Fire Fox

Chapter One

It’s supposed to be safe here.

There’s been this rare tingle in the air the last few seasons. Rumor has it that several clans in the south of our lands have disappeared, entire villages burned down, nothing left but ashes and scorched ground. Not a soul to be found.

Those talking about it get shushed.

But the proof lies right here. In this field. The last few colorful blooms around her are still bobbing along in the breeze. Her throat is slit, and burn marks cover her bare arms.

Not even us women are safe from those monsters.

My feet are rooted to the ground while shivers rack my body, and the bow goes slack in my hand as I lower my arms. My brynja feels too tight, its chains and leather plate constricting around my chest.

Every day, Father keeps telling me that we live in one of the safest regions of the world —the Northern Lands—because of the treaties and contracts between the seven clans, and now . . . look at this. Up until now we had found several bodies of merchants but never a woman. How long will it take for one of us to turn up tortured and dead?

Kneeling down I take a better look at her. The angry red line on her neck looks too neat for an animal. So, the attacker has to be a fellow human. But why would they murder someone here, out in the open for all to see?

A hare hops away into the nearest set of trees. Nobody would miss the little bit of meat it would bring to the meal anyway. At least not yet. If all merchants keep dying before they can reach our village, we are going to need every scrap we can find, no matter how small.

I try to step forward. A heavy cloud moves over the sky, shrouding this place in a dark gloom, making me shiver. Some of her belongings are scattered around her—a tiny pouch that could hold a personal token and scraps of fabric from bags she might have carried her produce in. A ray of sunlight shines on her face as the cloud passes. She can’t be much older than twenty-three Summers or so, her dark-blonde hair bound back into a low knot at the nape of her neck and her eyes half-lidded.

That could have been me. We’re so close in age and appearance. I want to hurl even though there isn’t much to throw up from this morning’s meager breakfast.

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch.

I sigh. It’s Nilán. His light-brown eyes are settled on the corpse, his black hair tousled with leaves, and three snared hares hang over his shoulder.

This is close to home, he mumbles.

Tell me something I don’t know.

I nod in reply. This merchant had almost reached us. So close yet too far away to hear her screams. If she had reached the woods behind us, she could have used them for cover until she reached our home on the other side.

My fists clench so tight I might snap my bow and arrow. We should have seen this coming earlier. There have been ten sightings like this in the Kēapmann Pass last season, and now it’s here, at the steps of our home. It was bound to come sooner or later.

To my right, leaves crunch underfoot and my head snaps up, my arrow half nocked in an instant.

A man comes walking from between the trees that stand sentry around this field. His black hair is slicked back, and the red leather of his uniform sticks out from the greens and early yellows of the surrounding nature. His head is tilted forward toward the woman on the ground while he walks an arc around her and nods. He shifts his gaze to me, leaving a trail of ice over my skin as he studies me.

I bristle and my muscles go stiff as my gaze dips to the emblem he carries on the left side of his jacket—a sword pointing down with half a triangle on one side and half a lion’s head on the other. My stomach tightens. My bow arm is raised and the arrow rests on the bowstring, ready to shoot. A Southerner from the Red Lion Legion is no friend to us.

Wait, wait, wait, Nilán says with his hands beckoning me to lower my defense. He approaches the other man without his weapons. Fool.

I snort. You can’t be serious.

Nilán arches his brows. I am. Talk first, remember.

The entire older generation have been telling us tales about the Red Lion Legion and the cruelty with which they take another leader’s land from under them. The Freeze Lands between our region and theirs had kept us safe. Until the murders, that is. One after the other, merchants have ended up dead, first in the Pass and now practically next to our village. This man appearing here right now can’t be a coincidence. Nilán knows this as well as I do, and still, he wants to talk. He must be deluded.

Every muscle within me tightens while I study the Southern man and another heavy cloud looms over us. We’ll have to be quick to avoid getting soaked. It seems to take ages for it to pass and give me a clear view again.

Something glints in that Southerners hand. Is he holding something?

