clear of black spots.
In facing death, I should have screamed, fainted, or at least lost myself to a spiralling descent. But hundreds of overlapping thoughts didn’t crowd my mind. Everything was entirely clear, and I was…calm. Focused even, just as I had been when I fixed my sight on Ragna and threw myself in between her and the king.
Only one thought sent my heart skipping; I’d failed my mother.
I barely breathed as I ripped my eyes away from Eagle. Time slowed as I looked from Ragna to the eagle mask, then to the king again.
Blood trickled from King Drakkar’s eye. He held the pendant in his fist as the two executioners restrained the offending woman. I gritted my teeth at the sight of them dragging her by her hair, but at least it wasn’t Ragna.
The woman screamed and cursed at King Drakkar, but he paid no attention to her cries. He tossed the pendant into the mud and buried it with the sole of his boot. Pain must have consumed him because he turned away from the executioners when they made their announcement.
Another voice spoke in my mind, her tone different than mine.
“There is a time when he is more vulnerable. You’re not there yet, huntress.”
Where had these thoughts come from?
“Come!” A man’s voice bellowed, tearing me from the voice haunting my head. From beneath his bear mask, he shouted for everyone to gather for the routine announcement.
I’d heard every version of the executioner’s call before.
It was our duty to watch the criminal die so that we would remember the wasteland, remember theblood that was shed, that poisoned the soil and plunged our ancestors into starvation and the extinction of all but one small group of survivors in Mara.
He paused and asked the witch her name. They purposely and loudly announced the name of the offending person to drive the knife into the heart of their loved ones.
Her only response was to spit in his face.
I would be next, except my father was too far in the back to be affected by it. If he even loved me at all.
My ribs were met with the toe of a boot. Lightning pain crackled up through my bones and I grunted to hold back a curse. Eagle stooped to snatch the fabric at my shoulder. Pulling me forward, she forced me to sit up and watch.
The announcement continued. “By the law of Vylheim since the dawning of the wasteland, you are required to witness the execution of one who has spilled blood.”
Stormdal villagers slowly crowded together. They formed a crescent around the two executioners and the witch as the masked men shoved her to her knees.
“Gather and see this criminal’s blood stain the earth as a small sacrifice of life, and an important reminder that we will never again suffer the poison of our land that comes with great loss. We refute war and all fighting beneath it for the survival of our posterity.”
This was when we were supposed to echo the Grimward, but I couldn’t find the words on my tongue.
The witches’ attack was self defense, however reckless. These women were bound for the wasteland already, so I could not blame them for taking one last opportunity to make a change for their families.
Kill the king and perhaps the witch hunts would end. Perhaps executioners wouldn’t prowl our villages. Perhaps we could live without the threat of a beheading and choose to refute violence just because we valued life.
But history said otherwise. The wasteland was proof of it.
Many people carried corruption within them, even if it wasn’t as dark as mine.
