Page 5 of Vow of the Undead
Their footsteps and the clop of hooves grew louder and heavier as they marched toward the competitors. Years had passed since they’d ripped women from their houses, testing to see if they claimed themselves as witches. The Grimward was too busy patrolling for violence, and experience told me that even now, with the king’s guard in tow, they were likely onlypatrolling for any fools who’d gotten into a fight and drawn blood.
But my frayed nerves said otherwise.
They’re hunting witches.
They’re hunting you.
And you deserve it.
Blood rushed in deafening waves through my ears. My heart hammered painfully with the storm of dread building inside me.
Someone called out for us to get into position, daring to break the tense silence as we all afforded the Grimward respect laced in bitterness.
Since their visits grew more frequent, we tried to lay low, focus on the activity, and continue our celebration. How they even scented the lost blood, I didn’t know. They eyed us as they scanned the crowd in search of whoever had broken the law.
I bit my tongue and kept my eyes on the ground. I had to believe they didn’t know what I was so that I didn’t collapse from nerves and give myself away. Collapsing was reserved for during or after the race only, when my unconsciousness would be considered nothing more than the strain of the sport, not a moment to commune with the Gods.
Each woman dropped to one knee as if bowing before royalty, our heads low.
An executioner’s boot stepped into my line of sight. The Grimward were a necessary evil and we’d been visited by the king’s guard, even courtiers and council members before, but something about today felt different—or rather, familiar. Familiar to a single horrific memory from my childhood.
A shiver snaked between each bone along my spine. If I thought about the first time I saw their masks, and the swing of their axes, darkness would cloud my sight until I collapsed in the crystal-wet leaves.
If only the damn race would start.
I needed to forget.
I glanced at my father in hopes he’d call for it to begin. He was eyeing the executioners, clearly annoyed that he had no control over them and that their search interrupted our celebration.
I gritted my teeth, focusing on the feel of bone grinding against bone to divert my mind from the invisible claws enclosing my throat and lungs. The race hadn’t even started and I was already breathless.
I squeezed my eyes shut to try to block out the echoes of that day triggered by the sight of their masked faces, but pieces of the memory I’d buried popped up anyway.
The darkness of the hatch under my bed. The screams. The lies that left my tongue bitter ever since.
Like my mother had taught me to do, I shifted my focus from the past to the present. I tasted bitterness on my tongue. I smelled the rot of early autumn leaves. I felt the damp earth bend beneath my knee. The world narrowed, my pulse slowing just enough to keep me upright.
My heavy braid tumbled over my shoulder, the amber-brown ends mingling with the leaves covering the ground. I fought every urge to abandon this race and run from here, but if I left now, I’d only call attention to myself. I’d only draw the interest of the executioners looking for criminals.
I couldn’t help that I was born one.
Two of the executioners marched behind the row of women, circling us like birds of prey zeroing in on their kill.
But it was the glare of my father’s wife that caught my attention, her irritation for my very existence as a witch obvious with her twisted frown. At twenty-six, I no longer gave in to her pressure. It once molded me, like heat in a forge while my father was the fire, burning me with every slap on the cheek, a bitter occurrence that grew more frequent the longer my mother had been gone. Ten years banished to thewasteland meant her life would end soon. Nobody had ever survived longer than a decade there.
My heart tripped. I had to get a glimpse of how to free her. The Gods’ help was my only hope.
This damn race needed to start now. The pressure of competition had worked every other time, but I only glimpsed pieces of the sagas, up until my most recent vision.
A vision of an ancient runestone with the image of a witch carved into it.
Was it stored with the others in the king’s castle?
Another vision might tell me that, too. Thankfully the Grimward had no clue that when I fainted from physical exertion, I was also seeing magic painted on the inside of my eyelids—painted by the hands of the Gods. To them, I was just a weak competitor, a stupid girl in this for the fun of competition.
The executioners finally cut left, and I prayed for the race to begin, when another pair of boots stopped before me. This rough black leather didn’t match the blood-stained brown of the Grimward and guards’ boots.
I dragged my eyes up, but the man had already turned and followed in the executioners’ wake. His dark hair was knotted at the back of his head, a style that I’d only heard described in stories. A heavy sword was slung across his back instead of the executioners’ typical axes hanging at their sides. Nobody was allowed to carry weapons anymore, except executioners and the king’s guard, and…the king.
