The Fury of the Gods

Book 3: The Bloodsworn Trilogy

by John Gwynne

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Sword & Sorcery; Dragons & Mythical Creatures

Synopsis

The Fury of the Gods is the earth-shattering final book in John Gwynne's bestselling Norse-inspired epic fantasy series, packed with myth, magic and bloody vengeance.

The final battle for the fate of Vigrid approaches...

Varg has overcome the trials of his past and become an accepted member of the Bloodsworn, but now he and his newfound comrades face their biggest challenge yet: slaying a dragon.  

Elvar is struggling to consolidate her power in Snakavik, where she faces threats from without and within. As she fights to assert her authority in readiness for the coming conflict, she faces a surely insurmountable task: reigning in the ferocity of a wolf god. 

As Biorr and his warband make their way north, eager for blood, Gudvarr pursues a mission of his own, hoping to win Lik-Rifa’s favour and further his own ambitions.
  
All paths lead to Snakavik, where the lines are being drawn for the final battle - a titanic clash that will shake the foundations of the world, and bear witness to the true fury of the gods.  

Release date: October 22, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 512

Sample

“Ach,” Varg hissed as Røkia pierced a flap of skin hanging from his cheek with a fishhook, then stabbed into the flesh of his face and drew a line of thread through it. He felt fresh blood trickle down into his beard. “Ach,” he grunted again.

“Stop complaining,” Røkia muttered as she began stitching his cheek back together.

“I’m not, but it hurts,” Varg said.

“Pain is an enemy. Defeat it,” Røkia muttered.

Varg sighed.

A face loomed in front of him: Svik, handsome, braided beard and oiled red hair. Not looking at all like he had fought a vicious battle the day before. Svik frowned at him.

“First your ear, now your cheek. If you keep allowing people to carve pieces from your body soon there will be nothing left of you,” he said.

“I didn’t allow it,” Varg scowled, causing Røkia’s stitching to pull. He winced. She is better at stabbing than stitching.

Røkia sat back and threw her hands in the air. “This is ridiculous,” she said.

“First Røkia saves your life, and now she stitches you back together. What would you do without her?” Svik continued, ignoring Røkia.

“I am in her debt,” Varg agreed. Although I gained this wound because I climbed the fortress wall and leaped into a score of enemies to save Røkia. But it turned out that it was she who saved me.

“Your mail needs cleaning,” Svik observed, pointing at bloodstains. “The blood will rust it.”

Varg looked down at it, saw dark patches where blood had crusted. Even his silver arm ring given to him by Glornir was caked with blood.

“I’ve told him that,” Røkia said.

“You should listen to Røkia,” Svik said with a smile.

“I do.” Varg said. “I will. Clean the mail, I mean.”

“Do you want me to continue stitching your face back together, or is the pain too great for you?” Røkia asked mockingly.

Svik laughed.

Varg sucked in a deep breath. “Please, continue,” he said.

Røkia grunted and went back to her stitching.

They were seated on a bench in the courtyard of Valdai, Prince Jaromir’s fortress in Iskidan, a cloudless sky and searing sun overhead, carrion birds circling. The courtyard was stained with patches of blood, corpses piled in a heap to one side of the shattered gates. A tangle of arms, legs, faces, pale in death. Black crusted wounds like open mouths. Jaromir’s druzhina, all stripped of their weapons and mail, boots and breeks, anything worth taking. Buzzards perched on limbs, their beaks red. Beyond the mound of the dead lay a line of freshly piled stone barrows running along one wall, fifteen of the Bloodsworn fallen in battle yesterday. Varg had helped dig those graves, had shed tears as stones had been piled over his comrades-in-arms. Edel still stood there, looking down at the graves. She had buried one of her hounds with the fallen, her surviving hound lying across the stones. The old huntress was weeping. Varg looked away, his gaze coming to rest upon the largest of the barrows, where Ingmar Ice had been laid. Killed by the blade of Jaromir.

“I only knew him a short while,” Varg murmured to himself. “It feels… longer.” Like family. Until now the only family I’ve ever known is my sister. His hand strayed to the pouch at his belt, where he kept a lock of Frøya’s hair.

