Page 7 of Vow of the Undead
And perhaps the king’s stare had been the same, I was only too foolish to notice.
“I have to run,” I whispered.
“Go into the forest,” she breathed back, just low enough that they couldn’t catch her words as they marched closer. “If they catch you, they’ll exile you. And if for some reason they decide they must kill you, they’ll only do it where there are witnesses.”
She was right. The more alone I was, the safer I was.
They were instructed to send a message, and if nobody was around to see my head severed from my body, it was a waste—nearly as grave as a villager wasting a drop of blood when our very lives, every bit of our energy, was wrapped up in a system that supported one another. Farmers, trappers, gatherers, Vyls, weavers, even royals all played a role in keeping Vylheim from becoming the wasteland our ancient home had turned into. Each life had value to the system. Value not worth sacrificing without witnesses.
The message was more important than the execution, so that others didn’t get any ideas.
My gaze shifted back to the king. He lifted his brows as if to challenge me.
Run.
I spun on my heels and ducked past the rotted ash. I ran into the heavy shade of trees where even the bright moon at the beginning of autumn could not break through the tangle of branches above.
I ran—another chance to push my body to the breaking point, to survive, and perhaps even to glimpse a vision.
Freya’s Trial
The forest’s darkness enveloped me, stark and cold but protective. Shadows gave me cover from the executioners who hunted me. After foraging food from this forest for two decades, I knew every tree, every spot to hide.
I ducked to the right, forcing my feet to keep moving, keep running.
I would not stop.
The flap of a bat’s wings fluttered overhead. I could no longer hear the beat of the executioner’s boots striking the earth, but I knew they were close behind and I’d yet to break down my body. I’d only lose them by winding my path, because they’d quickly outpace me.
I weaved through a maze of trees and ignored the thwack of branches hitting my body as I pushed through.
Mercy would come from the forest itself, even if it wasn’t a safe place.
I usually only dared take to the shadows of trees in the daytime with the other gatherers, many of whom were women who’d just bested me in the race. Witches knew wild animalswere not the only threat in these trees. Ragna had sworn she heard the footfall of a giant deep in the forest. Others had reported sightings of fanged people, but my father promptly shut down such claims. Bears and beasts existed, but not giants or the undead— called Draugr—mentioned in Thor’s saga.
For once, I prayed my father was right.
I ran until black spots dotted my vision.
The king wouldn’t let me live, whether that death came swiftly or achingly slow through starvation in the wasteland. Witches weren’t supposed to exist because Gods weren’t supposed to exist. I suspected the king didn’t appreciate villagers worshipping Odin and Freya instead of him. As the Gods’ chosen vessels, a witch’s very presence in Vylheim proved him and the rest of his beliefs wrong. We were here, and though we were in hiding, we existed, some of us seerborns, others with the power to heal, or manipulate the elements.
I sucked ragged breaths into my burning lungs. Cramps seized my legs, but it was my heart that hurt the most. The beats thumped off rhythm, and it threatened to give out at any moment. It would soon stutter into a brief stop before reawakening.
In the interim, perhaps I’d hear Freya’s voice or glimpse through Odin’s single eye and see what he saw.
I drove my feet forward, step by step, despite the ache radiating up from my heels.
Glancing above, I caught sight of the heavens between branches. Soon ribbons of purple and pink, and blue as stark as King Drakkar’s eyes, would dance across the sky—a colorful reminder from the Gods that even in the depths of winter, there was hope.
They were there, waiting for witches to reach out to them for guidance and help.
Tell me what to do. Where can I go? How can I help my mother?Myself?I begged silently. Frustration mingled with desperation as my tongue swelled, my mouth growing drier.
How would I survive now? If the king knew I was a witch, his pursuit would be relentless. I could never go back to Skaldir. I couldn’t dare to commune with other witches in the hopes of digging out an answer that would free my mother from exile.
Give me a vision!
I trusted the Gods would reach me if they could. When I lacked visions it was because of my own failure, my resistant fear of the inevitable collapse. I hated that I wasn’t pushing myself hard enough.
