“Leave none,” Elara roared, fighting the dizzying exhaustion that was so tempting to give in to.
It was chaos.
Fire and ash.
Panther and wolf.
Once Alruna cleared the closest draugar, Njáll sprinted to Elara’s side, his figure both close and impossibly far away. His axe swayed in his hand, his body poised like a shield in front of her.
“Burn, little flame,” he growled, spurring her on.
In the center of the village, the Konungr fought with all the savage rage of a god. The wolf pushed the undead back, preventing them from reaching the woods where the families hid.
The only thing that kept Elara from succumbing to the terrifying pull of sleep was Njáll’s hard, warm body anchored to hers.
In the depths of her soul, she felt it. The beat of his heart. The hum of his breath.
Shaking, Elara drew from him, from them, pushing herself and Alruna to the brink.
One by one, Alruna slashed through the draugar, turning them to dust with a decisive swipe of her claws, golden dust clinging to the scattered bones of the dead.
With a snarl, Alruna drove her body through the last two remaining corpses near their dwelling. She pinned them under her claws, tearing soiled flesh from bone as their bodies burst into clouds of golden ash.
The sheer vacuum of power overwhelmed her.
Sharp, blinding pain stabbed at her like a dagger to the heart. A sobbing whine echoed in the darkness.
Elara collapsed with a wet breath, her limbs twitching.
The connection broke and Alruna dissolved in a wisp of black smoke, shimmering gold dust falling across Elara’s body.
The world went black.
“Elara!”
Thirty-Nine
Njáll
Each moment dragged into the next. The draugar were a relentless storm. Bjorn and Erik flanked him, their muscles twitching and their breaths short and uneven.
Njáll stole a glance at Elara’s prone, kneeling form in the grass. The whites of her eyes glowed with a pearlescent sheen, her hair billowing behind her like a bloody cape heralding destruction.
She embodied the spirit of a Valkyrie, fighting a spiritual war without a blade.
Streams of wind and smoke swirled around her knees, kicking up dust and leaves. Njáll grunted, dodging a frozen hand before shoving the draugar away from him and his kona.
Time turned into a relentless enemy, each moment hurtling them closer toward the inevitable. Bjorn and Erik shared a grim look with Njáll. One he refused to acknowledge. He had promised Elara he’d keep her safe and he’d die doing it if he had to.
Decaying corpses corralled him and his warriors, pushing them back and further away from Elara until the cold wood of the longhouse bit into his back.
Njáll hissed, his body on the verge of surrender.
With a thud, his head fell back against the wall and he murmured a quiet prayer to Odin for strength. Another followed. This one to Freyja, thanking her for the gift of his kona and offering his life in exchange for hers.
“Let me take her place,” he whispered. “Spare her and take me instead.”
“Njáll! Jarl!”
