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Meet Moose (created by Wonder)

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Sylas Episode: “Plans”

“What else do we know about Blackhorn?” Imara, commander of the Sage Land shieldmaidens, asks, bracing her fists on her hips.

“That his fortress is cliff side, making it nearly impenetrable from all sides but one,” Arless answers. “And if the rumors are to be believed,” she continues, “Blackhorn possesses something important, a treasure of sorts. Something that could change the tide of this war, and we cannot let him have it.”

Thorne grins from his wide-legged stance by the fire. “Aye, and he needs this win.” Thorne glances around the war table. “I hear some of his troops deserted once they heard we’d arrived. He can’t afford to lose to us, or he’ll have no army left.”

“Or the Butcher King will enslave more of his people to fight for him,” Imara mutters. “All in the name of his god.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Olaff cuts in, and he meets my gaze. “If you know of Blackhorn’s whereabouts, is it not better to kill him where he sleeps and be done with it?” He twists his dark mustache thoughtfully.

I’m about to answer when Arless snorts. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides,” she leans back against the wall, sounding bored. “If we kill Blackhorn in his sleep, what’s to stop Barron the Butcher from advancing Blackhorn’s soldiers without him?”

“The gods have granted us this mercy,” I add. “It never snows in the southlands. We have the advantage and must use it to weaken their numbers.”

“Especially,” Arless adds, “since the rest of their army continues north.”

“So,” I continue, “We do this tonight. His soldiers are at a disadvantage. We have no idea how long the snow will last, and without it, they know this land far better than we do.”

“Precisely.” Imara grits out. “Respectfully, my lord.” She continues, as if the moniker causes her physical pain. A servant refills the commander’s ale cup. “You forget we are not . . . like the Darkborn.” She peers around the circle of human hersir commanders and Darkborn. “We cannot see in darkness. Not if we are to win.” Her red hair is braided back, away from her face. The scar on her cheek is a constant reminder of the price she has paid to be here, and the only reason the shieldmaiden has offered her warriors and skill to our cause.

“What? Are you frightened?” Thorne taunts, his arms crossed over his chest where he leans against a tent pole. “You can stay close to me, if you like. I’ll keep you safe.” His eyebrows dance and Imara’s glare narrows on him.

“And you forget, Commander,” I tell her carefully, “that we will know the numbers standing against us and where they hide long before they know we are coming.” I nod to the map of the forestlands sprawled south of Glass Harbor. “And,” I say, offering her a compromise. “That is why we attack on a full moon, and why we will use flaming arrows.”

“So they will see us coming a mile away,” she spits.

“Only when it’s too late to do anything about it,” Arless counters, but her mind is clearly elsewhere as she admires the servant girl refilling the rest of the council’s cups.

Imara rests her fists on the table and leans in. “You may be immortal, my lords,” she says pointedly, “but your warriors are mortals who bleed and die. You are risking a great deal by putting your entire army at the same disadvantage as the southerners. Meanwhile, their numbers encroach on our people in the north.”

“I hear you, Imara,” I say patiently, and while I understand her bitterness toward us, it begins to wear thin. “However, day or night, raining or snow-bound, this is war. Men and women will die. It is to your advantage that the four of us—”

“And Moose,” Thorne adds cheekily, flipping a wood pick between his teeth with a cocky grin.

It’s an effort not to roll my eyes every time he goads a reaction from Imara.

“It is to your advantage,” I continue, glaring at him, “that the four of us are as strong as we can be, and that is at night. And that Blackhorn’s men who outnumber us are at the greatest disadvantages possible.”

Imara stares down at the soot-drawn cliffs and fortress on the map.

“When we have slain him,” I say earnestly. “We will head north again and meet the Torchkeepers. They have been fighting for three winters. They are depleted and in need of more men. The Darkborn will waylay them while we wait for our armies, if we must.” While I understand Imara’s concerns, our entire purpose is to crush these armies, and it must start with tearing the viper’s head from the body.

“Then, my lords,” Imara grits out again. “I have preparations to tend to.” She dips her head hastily and turns. “You know where to find me.” Then she strides out of the tent.

“She’s pleasant,” Arless mutters.

I glance at Arless and Lucian, who stare back at me from across the table, then I look at Thorne. He immediately looks away, and I refocus on the rest of our commanders. “Are there any other questions?”

Tatem and Henlock shake their heads, but Olaff, a jarl from the Iklund clans to the north of Frail Valley, eyes the map closely. “We can use the forest cover to our advantage,” he muses. “It’s General Blackhorn’s stronghold I worry about. With two of its walls facing the sea, they have a significant advantage should he make his way behind them.”

I meet Olaff’s gaze. “You leave Blackhorn to us,” I say calmly.

Olaff’s eyebrow raises. “I’m not sure I want to know.” He shakes his head, his eyes flicking to my mouth like he might see my fangs, and nods to the others. “I need rest if we’re to set out at dusk. Commanders.” He nods his farewell and strides away from the table and out of the tent. The other two take their leave and follow. Arless, Thorne, Lucian, and I stand around the table alone.