My training kicks in, and I pull back the bowstring and let the arrow fly.

The world moves in slow motion.

Nilán darts in front of the Southern man and catches the arrow in his leg just above the knee. He stumbles back on his other knee and stretches his hurt leg in front of him.

You stupid— I snarl. He seriously jumped in front of an arrow. For the enemy.

The Southern man steps back. He seems torn between kneeling down or getting away as he leans slightly to his right, but then hurries toward the trees.

I fumble for another arrow. In all the twenty-four seasons Nilán has lived in our clan as an emissary, we never particularly liked each other. Mister I-always-know-better. But I won’t let a Southern warrior kill him. That’s not something I’m going to be responsible for. I’m not going to carry the weight of that.

He and Nilán exchange a look, and the Red Lion warrior mumbles a few words before he saunters off into the woods, looking back over his shoulder a few more times.

I run, then I’m on my knees next to Nilán. Sorry, I whisper.

He groans and grumbles. For Odin’s sake, Dawn. You vicious . . .

I gently prod around the arrow, which pulls another painful groan from Nilán. The blood is already soaking through his pants. I fumble for the hem with shaky hands. Red smears form dark splotches on my fern-colored tunic as I rip off pieces to bind his leg. Nilán hisses while he keeps his leg still with both hands. With every sound he utters, my muscles grow tighter. I take a single deep breath and force all my calm, if there is even some of it left, into my hands and rip off one more strip. We need to make sure the arrow stays put until we are home.

What were you thinking, protecting a Southerner? I snipe while I bandage his leg.

His brows are knit together in frustration and pain. You’re a savage of a girl, and you need to use your head better, Nilán pants between groans and whimpers. He could have had valuable information about the merchant situation.

I tie a bow on top of his leg, pulling the knot a little bit tighter than I should.

Him with his information and opinions. The first lesson you learn when they throw you in the sparring ring: don’t trust a man or woman with the emblem of the Southern Warlords. I guess his parents haven’t taught him too well.

I try to help Nilán to his feet, but he is a head taller than me and heavy with muscle. The trek back to our village is a long one, made longer by Nilán’s pace slowing the more we walk. My back hurts from supporting his weight as he drags his left leg and his breathing becomes labored.

Darkness is settling when we arrive back home. Just in time to wade through all the people returning from the fields and their booths on Merchant Row. Some politely ignore us as we stumble through the narrow alleys, the first torches already burning in the sconces of the wooden houses. Others blatantly stare or tsk in disdain.

Nilán groans again and trembles.

We’re almost there, I say. He just needs to stay upright a little longer. I can already see the roof, only two more houses before we arrive at the healers.

Heidrún is going to give me an earful when she sees this. And if Heidrún knows, so will Father. They always speak in hushed tones or stop talking once I enter the room.

Father opens the door before we can get close enough to knock.

I freeze and gulp.

His gaze moves from me to Nilán and then down his body. A frown comes over his face. What in the Nine Worlds happened? With an exasperated huff Father beckons Nilán, who whimpers the moment he breaks free from my support.

Yes, whimper like a child. You decided to jump in front of the arrow to protect the enemy, Nilán. You reap what you sow. But I’m sure Father wants an explanation either way.

My mouth opens but no sound comes out, all words lodged deep within my throat. I try again and another time, but all that comes is a babble.

Do you know what . . . No. Father raises both hands in front of him. Nilán, go in, let the healers look at you. Dawn, go home now.

But— He doesn’t even want to listen to what I have to say.

No ‘but.’ Home. Now. Think about your actions, and then we will talk about this, later, Father commands, then closes the door on me, leaving me outside.

I look at the door for a while, listening to the mumbles that rise from the other side. A whimper raises the hairs on my neck.

Gods, that overgrown man is as soft as a child. It’s just an arrow wound. As an apprentice healer myself, I see this all the time. Too much mead makes some people think it’s fun to play with a bow.

I turn and get away as fast as I can.

