Vanaheim—903 AD
Ten years had passed since the death of Darrion’s parents and little sister, Ara. Ten long years in which thoughts of avenging his family had burrowed into every single cell in his body, festering until as a young Mare he was left hell-bent on taking from Odin what Odin had taken from him.
Njord’s army had grown exponentially in that time. They had followed in the wake of Odin and his Valkyries, combing through the devastation they’d left behind, seeking out the dark elves who had slipped through the cracks and survived. These Mares were the most dangerous. They had nothing left to lose and everything to gain by training to become killers.
Darrion wiped the sweat from his brow, his eyes on the blood splashed all over the rough ground. Some of it had been soaked up by the sand thrown on the hard-packed floor. Some was dull and old against the dark dirt.
And none of it was his.
Arthon—his opponent—blinked up at Darrion from the floor, his blood streaming out of the cuts to his head, lip and neck. He cradled one elbow in his hand, holding his broken arm close to his body.
That thought alone brought a sadistic smile to his lips. When Darrion fought, he fought until blood was spilled and his opponent’s body was broken—and even then he didn’t stop.
“I think you broke my arm,” Arthon mumbled, spitting blood out as he spoke. Darrion’s shoulders lifted slightly. He wasn’t about to waste his fucking energy on any more movement than that.
“He could have killed you,” another voice said. Darrion regarded Njord, who had appeared from one of the many tunnels leading around their guild house. The Vanir god looked like a proud father, beaming at the good deeds of his son. “But he didn’t because I won’t allow it.”
Arthon’s eyes lowered in deference. “Yes, master.”
Njord frowned at him. Darrion watched Njord take in Arthon’s injuries, taking stock of them, calculating where and when Darrion had struck. “Get your wounds attended to,” he ordered.
Without making eye contact, Arthon struggled to his feet. One of the other Mares rushed over to help him, holding him up and leading him toward a room off the main tunnel that housed a crude medical station. As Mares, the superficial damage they suffered could be healed, but for broken bones and more serious internal injuries, it took time.
Turning, Njord asked Darrion, “How long did it take you to inflict that much damage?”
Darrion shrugged. “Forty-five seconds.”
“You could have done it in thirty.” Njord’s retort wasn’t meant to rile Darrion, but it had that effect.
“I’ll do better next time.”
The god regarded him for a moment. “I have no doubt.” He walked away, indicating to Darrion he wanted him to follow. “How was he until he started bleeding out?”
“He was good.”
“But not as good as you.”
“Nobody is as good as me,” Darrion replied simply. He knew he was a natural—born to it. He understood that being a farmer, tilling the fields with his father, wouldn’t have satisfied this dark desire Njord had nurtured within him.
Thinking about his father and the life he could have been living brought him up short. He hadn’t thought about that before. All he’d ever considered was finding bloody revenge for his whole family’s death.
“What is it?” Njord asked, taking Darrion by the arm and leading him further away from the other nearby groups of Mares still sparring.
“Why is Odin doing this? Why is he hunting my people down like dogs?”
Njord seemed to think about that for a moment. Eventually he said, “One fears what one fails to understand. Odin is no different … and dark elves are some of the only beings in all the Nine Worlds that don’t bend to his will.”
“But why would he want to control us? What use do we have? We have no powers like the gods.”
The Vanir gave him a knowing smile that Darrion couldn’t decipher. “You are probably unaware of this, since you came from a poor family, but with special training, a Mare can be quite dangerous. With the right information and knowledge, they can become something special …” Njord trailed off before adding, “They can become Shadow Walkers.”
“Shadow Walkers?”
“Yes. Those of pure blood, and I mean pure blood, were able to wrap shadows around them, to conceal themselves. They could become invisible, making them the most feared creature in all of the Nine Worlds—even feared by the All-Father.”
“What happened to the pure-blooded Mares?”
“There are none left now. Odin wiped them out. He has been persecuting dark elves for over one hundred years, wiping out entire generations without a thought other than to strike first and strike hard.
“So what some families started to do was capture a light elf—usually a male—and force them to bed one of their females. The light elves’ paler features are dominant, so most of the offspring would have their blond hair and light eyes.”
Darrion touched his pale hair absently, staring at Njord with wide blue eyes. The Vanir nodded in silent understanding.
“You inherited the paler traits, but your sister and mother had the darker features.”
Darrion had often wondered why he’d looked so different from his sister and mother—and why his father looked more like a light elf. “My blood is not pure,” he reflected. “I can never be a Shadow Walker.”
“I don’t want you to be a Shadow Walker.” Njord stepped closer and grasped Darrion’s shoulder lightly. “I want you to become the Master of Shadow Walkers.”
Darrion’s brow knitted together. “And how is that possible, when I’m not even worthy of calling myself a real Mare?”
Njord laughed and swept Darrion around by his shoulder. Darrion saw immediately what the Vanir was showing him: every single pair of eyes in the room was locked on him, fear and uncertainty simmering just below the depths.
In his ear, Njord whispered, “You don’t need to be worthy. All you need is the determination to take what you want. All you need is their fear.” He gestured to Darrion’s fellow trainees, still staring at him. “All you need to do is control them with this fear and you will dominate them.”
Darrion grinned. He liked the sound of that. “How?” he asked.
“Who is the best out of the group? Is it Arthon?”
“Yes.”
“Kill him.” He said the words so calmly, as if asking Darrion to fetch him a cup of water.
“Now?” Darrion asked.
Njord studied his face, searching for something. “Make them fear you. Make them uncertain of their position in our army.”
“Our army?”
“That’s what we’ve been doing, Darrion. We’ve been building an army against Odin. I’m training them to become the most lethal killers so that you can get your revenge on the All-Father. But in order to have their respect and their fear, you need do as I ask.”
Could Darrion kill the other Mare? He weighed his master’s words carefully as he considered his reply. He stared into the god’s glowing green eyes as an idea took shape.
“I’ve got a better idea.”