Page 2 of Heart of the Wolf
A twig snapped under her foot, and she covered her mouth. The jarl stilled, rolling his shoulders. His gaze slid to hers, glacial and unyielding. A tiny gasp caught in her throat, and a profound stillness stirred behind her sternum. It shifted something deep inside, locking into a place a powerful emotion she didn’t recognize.
Something flickered in his eyes, the man shaking it off before vanishing into the woods with his warriors.
For years, his face haunted her dreams, like a phantom beckoning her toward the water’s edge.
Whether to drown her or rescue her, she wasn’t sure.
When a different jarl replaced him as she grew older, she couldn’t shake the ever-present tug behind her navel, urging her to find the man with braids that shone like moonlight.
Chapter one
Brielle
10 Years Later
Sticks crunched under her leather boots as she trudged deeper into the forest. The morning frost had since thawed, leaving the grass glistening with dew. Winter threatened. Brielle tossed her curls over her shoulder, tugging her cloak tighter, trying to stave off the growing chill in the air. Gray clouds swirled above, darkening the sun and threatening with snow.
Fingertips grazed the frayed leather hilt on her hip, the material worn and uneven. A sigh rattled in her chest. Carrying the small sword was one of many things her father said a woman should never do.
A lady should never handle a weapon. A lady should never speak too loudly. A lady should never be so unkempt. Never. Never.Never. It was always the things she should never do. Unfortunately, Brielle was everything a lady shouldn’t be in her father’s eyes.
The woods were often quiet, save for the sounds of foxes skittering along the forest floor. Brielle was aware of the clans that encircled her village, not afraid, but aware. They were the reason she often found herself alone in the trees, foraging for herbs.
As the only healer in her village, it was her responsibility to care for its people, something she did with pride. However, as of late, the burden weighed heavily on her. People came to her with tears in their eyes as they begged her to save their child, or to ease the pain in their failing bodies. She steeled her heart, working diligently with the little she had.
Brielle crafted her own salves, using an old recipe from the previous healer. Most of her time was spent in the surrounding forests, gathering yarrow for poultices, peppermint for aching stomachs, and willow bark. Willow trees were abundant, and they eased most common ailments.
Another item she relied on was wild garlic, but her supplies were running low. The potent vegetable was oneof the few things she could find that helped with infected wounds.
It was a key ingredient in her salves.
She hoarded what she could, hiding small bundles of supplies. Soon, her father would come, taking anything he could find for their yearly offering. He always took more than what they could comfortably spare, insisting it ensured their safety from the clans.
Even at the expense of the lives of their own people.
Norse surrounded them, the threat of their presence looming like an oppressive shadow. However, the clan stayed true to their word, leaving their village untouched while they conquered everything around them. All because of the treaty her father negotiated more than a decade ago.
Before the first snow, they provided a winter’s worth of supplies. Among them, her salves and poultices and precious stores. So, not only did she have to gather enough supplies for her own people, but for the clan as well.
It did not take a seer to know what fate would befall them if they didn’t deliver the required items.
Winter approached faster than the previous year, and Brielle scrounged the forest, woefully unprepared for the early snowfall. She had enough supplies for her village, but not for the jarl, who would arrive in a week’s time.
For the last five years, a new jarl came. The first time he arrived in place of the previous silver-haired man,something cleaved through her chest, leaving an aching throb in its wake.
She watched from a distance, a tear streaking her cheek for some unknown reason.
Nails scratched along her arms, making blood pool at the surface. A series of intrusive thoughts murmured to her, telling her that something had happened to him, which was why he no longer came. A sadness throbbed behind her sternum at the image, not understanding why she cared.
The new jarl was slightly shorter than the first, his body thick with corded muscles. He spoke their tongue nearly as well as the first man, but slipped into Norse frequently, directing his men. Chestnut braids framed his tanned, scarred face.
Their language was beautiful, almost poetic in its intensity. Brielle deciphered more words each time they visited. Konungr was their leader, something akin to a king. The man who came was his second, his jarl. In their most recent visit the previous year, the jarl mentioned something about new beginnings under their Konungr.
The fear that brewed in her belly whenever she saw him and the war-painted warriors who came with him tempered the fascination she held for the braided man and his mysterious king. Her childhood naivety had vanished, reminding her they cohabitated with an uneasy truce. Onethat she didn’t doubt they would break the first time her village failed to comply.
Blood turned to ice in her veins at the silent threat in their presence. Where she worshipped one God, they had many. In Christianity, death was something to be feared. For them, it was something to be rejoiced in. The greatest honor one could be afforded was death in battle, feasting in Valhalla.
Every time they came, the Norse warriors murmured about it.
