Jonas strolled amongst the sparring Klaernar, hands gripped behind his back. The late-afternoon sun was bright, catching shining minerals in the blackened earth and along the stone walls of the garrison hall grounds. All around him were Klaernar warriors clad in black chain mail, with screaming bear shoulder plates in shining silver. Each warrior had the bear claw tattooed across his cheek, a sigil ring worn on his second finger. And after weeks of training these men, Jonas knew they were lethal on the battlefield.
Motion at the gates caught his eye—Kaptein Ulfar striding through with a pair of Klaernar leading a horse-drawn wagon. Exhaling, Jonas made his way to the kaptein, greeting him with a firm handshake.
“They’re all there?” asked Jonas, pulling the wagon’s covering back and inspecting its contents.
“All there,” said Ulfar, opening a crate. “Three hundred skarpling quills.”
Jonas picked up a quill, holding it to the sunlight. “They’re all tipped with the…hindrium?”
“Aye. I’m told it locks up their galdur instantly.”
A grim smile spread across Jonas’s lips. “Good,” he murmured. Placing the quill back into the crate, he replaced the lid.
“And this,” said Ulfar, gesturing to a smaller crate, “is the berskium powder to refill the sigil rings after dosing in battle.” He scowled. “After the destruction of Íseldur’s mine, we’ve had to import the berskium at a great cost, so be sure to only use what youneed.”
Jonas nodded, his gaze roaming over the supply wagon. He tried to ignore the twist of his stomach—the wagon was nearly identical to the one used by the Bloodaxe Crew. Crates of provisions. Iron tent poles. Weapons. Jonas’s eyes landed on the pile of furs, and his stomach wrenched violently. He could practically imagine her there, dark hair spread out on wolfskin, lashes lowered on pale cheeks as she napped.
Jonas exhaled shakily. Lately, fierce pangs of nostalgia were interspersed with his grief. He found himself yearning for days gone by, when the Bloodaxe Crew sat around the fire playing dice, before Ilías went a little too far and Gunnar tackled him to the ground. True, there had been long days in the saddle, but with the wind in his hair and the endless beauty of Íseldur all around him. A wave of sentimentality hit Jonas so hard he clutched the wagon’s side.
“You’ve focused much on this…Axe Eyes,” noted Ulfar. “Should we not also think of his woman accomplice?”
“She’s no warrior,” Jonas spat. “Her only true weapon is her poisonous tongue. She weaves lies and deception like a spider does its web.”
Ulfar watched him warily. “Ah. She entrapped you, did she?”
A hot flush crept up Jonas’s neck.
“I do not care what motivates you, Svik, so long as you bring them in,” muttered the kaptein. “The queen will not tolerate another failure.”
“We’ve studied his battle tactics,” said Jonas. “Have spoken to the warrior who escaped the Slátrari. We know how he fights, know how he wields his galdur. Weknowhim, Ulfar. Sooner or later, he’ll have to crawl out of his hole. And when he does, we’ll be ready.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Svik,” said Ulfar, stroking his beard.
“Kaptein Ulfar,” came a breathless voice. Jonas and Ulfar whirled to see a young Klaernar jogging toward them, waving a wad of parchment. “This just arrived from the north.”
He handed the parchment to Ulfar, who flattened it on his thigh and scanned the contents. “It sounds like another sundrunk northman,” muttered Ulfar, handing it to Jonas.
“No,” said Jonas, reading the page. The knowing feeling in his stomach grew more and more certain with each word he read. “It is no madman.” He met Kaptein Ulfar’s wary eyes. “It’shim.”
Ulfar’s brows drew together, doubt written all over his face.
But Jonas was more confident than he’d ever been. At last, the gods bestowed some good fortune upon him.
“This,” said Jonas, “is our edge.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
SUNNAVÍK
Saga’s fingers dipped into the ash of her dead fire, swirling along the stones of the hearth. Normally, drawing was her solace, a place to retreat when things were hard. But now, it did nothing to ease the knots in her stomach.
The night before had been a disaster. Moments after Saga had shucked off her sodden gown and climbed into her tub, Signe had stormed into the room, a flurry of white-gold hair and ivory skirts. “You were instructednotto leave the feast.” There had been an edge to Signe’s voice, and she’d closed her eyes, smoothing her hands along the ethereal white of her gown to collect herself. When at last Signe had opened her eyes, they’d cooled and sharpened.
“Saga, darling. If you act like a child, expect to be treated like a child.”
And with that, Signe had departed, leaving Saga alone in the tub. She sank beneath the water. Screamed a torrent of bubbles.
Saga had soon heard a noise from beyond the door. Pulling herself from the tub, she’d dried herself off and hastily pulled on the long, white nightdress Árlaug had laid out for her.
