The Hunger of the Gods (The Bloodsworn Saga, #2)

by John Gwynne

“You wanted to talk?” she said, fixing Lif with her gaze. He sucked in a breath, mouth open, the words sticking in his throat. “Three things,” he muttered, then closed his mouth again, shuffled his feet.

“The day will not wait for you,” she said. “Nor will I.”

“You are Tainted, the blood of a dead god in your veins, a remnant of...

“I am Tainted,” she said.

“You never told me. Us,” Lif said. “All that time together, fighting together. We saved your life in Darl, pulled you out from under Drekr’s axe…”

“It is not something I am used to saying out loud,” Orka said. “It is the kind of thing that could put a thrall-collar around my neck, or see me swinging in a cage. It has been a secret long-guarded.” But Lif trusted me, followed me, and I have kept this secret from him. “I should have told you and Mord,” she shrugged. “You are right, you both deserved that.” Lif nodded. “We did,” he said. “In the tower, you said that this Drekr is stealing Tainted children.” He paused again, chewing over his words. “I did not know that, but of course it makes sense, now. So Breca is Tainted, too?” “Aye. Breca is Tainted, has my wolf-blood flowing in his veins.”

“The second thing?” O...

“That man yesterday, the bald grey-beard.” “Glornir, chief of the Bloodsworn,” Orka said. “He...

“You are the Skullsplitter? You said the Skullsplitter was dead?” “Skullsplitter died the day I wal...

“Breca was in my belly, then, and I wanted no more of the Bloodsworn’s life. Death and blood, never ending. Thorkel felt the same, so we left.” She shrugged. “A harder decision than saying it makes it sound, and a longer one, but that is the short of it. That is what we did. During a ship battle we leaped into the sea and swam for shore. The Bloodsworn thought we had fallen in battle. Many did that day, never to be found, their bones lying in those murky depths still, no doubt.”

“Skullsplitter is back now, and she will help me find my Breca.”

“Vesli speak true,” Spert rasped, “Lik-Rifa is free.”

“You will be missed, Agnar Battle-Grim,” she breathed. “You already are.” And then. “I will avenge you. Biórr will die for his betrayal.” Just the whisper of his name on her lips made Elvar shiver with rage. Biórr, her lover, who she had trusted, bound by oaths and battle and much, much more. And he had betrayed her, betrayed them all. Betrayed Agnar most foully with a spear-thrust through his throat as Agnar held out an arm to him.

“You swore an oath,” Uspa warned her. “That was when Agnar still lived,” Elvar snapped. “You still live, and you swore the blóð svarið,” Uspa answered, slow and calm and maddening. “And the blóð svarið does not care about the dead; only the living.” “Some oaths cannot be kept,” Elvar muttered,

“I cannot,” Uspa said. “Alive, dead, there is nothing I can do. Once set free the blóð svarið is like the ocean tide; there is no holding it back, no containing it. Only Elvar keeping the oath will end it. If she even thinks about breaking that oath, it will know, and it will act.”

“You see,” Uspa said, her eyes full of grief, not holding any of the gloating that Elvar had expected to see in them. “The blóð svarið is like a living thing inside you, it knows your thoughts, knows your heart. There is no escaping it.”

“Lik-Rifa’s opinion does not matter,” Skuld said. “She was never to be trusted. She is unhinged, as if she has always seen the world through mist and smoke.” “Why did you stay down here? Why not kill Lik-Rifa, or just leave her to starve in her gaol?”

“We stayed because we swore an oath to our father. To ensure Lik-Rifa remained within her cage. She is not so easy to kill,” Skuld muttered. “We tried in those first days, with arrow and spear, and when that did not work, we tried to starve her, but Lik-Rifa is… resourceful.”

“Lik-Rifa would savage them as they passed through her chamber,” Skuld said. “Somehow, she learned how to take sustenance from them, from the ones who did not fight back, at least. That is why she is called corpse-tearer and soul-stealer.”

