Sten shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t have any children of his own. Not that he and his wife Aslaug hadn’t tried. He still had plenty of time to sire offspring with one of his concubines. Even so, children had always made him uneasy.
“Raynar will be missed by all, brother. Surely.”
Ivar didn’t hear him. “They killed him, Sten. Like a dog. They ambushed him on a hunt and slew him in cold blood.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, his voice filling with emotion. “I know that I should be angry. I want to hate them, brother. But now, all I can feel is sorrow. I don’t...” He broke off, his deep voice cracking.
Sten bit his tongue. “The warbands have all been rallied. Everyone is preparing to march at your command. Our people need leadership, Ivar, now more than ever.”
“My people,” he repeated. “They should have been his people, Sten. Don’t you see? Now, they’re broken... denied of the man who would’ve been their ruler...”
Where was this weakness coming from? This wasn’t the brother Sten knew. Ivar Haig had been a bear among men, a bloodletter, a killer. He’d taken hundreds of sons away from fathers. His hands were red with the blood of slaughtered children. And yet he had the gall to weep over his own child? This... impotence made him want to spit.
“Brother,” he said firmly. “Now is not the time to mourn. Now is the time to be strong. The entire clanhold is waiting for your word to march on Jotungard. You publicly declared war, remember?”
“That was your idea, not mine.” Ivar looked back out at the great ravine, eyes glassy. “I felt the fury in that moment, when they brought him back home. It was like the old days, the rage of youth. Now... I feel nothing.”
“Nothing?” Sten practically shouted at him. “How can you feel nothing?”
Ivar didn’t reply. His cheeks were wet with newly fallen tears.
Sten cursed and threw his hands up in exasperation. “Gods damn you, brother. You’re going to destroy everything we worked to build. Our family’s legacy.”
“My family’s legacy lies in the Temple crypt,” he said softly. “I’ll have no other sons. The shamans said so. Raynar’s birth itself was a miracle.”
Sten wanted to punch him, but he refrained. Growling, he took a step forward. “Then I’ll take command of the attack while you stay behind with the sick and the elderly. I won’t stand by while you ruin our reputation. The Haigs will remain in power here. Gods bear witness, I’ll show them what it means to be a battleborn.”
Ivar remained silent. His gaze was distant, and Sten wasn’t even sure he’d heard what he said.
Furious, he turned to leave with blood pounding loudly in his ears. He would speak with the war leaders, then he would prepare to lead the warbands himself.
In the background, he could hear his brother whimpering like a damn child.
“He’s weak, you know. There’s nothing anyone can do to change that.” Aslaug lounged on their bed, her body stretched languorously among the blankets and furs.
Sten didn’t respond. He continued to pace, his expression set with a perpetual frown.
“It’s a shame, really,” she continued. “I remember when Ivar was a force to be reckoned with. Together, the two of you bent Norvaask to your will. It’s why I married you, actually. You were fearsome warriors. It was... attractive.”
Sten paused, arching an eyebrow at her. “Was?”
Aslaug offered a small, mischievous smile. “Is—in your case. Forgive me, husband. I misspoke.”
He grunted and went on pacing, his shoulders hunched in agitation.
The war leaders hadn’t questioned his leadership. They’d accepted his orders as coming from Ivar himself. The combined forces of Norvaask would march at first light and make haste across the Ice Barrens toward Jotungard. First blood would be spilled within the week.
He’d offered some excuses as to why Ivar wouldn’t be accompanying them on this campaign. The home front needed to be defended from raiders. Someone needed to govern the affairs of the clanhold while the battleborn were away. Who else could give the people an example of what they were fighting for? The truth, however, was that his brother—the strongest warrior in the clanhold—was a blubbering mess, a weakling. The death of his son had reduced him to an ineffectual wretch.
Sten needed to kill something, needed to bury his axe into the skull of an enemy. The last thing he wanted right now was to sit still.
“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Aslaug said after a few moments of prolonged silence.
Sten snorted. “Aside from the impending war?”
“War never worried you before,” she observed. “Your brother has you more riled than you care to admit.”
“And that surprises you?” The words came out in a snarl, biting. “My whole life I looked up to Ivar, fought beside him. Our blood and the blood of our men built this clanhold into what it is today. Now, he seems content to throw it all away!” He ripped a tapestry off the wall, tossing the expensive fabric aside. “The war leaders will not stand for weakness. Eventually, one of them will rise up to challenge our family. If we don’t show strength, then we won’t be able to fight off our rivals.”
His outburst shocked Aslaug, who sat up in the bed. Her brown hair fell in curls around her shoulders, her thin shift doing little to cover her nakedness. She wasn’t a young woman any longer, but she was still fierce and beautiful. Her inability to give him children left her with a body as supple as a woman half her age.
She regained her composure almost immediately. “If what you say is true, then you need to do something about it.”
“I am. I’ll be leading the battleborn personally.”
“Not that,” she replied, scooting forward. “Your brother. You need to act to ensure the Haigs retain their power.”
He scowled. “Isn’t that what I’m doing?”