Thankfully the roads and alleys have quieted. My feet slip on the yellow-orange leaves and fallen pine needles while I keep a steady pace toward home. The mood is grim. Warriors pass me on the way to their self-imposed guard duty, their faces dark and heavy like the gathering clouds. Someone is cooking a broth, and the scent of gamey meat wafting up through the wind-eye makes my stomach growl in reply.

My muscles are sore and stiff, and the chill seeps right through my clothes and skin, into my bones. Today was . . . eventful. Nothing seems to add up as of late. Father never tells us anything, but he knows, he has to. My gut has been nagging me for a while now, and seeing that poor girl in the fields confirmed that agonizing ache. Add in the warrior with the Red Lion emblazoned on his chest, and things will only get weirder from now on.

I take a few deep breaths, which plume in front of me like smoke, and I push open the door with trembling hands.

Lusia, my younger sister, is humming. A pot with meat and vegetable soup hangs above the firepit in the middle of the room while she is at work kneading dough. Her singing stops, and I can feel her eyes burn into my back.

I hate it when she is like this. The way she always observes every step I take.

I get out of my muddy boots, put down my axe, and stow my bow and arrows away in the corner next to the door. Our house is simple and clean, with a nook by the entrance to stash our shoes, furs, cloaks, and other stuff that Lusia doesn’t want to see anywhere else in the building. Especially not near the firepit or the stash of sleeping mats and blankets in the back. Work stays at the door, as she says.

I try to calm my nerves and enjoy the silence while I go about my chores and ignore those curious chestnut-colored eyes that focus solely on me. She inherited much from our late mother, like her eyes, her light-brown hair, her slim frame, and the same stare. A perfect younger copy of her. Unlike my twin brother, Jyry, and me, it’s as if everything about our mother was saved for Lusia.

It’s just us two girls for a moment, and I quite like it because it happens so rarely.

What happened? Lusia asks as she sets the plate of dough over the fire. Come on, spill. She makes her voice soft, and she knows it works every time since it imitates Mother’s so perfectly.

I take a deep breath. My tense muscles must have tipped her off. That idiot decided to catch my arrow in his leg.

Lusia’s brows shoot up.

The door opens with a creak.

Dawn. Father fills the doorway and slides his furs from his shoulders, revealing his axe that hangs from his hip. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his other hand while he looks up at the ceiling. A few ashen-blond locks glide from his shoulder. Then his attention is on me, demanding an explanation.

He has a name. Jyry shuffles around Father with his best friend, Nilán, who leans on him, limping on his now bandaged leg.

Yes, Stupid is his name. I sit down on the bench along the wall and jut my chin up.

My brother bends down as he sets Nilán on the bench opposite me, even though the stubborn ass keeps saying he doesn’t need any help. Yet he winces the moment he accidentally puts pressure on his wounded leg.

Father crouches down between us, his back toward the wall. An exasperated sigh leaves his lungs. He scratches his beard and traces the jagged scar that runs from his jaw to his collarbone. The wound had never healed well, as it was stitched together by a fellow on the battlefield with dirty thread. His blue-green glare penetrates my thoughts.

I told you to think about what you did. So stop blaming Nilán, Father says.

I open my mouth to defend myself, but Father shakes his head no, and I lock my jaw.

Father then gestures his big hands for one of us to explain while he observes in silence.

I jumped in front of the arrow, argh, Nilán looks pained while he tries to move his leg into a more comfortable position. She was about to shoot Nicaise.

That man isn’t right and you know it. He is a Red Lion for Odin’s sake, I snipe back. And besides that, you’re on a first-name basis with each other. Cozy.

Dawn, stop it, Father commands.

Nilán snorts. I have never seen him snort before. Because I talked with him. Not all Southerners are bad. How would you feel if they said that all Northmen and women are bad, huh?

Attempting to shoot him was a bit quick, don’t you think? Jyry says, mingling himself into a conversation he has no place in.

I glare at my twin brother and bite my tongue to keep the curse words in. But Father doesn’t stop Jyry from saying his piece. It makes my insides boil. Lusia looks on in stunned silence.

