Her thoughts raced to the ring of keys at Sif’s waist. Sif and Bodo often spent the night together in his hut in the village, slipping back into the castle through the tunnel.
And Bodo—he’d worn that strange ring, the one that cured his limp but bound him to the troll she’d slain in Ísland. The ring cursed by the crimson-eyed witch who nearly destroyed Úlvhild. Bodo said the troll was a shapeshifting spy who served the Count of Soissons.
What if the troll had discovered the tunnel? And told Soissons the way into the keep? He might have ordered Bodo to obtain the keys from Sif. And had copies made for the Count.
Elfi’s shrewd gaze shifted west, toward the sacred grove and the hidden entrance at the base of the castle. Her eyes flicked to the floral tapestry hanging on the wall whichconcealed the secret door at the top of the stairs.
Soissons is coming through the tunnel.
He has the keys.
And this time, he’s here for me.
Shadowbanehung in honor on the wall of her chamber, sheathed in its weathered scabbard. The steel crossguard still bore faint runes now dulled with age, the leather grip darkened with years of Dag’s sweat and blood. In the past, Elfi would have strapped the scabbard at her slender waist and felt its welcome weight like a second skin.
But not now. Not with her belly swollen with Njörd’s child.
And not with Soissons within her castle walls.
Elfi unsheathed the blade and gripped it bare. Her shieldmaiden hand knew its shape, the smooth grooves where Dag’s fingers had clenched and clung.
This was the beloved blade her brother had trained her with under the ash trees of the sacred grove.
The sword she had offered Njörd on their wedding day in Ísland.
The weapon she had vowed to wield when she avenged Dag’s death.
By slaying the Count of Soissons.
Elfi needed to hide.
But not behind the tapestry — that was where he would enter. Instead, she eased open the small side door and slipped into the antechamber which connected her quarters with Oda’s.
She couldn’t risk waking or endangering heramma. But through the narrow crack, she could watch.
And wait for the right moment to strike.
Elfi pressed her back against the antechamber wall. Blade pointed upright, held close to her body, she peered through the slight gap of the oak door. At the sound of booted footsteps and muffled male voices coming up the stairs, her muscles coiled and her grip tightened.
Metal scraped against stone as a heavy key slid into the lock and turned with a clank. The tapestry stirred. The secret door creaked open.
And the Count of Soissons, flanked by four Frankish guards, slithered into her still room.
He quickly scanned Elfi’s chamber, his gaze darting from the empty bed to the barely opened door where she hid. He snickered, a wicked grin across his sneering face. “Go quietly into the corridor,” he ordered his men. “Dispatch any guards. No alarm.” When Soissons unsheathed his sword, the hiss of metal slithered up Elfi’s spine. “Once I have his daughter hostage,” he growled, blade low as he crept toward the antechamber door. “I’ll force Thorfinn to surrender the castle. And remember—Richard the Fearless ismine.”
Elfi’s heart hammered, her mouth bone dry.
From the corridor outside her room came the muffled grunts of a struggle. The heavy thud of bodies hitting the wooden floor. A sharp cry, cut short.
Her throat clenched in horror.
Bjarke… Varg… No!
They would be defending herfaðir’sdoor. And his honored guest, Jarl Rikard.
A deluge of grief nearly brought Elfi to her knees.
Bjarke and Varg had been Dag’s closest friends. Bjarke had nearly died defending the castle the last time the Count of Soissons attacked—when he’d abducted her father. The gruesome image of the garish gash across his beloved face stole her heaving breath.
