A Fate Inked in Blood (Saga of the Unfated, #1)

The man, who, judging from his robes, was a gothi of the temple, stared at us both with an open mouth before finally spluttering, “She vanquished the draug?”

“That is what I said, yes.” Bjorn leaned an elbow on the stone structure that sheltered the stairs we’d exited. “The temple’s wealth remains within the pathways to be collected, though I’d be mindful of sticky fingers lest the tunnel’s vacancy be a short-lived affair.”

The gothi blinked, then gave his head a shake. “This is an act of the gods, truly.”

Bjorn opened his mouth, but I stepped on his foot, not interested in reliving a highly embellished version of events so soon. Besides, I’d come here for a purpose, and I was keen to see it through. “Might we carry on to the temple?”

“Of course, child of Hlin.” The gothi inclined his head. “You may only enter through the main gates after submitting to the will of the gods.” He gestured to a narrow path running along the clifftop that appeared to see little traffic. “Follow the track until you reach the bridge, where one of my fellows will be waiting to accept your submission.”

If there was only one way into the temple, what were the chances it wasn’t being guarded by the many jarls who wished to see me dead?

Bjorn was clearly thinking the same thing, because he said, “We’ve had a difficult journey and done Fjalltindr a great service, so perhaps you might make an exception and allow us to enter here.” He gestured toward the trees, and through them I could pick out structures, as well as people moving around them. “Who is to know?”

The gothi’s chest puffed out and he lifted his chin. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Even for you.”

I winced, because after days of little sleep, now was not the time to test Bjorn’s good humor. My concerns were verified as Bjorn’s jaw tightened in annoyance.

“And who is to stop me? You? I welcome you to try.” Shaking his head, Bjorn started toward the trees. “Let’s go, Freya. I can smell food cooking from here.”

He made it a half dozen steps and then staggered back as though he’d struck some sort of invisible barrier. Rubbing his forehead and cursing with annoyance, Bjorn reached out and his hand came to a stop midair, like it was pressed against perfectly clear glass. I caught the gothi smirking, though he wisely smoothed his expression before Bjorn turned around, his voice solemn as he repeated, “You must pass through the gates.”

Bjorn’s eyes were narrow with frustration, and I felt the same way. We’d climbed through darkness and violence and death, only to be stymied by tradition. “Do you know who I am?” he snapped.

The gothi gave him a condescending smile, which I thought rather brave even if Bjorn deserved it. I myself was struggling not to roll my eyes despite knowing that Bjorn was acting out of desperation, not vanity. “I’m afraid you did not give your name when you introduced your lady. But regardless of your battle fame, you must pass through the gates. It is the will of the gods.”

Bjorn’s jaw worked back and forth, then he gave the gothi a smile of his own that had the man taking an alarmed step back. “Fine. Freya, let’s go.”

After we’d gone a distance, Bjorn muttering increasingly colorful curses under his breath, I said, “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to have a look to see if the gates are under guard. Perhaps the gods’ favor will continue, and we’ll walk in uncontested.”

Given that this was supposed to be a test, I thought that unlikely but didn’t bother saying so.

We followed the narrow trail around the mountaintop, cloud and mist obscuring the view, though I could feel the breathlessness of altitude. It made me wonder if the placement of the temple was to get us as close to the sky, and the gods, as possible, but when I looked up, it was to find only more cloud. My stomach growled as the smells of cooking food washed over us, those already inside the confines of Fjalltindr’s borders laughing and playing music with seemingly no care in the world. Except there was no way to reach them, for both Bjorn and I tested the invisible barrier every dozen feet and never found a break. He even had me stand on his shoulders to reach as high as I could, but the barrier reached into the clouds. When two massive stone pillars finally came into view, I was starved and cranky and ready to toss anyone who got in my way off the cliff.

Catching hold of my hand, Bjorn pulled me behind some brush, both of us peering through the leafless branches. This was my first glimpse of the path up the southern slope. From what I could see, it was a difficult climb up a steep and dangerous trail, the final paces requiring travelers to cross a narrow span of rock that stretched over a chasm to reach the open ground before the gates.

Before said gates loitered eight warriors. More stood on the far side of the chasm, where there were signs that a camp had been created, which suggested more permanence than just waiting to be admitted to the temple grounds.

“Do you know who they are?” I whispered.

Bjorn gave a tight nod, pointing to a big warrior with a bushy red beard and shaved head. “That is Jarl Sten.”

Jarl Sten was built like a bull and carried an axe I’d probably struggle to lift. “I don’t suppose he’s on good terms with your father?”

Bjorn cast me a sideways glance, suggesting that to have hoped for such was idiocy.

“Fine,” I muttered, casting a glance skyward. The sun was drifting downward, which meant we had only a matter of an hour or two until the moon appeared. “We kill them and then cross through the gates and get on with what we came here to do.”

Bjorn’s eyebrows rose. “Perhaps as well as possessing the blood of a god, you are also descended from the Valkyries of old.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re starting to see violence as the best solution.”

That wasn’t even close to the truth. I saw violence as the answer because the alternative was to see violence enacted upon me. “How is it not the solution here?”

“Because,” he answered, “my understanding is that to get through the gates into Fjalltindr, you must get on your knees and honor each of the gods by name.”

I stared at him, realizing with a start that having lived most of his life in Nordeland, Bjorn had never been to the temple before, either. “Which gods?”

“All of them.” When I blanched, he laughed softly. “Not all battles are won with steel, Born-in-Fire—some are won by guile.”

“What do you propose?” I asked, simultaneously worried and curious, because Bjorn’s grin was wide, his green eyes gleaming bright. And I knew what that meant.

“I propose that we go see how the gothar are doing in gathering their gold.”





Not an hour later, Bjorn and I once again approached the gates, though this time we were dressed in the hooded robes of gothar, the deep cowls serving the double purpose of warmth and deception.

It had not been difficult to get the clothing, for as Bjorn had anticipated, the gothi and one of his fellows had immediately ventured into the tunnels in search of the stolen wealth. After extinguishing their lantern, Bjorn had then informed them he’d leave them alone in the dark unless they gave up their clothing, which had them stripping faster than men on their wedding nights.

Bjorn left them in the dark anyway, loosely trussed so that they could get free and find their way out.

Eventually.

I’d felt guilty walking away with the echoes of weeping pleas filling my ears, and had muttered, “Leaving them down there in the dark was cruel.”

“It was not cruel. The bastards planned to pocket some of the wealth before anyone else knew of it, which might well have seen them turned to draug by the gods they claim to serve. We saved both men from themselves. Now walk faster, we’re running short on time.”

Bjorn led me down the path at a trot until we were nearly in sight of the gates, then slowed to a sedate stride.