“When you stand in the shield wall together the bonds of kinship grow strong,” Svik said, resting a hand on Varg’s shoulder.

“The more you talk, the worse your scar will be,” Røkia murmured, focused on her handiwork.

“Scars make you handsome,” Svik said. “And irresistible to women.”

Røkia snorted her contempt, making Svik grin.

Members of the Bloodsworn were sitting around the courtyard, most of them tending to wounds or to damaged kit, either repairing rents in their flesh or rents in their coats of mail, sewing, stitching, darning, greasing. Some stood on the walls and towers, standing watch.

Glornir and Vol stepped out of the doors of the feast hall, Glornir’s long-axe balanced across one shoulder, his other hand protectively on the Seiðr-witch’s arm, supporting her as she walked. Though, after having seen what she’d done to Jaromir with her powers, Varg suspected she was fully able to look after herself.

Sulich walked with them, head freshly shaved, dressed in the coat of lamellar plate that Varg had given to him, a bow case and quiver hanging from his belt. Behind him followed more than a score of people, men and women, a mixture of pale and dark-skinned. The prisoners that had been discovered in the rooms behind the feast hall.

“Are they really all Tainted children of the Great Khagan?” Varg asked.

“That is what Sulich said, and he would know, as he is one of them,” Svik said.

Vol looked around the courtyard and saw Varg sitting with Røkia and Svik. She said something to Glornir, and they made their way towards them.

“Finished,” Røkia said, sitting back and examining her handiwork with narrowed eyes. She tied off the gut thread and cut it with her seax. Varg gently touched the wound, the skin feeling swollen and lumpy.

“My thanks,” he said.

“Huh,” Røkia grunted.

Glornir nodded a greeting, his bulk casting Varg in shade.

“Chief,” the three of them said.

“Vol,” Svik said, “it is good to have you back.”

Vol was thin, her face bruised, the Seiðr-tattoos on her neck blending and almost hidden by the bruising. There were red pinprick-wounds around her mouth where her lips had been stitched together. But strength emanated from her dark eyes.

“It is good to be back, Svik, good to see you, and all my brothers and sisters,” she said through swollen lips, then looked to Varg. “Glornir tells me you have grown. That you are truly one of us now. I have not forgotten that I made you a promise, back in the caves of Rotta’s chamber. I owe you an akáll.”

“Are you strong enough?” Glornir asked.

“Tsk, I managed to eviscerate Jaromir, did I not?” Vol said.

“Aye, you did,” Glornir said, a hint of pride in his voice, a rare smile twitching his lips.

Vol reached out and touched Varg’s shoulder. “Is it still something you wish for? To view an akáll is no small thing. It may reveal things that are best left… unseen.”

Varg’s breath caught in his chest. To find out how his sister had died. It had been all that had driven him for so long. I will see Frøya’s last moments. He had longed for this, but as he thought on it he felt a seed of dread bloom in his stomach. It was one thing to know someone was dead, another thing entirely to watch it happen, even if it was a glimpse of the past.

She is my sister. The only person I ever loved, or who ever loved me. I owe it to her.

“I must know,” he said. “But only when you are healed.”

Vol nodded, smiled. “I am well enough. Tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” Varg echoed.

“Your mail needs scouring,” Glornir grunted at Varg, frowning at the bloodstained patches. “Else it will rust.”

“We’ve told him,” Sulich said.

“I will do it soon,” Varg promised.

Vol reached down and put her hand to a blackened iron ring hanging at her belt, two keys hanging from it.

“Where are they?”

“In the tower,” Glornir said, waving a hand to one of the gate towers. Two of the Bloodsworn stood before the tower door.

Vol began walking to the tower, Glornir a step behind her.

“Come on,” Svik said as he set off after them. Røkia shared a look with Varg, shrugged and they both followed them.

“Chief,” the guards said, Glornir nodding, and they opened the door for him. He paused a moment, looking back at Vol.

“You are sure about this?” Glornir said to her.

