Years of training straightened his spine, and he sat upright.
The sound rattled the wooden panels of their dwelling, stirring Elara from her exhausted stupor.
Njáll froze, wondering if it would be his kona who’d swirl in her eyes or the cold, deadened glaze of the woman who sobbed for her mother earlier.
Sweat dotted her brow as she clung to the furs, the hair on her arms standing on end.
A glow distorted the surrounding air, her fingertips seeming to crackle with restrained energy.
“Njáll? What’s happening?”
The relief he felt at hearing the dulcet tones of his kona fled quickly. A thick tension replaced that. Another series of screams carried on the breeze outside.
A sickening scent that reeked of brine, dirt, and decay stung his nostrils. Njáll moved instantly, covering Elara with his body. Fingers searched until they closed around the hilt of his axe.
“Stay close,” he commanded, reaching behind him and clutching her waist.
Another blood-curdling scream pierced the still night, followed by the deafening clang of steel.
A heavy bang rattled against the door—once, twice, three times—until the wood splintered.
Silhouetted against the moonlit night, a bloated corpse lumbered closely, strips of rotten flesh clinging to its exposed bones.
Unfortunately, these were longer stories. No longer dreams.
This was real.
Never did he think he’d see something so perverse invade his home. When the skalds talked of the undead, Njáll merely thought it a story to scare babes. They lumbered, coating their world in the cold stench of death.
Hollow sockets sat where eyes once lived. Tiny fingers dug into his arm; his kona’s breaths fractured as she tried to speak.
Njáll jumped, the ground hard against his bare feet as he positioned his body between the draugar and his kona.
Bile rose in his throat, frost clinging to one side of the creature’s face as it moved with a clumsy purpose.
Grunting, Njáll sliced his axe through the air, slamming the blunt of the blade into the corpse’s frame.
A sickening thud rumbled at the sound of metal hitting bone. No blood seeped from the wound, the creature unaffected. It continued forward, and Njáll’s heart stopped.
Bones cracked as the draugar tilted its head to the side, extending a gnarled, claw-tipped finger toward Elara.
A deafening snarl tore through the night—the primal howl of Odin’s wolf. The earth trembled as the wolf’s paws thundered along the ground.
Sweat coated his palms. Njáll refused to relent.
He reached for Elara, lifting her from the furs. Shaking limbs wrapped around his neck. His eyes fixed on the draugar. The tendons in his arm strained as he tried to grip his axe while cradling Elara.
“We must move.”
She nodded, slipping from his hold.
A growl rumbled in his chest. He needed her close.
The corner of her mouth lifted in a placating smile. She quickly tugged on her cloak and slipped into her boots. Njáll moved with her, yanking on his boots.
Steel slid along his calf as he tucked his dagger inside. Worried green eyes bore into him. Elara’s entire frame trembled. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing a fierce kiss to the top of her head as he rose.
His kona rarely showed fear. He hated it. Hated the terror glazing her pretty eyes.
