He woke with a sudden jerk and she held him down with her other hand. His eyes looked wildly around the room as they adjusted to the darkness, but she saw the moment he recognized her. The moment he knew that death had come for him. Did he think she was a wight come from the forest, perhaps? A monster? Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“You have something of mine,” she said, her voice a low, hissing whisper. The hearth fire crackled as a log crumbled, but it was the only sound. Neither of them moved.
“It was never yours,” he said.
She pressed the ax harder to his cheek. A drop of blood leaked down his face like a tear. When one of his hands began to reach up for her, she stood and leaned a knee on his poorly-bandaged wound. He gasped, his eyes closing and his head tilting back. The movement dragged the ax down his face, opening a thin cut in a straight line perpendicular to the scar her mother had given him. A twin to the one that ran down Sibba’s face.
“That's fine,” she said, her voice still dangerously quiet. “I have no problem killing you first and then finding it.”
“You can do whatever you want,” he managed to choke out, “but you will always be a fraud.”
“Unlike you, I've never tried to be something I'm not,” Sibba answered. It was his tricks that had started this, his own need to be someone else for the girl he loved that brought him to the Fields in the first place. “If you are to be believed, that circlet belonged to my mother. Whoever your Crowheart girl is, I would rather die than see you give it to her. She doesn't deserve it.”
“Your mother was a coward.”
Sibba leaned more of her weight on her knee, anger making her vision blurry. He howled in pain, his back arching. Who was he to call anyone a coward? Lies and betrayal were weapons of the weak.
She lifted the ax. One clean slice across the neck. That was all it would take and then she would be rid of him. One more brother to complete the set.
But this wasn't like Gabel or Vyion. It was harder to kill a man who was helpless on his back, who wasn't fighting back. This wasn’t the Fielding way, and she realized with a start that that was important to her. If he was meant to live, he would. She would give him a fighting chance. It would make her victory that much sweeter.
“Get up,” she demanded, getting to her feet. When he didn't move, she hauled him up by the arms. He fell to the ground with a grunt. “Get up!” she screamed at him. The ax sang to her, begged her for another taste of blood, but she held herself back. She was dizzy with anger, with everything she had been holding in since the moment she realized that Gabel intended to attack her, and it scared her more than anything else. The idea that she could lose control. Each move, each swing of her blade, had to be precise and planned, or else there was room for error and regrets, neither of which she needed any more of in her life.
Evenon was crawling away from her, trying to stand but falling. Finally, he reached the hearth and used the hot stones to pull himself to his feet. He stood, one hand pressed to his wound, and pushed himself to the door and his weapon there. Sibba didn't move but instead let her eyes follow the trail of blood he left on the floor, a gruesome streak of red from the bench to the hearth.
It took an eternity for him to reach his bow. He lifted it and an arrow and collapsed against the wall beside the door as he tried to string it with trembling fingers. He wasn't going to run, then; he was going to stand and fight. He may not believe in her gods, but this would get him into Elanos. Maybe when they met there, she would finally be able to ask him why he had betrayed her as he had.
Three steps. That was all it would take. Sibba raised the ax to her shoulder, lifted her lip in a half-snarl, half-smile, and lunged.
The door behind Evenon crashed open in a flurry of wild red hair and black robes. “Sibba! Don't!”
Over his shoulder, her eyes met startling green ones nearly hidden behind a band of black kohl. Sibba stopped, not wanting to catch Tola in the crossfire, and that was all Evenon needed. Something struck Sibba in the right shoulder, knocking her off balance. She stumbled sideways, hitting the hearth and going down to her knees, the ax tumbling from her hand.
Her vision went blurry, but she heard a scramble in the door and then it swung closed with a bang. He was gone.
“Oh gods, Sibba,” Tola said, kneeling beside her, but Sibba ignored her. She reached up with her left hand and snapped the shaft of the arrow off so that there was only an inch or two left. The arrowhead was buried deep in her shoulder, but the adrenaline hid the pain, and she was going to take advantage of it while she could. Holding her right arm to her chest, she picked up her ax again and pushed herself to her feet, ignoring Tola's hands on her.