“Yes,” Vol said. “They were thralled to Jaromir, compelled by him. I travelled with them; they were not his willing servants, they are not our enemy.” She stroked his cheek. “Trust me.”

Glornir entered the tower, Vol behind, and Svik a few paces behind her. Varg quickened his pace to slip in through the door before other Bloodsworn crowded it.

A shaft of daylight from a high window pierced the room, and Varg blinked, allowed the wolf in his blood to filter through him, sight and senses abruptly sharper. The air reeked of blood and sweat.

They were in a square chamber, a staircase at one end leading up to the walkway on the wall. More Bloodsworn sat on chairs, playing a game of knucklebone. Two figures sat inside a pen in the middle of the room, a shaven-haired woman lying on a bed of straw, and a black-skinned, hulking man sitting close to her, frowning at Vol and Glornir. Both were bound with rope, thrall-collars about their necks.

“Leave Iva alone,” the bull-man said, his voice a rumble like distant thunder. Blood-caked bandages wrapped his neck and head, from where Ingmar Ice had stabbed and clubbed him with a broken spear shaft. It had taken the combined effort of Ingmar, Røkia, Svik and him to knock the Tainted thrall out. Varg had never seen a strength like it.

“Taras,” Vol said gently, stepping forwards, “I have come to help Iva.” She paused. “And you, too, if you will allow me.”

“Help?” Taras frowned. “Help Iva, not hurt her?” He looked worriedly at the woman lying on the straw. Her head was shaved to stubble, her tunic removed, bandages wrapped around her back and chest. Tattoos curled and writhed across her arms, her torso and up her neck, along her jawline. She was pale, a sheen of sweat covering her, red blooms on the bandages where she had been pierced by Sulich’s arrows. Taras laid a thick-muscled arm protectively across her and squeezed her hand.

“What?” Iva muttered, her eyes opening. She lifted her head, looked up at Vol and Glornir.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice a rattling whisper.

“A fight,” Taras said.

“I have worked that out for myself,” Iva grimaced. She tried to sit up and winced.

“We lost,” Taras said morosely.

“I have guessed that, as well.”

“Jaromir is dead, with all his druzhina,” Vol said. “Valdai is ours now.”

“Jaromir dead?” Taras rumbled. Slowly a smile spread across his face.

“You should leave,” Iva said. “Before Rurik arrives.”

“Rurik?” Varg whispered to Svik.

“Jaromir’s brother. By all accounts another arseling,” Svik whispered back.

“I found these on Jaromir’s corpse,” Vol said, and held up the iron ring with two keys. “The keys to your collars.” She crouched down and put one of them into the lock of Iva’s thrall-collar, turned it and pulled the collar away. Then she did the same for Taras. She nodded to the ropes binding them and Glornir drew his seax and gave it to Vol. Taras tensed.

“Trust me,” Vol said.

“That is no easy task,” Iva breathed, but she laid a hand on Taras’ arm, and he nodded.

Vol leaned over and sliced their bonds, then stood.

“You are both free now.”

“Free?” Taras said slowly, the word rolling from his tongue as if he was tasting unknown food. He frowned. “What do we do, Iva?” he asked the Seiðr-witch.

“I… don’t know,” Iva said. “I have never been free, before.”

“You should stay here and recover, until you are able to travel,” Vol said. “There is food and water. Once you are well, go where you wish. I only ask one thing: that you never stand against us again.”

“You have my word on that,” Iva said, a hand going to her wounds.

“No more fight you. Taras promise,” the bull-man said.

“Good,” Vol said.

“We will bring you food and drink. But Iva, Taras, know that you do not have to stay in here. You are not our prisoners.”

“Taras stay with Iva,” Taras said.

“I would like to see the sun and feel the air,” Iva said.

Taras effortlessly scooped Iva up in his arms as Vol turned and left the tower, Glornir and the other Bloodsworn following her.

They stepped out into the sun, Taras following with Iva in his arms. She squinted up at the sky and smiled.

“Free,” she breathed. Then she focused on something high above them, a frown creasing her face.

“Ware the skies,” one of the guards on the wall called out and they all looked up.

