The four of them represent his family, whom he would die to protect.
“You assess the situation, Calder, and then you return home to Salt. No need to linger in that godsforsaken place.”
Sigvid stops abruptly. “You truly think Calder is stuck? No. I asked him to identify the Draemonium threat and return home. Instead, he reunited with his mother, who happens to be the Queen, murdered the previous Jarl of Kaldrgataness at the behest of his mother, married some harlot from her court, and now has a child.”
Avina gapes.
“He may have denied accepting his right as Prince in this godsforsaken realm, but, my little Queen, he has chosen this snowy Abyss.”
Unsurprisingly, Avina is correct about Salt’s original settlers. TheKaldrgataness longhouse resembles the one in his home province of Salt, featuring long wooden tables filled with melted candles, steaming platters of food, and pitchers of fresh water from the glacial runoff.
Mostly the same, except for the musician playing a lute in the corner and half-naked women serving drinks to the men who are feasting and celebrating a recent successful hunt.
A vast throne, roughly carved and cushioned with furs, dominates a dais at the far end of the room with a vaulted ceiling.
Jarl Calder Avardsson sits with one leg draped over the arm of the chair. Cropped close to his skill is his dark mahogany hair that matches his thick beard. Those calculating eyes, colder than ice, are fixed on the woman in his lap. Her frayed bodice rests at her waist, exposing her bare tits.
“Oh, my goddess,” Avina mutters as they halt before the platform.
“Lord Commander!” the Jarl of Kaldrgataness slurs, raising a pewter flagon in greeting before chugging his drink and spilling its contents onto his beard, eliciting a collective laugh from those around.
Avina’s sweet decorum forces her and Bjorn to bow out of respect. Instead, Sigvid stands still like a statue, his thick, inked arms crossed over his chest. His eyes narrow at the grotesque display of a man who should fucking know better.
“G’day, my lady,” Avina nods at the woman nestled in his lap, mistakenly believing she is his wife.
Oh, little one, you now only know possession from a real man. Have you forgotten the depravity of most other despicable cock toting fools?
If this were any other scenario, he would have laughed at her rare folly, but this is so vastly beyond Calder’s character that he expects someone to emerge announcing the joke.
“She is a harlot, not his wife.” He whispers in Avina’s ear, stroking her back.
The Jarl wipes off his beard, flinging ale at their feet. “Let us speak privately.” He sways slightly, pulling his leg off the arm and nearly dumping the woman onto the ground.
“Leave us.” He commands the whore, who shoves away.
He guides them out of the main room and down a corridor toward the Jarl’s private chambers. “I’ll have someone show you to your lodgings.”
“We appreciate your hospitality, Jarl Calder.” Avina offers with a polite smile, even while Sigvid peers around at the dirty floors and discarded bottles with disgust.
Calder tosses open a set of double doors into an expansive chamber with an enormous bed with disheveled sheets, a wooden desk, shelves in disarray, and a chest that sits open with clothes sprawled about as if he cannot decide whether to stay or leave.
How has his personality pivoted so fucking hard?
“Skalor fits you quite differently than Treland,” Avina gently says as he sits on the edge of the bed. Her tone is eerily similar to how she speaks to their children when they make mistakes.
Calder grunts in response. “I have grown much from the boy who lived in Treland, my Queen.”
She purses her luscious lips together into a thin line.
“My little Queen,” Sigvid leans against the desk. “Find Gunni, have him show you and Bjorn to our lodgings, and I shall join you shortly.”
She nods, understanding his unspoken need to speak with his Drengr alone. Sigvid watches Avina until she is out of sight, then shuts the door. He stands across from Calder and cracks his neck.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing? Your longhouse is a godsdamn mess. You have people drunk in the fucking street. Look at yourself. Mildly intoxicated and sitting on your throne. Have I taught you nothing of moderation?” His tone rose, but he could give a fuck.
Yes, Sigvid was hardly the model for self-control, but ever since capturing his little Queen, she has motivated him to be a better man.
Not every fucking day.
