“Where have you been?” Noren asked, taking note of his sweaty and dishevelled appearance. “Have you rutted half the village already?”
“Only the ones who begged me,” he retorted. Noren and Conalle buckled in laughter. “Gods below, Aegir would be proud of your drunkenness,” he muttered under his breath.
“And are ya proud, Aegir?” Conalle shouted. Though Aegir was the god of the seas, he was also known for his lavish parties and general lack of boundaries when it came to alcohol consumption.
“No, you filthy drunk, I am not proud,” Westley said seriously, still standing over them.
“Oy, Westy, what’s got your undergarments in a wad?” Noren fake whispered to him. Westley snatched the mug from him and dumped the contents out in the bushes. Conalle snickered.
“It’s probably got to do with a certain Vanir general,” Conalle mock whispered back. That pulled Noren out of his giggle fit. He shot him a look of warning, but Westley put his hand up to stop Noren from talking.
“I haven’t bedded her, and no way in Hel would I ever. She jus ... She gets under my skin. She’s insufferable.” He threw his hands in the air and Noren and Conalle shared a look. “What?”
It was Noren who spoke. “Well, mate, that’s how it starts. I don’t want you to get caught up in all her”—he made an hourglass shape with his hands—“and forget that—”
“I won’t forget why I am here,” Westley interrupted, his voice dangerously low.
Noren nodded. “Good.”
Conalle glanced between the two of them. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” they said at the same time.
“Ah yes, very convincing. If Viggo were here he would ne’er keep a secret from me,” Conalle said, pouting.
“If Viggo were here, you’d be sober and wouldn’t have the use of your limbs with how hard he’d work you,” Westley said, taking his mug and ridding it of the contents as well before handing it back to him. Westley had left Viggo back in Idavoll, knowing him and his propensity for rash decisions may get them in trouble with the Vanir.
Now that he was getting to know the general, he was glad of this decision. Plus he needed someone to keep the Riddari in line during his absence.
“Aye, cheers to that!” Noren lifted his mug up to no one in particular and went to take a swig, forgetting there was nothing left. He frowned. “Where’d my ale go?”
Westley sighed. “Alright, you two, let’s get some food in you.” He hoisted them by their elbows and guided them towards the dining hall.
“Thanks, Mother,” Conalle crooned, chuckling, head lolling on Westley’s arm. Before they could enter the hall, hooves pounded the ground behind them. The general rode Helle into the camp. Westley’s eyes tracked her every movement, and Conalle caught him watching her.
“She’s worth the trouble,” he whispered. Westley only shook his head.
She didn’t head in their direction, and he wondered if that was on purpose. Could she feel his stare? Was that why her shoulders were so tense? But she didn’t look back as she rode Helle through the rows of tents, dropping sacks off to each Vanir who came out to meet her.
Noren stumbled on the step, drawing Westley’s attention back to the males who were like newborn foals. He sighed deeply and entered the dining hall.
Latham sat in the corner of the dining hall watching Prince Westley laugh with his companions. Trella was talking his ear off about some nonsense with the other courtiers. He wasn’t listening, though. All he could think of was Solveig.
She had returned and inserted herself into his carefully laid plans. Didn’t she trust him to do what was best for Vanaheim? Jotunheim was not particularly trustworthy, but Maddock had sworn to protect the Vanir when they took Asgard.
The Trifold was dead—it was obvious given that the Idavoll Fae were spying on the realms. To think the venom who’d infested his town thought they were being subtle.
He hadn’t been idle since Solveig’s return, making friends with the Fae, plying them with food and drink and compliments. In turn, they had opened up to him. He grimaced into his mug. He hated the Fae. He hated that Solveig acted so comfortable around them.
Without magic in his veins, he was woefully inadequate against them. Which meant he had to beat them at their own game—ruin them before they could ruin him, and Jotunheim was willing to help do that.
The Giants of Jotunheim were their own masters. They bowed only to their own realm and did not answer to other races.
Latham sneered at the Fae who thought they could come into his home and decide who would lead the Vanir. What were their qualifications? What gave them the right? Latham would fight against tyranny every chance he got—he would stop running away from it.
The prince laughed again and Latham’s skin crawled. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but the prince was taking more from him than justhis temporary title. If he was here for blood then Latham would give it to him. He’d show the Prince of Idavoll that Vanaheim was not fleeing with its tail between its legs anymore.
“Latham?” Trella’s voice cut into his thoughts.
