Page 11 of Storm of Fury
“We talk to the völva,” Bryn called over her shoulder. “Politely. We offer her coin for information. We leave. Preferably with our heads.”
“I like this plan. But what happens if the völva takes exception with our visit?” To his right, one of the burial mounds loomed. A shiver passed through him as he stepped within its shadow.
“We run,” Bryn replied. “Pass back through the rune stones and sprint toward the village. Regroup at the church. I don’t think they can cross consecrated ground.”
“Also acceptable,” he said.
Every step felt like he crossed the threshold to Helheim. The temperature plunged, and he walked directly into a wet, cool mist. The sound of their footsteps muffled until silence settled over them like a shroud. Even he didn’t feel like breaking it, and he was remarkably fond of the sound of his own voice in situations like these.
Soft whispers seemed to stir the mist.
“Look at the lights….”
“Over here…. There is gold and jewels….”
Tormund stared steadily ahead. “Don’t listen to the voices,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t listen, don’t listen, don’t listen.”
An eerie green light glowed to his right, like a firefly—except there was something about the way it drifted through the air that told him it wasn’t.
“Nearly there,” Bryn whispered, and even she was stepping carefully, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
Out of the mists loomed a tall, hooded figure leaning on a staff. Tormund’s heart skipped a beat, and he choked down a curse as Bryn stopped.
“Good völva,” she called. “We come in peace.”
“You’re not welcome here,” the völva replied in a hollow, guttural voice that made Tormund wonder how long it had been since she crawled out of the grave herself.
Two hundred years old? He was betting that dark bargain she’d made had cost her more than the usual gifts to the gods.
“We come with gifts,” Sirius called, looking as though the entire situation raised his hackles. “We seek information.”
“As did the other.” This time, there was a hint of a smirk about the völva’s wrinkled chin.
“Marduk?” Sirius called.
Silence.
“He is the one we are seeking,” Sirius added. “If you tell us where he went and what he wanted, then we shall leave, and in so doing, leave our gift behind.”
The völva leaned closer. “What makes you think he’s not dead? My draugar are hungry, after all. It takes a lot to fill their bellies.”
Little green marsh lights glowed in the dark. Tormund’s nostrils flared and his hand came slowly to rest upon the hilt of his axe.They’re awake, he wanted to mutter, but didn’t dare.
“He is not dead.” Sirius gave an arrogant shrug. “The four winds would have carried the tale all over the world. Nor is he the kind who would fall to a mere draugr. He is adrekiprince with the gift of fire in his veins.”
Tormund exchanged a glance with Haakon.
I thought we were trying to placate the völva? Not antagonize her.
Haakon winced.
“Dreki.” The völva spat on the ground. “Drekithink they are invulnerable, but there are means to destroy them.”
“Peace, my friend,” Tormund called, gesturing with his hands. “My cousin and I are dragon-hunters, and well know the arrogance ofdreki.” He ignored Sirius’s sharp glare as he held up the purse they’d agreed to offer. “If we didn’t need this overgrown bat, we’d have left him in Iceland. But my cousin’s wife is desperate for the safe return of her beloved brother. You would be doing us an immense favor if you would tell us where Marduk was going and what he wished of you. And we have two hundred kroner for the information.”
That caught her attention.
The völva flipped her hood back, revealing white, filmy eyes. She’d painted a black line across her brows, and the ink dripped into runnels in her aged skin. It also welled between her teeth, as if she’d bitten into the source of the ink.