I fold my arms in front of me and slam my back against the wall. What decision would you make if you found a dead merchant girl first, and then a Red Lion warrior appears from the woods? Explain, oh dear brother of mine. What would you have done?

Nilán’s brows scrunch together and he huffs.

Weird stuff is happening and nobody tells us anything, I say. There is a Southerner lurking around our village, and Nilán immediately gets all friendly with him despite us finding another dead merchant in the fields just past the woods. A girl this time, Father. I take a shaky breath. She was close to my age. It could have been Lusia or me. Don’t you care? Because it seems nobody is doing anything about it. I point my finger at him. Tears threaten to roll free, and my voice turns squeaky. It’s supposed to be safe here. You gave up your position as clan Chief so all our people could be safe.

Father shakes his head in annoyance. Dawn, he shouts before returning to his calm. That’s a lot to—

Don’t belittle me, I yell at him. I’m getting more aggravated the longer this goes on.

Then Father turns solemn, and he bites on his thumb nail before clasping his hands in front of himself again. It is supposed to be safe. But . . .

My stomach turns to stone. What? I whisper.

Father purses his lips, then wrings his hands together and faces the ground.

This can’t be. The last time I saw him act like this was . . . was after we lost Mother. He is lost. He is in over his head and doesn’t know what to do anymore. It was a long time ago that I saw Father this solemn and broken.

The crackling of the fire is the only sound that fills the room.

I try to stay calm. I really do. But it’s confusing. Father knows, I’m sure he does, but he wants to keep it all inside in an attempt to protect us. Why doesn’t he share his thoughts with us? Does he actually know who’s killing the merchants and why, or is he like us, just speculating? If we keep going on like this, we will lose our home to the enemy anytime now. Nicaise is just one, but how soon will more follow?

I look at my siblings, Father, and Nilán. Lusia looks just as confused as I am. Father practically rips his thumbnail off with his teeth, his jaw is so tense. The others face the ground, like father. They know something, don’t they?

The stench of burning bread fills the room, and Lusia hastily grabs it off the fire.

Someone has to do something, I almost scream.

Promise me one thing. Father squeezes my hand. That you stay out of this.

Of course. As if that will stop me from figuring out what they try to hide from us. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. I’m a warrior, have worked hard to achieve this status and to be seen as a worthy one. Father was the one that taught me to defend myself. And now he tries to coddle me. He ought to know me better than that.

Chapter Two

Last night I barely slept.

The men in our household keep secrets. To protect Lusia and me, that was their reasoning, but that merchant girl in the fields . . . she is proof that they can’t protect us. The poor girl. I hope she didn’t have to suffer too much before her throat was slit. The thought alone left a copper tang on my tongue all evening, and I left my cup of berry juice untouched.

And as if to spite me, my mind and imagination always get more active the moment I want to go to sleep. Encounters on the battlefield or frivolous meetings play out in my head. Yesterday was the second time such an encounter occurred with people I know.

Nilán and I stood in the field where we had been earlier, though it was much creepier than I’ve ever seen it in real life. Opposite us was a human form made of black mist, and they tried to smother someone. Their smoky fingers grew into sharp claws, snapping and twitching. Enormous fangs protruded from their depthless face, and blood dribbled down their chin. I wanted to look away, but I could not. The person smothered by the mist was struggling, though I couldn’t see their expression. As I watched, the fog began to evaporate, the skin beneath peeling away to reveal a rabid, wide-eyed wolf standing on its haunches. An Eigi Einhamr—a shapeshifter—of which I only ever heard tales told to frighten us when we were younger. The beast was growling and snapping at us.

Only little tell-tale signs of the young man they tried to smother were left as the shapeshifter took over the last parts of humanity in its host. Those devious blue eyes of the creature in front of us, somehow familiar. Shreds of red fabric dropped from its shoulders and evaporated in puffs of smoke.

The world turned darker and greyish. The spruce trees went from lively green to dead wood ready to drop any moment. It was as if the creature sucked the life out of everything around them. Their smoky wisps lashed out at us and left cold trails biting our skin.

