A Fate Inked in Blood: The number 1 Sunday Times bestselling fantasy romance

No sane person would go over the mountains in a Skaland spring. Not when it was a simple journey through the passes or by water via the fjords. Certainly not when the sky was releasing a deluge of rain and sleet, the temperature plummeting to freezing each night.

Which meant that while Gnut and his warriors might know we were coming, they’d not expect it this soon.

If, that is, we survived long enough to attack, which seemed less likely with each passing minute.

Gasping for breath, I paused on an outcropping and wiped sleet from my face. Every muscle in my body burned from climbing all day, yet I’d all but lost feeling in my hands and feet from the cold. My teeth chattered with such violence the noise would have echoed through the peaks if not for the fact that the howl of the wind drowned out everything but the loudest of shouts.

“You all right?”

I twitched, turning to find Bjorn slightly below me on the slope. The hood of his cloak hung loose down his back and his hands were bare, no part of him touched by the cold. Tyr’s fire burned within him at all times, and I curbed the urge to step close to him. Bjorn had honored my request to keep his distance to the extent that Snorri’s orders allowed, and I needed to do the same. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re freezing your tits off.”

I scoffed, giving him a disgusted glare. “Oh, my poor frozen breasts. If only some generous man would offer to warm them for me.”

He shrugged, voice flippant as he said, “Your words, not mine.”

I kicked snow at him. “Piss off, Bjorn. I can take care of myself.”

Fixing the furred hood of my cloak, I shoved my mittened hands into my armpits, trudging after Bodil up the slope, the older woman resembling a bear beneath her heavy furs.

“That is a foolish way to walk, Born-in-Fire,” he said, following me. “If you fall, you won’t be able to catch yourself.”

“I’m not going to fall.” Or rather, the risk of doing so seemed far less than losing my fingers to frostbite.

“Quit being so stubborn and let me warm your hands for you.”

Against my backside, I felt a sudden glow of heat and knew that if I turned it would be to find his axe blazing bright. I ground my teeth together, desperately wanting to hold my numb fingers over the burning weapon until they were warm again, but I kept trudging forward, adjusting my shield strap as I glared at Bodil’s back. Everyone else was managing, so I would as well.

“Freya—”

Twisting, I snarled under my breath, “I told you to stay away from—”

My feet slid out from under me, a gasp tearing from my lips. Bjorn reached for me, his eyes wide, but my arm was tangled in my cloak.

I bounced painfully off the slope, my fingers clawing for purchase on the icy rock and frozen mud, but they found nothing. My body flipped and I flew through the air, a scream tearing from my lips as I dropped—

And landed hard with a splash.

Water closed over my head, bubbles exploding from my lips as my shield struck rock, the handle digging into my back and driving the air from my lungs.

I thrashed, desperate for breath, then hands grabbed the front of my clothes and jerked me to the surface.

Spluttering, I met Bjorn’s panicked gaze. “Don’t even say it,” I said between coughs, cold piercing down to my very bones. “Don’t you dare say it!”

“What is it that you think I planned to say?” He pulled me out of the pool of slush and water that I’d landed in, setting me on my feet.

“That you told me so,” I muttered, stealing the words so that he wouldn’t have a chance to embarrass me with them.

“That was not what I intended to say.”

He pulled off my shield and soaked cloak, casting them aside before wrapping his own cloak around my shoulders, heat encasing me and his scent filling my nose. But not even that was enough to ease the violent trembles wracking my body. “What then?” I demanded, seeing Snorri sliding down the slope toward us, eyes full of panic.

“I was going to point out that you have a habit of getting very wet around me,” he said. “I’m starting to wonder whether it’s purposeful.”

For a heartbeat, my body forgot that it was freezing to death and sent blood rushing to my cheeks. I’d told him to stay away. Told him the reasons why I couldn’t be in his presence even though revealing the truth had been humiliating, and now he was making jokes. “Don’t flatter yourself!”

He gripped my hands, his skin scalding against mine. “It is you who flatters me.”

“I did not fall down a mountain to get wet for you, Bjorn!”

“Oh, I know,” he grinned. “It’s really only a hill with lofty aspirations. That”—he pointed off in the distance at a rocky peak—“is a mountain.”

“The only lofty thing I see is your sense of self-worth,” I hissed as Snorri shouted, “Is she hurt?”

“She’s fine,” Bjorn answered. “Only wet and cold. We need to make camp and get a fire going to warm her.”

