Eyvind’s jaw shifted, and he turned away, but only to fetch her prosthetic arm. As he handed it over, Hekla noted that his tunic, wet from holding her to him, now clung to him like a second skin. The fact that she noticed such details only made her anger burn higher.
“Iwilltrouble myself with your safety,” said Eyvind. “In fact, it is no trouble at all. It is instinct. It isneed,Hekla, much like breathing or sleeping—”
“Enough!” Hekla snapped, twisting her prosthesis back into place. Her skin prickled and her blood boiled, a thousand angry words building on her tongue. But as she met his hazel eyes, her anger deflated to hurt. She couldn’t bear to talk about all that had happened—not yet, and certainly nothere. But she had to make him understand. “Perhaps you should turn thisinstinctof yours toward your betrothed, Hakonsson.”
“If you’d let me explain—”
“Stop!” Panic surged to life in her chest, and Hekla backed away. “I need space, Eyvind. If you mean any of the words you’ve just spoken, you’ll respect my wishes.”
“Hekla.” There was weight to her name. Meaning in each syllable.
But Hekla couldn’t endure the ache of it.
Turning her back on Eyvind Hakonsson, she retreated toward camp. And if Hekla was glad to hear his near-silent steps trailing her, she would never tell a soul.
Chapter 26
Sunnavík, Íseldur
Jonas’s breath clouded in the stagnant air of Askaborg’s pits as he massaged the pain from his thigh. Around him, warriors sparred under Volund’s watchful eye, but as the war chief’s gaze fell Jonas’s way, he quickly straightened. Since he’d climbed from Askaborg’s dungeons to its barracks, the pain in his leg had subsided some. Still, last night he’d dreamed of an axe being driven into his thigh and had woken to an explosion of pain from his frostbitten limb.
Jonas squared off against his partner, a barrel-chested beast of a man. Based on the tattooed claw marks and the man’s impressive stature, he seemed to be ex-Klaernar. Jonas tried not to think what the man might have done to be expelled from the King’s Claws.
Jonas watched as his opponent’s gaze fell on his wounded thigh and cursed inwardly. He knew better than to show any weakness—particularly among warriors like these. Volund clapped his hands, barking out orders, and Jonas launched at his opponent before he could target his weak leg.
“What’s a pretty boy like you doing here?” grunted the man as he parried a blow.
Jonas drove forward with speed and vigor, pushing through the pain radiating up his thigh. It was the dozenth time he’d been asked since he’d found himself in Volund’s warband. While having ahandsome face had its perks in the regular world, here among the Corpse Bringers, it only put a target on Jonas’s back.
At the end of each training day, Volund pitted warriors against one another in no-holds-barred matches. Unlike during practice, their weapons were not wrapped, and the matches continued until the loser could no longer stand. The first day, Volund had immediately found Jonas, with an ugly, malevolent smile. “Pair the pretty boy with Horfi,” he’d told his underlings.
An enormous, black-bearded brute was soon standing opposite him, clutching twin handaxes. But Horfi, like Volund, made the mistake of judging Jonas based on his looks. It was nothing new to him—Jonas was used to having to use his fists to demand respect. ThisHorfiwas no different. True, Jonas took a few blows and a slash to the forearm. But by the end of the match, he held both of Horfi’s handaxes, and his boot rested on the lout’s rib cage.
Forcing his mind to the present, Jonas found an opening and swept his opponent’s feet out from under him. The warrior landed hard on his back, and Jonas retreated to allow him to regain his bearings. He gazed around the stone-hewn arena where King Ivar had once pitted his pet bears against Volsik supporters.
The men of the Corpse Bringers were nothing like his brothers and sisters of the Bloodaxe Crew. Their code of honor was more fluid, ever-changing like the weather. Jonas had learned that the bulk of these men were discharged from King Ivar’s warbands or plucked from prison cells. A select few had joined voluntarily, seeking a warrior’s purse.
And curiously, the creatures Jonas had fought in his initiation battle trained alongside them as well. Draugur, he’d learned they were called, and though the sight and smell of them repulsed Jonas, he could not help but watch in curiosity. Strange robed acolytes carved marks on the creatures’ foreheads each morning before calling out various commands and scoring the draugurs on their ability to obey.
Volund proclaimed they readied for war; that while the king fought in Zagadka, it fell upon them to keep peace in the realm ofÍseldur. But as Jonas looked at the murderers and rapists plucked from prison cells—at the mad-eyed berserkers too violent for even Ivar’s warbands—he did not trust Volund’s words one bit. There was more to this crew, of that he was certain.
The bars on his windows and guards at each garrison hall exit as good as confirmed his suspicion that the only way out of this warband was on the corpse cart. Still, Jonas always kept a watchful eye, searching for any opportunity. At the first chance, he planned to escape and regroup. There would be other ways to avenge his brother without the queen’s help.
“Line up to greet our queen!” bellowed Volund in a bizarre moment of coincidental timing.
Anger churned in Jonas’s gut.Not my queen,he wanted to sneer. But he knew better than to say such things aloud.
Instead, he joined the other warriors in formation. A moment later, an entourage of warriors strode into the pits, clad in the queen’s livery. And there, in the middle of them, was the queen’s slight figure. The queen and her guards crossed the floor of the pits, then climbed the steps between spectator benches to the royal dais. Jonas glared at the queen’s back. Though still clad in mourning black, today she’d forgone the veil. As she settled into a seat of honor, Jonas caught his first glimpse of Queen Signe’s face. She was younger than he’d expected—likely less than ten years his senior.
An elbow landed in his ribs. “I’d have a crack at her,” muttered his sparring partner with a leering grin.
Jonas sent a scowl the man’s way. “I’d like to see you try to get within ten paces of her.”
But as he stared back at Signe, he was struck by her beauty. Along with her white-gold hair and glacial blue eyes, she had skin as pale as moonlight. She was utterly out of place among the Corpse Bringers, and he wondered what business a queen had in a place like this.
It was the fierceness in the queen’s eyes that Jonas found most striking of all. Even from across the arena, he could tell she was no docile creature—this was a woman of ambition. Yet he could notforget that she’d refused to hear him. How she’d thrown him into this pit of vipers.
Jonas turned his attention back to Volund, who barked orders for the warband to break off into pairs. Again, he faced off with his large opponent, and they raised their wrapped blades. And a moment later, Jonas surged at the warrior as though he were the curly-haired woman who’d ruined his life.