Arless runs her tongue over her lips as she watches the servant clear the cups from the table, and when the girl catches Arless staring, a shy smile parts her lips.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” the servant asks, and with a sigh, I shake my head. The servant dips in a small curtsey and leaves with her tray in hand.

“I need to fuck and feed,” Arless says with a weighty sigh. “No one bother me for at least an hour.” She strides around me. “Make that two.” Then she disappears out of the tent, hot on the servant’s heels.

Lucian remains silent as he swallows his irritation. At first, Arless said things like that to get a rise out of him. Now, I fear she is moving on, and Lucian remains fixed in the standoff that has existed between them since we were younger.

“When are you two going to pound it out and get on with this thing between you?” Thorne quips. “We’ve literally died and come back to life and you’re exactly where you were a lifetime ago.”

Lucian glares at him, but I feel his surge of loss and longing as he marches around the table.

“I’m serious. What even happened? Neither of you have told me,” Thorne calls after him, and Lucian stalks out of the tent in answer.

I meet Thorne’s gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that. You want to know as badly as I do. They’ve been in love with each other their whole lives, and yet they hate each other more than ever. It makes no damn sense.”

“That is not my concern.”

Thorne rubs Moose’s head as he looks curiously up at us from beside the fire. As a hellhound in a mastiff’s skin, I wonder if the fire makes him feel more at home.

“Well?” Thorne prompts. “Let’s hear it.”

“I know Imara is the only woman in camp who will not lay with you, brother.”

“Not this again—”

“But you push her too far. One day, she will grow tired of your games and pull her shieldmaidens from our army, and that loss to our army would be on you.” I give him a pointed look. “We need them.”

“She won’t leave the Darkborn,” Thorne says haughtily, and he plops into a leatherback chair by the fire. “You know what the Torchkeepers did to her father and sister because they would not convert. She wants justice as much as the rest of us.”

“Not if she hates us more than she hates them,” I warn. “We are a means to an end for her. Imara has no loyalty to us—the sight of us alone makes her sick.” Pain flickers in my brother’s eyes, but it disappears quickly. “If you are not careful, Thorne,” I say quietly, “you will push her even further away.”

I don’t know what it is about Imara that Thorne is drawn to, but I feel his pull to her. It’s visceral and impossible to ignore. And she wants nothing to do with him. A Darkborn—an abomination and another reason the peoples of the Winter Lands are divided. Zealous Torchkeepers or blood-thirsty monsters—we are all the same to Nordmen like her who only want peace. My heart, at least what’s left of it, aches for such a sentiment, because I once felt that way too.

Finally, Thorne nods, and his attention shifts to the fire as I turn to leave. Moose jumps to his feet, loping after me.

“You need to feed,” Thorne whispers.

The thought alone makes my body sing with bloodlust, and I run my hand over my face, exhaling a heavy breath. Not because I am physically tired, but because I am eternally exhausted. “I will,” I promise. “There is something I must do first.” And with that, I pull the tent flap aside and step out into the frozen woods.

Though camp is quieter than usual, the afternoon is bright and confuses my senses. Warriors rest to prepare for what lies ahead. Their death. Their glory. It will be a bloodbath, regardless. Fires burn in pits, warriors sharpening their weapons and murmuring in stilted conversation as heaviness hangs in the air.

My bearskin cape tugs in the wind as I make my way toward my tent, but I am not cold so much as comfortable with the weight of it on my back. One of only a few things that makes me feel like my old self; that makes me feel human. Moose trots alongside me, sniffing the ground and his tail wagging.

Moans of pleasure fill Arless’s tent as we pass. The servant girl’s blood smells like sweet honey scenting the air. It makes me hard and hungry, so I walk faster.

Thorne is right. I need to feed so I will be at my strongest when the sun sinks low, and the sky darkens. I’ve grown used to feeding now, a cursory and necessary act, but even if it helps, I am never entirely sated. We all know why, but I’ve lost so much of myself to the darkness, I refuse to lose what little is left. No matter how many solstices my wife has been gone. No matter how much her memory fades; it’s all I can do to hold on to it. To remember why I am doing any of this at all.

I smell my vessel awaiting me in my tent, and can hear the calm melodic sound of a human heartbeat. Pulling the flap back, I peer inside. Tru’s long black hair and back are to me, tanned skin flickering with the torch light within. “I will return.” Tru’s sharp profile shifts lightly in my direction. “There is something I must do first.”

“Yes, my lord.” His voice is quiet. Patient. Knowing he is there calms me and gives me solace for what I am about to do next.

Swallowing thickly, I pass between Thorne’s tent and my own, heading for the edge of the clearing. “Here,” I say, and Moose sniffs around the snow-dusted ground before he finds an acceptable location. Using his massive paws, he digs. He sniffs and licks his chops, making quick work of the frozen ground.