“We cannot lose the hours,” Snorri growled, throwing up his hands. “We need to crest the summit before nightfall or there will be no chance of making it to Grindill to attack tomorrow night. If we delay, we risk word reaching Gnut that our forces have departed, and he’ll be prepared for an attack from the mountains. We’ll lose the advantage.”

“Better the loss of the advantage than the loss of your shield maiden,” Bjorn snapped. “She’ll do you little good as a frozen corpse.”

“This is the gods testing her!” Snorri gave a sharp shake of his head. “She must prove herself again.” He started to turn, then fixed Bjorn with a glare. “Hlin set you the task of protecting Freya. Allowing her to fall down the mountain was your failure.” Without another word, he stalked up the mountain.

Bjorn abruptly pulled me against him, wrapping his arms around me so that my head was pressed against his chest. “It’s not a fucking mountain,” he muttered and I was too miserable to argue, watching as the rest of the warriors trudged onward until only Bodil remained.

“You truly are favored by the gods, Freya,” the jarl said, handing me a skin that smelled of strong drink.

I took a sip, coughing as it burned down my throat, then chased it with another. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

She lifted one furred shoulder, then gestured to the ledge I’d rolled off, higher than Bjorn was tall. “If you’d landed a few feet to the left or right, you’d have cracked that pretty skull of yours beyond repair, but instead the mountain tossed you into a pool of water just deep enough to cushion your fall.”

“It’s not a fucking mountain!” Bjorn shouted. “It’s only a hill!”

Bodil’s eyebrows rose, then she laughed. “Although the truly amazing thing is that Bjorn didn’t piss himself when he didn’t save you from falling off the”—she smirked—“hill.”

She laughed as Bjorn’s hands tightened around me, and I didn’t understand why he cared so much about semantics to pick a quarrel over them. His heart thudded where my shoulders pressed against his chest, slowing its thunder only as Bodil began pulling off her shirts and he asked, “How many shirts are you wearing, woman?”

“Six,” she answered. “And three pairs of trousers. I’ve little tolerance for the cold.”

Taking another mouthful of liquor, I reluctantly pulled away from Bjorn and handed back his fur cloak, wanting to weep as the icy wind sliced my soaked body. Shaking hard, I tried to pull my mail over my head, but it felt like my arms weren’t working properly and Bjorn had to intervene, pulling it upward and then dropping it to the ground. “Close your eyes,” I said between chattering teeth, then glanced up to ensure he had complied.

His lids were closed, black lashes resting against his cheeks. Yet with unerring precision, he caught hold of the hem of my padded tunic, removing it before moving on to the shirt I wore beneath. The backs of his knuckles brushed against my skin as he lifted it carefully over my head, easing my stiff and unwieldy arms from the garment as the wind clawed at my naked breasts.

I wanted to be back in his arms, to curl into the heat of him and inhale the smell of him. I wanted him to open his eyes and look at me. I wanted him to drive away not only the cold crippling my flesh but also the cold consuming my heart. Instead I forced my arms up so that Bodil could lower her shirt over my head, barely feeling the fine wool against my numb skin. She added a thicker wool tunic, then lifted Bjorn’s cloak over my shoulders.

“His blood is the temperature of boiling water,” she said. “He could walk naked up this mountain and not feel the chill.” Reaching out, she lifted the skin of liquor to my lips again. “Drink up, Freya. Will keep your toes from freezing off before we reach the top.”

All I could manage was a jerky nod, allowing Bjorn to gather my soaked clothing and mail, leaving me with only my shield to carry as I followed Bodil up the slope. Each step was an act of will, my muscles so stiff that, if not for the pain, they’d have seemed made of wood rather than flesh. Hugging myself, I pressed on, my chest aching, each breath a ragged gasp of cold air.

I stumbled, Bjorn catching my elbows and keeping me from falling.

“Don’t you dare carry her,” Bodil called over her shoulder. “She needs to keep her blood moving.”

Tears leaked onto my cheeks to mix with the sleet, my nose running and forcing me to gasp in air through my mouth, my bottom lip drying, then cracking. I licked at it, tasting blood, then I tripped again.

Bjorn caught me. “I’ve got you.”

He started to lift me into his arms, and I desperately wanted to let him. Instead, I twisted away and fixed my eyes on Bodil’s heels. “This is my test, not yours.”

Which meant I had to walk on my own feet.

