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Chapter Ten
Skarde
I couldn’t be sure when I passed out or how long I had been unconscious, but the smell of burning wood brought me round, seeming out of place in the small hovel.
My head spun when I tried to sit up, and I only managed to slump back into my chair, boneless with agony.
“What hit me?” I growled.
“Mistletoe,” Fyrcat answered, her tart voice bringing me back to the reality of our situation. “Be grateful you only have a hangover. The dose that bastard had on his claws should have felled three warriors your size. Here, eat this.”
The witch didn’t wait for me to open my mouth. She shoved a spoon past my lips, smirking when I gagged. The taste of blood and grit filled my mouth, a mix so foul that it took effort not to spit it back out and onto the ground. Whatever she’d mixed into it was grainy and tasted like dirt. But the moment the stuff hit my stomach, the worst of the pain dissipated.
I blinked myself fully awake and took a look around. Fyrcat had gotten a fire started in a metal bin of some sort. The flames popped and sent sparks over the edge, but it was warm. She’d slung some sort of pot over the top of the pit and stirred the contents as I watched.
“What was that you just forced down my throat?”
“Charcoal,” she responded, not looking up as she continued her work. “And some of my blood. I had to use power to activate its cleansing properties. I’d have preferred my elixirs, but someone wouldn’t allow me to retrieve them. So, I made do with what I had on hand.”
“You would have died,” I insisted.
She looked up at me then in anger. “And why do you care?”
I opened my mouth to agree with her, but then just as quickly shut it. The truth was… I did care. Yes, the witch was the bane of my existence, but she was in as much danger as I was. In a way, she was the closest companion I’d had in a long time. And she’d cooperated with me for longer than my own brother had. She’d saved my life twice over. I owed her for that.
“I… I just…” I sucked in a breath. Why was this so difficult? “Thank you, w… er, Fyrcat.”
Fyrcat dropped the spoon into the pot with an audible clatter. She realized what she’d done a second later and dove for the handle before it could disappear into the bubbling brew. She then cursed as the stuff burned her fingers, but she managed to save her spoon.
“See what you made me do?”
“What?”
“I’m not used to you being nice, obviously.” She pointed at the spoon.
“Well, don’t get used to it.”
She snickered at that. “Don’t worry—I’m sure it was a once-in-a-lifetime, fleeting moment.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at that, until I remembered the predicament we were in, as well as the walking dead who had been after us most recently. I craned my neck, trying to see out the windows. There weren’t any dead lurking outside that I could see or smell.
“They were drawn away by the only remaining witch in the area,” Fyrcat explained.
“Another witch?”
She nodded. “We’ve been playing tag with the undead while you snored.”
“Who is this witch?”
Fyrcat shrugged. “She’s not overtly magical, so she can’t sling spells at them. Thankfully, she can receive instructions psychically. She’s gathered the few humans who survived the winters and the dead and she’s protecting them. We’ll lead them away when Torsten and Jovi return. If they return.”
I sat up straighter. Gods, how had I forgotten my brother’s mad dash through Muspelheim?
“How long—?” I began.
“An hour, maybe less.” She waved at the fire in the bin. “I started this because there must be a fire ready to receive Jovi and Torsten. If they spill out of my fireplace, they’ll try to go looking for us, and they won’t be ready for the draugrs that greet them. Now try to stay still and let the potion do its work. Your armor is the only thing that kept the wound on your leg from being fatal.”
I shifted in spite of her warning and pain shot through my leg. Sure enough, a rust-colored stain mottled my armor and thigh.
