Hod needed rest and food, even if it was just an hour, propped against a tree like Bayr. He found a thicket not far from the water and crawled behind it. In minutes he was asleep, dozing in the embrace of his shield and his bow.
When he surfaced again, he did not move or stretch but found his brother’s heart.
It had quickened and Bayr breathed through his nose, as though he tried to hide his presence.
The woods were crawling with drumming human hearts.
A thick wall of them moved toward the mount. Big men, from the echoes in their chests. They did not speak, but they rustled and rattled distinctly as they walked. Bones. Leather. Blades. They were Northmen. Gudrun had brought an army after all.
Hod didn’t move, not even when one man stopped and urinated into the bush he was stretched out behind. The foul stream kicked up the dirt and shook the brambles; a few drops pinged against his shield. He prayed the man would not investigate the inconsistent sound. He didn’t. He shook himself and proceeded on.
When Bayr began to follow them, staying a safe distance back, Hod picked up his staff and trailed after them as well.
The Northmen stopped before they reached the forest’s edge, and they waited as morning grew into day. For what they waited, Hod didn’t know. A signal? A sign? They created a sort of sound barrier between Hod and the mount.
He could hear Bayr, hovering at the rear of the small army. Within the group were recognizable rhythms—he knew some of the Northmen—but his range was interrupted by the sheer number of them.
There were Bernians among the Northmen too. It seemed some of Benjie’s men had seen the shift in the winds and thrown in with the conquerors. They’d been the ones to guide them in.
Mayhaps Benjie knew. Mayhaps he didn’t. It mattered little now. It was yet one more example of how fragmented the clans had become.
Hod put his palms to his ears for a moment, trying to focus his senses. He breathed in and out, his back to a tree, his feet planted. Then he focused, narrowing in on the hearts he needed to hear.
There was Bayr. Boom, boom, boom, boom.
He let his awareness rise over the drone of the Northmen.
Ghisla . . . Where was Ghisla? He suspended his breath.
Ah. The sound was faint, like tinkling glass in a storm, but he found her.
She was still in the temple.
He wanted to shout in fear and frustration. Instead he breathed, in and out, in and out, and found her sisters and Ghost. Alba too. They all remained on the mount.
Mayhaps it was better, he realized suddenly. Had they entered the Temple Wood, they would have come face-to-face with the Northmen.
Panic bubbled but he bit down on it and beat it back.
He had to get around them. He had to get back onto the mount. He was useless this way. He couldn’t stop an army, and he couldn’t guard his brother if Bayr ran headlong into the battle.
And that was exactly what Bayr would do.
Hod scanned the mount with his ears, trying to feel his way into a strategy. It was an anthill, crawling with clansmen and chaotic sound.
He had to warn them.
That realization brought a wash of helplessness more debilitating than all his years in the dark. He didn’t know what to do.
The bells began to clang and horns sang from the ramparts. The Northmen in front of him began to shift, moving north toward the village at the entrance to the mount, hugging the tree line all the way. They didn’t hurry, but they were clearly moving into position, and Bayr trailed behind them.
Suddenly, from just above the base of the hill, he detected a familiar cadence, and then another, and another, and another. He listened, and hope sparked in his chest. Dred, Dakin, Dystel, and the insufferable Daniel hunkered—the smell of a small campfire tickled Hod’s nose—on a shelf about fifty feet from the bottom of the east slope. He’d missed them behind the wall of Northmen.
He began to pick his way toward them. He couldn’t run; he would fall flat on his face. They would see him coming, and they would think the king had sent him. Again. But there was no help for that.
He heard the moment they saw him, and he felt their eyes throughout the rest of his climb. They did not cry out or warn him off as he approached, but they shuffled and stood, wary, withdrawing their swords with a whispering snick.
“There are Northmen in the woods,” Hod said as he neared. There was no time for greetings or reassurances.
Dystel swore.
“I have followed Bayr all night and kept watch all day,” Hod continued. “He has seen them. He knows. And he’s circled around to the entrance to the mount. I cannot protect him, and I cannot protect you.”
“Son of Frigg,” Dystel swore again.
“There are Bernians with them. They led the Northmen in. I don’t know who to trust, and I don’t know what to do,” Hod confessed. He was not interested in excuses.
“You knew,” Dred said. His voice was not an accusation but a grim statement.
“I have known this was coming, and I did not seek to prevent it. I wanted only for Banruud to be overthrown.”
“Bloody hell,” Dakin said, but his voice trembled with excitement, not fear.
“You plot against the king?” Dystel gasped, but Dred followed his question up with another.
“And who will take Banruud’s place if he falls, Hod? The North King?” Dred asked, quiet.
“My hope was that Gudrun and Banruud would destroy each other,” Hod answered.
“And who will sit on the throne?” Dred pressed. “You?”
“No. I am a blind man. Not a king. But I see some things clearly. Bayr must sit on the throne.”
“Bloody hell,” Dakin said again, and he was practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Praise Odin,” Dred growled. “Long live the Dolphys, future king of Saylok. Now tell us where to go, blind man.”
No matter what, they had to protect Bayr. And if Hod was going to save anyone, he had to get on the wall. With his bow, he could thin the numbers of the Northmen as they climbed.
“I am going up on the wall where I can be of use,” Hod explained. “I need you to protect your chieftain. Bayr cannot fall.”
29
DEEP
He heard the moment Ghisla reached the wood. At least thirty women—hearts thrumming—were with her. A wash of relief followed by a rush of anger flooded him. No keepers walked among them. Even now, they huddled in the temple, clustered in the sanctum, but Master Ivo was not among them. Hod searched for his signature sound, for the hitch and hollow drumming of his ancient heart, but it was not there.
No one had questioned Hod when he returned to the mount. The bridge had been lowered for much of the tournament. It was lowered now. The portcullis was at half-staff, and he easily rolled beneath it. Someone greeted him—a young sentry who sometimes stood at the temple door—and Hod waved him over.
“Where are the archers who should be on the wall?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir. I’m stationed at the gate today. But half the hill is sozzled. The melee was a bit of a bust, and weddings aren’t as entertaining as wine.”
He’d insisted that the sentry—Edward from Ebba—send archers to the wall immediately.
“As many as you can find. On the king’s orders.”
“Y-y-yessir,” Edward stammered. “I’ll do my best. Elijah is here. He’s my brother. He won the archery contest. He wants to meet you. I’ll get him!”