“I thought the new world we are fighting for will be one where we can all live together,” Biórr said. “Us Tainted and the untouched, all in harmony.” “Oh, we will,” Myrk said. “But there will be an order to things. There has to be, else all will be chaos. Lik-Rifa will be our queen, with her dragon-born as her captains. That means me.” She flashed another grin. “And then will come the other Tainted, like you,” she gave him a lip-twisting smirk, “and then will come the untouched. Those worshippers of Lik-Rifa and the dead gods who do not have the gift of god-blood in their veins.” She glanced at a huddle of warriors, men and women with raven feathers in their hair, but sat apart. “They are untouched,” Myrk said. “Part of the Dragon-Cult that is spreading through the land. My sister says we will need them, when the time comes.” Myrk shrugged. “They fight well enough and do not wish to put a collar around my neck or sell me to the highest bidder, so I am not complaining, and my sister is the deep-cunning thinker, not I.”

“It is a Galdrabok,” Uspa said, “written by Lik-Rifa.” “How is it a weapon?” Elvar asked Uspa. “The spells…” Uspa breathed. “They are powerful, and terrifying.” “A weapon that could help us defeat a dragon-god?” Elvar pressed. Uspa frowned. “Perhaps.” “How?” Sighvat said. He was bleeding from many wounds, but mention of freeing him from the blóð svarið caught his attention. “Does it speak of resurrection?” Skuld said quietly. Uspa’s eyes narrowed. “It does.”

“Uspa,” Elvar’s eyes snapped on to the Seiðr-witch, “does she speak true? Can this Galdrabok raise Ulfrir?” “I think…” Uspa rasped, the words trailing away from her lips. She looked up and met Elvar’s eyes. “Yes,” she breathed. The words forming in Elvar’s throat sent fear rippling through her veins, but she could not hold them back. “With a wolf-god on our side we would have a chance of facing Lik-Rifa, have a chance of getting Bjarn back.” “Wait a moment,” Huld said, “what are you all talking about? Raising dead gods, fighting the dragon…” She looked at the Battle-Grim in the chamber. “We are here for the treasure, have fought for it and earned it, and now we would gather it and go and spend it.”

“To kill a god, we need a god. Ulfrir must be resurrected,” Elvar continued. “It is our greatest chance of coming out of this alive, and of saving Vigrið from destruction. But you Battle-Grim, you are not bound by our oath, and you are rich enough now for a score of lifetimes. If you choose to go your own way, I would not blame you.” She shrugged. “In truth, if I were in your place, I would probably leave.” “You would not,” Grend said quietly behind her. “If you did return this wolf-god to life,” Huld said, “how would you control him?” “Links of the Galdur-chain that bound Ulfrir lay about his skeleton,” Elvar said, “and it is fragments of that chain that are used to forge the thrall-collars and bind the Tainted.” She pointed to the collar about Skuld’s neck. “We use that chain to forge a new collar.”

“I am making a Guldurstafir,” Uspa muttered, “a runic-stave to channel and focus the power I will summon.”

“We are none of us born warriors,” Orka muttered. “It is the world that makes us so.”

“The beast in your blood must be made to serve you,” Svik said. “There is a wolf in your veins, and it is vicious. Do not be its slave.”

“How did you do that?” Varg said. “Think of the beast in your blood as a river that has been sealed with a beaver’s dam,” Røkia said. “You must let it flow out steady, like a stream, not burst out like a floodwater.” “Teach me how,” Varg said.

“Vaesen are my children, given form and breath and life by me, they are my creation,” Lik-Rifa said, “as you are my children, descended from me by blood. So, we must all learn to get along together.

“It is as we feared, my queen,” Skalk said. “Jarl Störr of Snakavik is behind the disappearance of your people along the northern border.”

“As powerful as I am, I cannot predict the future,” Queen Helka said calmly. “I hired the Bloodsworn to perform a task for me and told you that when they came to me for payment your concerns would be dealt with then. But if they are betrayers and murderers…” She shrugged. “I will hunt them down for you, Mother,” Prince Hakon said. “No need, my prince, if this Seiðr-witch speaks the truth,” Skalk said, smiling at Vol. “She has told me the Bloodsworn will be coming after me, because I have stolen their property.” He looked from Vol to Prince Jaromir. “So, you may yet see the Bloodsworn.”

“The world is upside down,” he said. “The strong made weak, the weak made strong.”

“Do not threaten her,” Grend grated, and Ulfrir turned his amber eyes upon the old warrior. “You should not speak so to a god.” “I don’t give a weasel’s shite who or what you are,” Grend said. “You were a pile of bones when we found you, and now you have breath in your lungs because of Elvar. You should be thanking her.”