Varg saw two shapes in the sky, circling high above and growing larger as they descended. From this distance they seemed small, but then Varg saw the silhouettes of the circling buzzards in the sky and realised that something was wrong. These birds were bigger. Much bigger.

Sulich pulled his bow from his bow case and deftly strung it, nocked an arrow and drew.

“Hold,” Glornir growled.

The two birds swept lower, the closer they came the more apparent it was that they were far from normal birds. Varg realised they were two giant ravens, squawking loudly. Dust stirred from the turbulence of their wings.

Varg became aware that there were recognisable words amidst their squawking.

“Bloodsworn,” the crows squawked. “We seek the Bloodsworn.”

Glornir cupped his hands to his mouth.

“We are the Bloodsworn,” he called out.

The two giant ravens swept lower, clouds of dust swirling, Varg and the others stepping hurriedly out of the way, and then the birds were alighting in the courtyard. One squawked and began preening its feathers.

“Glornir,” the other raven croaked.

Glornir stepped forwards.

“I am Glornir,” he said.

A tennúr jumped from the back of the raven, its wings snapping open to break its fall, alighting weightlessly on the ground. A bag hung from a belt at its waist and Varg recognised the creature. From the Grimholt, Orka’s companion.

“I am Vesli,” the creature said. “I have travelled long time to find you. I bring a message from mistress Orka.”

Glornir waited and a silence fell. “We have searched very far for you. Vesli is cold, tired and…” The tennúr seemed distracted by the pile of corpses. She licked her lips. “… hungry.”

Varg winced.

“Well, what is Orka’s message?” Glornir said into the silence.

“Oh, ah, yes,” the tennúr said tearing her eyes away from the bodies. “Mistress Orka says Elvar Fire-Fist of the Battle-Grim wishes to hire the Bloodsworn.”

“What for?” Svik called out.

The tennúr gave a sharp-toothed grin.

“To slay a dragon.”

Guðvarr woke with a sharp hiss, half sitting up from his bedroll on the ground. He had been dreaming, of battling dragons and eagles, of the gaping jaws of an Úlfhéðnar snapping at his throat and of creatures burrowing into his flesh. He dragged up the sleeve of the ringmail coat he had slept in and the woollen tunic beneath it and saw the scabbed scar on his arm, where the hyrndur had burrowed into his flesh upon the word of Skalk, Queen Helka’s Galdurman, and where it had burrowed back out, commanded by the will of a god. The scab was starting to peel off, and there was no pain other than the horror that the memory stirred in his chest.

I’m safe now, he reassured himself, taking a few breaths to calm his racing heart, I have the protection of Lik-Rifa and not even the Gods themselves can challenge her successfully. He remembered Skalk giving life to the eagle bones of Orna and the frenzied battle above the skies when the two Gods had met in battle. It had been a day of betrayal and battle, of blood and ash. Of gods and monsters. Orna was nothing but bones again now. Skalk was gone, Helka dead and a dragon-god owned his fealty.

He was in the longhouse his aunt, Jarl Sigrún, had been given upon her arrival in Darl. The fire pit in the centre of the hall was being lit by thralls, light and shadow rippling across the room. Daylight seeped in from an open doorway, the silhouette and shadow of a drengr standing guard before it. All around him drengrs were rising.

For a moment it felt like he was back in Fellur village, his home, where all was simple, and safe.

I wish I were back there.

With a deep sigh he reached for his weapons belt and rose sluggishly, body aching and stiff, and buckled his belt over his brynja.

A door creaked and Jarl Sigrún emerged from her chamber, set apart at the far end of the longhouse. She saw Guðvarr and beckoned him over to her.

“We are on a knife-edge,” she said as he reached her. “We have been useful; you did much to aid Lik-Rifa yesterday. We must remind her of that.”

“But carefully,” Guðvarr said, wiping a bead of snot from the tip of his nose. “She is proud and unpredictable, prone to… violent outbursts.”

“Yes, carefully,” Sigrún agreed. “But it is vital that we continue to be useful, you know her better – what will convince her?”

