Page 27 of Lord of Fire and Ice

For he was born to be a powerful leader. His grandsire had been Eric Bloodaxe, exiled king of Norway, the man who’d earned the chilling name Malvar was proud to bear. Which meant Olav Tryggvason was a pretender, and Malvar Bloodaxe was the rightful Norse king.

With the men whose allegiance he’d claimed and the power of the Old Ones behind him, he’d take back his grandfather’s crown.

But first, he needed the right information, the right fjord to target for his initial incursion. Once he’d subjugated an entire fjord, he’d be able to move on to the next. As terror of his might heralded his approach, the subsequent fjords would fall into his hand like ripe plums.

Dragonships would sail the Northern seas once more, bringing death on the wind.

Malvar reached the end of the tunnel and stood upright in the open chamber where the ceiling vaulted to twice a man’s height. Torches blackened the walls, and the place was ripe with the stench of burning pitch. A thin ribbon of smoke found its way out the shaft at the apex of the vault, but the air was still unwholesome if one had no relief from it for extended periods of time.

Especially when the air currents sent a whiff of human feces and misery wafting along the subterranean corridors to mingle with the smoke.

The guard at the interior opening of the tunnel snapped to attention when he recognized his leader, both spiritual and temporal.

“How is our prisoner this day?” Malvar Bloodaxe asked.

“Not very talkative.”

“Well, that is something we shall have to remedy, isn’t it?” Malvar said as he strolled over to survey the available whips and knives laid out on a table. “Has his back healed?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. We’ll concentrate on the front then,” Bloodaxe said, picking up a cat-o’-nine-tails and cracking it. The sound echoed through the subterranean vaults, and a muffled wail came in response from one of the other tunnels leading off the main chamber. Anticipation of pain was almost as effective as pain itself. “We’ll start with this. Bring him.”

The guard disappeared down one of the short corridors and came back, half-dragging his charge. The prisoner was naked, his beard and hair so matted with filth only shearing him like a sheep would render him human once more. His ribs stood out in stark relief. He stooped as he shuffled along, because he was unable to stretch out to his full height in the tiny cell in which he was kept.

“Greetings, Ulf, Jarl of Jondal,” Bloodaxe said courteously as the guard bound the prisoner’s unresisting hands spread eagle between two posts.

It was a stroke of luck the man’s vessel foundered off the Orkney coast and he’d been reported lost with the rest of his crew. As far as anyone else knew, Ulf Skallagrimsson was freezing in Hel. No one would ever think to look for him in the bowels of the earth.

“I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us,” Malvar said with a laugh.

The man peered from under his shock of rapidly graying hair, the mad glint in his eyes the only evidence of a living soul in the soon-to-be-broken body. Ulf worked his mouth for a moment and then spat a gob of phlegm on the packed dirt at Bloodaxe’s feet.

Malvar smiled. Naked loathing was such a deliciously powerful emotion. It shimmered in the foul air, and Malvar’s arms strengthened with the force of his captive’s hate. He’d send his own venom right back to the jarl.

The cat flicked over Ulf’s chest, leaving an artful cluster of red weals. The man gritted his teeth to keep his agony silent, but Malvar knew that restraint wouldn’t last long.

“Now, then what shall we talk about?” Malvar sent the whip singing again. This time it drew bright beads of blood and a grunt of pain. “How about…the defenses of Hardanger Fjord?”

Chapter 10

Albrikt Gormson stayed as Katla’s guest for three more days. During that time, there was no more water carrying or wood chopping for Brandr, though he did still wait on her at table. She seemed to want him to hear all of Gormson’s conversations, for each night after slipping away from the drunken feast, she asked Brandr’s opinion of what was said.

Whether she’d act upon Brandr’s thoughts was another question. She held herself aloof from everyone.

When she disappeared into the bath house each evening, he drilled Haukon in swordplay. They met in a secluded clearing a little apart from the longhouse, where the clack of the wooden swords he’d insisted upon wouldn’t be heard by others. The lad was quick, but Brandr refused to let him practice with a real weapon until he mastered the basics.

At Katla’s command, Brandr followed at a discreet distance when Gormson insisted on walking the boundaries of her land with her. And one afternoon when Albrikt wasn’t with Katla, Brandr kept a watchful eye on the Stordman as he inspected the private wharf and considered the sheltered bay that brought traders almost to her doorstep.

It was such a well-hidden cove, a man might sail past its narrow inlet without realizing two dozen ships could ride at anchor unseen beyond the curtain of rocks and trees. Being a sailing man, Brandr understood the bay’s value.

And Gormson’s interest in it.

Albrikt insisted upon a daylong hike through the forest to the highest peak on Katla’s property. Brandr dogged them, ostensibly to bear the food and drink for Katla and her suitor, but he suspected he’d been ordered along because she didn’t feel safe with the man so far from the rest of her people.

Gormson was the sort to take what he wanted if he thought he could get away with it. Brandr was glad Katla seemed to know it.

From the most elevated point on Katla’s steading, a man could view the island’s edges, north and south. To the East, the mouth of Hardanger Fjord opened invitingly. It was also the place where a signal fire was laid and ready to be set in the event Katla’s people came under attack. If the rectangular stack of wood, which stood as tall as a man, was ablaze, it would be visible for miles.