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

by John Gwynne

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

Einar was lying face down on the ground, pretending to be a sleeping troll as the children clambered and climbed all over him, as if he were a favourite tree. Einar yawned and sat up slowly, slapped his lips loudly as he wondered aloud how many children he would cook to break his fast. They squealed and ran like a pack of rats found hiding in a hay-bale.

“Kill your enemies,” Glornir said. “Aye, and make a mountain of their corpses,” Orka finished.

“You look weary, brother,” Storolf said. “Is that because of three years living in secret among our enemy, knowing that you could be discovered at any moment, and that would mean your death?”

Varg felt a stab of anger at that, but it shifted into humour. “That I cannot argue with,” he smiled. “My helm is loose. I need to tighten the strap, add another hole for the buckle.” “Ah, well, now I know what to carve on the rune-stone of your barrow when we bury your cold corpse,” Røkia replied. “This man died from a hole in his head, because he did not have the time to tighten his helm-strap.”

“Did someone say free cheese?” a voice filtered up from their camp, twenty or thirty paces below them.

“Good,” Sólín said, kicking a tennúr’s corpse. “I hate thoth nathty little bathterds.”

The game began again, almost twenty children running, Einar swinging his arms ponderously in a half-hearted attempt to catch them. Røkia moved faster than Varg could follow, and in her wake children were left lying on the ground. One started to cry. Four children made it to the safety of the wagon. “What are you doing?” Einar said to Røkia. “Helping you win,” Røkia said. “You are clearly useless at this game.” Einar walked over to her, leaned close, but Varg still heard his whisper. “I have been letting them win,” Einar explained. “Letting them win!” Røkia exclaimed, “are you insane?” “It makes them happy,” Einar shrugged. “Happy?” Røkia said, spitting the word out as if it tasted bad. “Happy?” She stalked away, shaking her head.

“Did you kill my father?” the woman asked. Father? The old man? Then she is dragon-born, too. “No,” Orka said. “Who did?” “Someone better than him,” Orka said with a shrug.

“Elvar Fire-Fist, chief of the Battle-Grim,” he bellowed, and the Battle-Grim added their voices to it. Elvar looked around, saw their faces shouting her name, and felt a shift in her chest. Her eyes came to rest on Ulfrir. He gave her a sharp-toothed smile and dipped his head.

“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.

“See, that is what I mean,” Elvar said. “No,” Uspa said. “We decide what is right, up here,” she tapped her temple with a curved finger, “and here,” she prodded her heart.

“If more made that choice, in their head and hearts, to live a peaceful life with those they love and value, and just allow others to do the same.”

“Ha, that’s enough cheek from you, Sólín Spittle, you couldn’t even come back from the north with all your teeth, let alone the clever to kill a dragon.”

“Lead on, then, my good man, and let’s see if we can empty Liga of cheese.” Palrun blinked. “Cheese?” he said. “I am joking,” Svik said, then looked back over his shoulder at Varg and shook his head, whispered, “no I’m not.”

I hate this place and its people, that smile at you and say honeyed words, and then plant monsters in your flesh.

“You killed their sister, skinned her alive and used her blood to write your Galdrabok,” Lik-Rifa said with a shrug. “Yes, yes, I know that,” Rotta said. “I didn’t say they didn’t have good cause to hate me, but nevertheless, they were not three people I wanted to come face to face with.

“Svik should be more like me,” Røkia continued. “He should make a stone of his heart.” “I can see that would help avoid the pain of betrayal, true enough, but it also stops you feeling the joy of friendship or love,” Varg mumbled.

A new age has dawned, the wolf-god’s voice howled in her thought-cage. A wolf age, a sword age, and blood will flow in rivers. Remember, I am no dream to blink away with the coming of day; I will see you again, my fierce wolf-child.

Apparently, there’s nothing like the imminence of a spear through the belly to cure seasickness.

Do whatever it takes to be the only one still breathing.”

Real courage is to feel fear, but to stand and face it, not run from it.

“Are you the same ravens that I met at the Grimholt?” Orka asked the one in front of her. “How many giant ravens do you think there are?” it squawked.

“Worrying about a thing won’t make it come any quicker.”