In his mind’s eye, Ivar saw the low cut of Eldrún’s gown showcasing the ample swell of her bosom. He hadn’t called for her, but Ivar was not one to let opportunity pass him by.
“Bring the wine,” he ordered, settling onto the bed with a wince. She’d have to ride him carefully, else he’d not be able to walk for days.
“Yes, my king.”
Ivar’s moods were lifting already. With her sweet disposition and simple nature, Eldrún had quickly become his favorite. And while his other concubines pouted for jewels or fine gowns, not his Eldrún. There were no games of the mind with this one, no hurt feelings when he sent her away. She was even and true and so willing to do whatever he demanded.
Eldrún set the wine pitcher and a pair of goblets down.
“Unbind your hair,” ordered Ivar, unable to take his eyes off Eldrún as she worked her blond tresses free from their braids.
“Dress.” She blinked at him with long-lashed eyes, sliding her gown off one shoulder, then the other. All the blood in Ivar’s body rushed south as the dress slid down to her waist, held in place only by the fastenings at her hips.
“Belt.”
Eldrún released the belt, and the silk puddled on the ground around her. She stepped toward him, long blond hair covering her nude form from his view. His gaze landed on the pulse at the base of her throat, hammering with curious intensity.
And then everything happened too quickly for Ivar to follow. Eldrún was upon him, a blade slashing toward his chest with impossible speed.
With a shout, Ivar’s hand shot up, pain biting into his palm as he caught the blade before it could pierce his heart. But Eldrún moved with inhuman speed—had already drawn a second blade from Ursir knew where. Ivar jerked away, but the blade plunged deep into his shoulder. He bellowed, rolling onto the woman and driving his fist forward. But rather than her head, it hit the empty blanket, and Ivar cried out as pain pierced his side.
Ursir’s Flaming Paw. How was this woman able to move with such speed?
“Guards!” he shouted, lunging at Eldrún, who’d leaped from the bed. Daggers sang through the air, each aimed directly at his heart. Ivar ducked and dodged, his body an inferno of pain. A growl builtin his throat as he shouted for his guards again. Where in Ursir’s name were they?
Ivar barreled at Eldrún, but she dodged him, again with that impossible speed. Momentum carried her to the wall, but she kicked off it, sailing back through the air toward him. Ivar’s warrior senses had caught up with him, and he ducked low, catching her leg. He slammed Eldrún to the ground, satisfaction welling in his chest as she was momentarily stunned.
“Who sent you?” he demanded, bringing his face low to hers.
But Eldrún swung her head forward, her forehead crashing into his nose with startling force. As his vision wavered, Ivar’s grip on Eldrún loosened and she scrambled free.
He whirled in time to see her launching onto the bed, retrieving a fallen dagger. Ivar had never witnessed speed like this, not since…
“No,” he growled, ducking beneath the flying dagger. Images filled his mind’s eye—of a battlefield seventeen years ago. King Kjartan’s warriors moving with unnatural speed. “Harefoot.” Ivar picked up a fallen chair, batting another flying dagger out of the air.
“You’re a god damned Harefoot,” he growled, charging at Eldrún while wielding the chair. “You are Galdra!”
Ivar’s blood ran cold as the future the Weaver had foretold to him so many years ago rang in his ears.You will fall by galdur’s hand. The thought was momentarily dizzying, giving Eldrún a chance to evade him. She kicked off the enormous wooden headboard, striking Ivar’s right side.
He staggered but managed to seize the woman by the neck. With a roar, Ivar shoved her against the wall so hard that bones snapped and the stones rattled. “Who sent you?” he bellowed, spittle landing on Eldrún’s face. Her lifeless face.
Ivar cursed, realizing he’d get no answers—he’d broken her neck. He released Eldrún, and she crumbled to the floor, limbs splayed at odd angles.
Pain surged suddenly from all over Ivar’s body—back, shoulder, palm, side. He pulled the dagger free from his shoulder with a grunt,then he paused. Blinked at the hilt protruding from between his ribs. For a moment, Ivar simply stared, dumbfounded. He knew from years of battlefield experience that he could not pull this dagger free himself—a healer would have to do it.
“Guards!” he bellowed, before releasing a foul string of curses. He was going to have them all bound and whipped; publicly humiliated for their failings. Ivar staggered to the bed, snatching a goblet of wine from the table and tossing it back.
The door scraped open, and Ivar’s pulse leaped.
“Darling?” asked his wife, striding toward him. “I heard your shouts. Where are your guards? Oh!” With her cream-colored gown and white-gold hair, Signe looked like a spirit drifting toward him.
Lights danced in Ivar’s vision, the pain now so great he did not know where it started and ended. “Stabbed,” he grunted. “Need. Healer.” Ivar gasped as a wall of pain slammed into him.
“Yes, darling,” said Signe, his shield-maiden here to protect him. She eased him onto the bed. Cooed softly as she swept the hair back from his brow.
Signe’s blue eyes met his, and Ivar felt a wave of tenderness toward his wife. She was the mother of his children. A queen who’d stood by him despite all his shortcomings. Ivar knew he hadn’t been the best husband. Perhaps he would try harder.
“A shame,” said Signe, “that you killed dear Eldrún. It’s hard to find such dutiful followers.” As her words landed, Signe’s hand curled around the hilt of the dagger.