“Sibba, let me help you,” Tola begged, standing with her.
But Sibba was already running out the door and through the yard, following the trail of smashed plants that Evenon had left in his wake as he ran to the woods. She heard nothing. Not Estrid calling her name or Aeris screaming at her from her perch on the thatched roof. She heard only the roar of blood in her ears. Felt only the rage burning hot in her veins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sibba
The forest swallowed Sibba quicker than she thought it should have. One moment, there had been moonlight and soft snowflakes on her shoulders, and then there was nothing but darkness and thick tree trunks and dried leaves crunching beneath her boots. She ran, ignoring the searing pain that had begun to radiate from her shoulder and down her arm. Evenon was quiet, but not quiet enough. She had hunted game on her own for years, able to track deer with steps as quiet as a breeze. Tall, gangly Evenon and the way he barreled through the forest just as his brother had was no challenge for her.
She paused to listen and catch her breath, heard a branch crack to her left, and changed course, moving deeper into the woods.
“Evenon!” she shouted, knowing of course that he would not answer but wanting him to know that she was aware he was there. She held her right arm close to her body, cradling it as she raced through the trees.
She followed his trail—cracked branches and depressed plants, a footprint in the mud—deep into the forest. It wasn't until the light became so scarce that she couldn't see a trail anymore that she remembered Tola's warning about the shadow-men in the ghost forest. It had seemed silly then but suddenly became very real. Sibba slowed to a stop, spinning in a small circle as she tried to regain her bearings. She touched a tree-trunk to see if there was moss growing on one side or the other, but the rough bark gave her no clues. The trees were nothing but shadows looming over her, the moon hidden by the thick canopy of leaves, if there was even a moon at all.
An eerie, unnatural silence surrounded her, like the darkness had weight to it that muffled the usual sounds of wildlife and rustling branches. She was no stranger to forests, but she had never felt anything like this. It felt sinister and angry, and it was pressing down on her, subduing her own rage, turning it into the cold sweat of fear.
Movement caught her attention out of the corner of her eyes, but when she turned her head, she found only the thickening darkness. Her breaths were too loud, the pounding of her heart deafening in the silence.
“Malstrom bitch.” The deep voice that rumbled like a crack of thunder around her was painfully familiar. Whipping around, she saw Gabel just an arm's reach away from her, blood dripping down his neck from a gash in his throat. A gash she had given him. She took a step back as he advanced, his movements jerky and strange.
“Gabe?” Another voice, this one corporeal and quiet, a disbelieving whisper. Over Gabel's shoulder, Evenon materialized. He was hunched over, his back against a tree and a hand to his stomach, but his face was surprisingly hopeful.
He had distracted the specter. Sibba took another step backward and stumbled, collapsing on top of something soft and cold, her hands landing on what could only be flesh. She scrambled to her knees and found herself looking down into her mother's unblinking blue eyes. She muffled a panicked scream with a hand over her mout
h.
“Gabel,” Evenon was saying over and over, like a prayer. Sibba looked back at him. Gabel seemed to fade in and out of view, parts of him swirling with shadow before coming back into focus. What would happen when he reached Evenon? Would the shadows capture him and carry him to Malos? Would he be stuck in the draugnvithr forever?
“Sibba,” her mother said. “I'm so glad you’re home.” The voice was Darcey's but not Darcey's, just as the body had her shape but couldn't possibly be here. Sibba had buried it, had watched the dirt swallow Darcey’s body.
But the temptation was there just the same. To reach down and grasp her mother's fingers, to lift her into her arms and sob into her neck and apologize. The shadow image was as real as her mind wanted it to be. As she reached out a hand to caress her mother's face, it flickered in and out of focus, light to dark and then back again. It was brief, but it was enough. Shaking her head to clear her mind, Sibba leaped to her feet.
“Don't touch him,” she said to Evenon who still stood facing his brother, a hand tentatively outstretched. “Don't.”