It had taken some time before the images cleared from my mind and sleep finally found me, my body too exhausted to keep up with my brain. When I woke up, I still couldn’t shake the thoughts from my mind. It had been many Summers ago that I regularly had foreboding dreams like this. Something that only comes from scary tales. The worst of all was that they came true. My dreams had shown me the true nature of that person—their inner beast—before it came to be a reality.

Lusia and I had pulled the blankets over our heads while Father, Jyry, and Nilán were already wide awake and getting ready for whatever they had planned for the day.

I even feel a bit guilty to see Nilán limping around. But in true Nilán fashion, he is too stubborn to let others help him with his chores.

That stubborn ass doesn’t know what’s good for him.

We move in circles. While he scrapes the firepit clean, I fold the blankets in the back, achingly slow. My chores are the perfect distraction. Both of us seem to be content this way, but with every hiss or groan Nilán utters, a stone is added within my stomach.

Lusia comes hurtling back into the house, a smile on her face. Vidya is back.

I shove the last folded blanket onto the pile. This is a great excuse for me to get out into the fresh air and away from this smothering place.

Great, I say. I get up and pass Nilán.

What about your chores? Nilán and Lusia both ask.

Done, I utter, halfway out the door. I don’t bother to wait for their reactions.

My lungs fill with the fresh air, making me breathe easier. I stretch my arms and legs while I make my way down the alleys. Trying to enjoy the silence, that isn’t here.

It’s unusually crowded this morning. People are cackling and complaining.

Most of them should be at their merchant booths or on the training grounds already. Come on, people. Move. I push through the throng of bodies on my way to Merchant Row. Elbows jab my side and back. People grumble as I pass.

Knowing Vidya, I will find her by the merchant booths. It’s always food first with her.

I hate it when the streets are like this. Mingling with crowds of people has never been a favorite pastime of mine. I don’t understand how others love to talk about things like the weather or gossip about others. If they could make a living out of it, those women would be rich by now.

I bump into someone’s solid back. Sorry, I say and look up.

Harald turns. He was one of Father’s advisors from when Father was still a Chief. He smiles, his grey beard adorned with beads today, the rest of his hair tied back into knots with tiny braids woven through them. He circles his arm around me and pulls me forward.

Don’t worry about it, little savage, he says without the usual humor in his voice. The protection from Harald’s big frame keeps other people from continuously bumping into me.

Harald, I drag out his name, letting my curiosity bloom through in my voice. What’s going on here? Maybe if I ask him with this squeaky childlike tone and feign innocence—this used to work when I was small all the time—he will give in and tell me something. It will be more than Father lets on at the moment.

Harald huffs. Our fellows have pushed for a meeting with Clovis.

I look over my shoulder, arching one of my brows in question. And . . . I tease. He can’t possibly leave me hanging here with just that.

This man is like an uncle to us, sharing our parents’ secrets with us when he feels we need to know. All I have to do is make him think this is one of those moments.

Not this time, Dawn, he says sternly. Your Father won’t let me live in peace for the rest of my life if I tell you.

My fingernails dig into my palm. Fine, he won’t budge. Yet.

A few more people push through the crowd gathered in front of the Council’s building. The big wooden door creaks, and Chief Clovis steps out with his hands behind his back.

I stand on my toes to get a better look at the man.

His black hair is tied back into a braid, the first streaks of grey a stark contrast, and his cheekbones are more sunken than a fortnight ago. Chief Clovis scratches his throat, his deep voice loud. Well, let this get over with, he drawls.

That man became Chief when Father gave up his position after Mother was murdered thirteen Summers back. Father’s priorities shifted to taking care of us. Chief Clovis, in his turn, promised to keep our lands safe. Increasing warrior power and whatnot. He has done a lot of good for our village, Merchant Row being one example. By creating a space where people can go buy their necessities, but also fun trinkets, the rest of the village stays calm. And being the first clan to create a street like this instead of our merchants selling from their