The Shadow of the Gods (Bloodsworn Saga, #1)

by John Gwynne

“Why destroy something that someone cared enough to build?”

This was an oath stone, where humankind swore their blood oaths to the gods, pledged their allegiances, worshipped them. And worshipping the dead gods is forbidden, now, punishable by death.”

“No, this is my home,” Orka said, placing her palm over Thorkel’s chest. “You and Breca are my home. Wherever we are together, that is home to me.”

The last time Orka had seen her, Froa had laughed and danced and offered Orka a hand of friendship. Orka stared down at the corpse. Froa’s body had been chopped and hacked, splintered; here and there were blackened patches where she had been burned.

“And I am Bloodsworn,” Varg continued, looking to Glornir now. “You said the words yourself, to Leif Kolskeggson. Or should Liar be added to the many names of Glornir Gold-Giver?”

“Thorkel fierce. Thorkel change, become…” She looked up at Orka, who just nodded. “Warriors and vaesen break in, tennúr too.” She paused, her face twisting in a snarl, and she spat on the ground. “Oathless tennúr, and others.” “What others?” Orka grunted. “Skraeling, and… something else. Human, but not,” she said. “Like Thorkel, but… not,” Vesli shrugged. “One of the Tainted?” Orka prompted. “Human, but animal, as well.” “Yes, yes,” Vesli said. “Man, with two long, sharp claws. He fought Thorkel. Nasty man, fierce.” Claws? The seaxes in Thorkel’s body? “Did you see his eyes?” Orka asked. Vesli nodded. “They glowed red, like embers in the fire.”

“I’m going to find the owner of these blades, and give them back to him,” Orka snarled.

“You are an idiot,” a voice said behind him and he turned to see Røkia. She was snapping arrow shafts in her shield, then pulling the iron tips through the inner side. “You attacked a druzhina of Iskidan with the cover still on your spear.” “Yes,” Varg grunted. Svik laughed. “And your helm is still hanging on your belt,” Røkia added. More laughter from Svik. “No-Sense,” Røkia muttered, shaking her head. “Yet he lives, and his foe is walking the soul road,”

“I am no carrion-crow, to steal from the dead,” he said. Sulich’s face twisted. “Do not insult your victory,” he said. “These are the spoils of battle. He knew that.”

“Hold.” A voice rang out in the hall, vibrating through Elvar’s body. The giant head Hrung’s eyes were wide, nose twitching and sniffing. He stuck his tongue out, licked the air as if tasting it, then closed his mouth and smacked his lips. “Elvar,” he said into the hall. Jarl Störr stared at Hrung, the two men at his shoulder taking a step forward. “You must be mistaken,” Jarl Störr said. “Elvar is here,” Hrung said, his bass voice filling the room. Elvar stopped with a sigh and turned, dimly aware that Grend was turning beside her, Agnar’s crew coming to a halt. Elvar put her hands to her hood and pulled it back. “Hello, Father,” she said.

silence, the thrall’s eyes fixed on Orka’s. They glittered with amber.

“I will not take your boat,” Orka told them. “I will walk.” “Those who took Breca, do you think they are walking?” Lif asked.

Grend’s eyes narrowed, his hand moving to the axe at his belt. “What are you going to do, offended warrior, cut off my head?” Hrung laughed, the sound echoing, filling the hall.

I have not forgotten you. I will never forget you. And my oath stands, I will make it happen. But if I feel some moments of cheer as I walk that path, or find some friends, is that so bad a thing? Should it feel so… wrong?

Uspa is strong. I imagine I will see her soon.”

He swung his staff into Vol’s head, a short, hard blow, a crack and she collapsed, her eyes rolling back into her head.

“Brother,” Torvik choked through his own blood. “He needs a weapon in his fist, to walk the soul road,” Varg cried. “I am not putting a weapon anywhere near you,” Skalk said. “I saw you fight a dragon-born.” “I will do nothing, I swear it,” Varg pleaded. “Please,” he said, his eyes still locked with Torvik. He could see the life draining from him. Then there was a gurgled hiss and Torvik was gone.

Waves of power leaked from the chest like heat from an opened oven. Varg saw the pale gleam of the bone sword, a sheaf of rolled parchments, and other things as well. He grimaced and looked away. “What is wrong?” Skalk asked him. Frowned. “Can you feel this?” “You cannot?” Varg muttered. “Hhmmm,” Skalk murmured, a glitter in his eyes.

“And how about you?” Mord said. “You were on your knees with Drekr’s hands around your throat the last time you saw him. How do you plan on killing him?” Orka looked at Mord. “Slowly,” she said, then went back to the rasp and scrape of whetstone on steel.