“You’re merely delaying the inevitable. Every day Ivar remains Clan Lord, our position is weakened. Everybody’s talking about it. I hear it from all the highborn women. Your brother isn’t the man he used to be. The only way to make sure we aren’t overthrown is for you to take his place.” She gave him a meaningful look, her dark eyes glittering in the hearth light. “Sten, you need to kill Ivar.”
He crossed the distance between them in a flash, grabbing his wife by the throat with both hands. “What did you just say?”
She didn’t cry out, didn’t gasp or even wince as he gripped her neck. Aslaug was accustomed to her husband’s temper. She merely held his gaze, unblinking. “You need to kill your brother, Sten,” she said softly. “It’s the only way.”
He glowered at her for several long heartbeats. How dare she ask him to do this? His own brother. She didn’t know the pains they’d endured together, the things they’d had to do to get to the top. But that’s just it, he thought, the anger leaving him, Ivar doesn’t seem to remember those things either. The brother that I once knew is already dead...
Sten released her, taking a step back without apologizing. That wasn’t his way.
Aslaug straightened, her bearing proud despite the red marks on her throat. “You know I’m right,” she cooed, getting off the bed and slinking over to him. “You’re too great of a man to let power slip away. You should be the one ruling this clanhold, not your ailing brother. Once Jotungard is smashed and the war leaders are licking their wounds, you can turn Norvaask into the greatest clanhold on Njordrassil. You could be a god among men.”
Her words sent a shiver down his spine. He looked at his wife with new eyes, her slender form pressed against his body. He could feel it, a hunger deep within him—and not just for the comforts of the flesh.
The ruler of Norvaask. A god among men. Sten liked the sound of that. “You’re more cunning than anyone I know. I’m glad I never had to face you on the battlefield.”
“I’ll leave the bloodletting to you,” she replied with a wicked smile. “I’ll put my talents to use elsewhere.”
He kissed her, taking her in his arms and forgettin
g all about the bloody days that lay ahead.
Chapter 19
Revelations in Fire
“Fireborn shrouded themselves in a veil of religious mystery, claiming that their powers came from the gods themselves. This, of course, blinded the world to their abuses and excesses.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 5
Freya strode through the depths of the Temple, her mind preoccupied by thoughts of war.
Her boots scuffed quietly on the stones as she briskly made her way from one corridor to the next, wending through the bowels of the ancient structure on her way to the mortuary. Braziers lit the way at varying intervals, their glowing embers giving off a soft orange light, but even still, the long, windowless hallway felt oppressive, almost like a tomb. She hated coming down here, and the fact that she was alone made the lower levels feel more sinister.
For the first time in generations, all the warbands had assembled. Under the leadership of Sten Haig, the combined might of Norvaask was marching for retribution, a great host Hel-bent on overthrowing their longtime rivals.
Freya wasn’t certain how to feel about the impending conflict. On the one hand, a full-scale war would present plenty of opportunities for her to level up and improve her Reputation. On the other hand, it meant living out in the cold in the weeks before the Freeze with a very real possibility of serious injury or death.
Of course, she wasn’t a coward. She would fight alongside her fellow fireborn as she was commanded. But she didn’t relish the prospect of constant fighting during the coldest part of the year.
Freya rounded a corner, glancing around nervously to make sure she was alone. It wasn’t that she was afraid. She knew the stories Jarl had told her about the walking dead were lies. But she still didn’t like being so far beneath the Temple—under the training rooms and storage centers. It was said that the crypts went so deep that they touched the heart of Njordrassil, and who knew what foul things were lurking down there?
Her stomach twisted in knots when she thought about Jarl. She didn’t enjoy watching his punishment. When they were children, they’d been inseparable, playing with other youths in the Dregs and dreaming of bigger things. In recent years, Jarl had become a thorn in her side. His constant fighting and insistence that he could simply become a battleborn made him an embarrassment, one that threatened her own future. If things continued, she’d become a pariah. Her friends would ostracize her and the warbands would ignore her. Any chance of becoming an Aesir would be snuffed out like a dying candle.
She refused to let that happen.
Ahead, she could see a light emanating from a chamber at the end of the hall. This was her ultimate destination, the mortuary for the highborn and fireborn of Norvaask.
Because of her involvement in finding Raynar, Freya had been given the honor of performing the final rites on his corpse. A fireborn was always assigned to prepare a body for cremation, and this time, the duty fell to Freya. It would doubtless result in positive Reputation Points, but it meant that she would miss the initial assault. The warbands had already left the clanhold, and she was one of the few fireborn staying behind. She would miss out on treasure and, more importantly, Experience Points.
The situation still galled her, but what was she to do? It wasn’t like she could have rejected the Clan Lord’s invitation to help put his son to rest.
She approached the main antechamber, raising her chin to appear more commanding. Not that appearances mattered much here—it was mostly just out of habit.
Inside, two ancient men in dusty robes sat across from each other at a stone table, their liver-spotted hands crushing alchemical ingredients with a variety of different tools. Both resembled skeletons, with a thin layer of skin stretched over their bones, and both had their white hair pulled into dreadlocks, their beards long and unkempt. They were blind, Freya knew, their eyes having been willfully put out many years ago. The caretakers of the dead weren’t permitted to view the bodies of the men and women in the crypts.