Tomorrow, I’d lead all the warriors in our camp into battle on their faith that I was someone worth following. I wanted to prove I was worth it. Wanted them to fight at my side not because of signs from the gods but because I was strong and capable. No one would think that if I allowed Bjorn to carry me into camp because I was cold.

I clenched my hands into fists, the sleeves of Bodil’s tunic mercifully long enough to cover my hands, because my mittens were soaked. And I climbed.

Higher and higher, the sleet lashing my face, the wind attempting to tear Bjorn’s cloak from my body. I couldn’t feel my toes and I stumbled every few steps, but I brushed Bjorn away whenever he tried to help me.

I could do this.

I would do this.

The sky dimmed, the sun dipping below the horizon, all warmth leached from the air. How much farther could it be? Exposed as we were on the mountainside, the thought of stumbling around in the cold and the dark looking for the rest of the group kindled embers of fear in my chest.

So much could go wrong in the dark.

Then Bodil called out a greeting, responses filtering through the wind into my ears. I lifted my head and saw faint shadows moving in the dark. We’d reached the camp.

But there was no fire.

I staggered to a stop and Bjorn stormed past me. “What is wrong with you,” he snarled at a shadow I could only assume was Snorri. “You left us alone on the trail and now you wish to watch her succumb to frostbite? She will fight poorly if deprived of fingers and toes. Light a cursed fire or I will.”

“You will do no such thing.” Snorri’s voice was steady and unmoved, and as I moved closer it was to find him sitting on a rock, furs wrapped around his body. “Gnut has scouts. All it would take is one of them seeing a fire on the mountaintop and our advantage will be lost.”

Bjorn’s hands balled into fists, and I thought for a heartbeat that he’d strike his father. Yet he only said, “I don’t understand why you risk Freya the way you do. You say she is of value, that she will make you a king, and yet you make no effort to protect her, only to prevent others from stealing her.”

“The gods protect her.” Snorri tilted his head. “You’ve seen evidence of it time and again, Bjorn, yet still you don’t believe: They will not let her fall.”

“They let her fall today.”

“So she might survive what no one else could,” Snorri answered. “Steinunn will sing of her exploits and her stories will move through Skaland like wildfire and people will have no choice but to believe Saga’s words. They will come in droves to follow her into battle, and they will swear oaths to me as their king. To interfere with the gods by sheltering Freya would be to deny her that fate, and in doing so, alter my own for the worse.”

“So you will throw her to the wolves time and again, certain the gods will spare her life?”

“It is her destiny.”

“No matter how much suffering it causes her? She is your wife. Don’t you care about the pain she’s enduring tonight?”

Snorri sat unmoving in the darkness. “I think, my son, that you care enough for both of us.”

My stomach dropped and if my hands and feet weren’t already frozen, they’d have turned to ice. Despite all my efforts to keep my distance from Bjorn, Snorri sensed what I was so desperate to hide. I clenched my teeth, fear for what consequences would come from this overwhelming my physical discomfort. I forced my frozen hand to my sword beneath the fur cloak even as I saw Bjorn’s bare fingers flex.

What would he do if Snorri confronted him? What would I do?

I held my breath, praying I had the strength in me to fight if I needed to. But Snorri only gave a sharp shake of his head. “You don’t think like a jarl, Bjorn. You fixate on the hardship you see in front of you and think not for the countless others whose lives depend on this jarldom for protection. If Skaland unites beneath me as its king, it will grow stronger and more prosperous, but this will only happen if Freya continues to please the gods. The gods want you to protect her, but do not let your softness jeopardize her destiny.”

It took a moment for his words to settle, my heart still pumping at a violent pace as I slowly realized that Snorri hadn’t been accusing Bjorn of forbidden sentiment but of softness. Which should have been a relief, but instead my temper flared and I snapped, “Might I find the comfort of food and blankets, husband, or is it your opinion that the gods would favor a fool who sits naked in the north wind?”

“Do what you will.”

Even in the darkness, I felt Snorri’s irritation. Knew that he wished I would remain silent. If he wanted that, he’d need to cut out my tongue. “The people of Skaland will unite beneath the rule of the one who controls my fate.” I smiled into the darkness, but it was all teeth. “So control it.”

The silence was broken only by the vicious howl of the wind, no one speaking. No one even seeming to breathe as they waited to see how their jarl would respond to the challenge.

