“We must use the Urkans’ self-centered beliefs against them. We will harness the power of the collective. That means setting aside our differences and our own interests for a time. Because the only way we will drive the Urkans from our shores is if we come together.
“But for now,” said Silla, a smile spreading wide as she gazed at Saga, “we must celebrate this bright spot amid the gloom we’ve recently faced. Let us raise another cup to the return of my sister.” She raised a golden goblet, looking around the table as the others did the same. “And to these new bonds forged with the Kingdom of Zagadka.”
Hekla raised her cup, emotion welling in her. Silla had done the impossible—had quelled the bickering among the jarls, had vanquished the leech and banished the dark god from her body. As she watched her friend tip back her cup of ale, Hekla was filled with wonder and gratitude to be in the presence of such a woman.
But then Silla winced, setting the goblet down. Her gaze met Hekla’s across the table, unimpressed. “Still tastes like tree sap to me,” said Silla.
Hekla threw her head back and laughed.
The doors to the meeting room slammed open, her laughter dying off abruptly. Rey and Sigrún shot to their feet. Gunnar gapedin open disbelief. And Hekla blinked hard at the gray-bearded figure in the doorway. Was this a phantom vision? Surely it had to be. What other reason hadheto be here?
Kraki, former leader of the Bloodaxe Crew, staggered into the room. His face was gaunt, his hair and beard wild and askew. And his pale-blue eyes held a deranged look.
“What is it?” demanded Rey, moving around the table and reaching his former mentor just as Kraki’s knees gave out. “What has happened?” Hekla joined Rey, Gunnar, and Sigrún a moment later.
The four remaining members of the Bloodaxe Crew stared down at the once-formidable leader, now a thin, rambling mess of a man.
“Awakened,” mumbled Kraki, disoriented. “It’s happened. It’s awakened.”
“What are you saying?” asked Rey, easing Kraki to the ground.
“Kiv is no more,” said Kraki, gaze roaming wildly from face to face. “Barely escaped…” When Kraki’s eyes met Hekla’s a chill settled into her bones. “It’s happened,” he rasped.
“What happened?” she asked, against her better judgment.
“The dragon.”
The room fell silent, Hekla’s ears ringing at Kraki’s words. Surely she’d heard him wrong. Surely it could not be. But Kraki spoke four little words that changed everything.
“The dragon,” he said, “has awoken.”
Epilogue
Ale spilled down Ivar’s chin, dripping into his beard. Cursing, he lifted the hem of his tunic to dab it dry, but the motion sent pain spearing down his back. Ivar bellowed, ale sloshing from his cup and all down the front of his tunic. He let the cup fall, holding himself so still he scarcely breathed.
Ursir’s Bollocks, but that damnable winged horse had ruined his back. And though he’d had the very finest of healers tend to him, Ivar swore the injury was only worsening. Could be, he supposed, that he’d ignored the prescription for bed rest and abstinence of ale.
It was absurd, of course, for the man to have even suggested such a thing. In the wake of his retreat from Zagadka, Ivar had no choice but to show strength. Besides, the Norvalander fleet would arrive any day, and Ivar could not show any hint of weakness to King Harald. Though his father was nearing his seventh decade, he’d yet to show any signs of aging. But of course, his father had never weathered an assassination attempt, nor encountered an aerial cavalry of monstrous winged horses.
Loath though he was to admit it, the other reason Ivar avoided bed rest was that it would only feed Signe’s ego. Already her gloating looks were impossible to bear, each one seeming to say,I told you to wait for your father.
Ivar ground his teeth at the thought of it. The pain in his back dulled with each passing heartbeat until it was finally bearable to move. Ivar gingerly climbed from his chair and retrieved his emptycup while cursing himself for sending his cupbearer away. He simply couldn’t bear the humiliation of anyone seeing him like this. Ivar refilled his cup with ale and lost himself to his thoughts.
Curse those Zagadkians and curse his former foster daughter. When Saga had stood before him on Zagadkian soil, he’d read the surrender plain on her face. But that horse! That god damned cursed abomination of a creature had come from nowhere, lashing out with those iron hooves. His back twinged with remembered pain.
Ivar’s fist clenched around his cup. He’d been far too merciful when Saga had been caught kissing that wretched Zagadkian in the gardens. And what was wrought from Ivar’s mercy? An attempt on his life!
To think how near Ivar Ironheart had come to death in the explosion of the great hall. What shame it would have wrought not to die in battle. Ursir might well have denied his entry to the Sacred Forest.
No matter. Saga could hide behind the wooden walls of Kovograd and fall like the rest of them. The Norvaland fleet would arrive. They’d rally. Storm Zagadka. And then Ivar would grind each and every feral Zagadkian into the ground and claim their isle.
The door to his chambers scraped open, and Ivar whirled, then hissed in pain.
It was Eldrún, his favored concubine, who slunk through the door. “My king,” she purred.
Ivar exhaled, trying to wipe any lingering traces of pain from his face. “I didn’t summon you,” he grumbled, turning away. Ivar drained the contents of his cup in one gulp, then set it down on the table roughly.
“It has been several days,” said Eldrún. “I missed you.”
