“I’m your inheritance,” I say with a forced smile, intending to make him uncomfortable. I have to admit, the man is attractive, but also disconnected from reality. He is talking to his father’s property. I couldn’t tell him to fuck off if I wanted.
“I would accept you over any blade, or farm, or gold,” he says, leaning one arm on the table. His face comes nearer to mine.
“Flirting with the merchandise?” I say with a grin, trying to save face.
“You wish,” he replies, lifting himself and walking backward with a smile. “If I were flirting, you would be naked in my arms.”
“Yet here I am, chopping carrots in my dress.”
I sigh without raising my eyes. Banter is always fun, but banter about my status as thrall—slightly less so. Seconds of silence pass without Vidar moving. Have I taken it too far?
“I wouldn’t want Ausveig to be jealous,” he says.
Ausveig snorts. Vidar walks off. I don’t shout anything after him.
“Been cocky since he was a boy, that one,” she says, turning to me with a grin. “Body like Thor though. Had I been your age, I might have considered it.”
We both laugh, exchanging sly looks.
We’re getting closer. I have a friend. A real friend. Cutting my hundredth carrot of the morning, I watch Vidar’s broad shoulders shrink with every step he takes. He can just go where he wants.
Vidar gets the last word. Kilda bites her tongue. He is the jarl’s son. I am a slave girl.
CHAPTER 14
Agood beating, that’s what these furs need. Clouds of dust fly through the air as I whack at a sheepskin with all my might. Sweat beads at my temples. My wrists thrum from the impact, a pleasant sting traveling up my elbow. I am Thor, beating a Jotnar with my mighty hammer. Flee, cowards!
Here I am, performing a domestic task, alone, yet I laugh. It’s strange how, even if enslaved, I feel at home. It’s embarrassing. My plans of escape have already been washed away. The road, my people, our next destination—that had been my home. I was a free woman. Free to swim in the river. Free to ride a borrowed horse. Free to marry whoever I pleased. I had honor. Can I really be content being a man’s property?
I suppress a sneeze, not wanting to inhale the dust cloud hovering around me. Every menial task I perform, every conversation with fellow thralls, every meal I eat—I am part ofsomething grander. If anything, I’m more honest. I don’t lie. Or I lie less, at least.
Take this, troll! I smash my stick into the unsuspecting pelt with all my strength. A nasty troll? Why, it must be Ari! So you like peeking up my skirts, do you? You like coming up with silly poems to humiliate me? Bend over, if you please.
I grab the stick with two hands, pulling it up behind my neck before crashing it into Ari’s imaginary ass. He would probably like it, the bastard. I giggle at my madness—but the action makes me inhale heaps of dust. Running away from the cloud of debris, I seek cover behind the nearest house. A tremendous sneeze escapes me, then another, my voice echoing over the valley.
An old one-eyed man laughs across the walkway.
“You have strong lungs!” he shouts, his scar pulling as he smiles.
“You should hear me when I’m angry!” I shout back with a wave.
We grin at each other as I turn back to punishing the rotten apple of my eye—Ari the Skald. But something catches my attention. On the corner of the house, right under the roof. A carving in the wood. The hairs on my neck rise like a startled cat’s.
It’s probably a proclamation of love, or perhaps a depiction of genitalia. Male genitalia, probably—knowing men’s obsession with their own members.
But no, it isn’t. It’s some very specific runes. Thurisaz. Again. I can’t believe my eyes as I read the hastily inscribed mess. It’s done without skill, but I can tell what is written. The wood has recently been cut into. The carving seems untouched by rain, sun, wind—untouched by time.
Awaken, Giant.
My fists clench. Giants, Jotnar, the monsters beyond the veil. Trolls. Enemies of the Aesir. In the stories, some are titanicbeasts of violence, others are elegant and attractive humanoids. Many Aesir have Jotnar ancestry, but have managed to raise their status, ascending to Asgard.
Under normal circumstances, it could be some young fool trying to impress his friends with scary words. Together with the jarl’s hammer, it’s just too big a coincidence. It’s a curse, again. The hammer was gifted long ago, but this, this has been carved recently. A week at most. Who lives in this house?
A slippery tendril spreads from my stomach to my chest. I have to tell them. They need to know. Someone is cursing the farm. What if they blame me? Ridiculous—I can’t even reach that high. I need to share it with someone.
The jarl is busy, today like any other day. Rushing to his hall will only get me turned away. Punished, even. The jarl opens his doors in the evening. That will be the time to approach.
Who is placing a curse of thorns on this place? They must truly have an issue with the folk here. Hate them. Hate us. My own thought surprises me. Us? These people have taken away my rights, my lawful protections. Yet I expect protection from a law I don’t respect?