I am becoming a master of being useful, Guðvarr thought. First, I had to remain useful to Skalk the Galdurman to stay alive, now I must do the same to a dragon-god.

“She likes flattery,” Guðvarr said, remembering how he had grovelled and pleaded for his life, and how he had seen her pleasure in the compliments he vomited from his mouth in an attempt to live a few moments more.

“Drengrs of Fellur village,” Jarl Sigrún said, raising her voice for all in the hall to hear her, little more than thirty warriors left after yesterday’s battle. “The world has changed. Gods walk the land and soar in the skies, and we must adapt if we are going to survive. You have sworn your oaths to me, trusted me. Trust in me now, and I shall lead you through this.” She gave a rueful smile, the scar in her face twisting it into something less wholesome. “Perhaps we shall even come out of this better placed than if we fought for Helka against Jarl Störr. Time will be the judge.”

The drengr on guard duty at the longhouse door, a young warrior named Járn, stepped into the hall.

“People approach,” he called out nervously. “And… other things…”

“Make ready,” Jarl Sigrún said to Guðvarr and her drengrs and they buckled on weapons and drew closer around her.

The drengr at the door stepped away and figures crowded through, a shadow blocking out the daylight.

As they stepped into the firelight Guðvarr saw there was a man and woman leading, both dark-haired and clothed in good brynjas with swords and seaxes at their belts, the man carrying a spear. Behind them loped a handful of skraeling, their limbs too long for their grey-skinned bodies, muscles knotted like rope, crude weapons of iron in their fists or hanging from belts. A handful of tennúr flitted in the air behind them. One of them flew over to Guðvarr and hovered in front of him. It smiled, revealing two rows of grindstone teeth.

Filthy little vermin, Guðvarr thought as he looked at its rat-like body and too large mouth.

“Well met,” Sigrún said, stepping forward. “I am Jarl Sigrún.”

“I know who you are,” the woman in black said. One of her eyes was blue, the other pale as clouded milk. She looked Sigrún up and down.

“And you are?”

“I am called Blóta,” she said. “I am dragon-born. You are to come to the courtyard.”

“What is happening in the courtyard?” Sigrún asked.

“Lik-Rifa has summoned all who fought yesterday. What she wants to do…” Blóta shrugged. “Who knows the mind of a god.” She turned and walked away.

His aunt exchanged a look with Guðvarr and he shrugged. Who knew what Lik-Rifa intended – she was as likely to eat them as reward them.

“With me,” Jarl Sigrún said, striding after the warrior and her drengrs fell in behind her, Guðvarr hurrying to remain at her side.

They left the longhouse, Guðvarr pausing a moment when he saw the troll standing outside, waiting for the dragon-born. He was huge, gnarled and thick-skinned like an old oak, a wooden club studded with nails in his sledge-hammer hands. With a scowl and a grunt he turned and followed the two dragon-born warriors.

They walked down a street of hard-packed earth that led between rows of longhouses and smithies, joining a procession of people flowing towards the hall of the former Queen Helka: a building once crowned by Orna’s bones had dominated this hill that the fortress was built upon. The road spilled into the courtyard and Guðvarr looked around the ruin of the courtyard and remains of the hall as he walked through it. Bodies and debris had been cleared, but the ground was still torn and rent from the destruction that Lik-Rifa and Orna had caused during their savage contest. Feathers and unrecognisable heaps of flesh and bone were scattered across the ground, here and there dark patches of dried blood.

At the far end of the courtyard, before the steps to the feast hall, men and women were kneeling in a long row, fifty or sixty of them, wrists bound behind their backs, all of them drengrs, many of them bloodied, bearing wounds from yesterday’s battle. Dragon-born and trolls stood over them.

Helka’s drengrs, Guðvarr realised, recognising some of them.

Lik-Rifa stood in her female form at the top of the steps to the feast hall, dark-haired, tall and regal, dressed in an ash-grey tunic trimmed with red. Fresh wounds scarred her face and arms, though, and one eye was swollen almost shut, mottled with bruises.