“This can’t be true,” Varg said, shaking his head. “You and Glornir, Tainted…” “It is true,” Svik said, “but not just Glornir and me. All of the Bloodsworn. We are all god-touched.”

“Aye,” a voice from the far door said. It was Edel, standing in the entrance with her two wolfhounds. “You are Tainted, Varg No-Sense.” She reached into a pouch at her belt and pulled out a linen rag, black with dried, crusted blood. She held it up. “This was used to tend your cuts after you fought Einar, in Liga. Hundur the hound lives in my veins, and I could smell the wolf in you the moment your blood was spilled.” “Wolf,” Varg mumbled. “Aye, Ulfrir lives in your veins,” Røkia said. “You are Úlfhéðnar, like me.” A shy smile touched her lips.

“So, you know what we are,” Glornir said. “And what you are.” “I do,” Varg breathed out. “I, Glornir Shield-Breaker, lord of the Bloodsworn, invite you to join us, Varg No-Sense. To bend your back with us on the oar-bench, to stand with us in the shield wall, in the battle-storm, to drink with us in the mead hall. Will you take our oath?” Varg stood and looked around at the Bloodsworn, Svik, Røkia, all of them, staring at him. “I will,” Varg said. A cheer rang out in the glade.

“The oath-words shall be spoken soon,” Glornir said, “but now there is no time. Now, we must go and get my wife back.” There was another roar from the Bloodsworn, but this one filled with malice and threat. Varg joined his voice to theirs. Skalk, the Bloodsworn are coming for you.

“What is this?” Vörn said as she stood over Sighvat’s form. “I wait three hundred years and see no one, and then you humans all come at once.” Elvar dropped her spade. The figures spilling down the slope towards them bore grey shields with the black wings of ravens upon them. Ilska the Cruel had come.

Agnar dragged his seax from its scabbard and stabbed down into Skrið’s foot. The big man bellowed, stumbled, his axe swinging wide, whistling past Agnar’s shoulder. At the same time Agnar rammed his shattered shield up, long splinters stabbing into Skrið’s throat, bursting out of the back of his neck.

“DRAGON-BORN!” Vörn shouted, and Elvar’s footsteps faltered. She stopped, turned and looked at Vörn. The Froa-spirit was standing upon her mother’s head, pointing at the corpse of Skrið, her hair rippling like branches in the wind. “DRAGON-BORN,” she yelled. “I SMELL YOUR BLOOD. CHILDREN OF LIK-RIFA, YOU SHALL COME NO CLOSER!”

All of them are dragon-born. Ilska stopped, staring at Vörn. She turned, waved a hand in the air and the carts at the back of their warband began to move, their drivers guiding them wide, around the warband, towards Vörn and the blasted remnants of the great tree. As they moved the linen sheets covering their cargo were ripped away, revealing scores of people sitting on benches in the cart’s beds. Children. Iron collars glinted around their necks. “Bjarn!” Uspa cried out. Biórr reached Agnar and stood over him, the Battle-Grim’s chief raising an arm to the young warrior, his mouth moving as he said something. Biórr raised his spear and stabbed it down, into Agnar’s open mouth, down into his throat, and ripped it out. Blood sprayed, Agnar swaying, falling backwards. Elvar screamed.

“FAVOUR FOR A FAVOUR,” the raven squawked, and then a second raven swooped down, ripped more of the roof free and grabbed a warrior running at Orka in its talons, lifted him high and threw him, spinning and screaming, from the tower.

“Finally, Spert found you, mistress,” Spert said as the woman staggered and choked and dropped her sword, hands grasping for her face.

“BETRAYER!” Elvar screamed. Biórr looked at her.

And then Lik-Rifa, corpse-tearer, dragon, last of the dead gods, burst into the air.

She was gore-drenched, red with blood from her head to her boots, a long-axe lying across her lap. An ugly creature was perched upon her shoulder, with a nasty-looking sting on its tail, and another vaesen sat on the steps before the woman.

The woman looked up at them as they approached, her eyes fixing on Glornir. Varg saw recognition dawn in them. “He’s not here,” the woman said, shaking her head, “he’s not here.” The pain in her voice was palpable. Tears had streaked clean lines through the blood and gore and fragments of bone that were thick on her cheeks. Glornir reined in his horse and slipped from his saddle, then walked a few steps towards her and stopped. “Orka Skullsplitter,” he whispered. The woman stood. “My brother?” Glornir asked. “They killed him and took my son,” she said, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Glornir walked up to her and spread his arms wide, pulling her into an embrace.