Chapter 7
Sunnavík, Íseldur
The clear light of a winter sun crept beneath the window coverings and crawled across the fur-draped bed. Grumbling, Jonas threw an elbow over his face to shield his eyes. He’d been having the most incredible dream—he was running through golden fields toward a towering elm tree, chased by his younger brother’s laughter. The remnants of happiness clung to him for a singular, perfect moment. But then time rolled on and any cheer immediately dissipated as Jonas’s reality settled in place.
He’d lost everything he cared for in this world. His brother. The Bloodaxe Crew. And frostbite had stolen the feeling from his leg and three toes from his left foot. That last thought had him swinging from the bed and yanking on his breeches. He had plans to see to and was eager to get away from this room. But Jonas caught a glimpse of the slumbering woman from the corner of his eye and his stomach clenched tight. Long, curly brown hair spilled across her pillow.
His gaze darted quickly away. Jonas pulled on his boots, then grabbed his cloak where it was slung over the back of a chair. And with that, Jonas strode out of the room, vowing to find new lodgings tonight. As he stalked down the stairs, the numbness in his left leg gave way to spears of sudden pain. Gritting his teeth, he leaned against the wall, massaging his thigh vigorously while failing to keep his mind from all that he’d suffered.
He’d woken in Svangormr Pass partially buried in the snow, the queen’s Chosen lying slain all around him. The hard-packed snow of the avalanche track sported an impressive crater that led Jonas to believe he’d somehow been blasted free.
The week following had been long and excruciating. He’d ridden hard for an unending cycle of short days and long, brutally cold nights. By the time he’d reached Kunafjord, Jonas had taken one look at the blackened toes on his left foot and had known there was no saving them. The healer had removed them and sent Jonas on his way with little hope that his leg would ever heal. The frostbite he’d suffered while buried in the snow was simply too severe.
Clutching the wall, Jonas waited until the pain in his leg dulled, then slowly resumed his descent. The mead hall was drowsy with a midmorning crowd eating the daymeal, but seeing that woman in his bed had cured Jonas of any appetite. Instead of seating himself for a meal, he strode onto the streets of Sunnavík. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sharp angles of the winter sun, and he relished its feel on his skin. Daylight hours were sparse at this time of the year, and it was best to appreciate them while they lasted.
But Jonas had tasks to accomplish, and his feet were soon carrying him down cobbled streets. The Sunnavík that Jonas now visited was not the same as the one he’d seen in years past. Everywhere he looked, the ravages of the grain shortage could be seen. Many shops and market stalls were boarded up. There had been riots here, he knew, and each day news of another brawl met his ears.
As he passed a hungry-looking boy whittling a stick, Jonas flicked a sóla the child’s way.
“My thanks!” the boy called out.
But Jonas did not look back, and he continued his path toward Sunnavík’s pier. When masts burst above the roofline and the pungent smell of fish tinged the air, he knew it wasn’t much farther.
Sunnavík’s harbor was the largest in the realm, with wide, wooden quays and hundreds of ships docked at any given time. From merchant ships to fishing vessels, it was usually a bustling hub of trade. Today, curiously, the normal jumbled assortment of mastsand canvas was replaced by an orderly array of sails stitched with snarling bears.
Jonas made his way through a crowd, reaching the entry to the harbor grounds. It was barred, guarded by a squadron of unsmiling Klaernar warriors.
“What’s going on?” Jonas asked.
“King Ivar’s fleet prepares to sail,” said a grizzled warrior to Jonas’s right. “And it seems they plan on taking all of Íseldur’s provisions with them.”
Jonas craned his neck, trying to see past the Klaernar warrior. Wagons upon wagons were parked along the harbor’s edge, barrels and crates hauled onto the ships.
“We’re starving!” shouted a woman from somewhere down the road. “My family is ill. Surely you can spare a bag of oats!”
“Aye!” came a man’s voice, rusty with age. “We starve while Ivar’s soldiers gorge!”
“Silence!” bellowed the largest of the Klaernar warriors, his hand moving to his sword hilt. The crowd grumbled with discontent.
“Where do they sail?” Jonas asked.
“They won’t say, lad,” growled the old warrior, turning to examine Jonas. “But if whispers are to be believed, they sail for Zagadka. The king seeks retribution for the attempt on his life.”
Jonas ran a frustrated hand along his hair, then yanked on his braid. He needed to get dockside.
“Either the Zagadkians never delivered the grain they’d promised,” continued the warrior, “or not a grain of it has emerged from Askaborg Castle.”
The desperation of those gathered at the harbor’s entry was a low, hot simmer, and Jonas had a feeling it would soon build to a boil. Thankfully, the king’s fleet was moored at the north of the harbor, the opposite side from his destination. He slid back through the crowd, finding a side street running parallel to the harbor, then making his way southward. As he reached the small southern pier, Jonas’s heart leaped.
A slender figure crouched at the edge of the dock, laying a wreathof flowers down upon the sea. She was clad in mourning black, so it was difficult to be certain of her identity, but as the figure straightened, a lock of white-gold hair fell from beneath her veil. And if that didn’t confirm Queen Signe’s identity, then the twenty armed warriors guarding the pier surely would.
It had taken Jonas days to discover where he might meet the queen, and a full week spent scouting this very pier before the woman herself appeared. But now she was here, and Jonas’s heart kicked up to a violent tempo. Pain shot down his leg, and he was filled with a foreign sensation—apprehension.
Jonas was a man of humble beginnings, but this was the gods damned queen of Íseldur. She could have him killed with a twitch of her smallest finger. Jonas’s hand found the family talisman hanging around his neck, and he reminded himself of his purpose. He must restore his family’s lands and avenge Ilías’s death.
And so he gathered his courage. Forced himself to step out of the shadows and approach. The queen, apparently finished with her mourning ritual, walked toward shore in smooth, unhurried steps.
“Halt!” shouted one of her warriors, a black-haired brute half a head taller than Jonas.