For it had been one, I realized. Not a slip of my tongue, either, but my heart voicing a question that had been growing from the moment I’d learned the seer’s prophecy. Bjorn’s mother had not named Snorri as the one who must control my fate, which meant it could be anyone. He controlled me using a farce of a marriage, threats against my family, and oaths bound by magic, and where that had once seemed like more than enough to keep me under his thumb, now…now I wondered if the gods might have something else in mind.

As if sensing his power over me slipping, Snorri said, “Save your spirit for the battle to come, Freya, and remind yourself of the cost of failure.” Then he jerked his chin to Bjorn. “Get her fed and warmed, but no fucking fire.”

“If she’s without feet come morning, blame yourself,” Bjorn answered, motioning for me to follow.

I walked slowly, feeling the impact of each step in my legs rather than my feet, and unease chased away the glow of defiance. The gods had already seen fit to cripple my hand. What was to stop them from taking a few toes with frostbite to further test my will, and thus my worthiness? I considered what I might look like by the time Skaland had its king, scarred and bent, parts of me ceasing to function if they weren’t lost entirely, and my eyes stung. Like a tool used until its blade dulls and its haft breaks, then left to molder in the corner, having served its purpose.

Visions filled my head. Of myself in the future, having achieved all that was set for me, and now forgotten in the corner of the king’s great hall. Old and worn. Surrounded, yet alone. A tear escaped my eye, and I didn’t bother wiping it away.

Dimly, I was aware of Bjorn conferring with Bodil. Of one of them taking my hand and leading me behind a piece of canvas that had been stretched between two trees to block the wind. Of my shield being removed before I was lowered to the ground.

The light from the sun had faded entirely, the thick clouds blocking the moon and the stars, casting the world in darkness so that all I could see were the visions in my head.

Stop, I silently pleaded, begging my mind to quit torturing me, but I might as well have spat into the wind for all the good my pleas accomplished. My body was heavy, no longer shivering, as though the effort were too great. Each breath felt like an act of will.

“Freya?”

I heard Bjorn say my name, but he sounded distant, as though a vast canyon separated us, growing wider with every one of my labored heartbeats.

“Freya, are you all right? Freya? Freya, look at me!”

The muscles in my neck didn’t want to obey, pain lancing through my body as I turned toward his voice. “I…” My mouth was so dry. Too dry to form words.

He cursed, then I felt the heavy cloak pulled from my body. I started to moan a protest as the cold bit into my shoulders, then my body moved and I was enveloped in warmth. Realizing I was wrapped in Bjorn’s arms, I tried to pull away but his grip around my waist was implacable. And as he drew the cloak over us, my will to resist disappeared.

“See to her feet,” he said, and my legs shifted as Bodil pulled off my frozen boots and leg wrappings, a shocked gasp exiting her lips. “Those are cold!”

From the pressure on my legs, I suspected my feet were in her armpits, but I couldn’t feel anything. “My toes…”

“Will be fine.” Bjorn’s breath brushed my ear. “You’ve god’s blood in your veins.”

The rapid pound of his heart against my back belied his words, but instead of my fear rising, I drifted, sound and sensation moving in and out of focus. Is this the end? I idly wondered. Not death in battle but freezing to death on the side of a mountain?

“It’s not a fucking mountain, Born-in-Fire.”

I smiled, not certain whether Bjorn had actually spoken or if it were my imagination. “Is this the hill you wish to die upon?”

“Not funny.” His fingers tightened, and sudden regret filled me. That I’d not had the chance to drown in his touch, to taste him, to feel him inside of me.

“It’s a bit funny,” I whispered, because the alternative was to weep.

I lost myself to darkness, then. Floating in a warm pool of blackness that beckoned me down and down. Dimly, I heard Bjorn calling my name but I couldn’t move my body to swim back up to him. Wasn’t sure I wanted to.

Going back meant pain and grief and loneliness. Why should I fight for that?

“This is not your end, daughter,” a gentle voice answered. “You must battle on, for them.”

“I don’t want to,” I answered, not sure whether it was a truth or a lie. “I don’t want to go back.”

“You must,” a harsher voice, devoid of patience, snarled. “For yourself.”

Hands pressed against my back, lifting me through the dark waters. I struggled, trying to escape back down, but I could not slip their grip. Higher they pushed me, pain burning through my body as I drew closer to the surface. “No,” I moaned as the burning intensified. “It hurts!”

“That means you are alive,” the voices answered in tandem, and I gasped in a breath of air and screamed.