“Victor!”
Chest heaving, Jonas glanced around. The warriors in the stands had grown quiet, watching him with unexpected admiration. His lip curled, but he dropped the tripod and staggered away from the beastly creatures that would not die.
A warrior sitting front and center climbed from the stands andentered the arena. His hair was an equal mixture of black and gray, and his beard reached mid-chest. But there was something in the way this warrior carried himself that told Jonas he was a dangerous man.
“Well met, Jonas!” said the man in a gritty voice. “I am Volund.”
So this was the elusiveVolundto whom the queen had sent him. Jonas’s eyes narrowed as the man approached, but Volund only smiled grimly. A necklace clinked from around his neck, and Jonas’s stomach turned as he identified the strung objects as teeth.
Volund clapped Jonas on the shoulder, then faced the warriors in the stands. “Let us send a warm welcome to our newest brother-in-arms!” The warriors shouted, banging weapons against the floor. Volund turned back to Jonas and extended a hand.
“Welcome to the Corpse Bringers.”
Chapter 14
Kovograd, Zagadka
Kassandr Rurik was late for their lesson.
With an exasperated sigh, Saga glared at the door, reciting the angry Zagadkian words she planned to unleash upon him when he finally deigned to cross the threshold. But minutes slid by and still the man did not appear, and Saga began to wonder if this was some twisted plan of Kassandr’s. To get her used to taking the daymeal with him—to train her to anticipate his arrival like some sort ofpet—only to yank it away like a toy?
Her stomach growled, and Saga wouldn’t have been surprised to discover smoke pouring from her ears. She couldn’t tell which source of her anger was greatest—Kassandr Rurik for his complete disregard for punctuality, or herself for feeling even the smallest measure of disappointment that her jailer had not yet come to visit.
The sunlight flowing through her windows grew ever brighter as morning progressed, and Saga’s irritation reached a boiling point. She stormed to the door. Pounded on it with her fist.
“You tell Kassandr Rurik he can go jump in the river!” she shouted in Íseldurian. “I hope he has rocks in his boots every day for the rest of his life! That gnats buzz in his ear whenever he tries to find sleep!”
She paused, awaiting a reply in confused Zagadkian. But it was utterly silent beyond the door, a fact that only further incensed her. She was angry, damn it, and someone needed to know it!
Unthinking, she yanked on the handle. The door swung inward with ease, sending Saga sprawling backward on her arse. She scowled at the doorway, understanding slowly settling into place. This was not the first time Kass had left her door unlocked and unguarded.
“Again with the childish games, Kassandr?”
Apprehension knotted in her gut as she thought of what she’d stumbled across in the red room. Saga stood, then hesitated. She strode to her bed and pulled her new set of knives from under the mattress. Kass had delivered them to her on their second daymeal together and had proceeded to make her test them on her latest drawing of him. The irritating man seemed pleased as she’d impaled his likeness—was delighted to help her with small tweaks of her arm and her stance.
With a huff, Saga stowed one knife carefully down her bodice, and the other in her dress sleeve. Then she stepped into the hallway.
The fortress corridors had no windows to illuminate them, but normally there was a lit torch or two through this stretch. Saga blinked into the darkness as her eyes slowly adjusted. Down the farthest end of the corridor, she could just make out a faint bloom of light.
“I swear to the gods, Kassandr,” she called, moving toward the light. “If it’s not a ship ready to take me to Midfjord, I do not want to see it!” What did the featherhead have to show her?
As Saga reached the lit torch, the next one became distantly visible. She sighed, then began toward it. Countless unmarked doors flanked the hallway, and Saga wondered what purpose they served. The fortress was not as grand as Askaborg, yet it was equally sprawling, with countless wings and corridors.
Her mind flicked to the high prince. Had he arranged her ship yet? She’d come through on her side of the bargain. It was time he did, too. Gods, but if Kass truly had a Midfjord-bound ship readied for her, Saga might cry.
She reached the next lit torch, but paused, realizing that the door adjacent to it hung open. Saga glowered into the sparsely litroom, but as the scent of vellum and earthy pigments reached her nose, her heart quickened.
A gallery. Kass had drawn her to a gallery, and curse her foolish heart for swooping low in her belly.
Saga entered the room slowly and gazed around in wonder. To her left was a large worktable, an assortment of wooden idols and carving tools atop it. To her right, a second table. Saga stepped closer, her gaze trailing over pots of various pigments, stacks of parchment, and piles of quills. Pinned to a board on a slanted drawing surface was a partially restored image of the seasonal gods. She stared at the brilliant pigments the artist had applied. What had they used to create such colors?
She glanced to the far end of the room, where deep shadows pooled between enormous shelves stretching from floor to roof. Did the shelves contain more artwork, or perhaps painting supplies? Her irritation long forgotten, Saga strode deeper into the room, dreaming of new pigments; of new tools she might never have imagined—
The rasp of the door swinging shut made Saga jump in fright. But then her remembered anger rushed back, and she whirled with a glare.
“I do not enjoy surprises, you loaf-eater—” Saga blinked in confusion at the ruddy-faced man glaring back at her. “You’re not Kassandr.”
“No,” said the man in heavily accented Íseldurian. “I am not.”