“I would thank you for that, if I were free to do so, but a wolf is not meant to be chained,” Ulfrir snarled. “And the lamb is not made to rule the wolf.” “Elvar is no lamb,” Grend growled. “We have common cause,” Elvar said, jumping in before Grend ended up in a holmganga duel with a wolf-god. “Your sister, Lik-Rifa. I need to kill her.”

“Tiredness is the father of mistakes,” he breathed.

“Losing a loved one, it is a wound like no other,” Lif said.

“For your great deeds of bravery, Jarl Guðvarr,” Queen Helka said as the crowd quietened, “you slew the Úlfhéðnar, protected my realm,” and she angled her sword so that the arm ring slid down its blade, falling into Guðvarr’s outstretched hand.

“And that is why I will take Guðvarr as my husband,” Queen Helka called out. “The only man equal and deserving of me in all Vigrið.”

“We are Bloodsworn,” Revna Hare-Legs shrugged. “Death is a companion we are well-used to.”

Hyrndur were kin to wasps, but far larger and far more aggressive. A sting from one could paralyse you for a few moments, and when you returned to your senses the pain was supposed to be unbearable. Worse than that, though, was the fact that the females liked to burrow into your flesh and hibernate there, only waking to lay their egg-sacks within your pulsing blood.

Æsa blew snot from her nostrils, then slapped her face hard, leaving a red mark. “Pain wakes me up,” she said to Varg’s look. “Makes me sharp. I like it.” “Like it?” Varg repeated.

Jökul dropped to one knee and placed his palm on to the ground, scooped a handful of mud, then stood and rubbed his hands together. He wiped his hands on the pitted leather apron that he wore over his brynja, then lifted the head of his hammer that sat in a loop on his belt, let it slip back into place. “Why do you do that?” Varg asked him.

“The sagas tell us that Snaka made us from the mud of the world, moulding us like a potter moulds clay and, when he was pleased with our form, that he breathed his Seiðr-breath into us, giving us life. When we die, it does not take long for us to go back to the ground, to become what we were, once the spark of life has left us. So, I do this to remind me, of where we came from, of where we are headed, and that this life is fleeting. Best to make the most of it. To fight hard and fierce.” He shrugged, pulling the pitted, iron-headed hammer from his belt and hefting it. “It also helps my grip.”

Do I even want to be chief of the Battle-Grim? Elvar thought. Once the answer would have been yes, without hesitation. It would give me what I’ve wanted all my life. Recognition and battle-fame carved by my own hand rather than offered it by my silver-rich jarl of a father. But do I still want that now, after I have sworn the blóð svarið, and am committed to rescuing Uspa’s son? To be chief of the Battle-Grim. She rolled the title around her head, tasting it like sweet mead in the mouth. To be their gold-giver, their ring-giver. To put food in their bellies and silver on their arms. But if I have any chance of fulfilling this cursed blood oath then I need the Battle-Grim, though they are not cattle to be led to slaughter… The argument swirled back and forth in her thought-cage.

“Elvar Fire-Fist, chief of the Battle-Grim,” he bellowed, and the Battle-Grim added their voices to it.

“I am Lik-Rifa, the dragon-god,” Lik-Rifa said, “second-born and most favoured of Dread Snaka, maker of all.”

“The first lesson you must learn is that your parents have lied to you, all the years of your life. You are Tainted, though that should never be considered an insult. It is an honour. The blood of the dead gods runs in your veins, and your parents have kept that hidden from you.” She paused a moment and sniffed, allowing her words to sink in.

“I am your family, now. I am your all. Your past is gone. There is only me and this moment, and all that follows after it. Unlike this world that would enslave you just for being descended from a god, you have nothing to fear from me. I will be your queen, I will love you, lead you, protect you, provide food and wealth for you, and in return all that I ask is that you be LOYAL.”

“I shall love you as a mother loves her children, and you shall love me in return.”

“These men and women you see,” Lik-Rifa said, gesturing to Ilska and the dragon-born standing behind the children, “they are my children, and so they are your family, too. And all these others,” Lik-Rifa waved a hand at the Raven-Feeders and untouched sitting around their fires. “You are all my people, my followers. Together, we are going to change this world.”

“Well, Breca Thorkelsson,” the man said, “you’re going to have a scar on your face from this cut for the rest of your life. So next time you think about running away, you put your hand to this scar, and you remember what happens to runaways. And you remember who gave it to you. My name’s Brák Trolls-Bane, and don’t you go forgetting it.” “I won’t,” snarled Breca.