Interesting… she’s not infallible then, Guðvarr mused, then hurriedly shut down his thoughts in case she could read his mind. Two wooden pillars stood either side of her, the doors to the hall behind her ripped from the wall, one hanging, the other smashed to kindling. Half a wall reared skyward, thick timbers splintered, the roof completely gone. Warriors stood around her, all dark-haired and clothed in fine brynjas and war gear. Beside Lik-Rifa, Guðvarr saw the hulking form of Drekr, though she stood taller than him, and beside Drekr his sister, Ilska the Cruel, chief of the Raven-Feeders.

No longer mercenaries for hire, they are honour-guard to a god now.

Vaesen were there, too, skraelings and trolls, tennúr and other things that Guðvarr was unsure of. Just looking at them made him uncomfortable. More warriors lined the courtyard, many of them men and women, the dragon-worshippers that had always lurked in the shadows, now made bold by the coming of their queen.

Jarl Sigrún walked confidently behind the two dragon-born warriors, marching right up to the steps of the hall, where she stopped, Guðvarr beside her, her drengrs behind. Sigrún looked up at Lik-Rifa, who stared back at her, and Jarl Sigrún bowed. Lik-Rifa stared unblinkingly, then her eyes moved on to Guðvarr and held his gaze. He gulped and bowed to her, as his aunt had done, and a smile twitched at the edges of Lik-Rifa’s lips, and she dipped her head, acknowledging them before her eyes moved on.

Many others were filling the courtyard, warriors and townsfolk, some coming at Lik-Rifa’s summons, some out of awe and wonder, others herded by Lik-Rifa’s followers. Guðvarr saw jarl Glunn Iron-Grip, fair-haired, broad and squat, and jarl Svard the Scratcher, older, slimmer and taller, with a few score of their drengrs behind them being escorted into the courtyard by a ring of dragon-born, skraeling and dragon-worshippers. A handful of trolls strode before them, clearing a way through the gathering crowd none too gently. The prisoners were bought to stand close to Guðvarr, Sigrún and her drengrs.

Lik-Rifa took a step forward and a hush fell over the courtyard.

“People of Darl, a new age has dawned, and you are privileged to behold it.” She held her arms out wide. “You have a new queen. Not just of Darl, but of all Vigrið. Not some petty usurper, but a GOD.” She roared the last word, her mouth growing broader and longer, the flash of a red maw and rows of razored teeth, spittle spraying. Then her face returned to normal, human proportions, a twitch and shudder running through her jawline and cheek.

“Many of you fought against me yesterday,” she hissed, casting her baleful gaze across Glunn and Svard and their retinues of drengrs, and then to the warriors kneeling at the foot of the steps. “These are the drengrs of Helka, oathsworn to her. She is dead now, but these people are still sworn to her, or her bloodline.” She sniffed. “Helka was slain by my loyal allies,” she gestured to Guðvarr and Sigrún.

“And her son, Hakon,” Guðvarr squeaked. “I slew him,” he added.

“But one of Helka’s brood lives on, I am told,” Lik-Rifa said bitterly. She looked over her shoulder and Drekr stepped forward, leaned close to her.

“Estrid, Helka’s daughter,” Guðvarr heard Drekr say.

“Yes, Helka’s daughter. So, these warriors at my feet are still bound by their oaths of fealty.” She sighed and shook her head.

“Kill them,” she said.

There were shouts and screams for mercy from the drengrs, as trolls raised their clubs and brought them smashing down, blood spraying, bones cracking, flesh pulverised. The dragon-born stabbed, slashed and chopped with spears, swords, axes, a cacophony of screams and wails cut short and in a dozen heartbeats the drengrs were all dead, blood pooling into the hard-packed earth.

Guðvarr took a step backwards and with the back of his hand wiped a fine spattering of blood from his cheek. Even Jarl Sigrún looked shocked, but recovered herself quickly.

“Bring them forward,” Lik-Rifa gestured to jarls Glunn, Svard and their followers and they were pushed reluctantly towards the dragon-god.

“You two,” Lik-Rifa said, pointing a long-nailed finger at Glunn and Svard. “Step closer.”

The dragon-born parted and Glunn and Svard walked forwards, stopping close to Guðvarr in front of Helka’s executed drengrs.