That was when Evenon saw Darcey's body. He flinched noticeably, but it wasn't because of pain from his wound. It was because he recognized her, and his arrow in her neck. Here they were, two murderers and two mourners. They were both the victims and the perpetrators, but Sibba didn't feel vindicated, didn't feel like any of what she had gained was worth what she had lost.
Sibba couldn't stay there another minute, not with the shadows and certainly not with her mother's murderer. She wanted him dead, but she wanted out of the draugnvithr even more. So she ran. Unseen fingers raked through her hair and tugged at her cloak, but she would not—could not—let the shadows claim her. She would not live a half-life in the dark, waiting for Valdos to have mercy on her and claim her. She thought she heard Evenon stumbling along behind her, apparently having reached the same conclusion.
She had not gone far when a root caught her ankle and she fell. It was quiet again, that same heavy silence, only now it was broken by the creaking of branches overhead. What would it be this time? She rolled onto her back, resigning herself to face whatever the shadow-men had prepared for her this time. Above her, something moved, swaying in a non-existent breeze. She rose to a crouch, then stood and found herself eye level with a pair of scuffed brown boots. Her eyes traveled the length of the dangling body and alighted reluctantly on its face.
It was her brother Jary. But not the Jary of her childhood, the boy she had known when she'd left Ottar, though there was no mistaking his icy blue eyes. This was the young man, the one being held captive by Isgerd. All traces of youth had been chiseled away from this face, the round cheeks replaced by high cheekbones, the soft chin covered in a golden beard. A mean scar ran across one of his eyes. He looked so much like their father that Sibba could have mistaken him to be a younger version of Thorvald.
Why was he here? Was he dead? Was that what the shadow-men were telling her? Or were they playing on her fear? The fear that she would fail, that she would lose him and in turn lose her freedom? Something cold brushed her ankle. When she looked down, a coil of darkness was wrapped around her ankle, creeping up her leg like a vine. She stepped back hurriedly and the shadow released her before melting into the ground.
The step back brought more of her surroundings into view. There were dozens of hanging bodies weighing down the branches of the canopy. In Ottar, when someone was killed their body was hung from the sutvithr tree as an offering to the gods. That was what this felt like—the shadow-men were making her an offering. This is what will happen, they seemed to say, to everyone you care about, to everyone you love. You will break them. And it will break you.
“I don't care,” Sibba said aloud into the darkness. It was the lie she had told herself, the lie she had believed until she had found Estrid in the trial circle, until Tola had put her hands on her and brought her back from death. Until Evenon had betrayed her.
The shadow-men were not fooled. She passed her father, and then Ari, met their lifeless eyes and then looked away, ashamed. The next body took the shape of Estrid, her dark hair falling forward over bulging eyes, her neck raw and red at the noose. “I never loved you,” the Estrid specter said in a perfect imitation of her friend's voice. “It is foolish to kill for someone who would not do the same for you.”
The words twisted something inside of Sibba, brought the girl's name to her lips. “Estrid—”
“I never loved you.”
Shadows were washing over her feet, writhing against her legs. Sibba took another step. It was harder to move now, like wading through tar. But the draugnvithr wasn't done with her because next was Tola. Beautiful, maddening Tola dangling at the end of a rope was almost too much for her to bear. She knew it wasn't real, but it looked real and it felt real. Sorrow and anger tore at Sibba's chest, ripped a scream from her lips. They had not even had a chance.
“Do you believe in me?” Tola's voice asked. It rang through the woods, echoing in Sibba's head.
She was reaching for the body to yank it down when she heard a wail, not unlike her own. Stepping around Tola, she saw Evenon kneeling on the ground. Above him, a girl dangled from a rope. She had beautiful brown skin like Sibba had never seen, and long, shiny black curls down her back.
“You will never be worthy of a Crowheart,” she was saying to Evenon. “I will always choose the crown over you.” Sibba saw for the first time that she wore a silver circlet on her head. It was daintier than the one she had found in her mother's hoard, smaller and more delicate, much like the girl.
