Rolf, Isabel, and the Pike Hold soldiers scramble to prepare themselves for attack. Aura ceases her cutting just before she can free herself, choosing to sit on the axe, concealing the blade from the warriors so she can use it against them.
She peers over the stern to see the longship bearing the Wicked Wyvern helm coated in jagged ice spikes.
So it is Calder.
Mist from the cold mingles with the summer air, trailing behind and giving the illusion that it is gliding across the water.
“How the shit has he caught up to us?” Rolf bellows in the face of the steersman.
“His ship is smaller, sleeker, my Lord.” A soldier points toward theWicked Wyvern.
She can barely see the contents of the hull, but it does appear empty.
“He coated the entire ship inseidrice.” Isabel appears genuinely impressed.
“I want every damn warrior prepared to fight!” Rolf stomps back to the bow, digging around in a pack and withdrawing a mace and a shield.
“You seem nervous, Jarl Rolf.” Aura feels a thrill in her gut at the terror evident on every face aboard.
He twists his head to glare at her. “You should be nervous, too, Princess. If you’ll recall, the man pursuing us has little issue murdering friend or foe.” He nods toward the other end of the ship, where the wyvern's head is nearly upon them.
He has never harmed me. Why would he now?
A whoosh and thud cut through the air. The Steersman drops to the hull—a small throwing knife quivers in the center of his forehead.
As two more Pike Hold soldiers drop to the deck, chills glide up the back of her neck.
She crawls across the floorboards, careful to avoid the soldiers' legs as she examines the blade embedded in the Steerman’s head. Etched into the wooden handle is a tiny rune.
Thora? It can’t be.
TheWicked Wyvernsails onto the ice, crashing into their ship. Two figures dart away and ascend into the other equally manned, frozen vessels.
Rolf brought an entire battalion of his Hold’s warriors.
Ear-splitting screams and the clashing of weapons fill the eerie silence of the night.
The ship rocks against the ice as a larger-than-life figure descends upon them. Her heart pounds as Jarl Calder Avardsson’s boots thud upon the deck. In one hand, he clutches his massive great axe, Freyja, as spiked ice crystallizes across the steel.
One brave, albeit dim-witted, soldier attacks, only for Calder to cleave his head in half with one swing.
“Jarl Rolf!” He bellows through the frigid air, now so cold that everyone aboard convulses violently. “You have taken something that belongs to me.”
As their ship falls silent in response to his words, she hears the screams and splashes coming from the other two vessels.
“Guard the Princess,” Rolf instructs Isabel, whose narrowed gaze fixates unblinkingly on Calder.
Aura manages to free herself of her bindings. Beneath her hands, the axe handle slides into her grasp.
Rolf meets Calder in the middle of the ship with his arms outstretched. “You came to Treland for the same reason I did.” He cocks his head with a smirk. “Everyone knows the real villain of Skalor.”
The boards beneath the Iss Drengr’s boots freeze, spreading like tendrils along the decking. “I came here to defend the Princess from the likes of you.” He growls, towering over Rolf.
The ship sways as two figures climb over the side to flank Calder.
Aura’s mouth falls open. If someone were to join Calder in a rescue, she would expect her father, Uncle Grim, and possibly even her mother. All were far more understandable than Thora and Edmund.
She leaps to her feet, brandishing the axe she now realizes is the mate to her father’s blackwood-handled dual axes, which she took from the carriage.