“You are both jarls, I am told, who fought against me yesterday, because you had sworn oaths to Helka. Yes?”

“Aye,” Glunn Iron-Grip said, looking up at Lik-Rifa.

“And you?” Lik-Rifa said, when Svard did not answer.

“I did,” jarl Svard said. “But Helka is dead, and my oath does not bind me to her children.” He looked nervously to the dead at his feet.

“Well, quite,” Lik-Rifa said. “That point is exactly what I wished to discuss with you. Will you swear your oaths to me?”

“I will,” Svard said quickly.

Glunn Iron-Grip sniffed and spat, looked back at his drengrs and then up at Lik-Rifa. “If I swear my oath to you, fight for you, perhaps bleed for you, what will you do for me?”

A muscle twitched in Lik-Rifa’s cheek, then she smiled.

“I will make you mighty, and wealthy, and made famous by skálds for a thousand years. That is all you wish for, is it not?”

Glunn nodded. “Then I will swear my oath to you,” he said.

“Good,” Lik-Rifa said. Then she frowned. “But I do not think you are both worthy to serve me. Though perhaps one of you is…” She raised a hand. “Drekr, give them each a blade.”

Drekr stepped forwards and drew his seax and short-axe from his belt, threw them down the stairs to land at the feet of Glunn and Svard.

They both stared at the weapons.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Show me who is worthy,” Lik-Rifa said.

Glunn burst into motion, Svard a heartbeat later. Glunn swept up the seax as Svard reached for the axe and buried it to the hilt in Svard’s belly. A grunt and Svard sagged, knees weak and Glunn ripped the seax free. Svard collapsed, twitched for a few moments, mouth moving, and then he was still.

Glunn leaned down and wiped the blade clean on Svard’s tunic.

“It seems you are the worthy one,” Lik-Rifa said. “Will that man’s warriors follow you?”

Glunn looked back to his and Svard’s drengrs. “They will. I have just fought a holmganga with their jarl and won. By the laws of holmganga they can seek no vengeance, no reprisal. All that was Svard’s is now mine. So, yes, they will serve me. Won’t you,” he said to Svard’s drengrs.

A ripple of “ayes” rang out.

“Good,” Lik-Rifa said. “Now all this excitement has given me an appetite. You will come and eat with me. As will you,” Lik-Rifa said, pointing at Sigrún. “And you, Guthlaf,” she said, pointing at Guðvarr.

It’s Guðvarr, you idiot, he corrected Lik-Rifa in his head, then felt a moment of fear. Can she read my thoughts? She is a god, after all.

But Lik-Rifa said nothing, just turned and walked through the ruined doors of Helka’s Hall.

“Stay close,” Sigrún whispered to him as she climbed the hall’s steps.

With a sigh Guðvarr followed her.

Into the dragon’s den.

Elvar sat back in her father’s throne with a sigh. The seat from which he had ruled Snakavik and all the land as far as the eye could see from this mountaintop fortress.

“My father’s seat. My father’s hall. My seat, now, my hall, now,” she whispered to herself.

“What’s that?” a rumbling voice said behind her, and she twisted to look over her shoulder. Hrung stared unsettlingly back at her with his opaque eyes, his giant severed head upon a pedestal of stone.

“Just thinking on life, ancient Hrung,” she said. “And how it is so… changeable.” Not so long ago I was a warrior among many, fighting in a shield wall, defeated by dragon-born. And now…

She regarded the ruin of her father’s hall.

Close to her feet two chests had been placed, both filled with treasure from the god’s battleground, the plains of Oskutreð. Around them blood still stained the ground, visible here and there as dark patches among the snow that fell gently around her, settling on the dais and hard-packed earth of the hall floor and she pulled her bearskin cloak tighter about her neck. Broken timbers reared like the shattered bones of a great whale where the wolf-god Ulfrir had smashed the hall to kindling and above her a pewter sky sat heavy and bloated with fresh snow. Drengrs had been working to clear the destruction for some time, lifting timbers and rubble to uncover the wounded and remove the dead, drengrs who unti