“No,” Evenon wailed. “Give me a chance. Let me show you.” Sibba watched the shadows creep up Evenon's back, barely distinguishable from the swirling tattoos. The girl's toes began to ooze darkness that reached down to grasp his shoulders.
“Evenon,” Sibba whispered. She should let him go, let the shadows consume him. She had chased him in here to kill him anyway. It was just a different means to an end.
“I never loved you,” the girl said suddenly, her voice an echo of Estrid’s.
“No,” Evenon said, his voice insistent. The shadows were nearly to his neck, his body barely visible beneath them.
She couldn’t do it, couldn’t condemn even him to this fate. Show your enemies mercy. “Evenon!” Sibba yelled, louder this time.
Sibba lunged forward, plunging through the shadows, ripping her feet and legs free. Every movement sent a stabbing pain into the right side of her body, but it was at least something. If she could feel the pain, it meant she was still alive. She thrust her left hand forward and grasped Evenon by the back of his shirt and hauled him away. He tumbled to the ground with a grunt. Some of the shadows let go, while others were more reluctant, stretching and reaching their tendrils, dragging them along his skin.
“Evenon, we can't stay here. We have to get out,” she said, trying to pull him to his feet with one hand.
“You cannot go.” This time, it was every voice, the voice of a million shadows, that beckoned them to stay.
“Let me die,” he said. “Let me die here with her.”
“No.” Sibba grabbed his chin and turned his face to look at her instead of at the beautiful illusion behind her. “She's not dead. She's waiting for you in Casuin, and you will get back to her. This is not the way to do it.”
“But—”
Sibba was tired of arguing. She turned away from the hanging trees, dragging him behind her. It was harder now. The trees and the shadows reached for them, catching their feet and their hair and their clothes. More than once they stumbled, only to pull each other back up and surge forward. Sibba didn't know where they were going, only that they had to keep moving or they would be sucked into obscurity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sibba
It was Tola's voice that brought them out of the draugnvithr. It was not so much a sound as a feeling, an echo inside her head, a tug at her chest that steered her in what she hoped was the right direction. When she caught the first
glimpse of moonlight through the thick canopy of leaves, she nearly wept with joy. Evenon was barely responsive now that they were out of the draugnvithr. He shuffled through the crisp leaves on the ground, but even he looked up when a beam of light crossed his face.
The world beyond the draugnvithr was turned white by snow. The landscape was so bright that Sibba had to drop Evenon's hand and cover her eyes. But it was a welcome change, as welcome as Estrid's shriek as her friend ran through the yard toward her. Evenon collapsed without Sibba's support. She thought it was less about the stomach wound and more about what he had seen in the shadows.
Estrid flung herself at Sibba, and though Sibba wrapped her up in a hug, her eyes sought Tola in the dark. She found the vala kneeling beside Evenon.
“What happened to him?” Tola was feeling for a pulse, her fingers pressed against his neck. His eyes were wide and unblinking, staring up at the night sky, turned strangely white by snow clouds.
Sibba considered lying. To tell the truth would be to admit she had been wrong. But when Tola looked up at her, she found it impossible.
“The shadow-men,” Sibba said. Estrid pulled away and studied her friend's face. “They are as horrible as you said.”
“Oh, gods, Sibba,” Estrid said, all color leaching out of her already pale skin.
Snowflakes were falling again, and Sibba realized they were all shivering. Together, Tola and Sibba lifted Evenon to his feet and walked him to the house. He made no objections and did not even seem to realize what was happening. He was somewhere else, kneeling beneath a hanging queen, perhaps.
They lay him on the bench and Tola immediately went to work cleansing the stomach wound.
“Why did you stop me?” Sibba asked Tola's back.
Tola didn't look up. “You don't stop and think. You don't ask advice. You charge headlong into situations without wondering if maybe there is more to be gained than murderous revenge.”
When Rains Fall (The Lost Fields Book 1) Page 22
