Page 3 of Lord of Fire and Ice

He spat out the gag, grateful to be rid of its foul taste. “I’m glad to hear it. If you unbind my hands, I can take care of my feet myself.”

“I am aware of that,” she said dryly. “We have things to discuss first.”

He failed to stifle a yawn. “Say what you have to say quickly. Whatever your brothers drugged me with is making me sleepy again.”

She sat down on the end of her bed and studied him as if he were a type of fish in her net she couldn’t identify. She seemed undecided on whether to keep him or throw him back. “You’re taking that iron collar more calmly than one would expect.”

“I’m alive…and whole.” His head was starting to pound, but his thoughts were flowing clearer now. “A live man’s luck can change. A dead one’s never.”

“My husband is dead.” Her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “Your father killed him.”

So that’s why she wanted him. Ulf the Ruthless was responsible for his predicament.

“Didn’t he offer a wergild?” Brandr’s father had a wicked temper, but once the battle lust cleared, he was practical about his debts. He usually paid off those he’d offended in the required amounts to keep matters from escalating into a full-blown feud.

“I wouldn’t dishonor my husband’s memory by accepting blood money,” she said.

“My father generally has a reason when he kills someone. Most of the time. It seems to me, your dispute is with him, not me. He’ll not ransom me, if that’s your plan. He won’t believe I was stupid enough to let myself be enthralled. And if I did, he’ll figure I deserve it.”

“No, he won’t.” When she crossed her arms under her breasts, her nipples stood out stiffly beneath the thin linen of her night shift. She didn’t seem aware of it.

“Then you don’t know my father.” Brandr bit the inside of his cheek to keep his body from rousing to her again. “The old bastard was winter hard when I left five years ago. I expect he hasn’t thawed a bit.”

“Probably not, since he now occupies a place of honor in the ninth circle of Hel’s cold hall.”

Dead. All the air fled from Brandr’s body in a whoosh. Ulf the Ruthless was a bull sea lion of a man. All Brandr’s life, his father had ridden him mercilessly, never satisfied, never recognizing that Brandr would have given his left hand to please him just once. Never understood Brandr’s strange affinity for the flames. Never trusted the gift of fire and refused to try to understand.

Now he was no more.

Just when Brandr had learned to control his unusual gift and was bringing his father the most potent weapon the decadent South possessed, the secret of Greek fire.

“Ulf Skallagrimsson’s ship was lost with all hands in a storm off the Orkney Islands last season.” She cocked her head and eyed him as a robin eyes the worm she intends for breakfast. “So, you really didn’t know your father is dead?”

He set his face into a grim mask. She certainly didn’t deserve a peek into the maelstrom of his emotions about his father’s death, especially since he didn’t know how to name them yet himself.

“You won’t have any better luck ransoming me with my brother. Our father taught us not to be burdened overmuch with family feelings.”

She shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of trying to get Arn the Leper to pay a ransom for you, but when I tire of you, it’s a consideration.”

“Arn the—”

“Ja, strange world, is it not? You sojourn all the way to Miklagaard and come back”—her gaze traveled over his length again—“perfectly healthy and sound. And your older brother stays home and is struck by a wasting sickness.”

Brandr let this new horrific truth settle into his brain. The great city of the South sent its lepers away to eke out a living on scraps and thievery. In the North, while no one wanted to share a trencher with a leper, if a man had high enough rank to begin with, he’d not be outlawed for being unlucky. Brandr’s brother, Arn, would still be jarl in Jondal as long as he was able to wield a sword.

Brandr would be expected to step in when Arn could no longer lead.

But not if he was a slave. Without a clear transfer of leadership, there’d be a scramble for power and a fight among the chieftains to determine who would succeed Arn. Brandr frowned, wondering how to avoid that disaster. When headmen fought, fields went unplanted, and the people of Jondal would suffer the next winter.

“Feeling for your brother, are you? Don’t. A thrall is poor enough not to be able to afford pity for anyone.” Katla leaned toward him. “I assume my brothers already took whatever wealth you brought back from the South.”

Brandr snorted. He’d worn a gold chain about his neck, and a small pouch of silver weighed down one side of his belt. But the big chest of coin still rested in safety on the longship. That was to be divided evenly among him and his traveling companions.

Six were returning home to Jondal. Nine of them had started out for the great southern city, but one took a knife blade to the gut in a brawl the night after they set out. The wound went bad before they’d even cleared the wide mouth of Hardanger Fjord. Another was lost during a storm near Gibraltar. A third fell fighting the Saracens in the service of the Byzantine emperor. On an honorable field of battle, his flesh gave food to the eagles.

But Brandr and the other returning men from Jondal accomplished what they’d set out to do. Brandr had found a sorcerer in the South who schooled him in how to use his ability to call up flame, though he still hid his gift from all but his closest friends.

People feared those who were different, and inspiring fear wasn’t Brandr’s aim.