When Moose deems the hole is large enough, he pauses, looks up at me, and I crouch down beside him. My heart squeezes in my chest as I stare at the unpacked earth. In the silence, I can still hear Letty laughing in the fields back home with Moose as they search for rabbit holes. I can still feel the sun on my face and the sound of my name on Milla’s lips as she calls me into the house for supper after a long day with the plow. I know Moose remembers it too, and no matter how many holes we’ve dug, no matter how many winters have passed, this moment is when I feel most human. When I remember Sylas Von Wolfson, the man. When I can scantly remember what it felt like to be him.

Moose pants with exertion, and sliding my hand inside my cloak, I pull out the pouch of wildflower seeds tucked in my trousers.

Moose sniffs the pouch with a whimper and I hold it over the upturned soil, sprinkling a few seeds into the hole. “For you, hummingbird,” I whisper. I can’t help the crack in my voice, and I don’t care to try. Instead, I allow the pain to fill me. I allow their memory to fuel me for the battle to come. To remember why I do this.

I don’t know how long I stare at the hole, but finally, Moose licks my face, stirring my thoughts. “I know,” I mutter and tuck the pouch back into my pants before covering the hole with the loose earth. “We’re going.”

Rising to my feet, I exhale a final whispered prayer to the memory of my family and turn back to my tent. I’m nearly there when the runes on my body heat and a familiar tingle unfurls through me.

Moose stands stalk-still and I peer into the treeline, knowing she is in there. Whatever her tidings, Hel’s presence is rarely a good thing. Moose whimpers happily as he races ahead of me, disappearing into the trees.

“The Wolf is weak,” Hel muses. “You have not yet fed.” Her voice is a purr as I step through the trees. Hel stands in warrior garb, cast in the muted light filtering through the leafless treetops as she rubs Moose’s head. He stands to her waist, and yet he is only a quarter of his natural size.

Two horses flank each side of her, impervious to the giant mastiff at their feet. All of them are massive—a version of white—and their manes flutter in the breeze as they stand excitedly, snorting and nickering, as if they are waiting for something.

“What is this?” I walk toward the steed, whose gaze is fixed on me. The pink around her nose is freckled and her eyes are a piercing blue. She paws at the forest floor as I draw closer and rest my palm on her neck to soothe her. “You bring us horses?” I say, confounded. “Unless they are hellhounds in horse’s skin, they will not help us win this battle.” I stroke the steed’s neck, the warmth and pulse of her life giving me unexpected comfort.

“They are for what comes after,” Hel offers. “Her name is Sleipnira.”

I can’t help my furrowed brow and utter surprise. “What comes next?” I confirm and look at the four animals again with fresh eyes. “To what end?” Powerful the gods may be, but they do nothing without reason, and their aid comes at a high price indeed.

Hel stares impatiently at me, unanswering. Figures.

Sleipnira nudges my arm, her eyes closing as she leans into me like we’re old friends. I rub my hand over her forelock, her white mane cascading forward as she lowers her head in fealty to me.

“Nira,” I breathe. “I like it.” It’s a bond I feel in my soul, and for the first time in so long, a joyful warmth washes over me.

“She was made for you,” Hel explains. “She is the queen of horses, the fastest and most powerful. And this,” Hel continues as the horse beside Nira lifts his head higher. He’s white with pale gray spots over his face and shoulders. “This is Hati, made for Arless. He is stubborn and determined, just as she is.” My lips curve in a smile as I stroke his face before moving onto the others. “This male,” I say, seeing something different in his eyes, something cunning and curious. “He is for Lucian.” I’m not sure how I know, but somehow, I do.

“He is Hugin. Clever and strong.” The deep gray around his mouth and eyes match the gray streaks in his mane and tail. “And she is Frey. Sneaky but loyal and faster than lightning. She and Thorne will do well together.” Frey lips at my clothes and nudges my cape like she’s looking for treats.

I run my fingers through her mane, shaggy and white, and the longest of all the horses. “If it is food you seek, clever one, you will not find it with me.” Frey looks at me with boredom, and I surprise myself with a chuckle. “And the price we pay for such gifts?” I ask, never forgetting everything comes at a cost.

Hel rubs Hugin’s face, but the goddess’s eyes never stray from me. “When you have won this battle,” she says evenly, “you and Lucian will ride for Finfjord while the others return to Qisp Keep.”

“Why, exactly, are we riding to Finfjord? And without the Darkborn or our army?”

“You will know soon enough,” Hel says. “But you must go alone, so as not to draw attention to yourselves. It is imperative you go, Sylas, if you are to win the battles that lie ahead. Ask for a man called Koldis when you arrive.” Hel nods toward camp. “Now, go.” The horses start a lazy walk away from her. “Feed,” she tells me. “Prepare yourself for battle. It’s uncertain how long this storm might last.” There’s a smile in her voice, though her features give nothing away.

Turning her words over in my mind, I walk shoulder to shoulder with Nira through the trees.

“Tonight, the threads of Fate begin to unravel, Sylas.” Despite my senses, Hel’s voice barely reaches my ears, and I stop short. When I turn to look at her, however, the goddess is already gone.

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until next week….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

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