Such, it was believed, would be an affront to the gods.
The rest of the room was sparely furnished, with only dark shelves lining the walls. These contained hundreds of jars of varying shapes and sizes. Some were filled with powders and liquids, others with ingredients like roots and dried moss. The rest were filled with body parts—hands, feet, heads, and the like. Although the caretakers couldn’t see, candles were lit all around the chamber, illuminating everything with a wavering light.
“Ah, Freya Beckström,” said the old man to the left. “We’ve been expecting you.” His voice was a dry rasp, a whispering wind in the dead of night. Both caretakers regarded her as if they had eyes in their deep, shadowed sockets. “How good of you to serve the honored dead. The gods will be pleased.”
“I’m here to do my duty, nothing more,” she replied coolly, trying to suppress the shiver that ran down her spine.
“We all serve the gods,” the other one said with a toothless smile. “Duty has little to do with it, I think.”
“Yes,” the first one hissed. “We’re all but pawns in a game beyond our comprehension. Choice is an illusion, a comforting lie. We all serve the gods... willingly, or not.”
They cackled, their laughter like nails across a slate.
“Where’s the body?” Freya asked impatiently. “I have many other important things to do, so I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible.” She didn’t have time to spare these creepy old men. War was upon them. The sooner she got out of this place, the better.
Together, the caretakers’ expressions went from amused to angry, their wrinkled faces shifting into masks of displeasure. “There’s nothing more important than caring for the dead!” The intensity with which the first man spoke left her startled, and for an instant she felt like fleeing back down the corridor.
“I... meant no offense,” she said, absently reaching for her flame spirits. “I only meant...”
“We know what you meant,” the second one replied indignantly. “Youngbloods are all the same. You don’t care about anyone but yourselves. There are traditions to uphold! We must see that our honored dead are taken care of so that their souls don’t haunt us for the rest of eternity.”
“The gods are always watching,” the other chided.
“My apologies,” she offered with feigned humility. “Forgive the shortcomings of my youth. My only wish is to serve the gods.”
The two caretakers conferred with one another, whispering in low voices so that Freya couldn’t overhear. After a moment, they both turned back to regard her. “The Aesir normally send more experienced fireborn to perform the final rites,” the first one said, his hooded brows overshadowing his empty eye sockets. “Have you been taught the proper methods?”
“Yes,” Freya answered without hesitation. “I’ve committed them all to memory. They weren’t very complicated.”
The second man sniffed. “Such arrogance. These rites are sacred, and should be performed by more than rote memorization.”
She straightened against the rebuke. “I’ve been given this honor for helping find the Clan Lord’s son.”
“We know,” the first caretaker responded. “Which is why we’re suffering this conversation in the first place.”
They stepped away from the table, one coming to stand before Freya and the other moving to the shelves, his hands feeling the different jars. Both men moved with surprising dexterity, especially considering their blindness.
“We are the Unseeing,” the caretaker in front of her explained. “We stand as listeners to ensure the proper words are spoken. What we cannot see with our eyes will be judged by the gods, but what we hear with our ears will serve as a testament that the dead have been properly honored. It has been this way since men first came to Njordrassil.”
The other caretaker selected a small clay pot from one of the shelves. He came to stand beside his companion, handing the container to Freya. “This incense protects the soul as it leaves this world. It cleanses t
he flesh of evil and prepares it for cremation. See that it’s spread over every inch of the body.”
Freya looked at the contents of the pot and saw tiny sprigs of fireweed. The plant was fragrant but also quite combustible, and was often used by fireborn to create more potent spells. She didn’t try to hide the wry smile that tugged at her lips. No doubt the only reason the incense was used was to ensure a more thorough burn when the body was cremated. Instead of mocking the superstitious caretakers, she responded with a contrite, “Of course.”
They nodded solemnly to themselves and said in unison, “This way.”
She followed them to the back of the antechamber, where a heavy curtain of woven fibers covered the entrance to another room. The temperature seemed to drop with every step she took, and she noticed a pungent odor that also grew stronger, masking the lingering scent of death and decay that permeated the mortuary.
When they passed through the curtain, she found herself in a wide, cave-like room. Stacks of bones lined the curving walls, some human and some not, along with crates overflowing with dusty bits of treasure. Several urns littered the floor, no doubt filled with the ashes of the recently burned, and soot-covered stalactites hung like blackened spears from the ceiling.
Raynar lay on a large stone slab in the center of the room, stripped completely naked and surrounded by candles. His eyes were covered with two iron coins, and his mouth was filled with a chunk of iron ore, preventing his mouth from being closed. His stomach bore a grisly wound from rib cage to groin—the deep gash that had no doubt killed him—but even with the lesion and the grayish pallor of his skin, Freya thought that he was handsome, with chiseled features and a fine physique.
A shame he was killed, she thought, looking over the dead man regretfully. I would have liked to meet him. Perhaps we could have been lovers, if circumstances had been different.
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